Dental Disorder |
Issue 16
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It was leaning at a hideous angle near the church gate, its words still visible despite the grime: ‘Time dug this dark, cold grave for me. And time is digging thine for thee.’ My mother didn’t appear to notice it. She was too busy shepherding me through our shortcut from Longton bus station to the dentist. But I gripped her hand until we got onto the street.
“Cmon, I know you don’t even like the Beatles,” she shouted. I’d stopped by a wall, just beyond the church, pretending to study an out-of-date poster advertising a Beatles concert that flapped in the wind and thin rain. I turned to look back at the church, caked in the soot of a century of smoke from pottery bottle kilns. I imagined the ghosts of Victorians there, best dressed on their way to be admonished for their sins on their one-day escape from labour. My mother pulled me on, warning me that if we didn’t hurry, we’d get soaked. The words on the gravestone lingered in my mind as we struggled across the road hand in hand, my nostrils raw from swirling traffic fumes. Halfway across, the torrent hit us as if a celestial bucket was being tipped over. The pavements became mirrors, and my soaked shorts tightened around my thighs. We were going to be late, though it probably wouldn’t help me. Mr. O’Neill, the dentist, was always behind schedule -sometimes by over an hour. But he was a friendly man with Brylcreemed hair, ears that stuck out like a bat’s, and a lilting Irish accent that sounded exotic to me. “More apple-pie filling,” he’d say as he prepared to stuff the caverns in my teeth. The receptionist glared at us through cat-eye spectacles that enhanced her severe, ultra-efficient look. I’d never seen her before. Her lips looked thin and mean. Raindrops ran down my forehead, and strands of my mother’s hair clung to her face, but the woman appeared not to notice. “You’re late. Your appointment was for four-thirty-five.” My mother glanced at her watch. “Only fifteen minutes late. Mr. O’Neill often keeps us waiting longer than that.” The woman looked unimpressed. “Mr. O’Neill is no longer with us. You are seeing Mr. Johnson, and he’s been waiting for you. You are his last patient today.” We hurried into Mr. Johnson’s surgery that smelled of minty mouthwash. He had his back to us, making notes at a desk. “You’re late,” he said. A dental nurse with a beehive hairdo was washing her hands in the corner. “Our bus was caught up in heavy traffic,” my mother lied. Mr. Johnson swung round. He had a prominent jaw, and his heavy face was scowling. I thought he looked like a rugby player. “Well, next time set out earlier, will you?” He sounded upper-class and condescending. “Get in the chair,” he snapped, and I wondered if he was perhaps the brother of the unfriendly receptionist. I dropped my raincoat onto a seat next to my mother. “No, not there,” he shouted. “You’ll make the seat damp. Hang it on that hook.” I lay back in the dental chair and opened my mouth wide. My shorts squelched against the leather as I wriggled to get comfortable. “You are seeing me because Mr. O’Neill died two days ago,” he said as if he was listing the cavities in my molars. My mother shouted, “Oh no. He couldn’t be that old. He was a lovely, kind man. How did he die?” Mr. Johnson ignored her and poked around my mouth. I managed a couple of throaty ahs. “These teeth are in a terrible state. I don’t know what O’Neill was doing with them.” He tapped on a tooth with a metal probe. “This one will have to come out for a start.” His face loomed large and featureless, haloed by a bright light, so I closed my eyes and thought about Mr. O’Neill and the cold grave that must await him. “We’ll have to leave the extraction until next time, but I need to drill and fill that back tooth on the left,” he said. “Damn it,” he muttered to the nurse, “I was hoping to get away early tonight.” He raised his voice, “You are eating too many sweets and not cleaning your teeth properly.” He looked at his watch and sighed. “And he has four spoons of sugar in his tea,” my mother chimed in helpfully. I remembered the drill from previous visits and how it kept touching a nerve, causing a blunt, unbearable pain deep in the gum. Mr. O’Neill used to apologize and say he’d soon have the job done, but I suspected Mr. Johnson might use the drill as a form of punishment. Panic gripped me, and I closed my mouth, clamping the dentist’s fingers with my teeth. “Ouch,” he shouted. “That hurt, you damn little fool.” “Don’t you speak to my lad like that.” In the corner of my eye, I could see my mother standing. Again, the dentist ignored her. My mother sat down, but I thought I might have a chance to escape. “I’m not a fool,” I said, “and I’m not that little.” “Aren’t you, aren’t you?” His fist closed on the probe. “Well, I damn well think you are. I’m sick of spoilt urchins like you coming in here and misbehaving. Earlier today, one of them turned up with his father and a bag of chips, and he flung it across the surgery when I asked him to sit in the chair. I don’t know what the world’s coming to. You people should show some respect.” “Urchin.” My mother was on her feet again. “How dare you?” Mr. Johnson was losing it, and so was my mother. “In my surgery, I’ll say what I like. And if you don’t like it, you bloody well know where the door is.” I’d never heard anyone swear in a posh voice before. The nurse stood next to my chair, smiling and seemingly oblivious to what was happening, as if it was a normal day in the surgery. “Indeed, I do know where it is,” my mother yelled. She stormed over, shouldered the dentist out of the way, seized my arm and hauled me out of the chair. “I’m reporting you for this,” she yelled before dragging me out of the surgery and slamming the door twice as if the first time wasn’t loud enough. “Do what you damn well like.” I could hear the dentist’s muffled voice as I was tugged down the corridor. I was still wearing the bib he’d put on my chest, so I tossed it to the floor. The receptionist lowered a magazine as we approached. “I recommend you use a hot hairdryer on that icy, miserable face,” my mother shouted. “Trouble is, it might crack with all that cheap make-up you’ve plastered on it.” The woman’s jaw dropped, but before she had a chance to speak, we were out on the street, skidding on wet leaves. The rain had settled to a steady, penetrating drizzle. My mother put her arm across my shoulders and wiped my forehead with a cold hand. “I’ll not have you spoken to like that. What an arrogant man. Public schoolboy, I expect. And to think I lost an hour’s pay at the potbank to get you there. We can’t afford that. But we’ll have to find a new dentist for you. Rotten teeth are bad for your health.” “Can they kill you?” I asked, half regretting that I hadn’t faced the drill. “Oh yes,” she said, “and too much sugar can as well. You need to cut back or you might get worms.” The church clock rang five times in a stately procession as we turned through the gate. The gravestone was now an ominous shadow in the gathering dusk. I shuddered and jerked my mother’s arm. “Let’s hurry up. We’ll miss the bus.” But I couldn’t resist looking back. Time, I feared, had just dug a few more spade loads for my dark, cold grave. |
Paul Goodwin lives in Somerset, England, where he writes fiction and non-fiction. His stories have been published by Literally Stories, CommuterLit, Five Minutes, CafeLit, 10 by 10 Flash Fiction, and Marrow and LitBreak magazines, among others. His books include Forewarned (Biteback Publications) and Something Doesn't Add Up (Profile).
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