Authors: Jack Sheffield
When I returned, a well-dressed lady and her daughter had arrived. The girl looked about eleven years old, had blonde pigtails and was wearing a bright-blue public-school jacket with a gold-stitched coat of arms on the breast pocket. The Latin motto under the badge, roughly translated, read, ‘We seek a virtuous life.’
‘I
don’t
want
no
beastly injections, Mummy,’ she said.
Her mother sighed, shook her head and gave me a ‘What do they teach them in schools these days?’ look.
‘Darling, I’ve told you before. A double negative in English turns it into a positive. Even though in Russian a double negative can form a positive, you must realize that there is no language where a double positive forms a negative.’
‘Yeah … right,’ said the girl and returned to drooling over a full-page colour photograph of Fonzie,
aka
Henry Winkler, in her
Jackie Annual
.
Her mother looked at her curiously for a moment. Then she picked up a copy of
Yorkshire Life
and murmured in appreciation at the photograph of all the fine red-coated huntsmen of the Middleton Hunt leaving Garrowby Hall.
The fortunate people with appointments came and went. A laboratory technician came down from the attic to collect both sets of Popeye’s false teeth for repair and, occasionally, screams from the surgery caused a flurry of concern in the waiting room. Finally ten thirty arrived and, once again, I was face to face with Elsie Crapper. She selected a brown, dog-eared National Health Service envelope from the teeming files on the shelf behind her and directed me to the surgery.
I walked into the condemned cell.
‘Cilla, put a bib on Mr Sheffield,’ said Horatio without looking up. As he washed his hands in the small sink in the corner I noticed the familiar roller towel was there but his hot tap was working.
Cilla, the leggy dental assistant in a short white overall that didn’t quite cover her miniskirt, selected the least damp of the two bibs on the radiator, directed me towards an ancient black leather dentist’s chair in the centre of the room and attached the Velcro tabs of the bib round my neck.
When Horatio examined me, the overpowering smell of Brut aftershave momentarily made me forget my discomfort. He peered over his round-lens, John Lennon spectacles and put two fingers in my mouth, one on either side of the swollen gum, and his thumb under my jawbone. This was the era before surgical gloves and I could taste the soap. Then he squeezed with a vice-like grip and I nearly passed out. Silent screams were now my speciality.
Cilla reached up to the Contiboard shelving unit attached to the wall and increased the volume on the Bush radio, presumably to drown my attempt at a scream. Joan Baez’s rendition of ‘Help Me Make it Through the Night’, now at full volume, seemed somehow appropriate. Meanwhile, Horatio, undeterred, merely gripped tighter. Next to the radio was a huge photograph of the diminutive dentist holding a silver trophy on which the inscription read,
Winner of the Dentists’ Annual Golf Tournament at Moortown Golf Club, Leeds, 1979
. This tended to confirm the little-known fact that all dentists have a good grip.
After extricating his fingers Horatio shook his head mournfully as if someone had died. ‘X-ray, please, Cilla.’
She
rummaged in a drawer and produced a tiny white envelope. Horatio took out a small X-ray slide and with great ceremony he held it up to the harsh single light bulb above my head. ‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ he said. Then he grinned and replaced the slide. ‘Sorry.’
‘Saarh-ee?’
‘Yes, Mr Sheffield. Sorry – it’ll have to come out.’
‘Aah.’
‘You’ll pay cash, I presume?’
‘Yaah.’
Horatio seemed pleased. He received a bigger fee for extractions and a cash payment need not go through the books. A good lunch at the Pig and Ferret beckoned.
‘We’ll numb it off for you,’ he said.
Cilla passed the syringe and then returned to the radio, her hand poised over the volume control. Horatio’s gorilla fingers were inside my mouth once more as he injected both the inside and the outside of the infected gum. Tears sprang from my eyes as Ian Dury and the Blockheads sang ‘Reasons to be Cheerful’.
Then to my horror Horatio called out, ‘Another cartridge of Lignocaine, please, Cilla. We’d better make sure with this one.’ My whole body went rigid as he repeated the procedure. Finally he said, ‘Rinse out and come back in half an hour.’
The glass tumbler was chipped and scratched and I washed away mouthfuls of blood and spit. Cilla removed the soaked bib and hung it next to its partner on the radiator.
Back in the waiting room more patients had arrived. It felt like an audition for the Chamber of Horrors as we all groaned and squirmed. Thirty minutes went by as my face gradually took on the appearance of a giant hamster. At last, Elsie summoned me once again.
When I walked in Cilla was standing by the sink and yawning. The sixth vodka and blackcurrant she had drunk the previous evening at the Pig and Ferret had tasted like Brasso polish and another heavy night’s drinking with her boyfriend was in store. She was looking forward to getting home for an afternoon’s rest. Above her, the hot-water boiler hissed as she washed the instruments. The theory was to sterilize them but the truth was she was merely giving the bacteria a warm and luxurious bath. She approached the black chair with a tray of chisel-like instruments while Horatio prodded my gum with something that resembled a broken coat hanger.
‘Can you feel anything?’ he asked.
I tried to press my toes through the soles of my shoes. ‘Yaah.’ I realized I was doing my Bill and Ben the Flowerpot Men impression again.
Then he forced a mini-crowbar between my back teeth. There followed terrible crunching sounds and I thought my jaw was about to break.
Horatio shook his head in disappointment. ‘Sorry, Mr Sheffield. Things aren’t going to plan.’
‘Whaah?’
‘Cilla, get out the surgical kit and tell Mrs Nelson I’ll be late for lunch. We’ve got a long haul with this one.’
On her way out Cilla turned up the volume once again. Elton John began to sing his 1976 classic, ‘Sorry Seems to be the Hardest Word’.
‘I’m going to cut the gum and drill out the bone before the fractured tooth can be removed,’ he said.
I didn’t feel him slice open the inside of my mouth but I did smell burning bone as his red-hot drill bored into my aching jaw. Cilla used her pistol-like syringe to cool things down but, as her boyfriend Darren had recently bought her an Elton John LP, she swayed to the music and occasionally squirted up my left nostril.
Finally, at about the time I was wishing I was trapped in a locked room with Sigourney Weaver’s
Alien
or, worse still, on the front row of a Sex Pistols concert, Horatio finally breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Well, it was touch and go but I’ve sutured it now,’ he said in triumph as he walked out. ‘Clean him up, please, Cilla, and then Mr Sheffield can pay Mrs Crapper.’
Cilla removed my bib, threw it over the radiator and handed me a tumbler of water. ‘ ’Ave a spit,’ she said. Then she surveyed me dispassionately. ‘S’gonna ’urt summat rotten is that.’
In the chemist’s shop I joined the queue. Horatio had given me a prescription for a powerful painkiller. Ragley’s oldest resident was being served.
‘It begins with “s”, ah think,’ shouted ninety-three-year-old Ada Cade from her wheelchair. Her granddaughter looked puzzled and sighed. Bringing her grandmother to
the
weekly market was a labour of love but she knew it was the highlight of Ada’s week. The assistant surveyed the hundreds of creams and potions on the shelves. ‘They’re advertised on telly,’ shouted Ada, who, once again, had refused to wear her hearing aid.
Everyone in the queue began to look for anything that began with ‘s’.
‘Shampoo?’ said the grumpy old man who was behind Ada in the queue and was fiercely clutching his prescription for piles cream.
‘Sterodent?’ queried the teenage girl holding her weekly ration of Aqua Manda hairspray and a bottle of Pagan Man aftershave for her latest fourteen-year-old boyfriend who had just begun to shave the fluff from above his top lip.
I noticed a pair of surgical stockings but hoped someone else would offer this suggestion.
‘Or it might be “n”,’ said Ada.
Everyone groaned and began a new search.
‘What’s it for?’ shouted her granddaughter.
‘A bit o’comfort, tha knaws, when ah sit down,’ replied Ada in a deafening voice.
The gentleman with the prescription for piles cream began to show more interest and he scanned the shelves with greater purpose.
‘Ah’ve remembered,’ yelled Ada. Everyone sighed with relief. ‘It’s them Snugglers nappies.’
The assistant looked surprised and Ada’s granddaughter flushed crimson.
‘Nappies?’ said the white-coated young lady.
‘That’s reight. Ah turn ’em inside out an’ stuff a couple down me pants. It meks it real comfy when ah watch
Emmerdale
.’
Ada was pushed hurriedly towards the door, clutching her precious box of nappies. The door jingled once again and normal service was resumed.
‘Teks all sorts,’ said the assistant. ‘Now then, sir, what can I do f’you?’
‘A tube o’ this, please … an’ a box o’ them nappies.’
On Saturday evening just after six o’clock I parked my Morris Minor Traveller near Whip-Ma-Whop-Ma-Gate in the city centre. It was ironic that York’s shortest street had one of the longest names. I needed a walk to clear my throbbing head and I paused on Ouse Bridge and stared at the moonlit river travelling silently through one of England’s finest cities and the jewel in Yorkshire’s crown. Within the medieval walls, the population had slumbered through the Reformation and the English Civil War and, unscathed, York had retained its timeless majesty. The arrival of the railway and the chocolate industry had breathed new life into the city but, happily, its elegance had remained untouched.
I walked back into the city and under the Christmas lights on Parliament Street to Liberty’s and arrived as Laura came out of the store. She was wearing a fashionable black leather coat and, with her long brown hair piled high in stylish plaits, she looked simply stunning.
‘Hello, Jack,’ she said, and then she saw my face under the sharp neon lights. ‘Oh dear, you are in a state,’ she added and stretched up to kiss me on my swollen cheek.
Automatically I drew back and then realized what I had done. The message from my brain said, ‘Sorry.’ The actual sound that came out said, ‘Saarh-ee.’ Raquel Welch in the film
One Million Years BC
would have understood immediately but, sadly, Laura had not seen the film.
‘Pardon?’ she said.
‘Saarh-ee,’ I repeated, imploringly.
‘You definitely need some TLC,’ said Laura as we walked towards the Assembly Rooms.
The wine-tasting was fun and Laura appeared to have a remarkable knowledge of the various wines of the world. Vintages from Australia, South Africa and France seemed to taste the same to me, but Laura explained the subtle differences. Also, with my swollen jaw, it was helpful that she did all the talking.
It was late when I walked Laura back to her flat near the Museum Gardens and stopped outside her door. We stood there under a perfect clear, cold night sky and above our heads the Milky Way shone bright like eternal stardust. Laura had never looked more attractive. She touched my swollen cheek gently.
‘Would you like to come in for a coffee, Jack?’ she asked.
‘Saarh-ee,’ I said.
‘Is that a yes or a no?’
I shook my head and pointed to my jaw.
‘Pity,’ said Laura. She looked disappointed. ‘I could have probably taken your mind off it,’ and, with a mischievous smile, she brushed her lips against mine and in a moment she was gone.
As I drove home I switched on the car radio. Elton John was singing ‘Sorry Seems to be the Hardest Word’. It occurred to me that he probably had toothache when he wrote it.
Chapter Seven
The Thinnest Father Christmas in the World
Rehearsals began for the School Christmas concert
.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Friday, 7 December 1979
‘IT’S THE HARTINGDALE
School Christmas fair tomorrow, Jack,’ said Beth, ‘and I was hoping you might be able to come along. It’s the usual stuff … a few stalls, coffee and mince pies, a brass band, even Santa’s grotto.’
It was the first call from Beth for several weeks and I was excited to hear her voice.
‘Of course, Beth. I’d love to come. What time should I get there?’
‘It starts at two o’clock but there’s a lovely pub here in the village, Jack – the Golden Hart. Perhaps we could
meet
there and have a bite of lunch first if you like; say, about midday?’
‘Fine. I’ll see you then.’
‘ ’Bye.’
The line went dead and I stared at the receiver. It was Friday morning, 9 December, and my spirits lifted. When I glanced up again, Anne, Jo and Sally had stopped compiling their list of costumes for our annual Christmas concert and were exchanging knowing glances. It was obvious they had listened to my conversation. Vera, on the other hand, appeared preoccupied. ‘It’s time to cool down, Mr Sheffield,’ she announced from the other side of the office.
‘Pardon?’ I looked up a little self-consciously and Anne chuckled over her coffee.
Vera was looking at a sheaf of papers from County Hall. ‘We’ve been commanded to officially cool down,’ she announced. ‘The government says all offices should reduce their minimum permitted temperature to sixty degrees Fahrenheit and the top temperature should be no more than sixty-six.’
Sally slammed shut her
Carol, Gaily Carol
teachers’ song book and snorted. ‘Rubbish! My classroom’s on the north side of the school and it’s like Siberia in there.’ Then, in defiance, she walked through to the staff-room and turned up the gas fire. It was noticeable that Sally was getting more and more irritated by the slightest problem and her usual sunny nature was fast disappearing.
Jo picked up her register and leaned over Vera’s desk to read the headline on her
Daily Telegraph
. ‘Mortgages are due to rise by fifteen per cent,’ said Jo mournfully. ‘Dan and I will never have a place of our own.’ She looked disconsolate and followed Sally into the staff-room to get warm by the gas fire.