A Christmas Cavity

 In 2015, as part of a celebration event, I edited and published an anthology of short stories called Access All Areas, which I think is still available somewhere on the interweb. I think there's a blog post on here, actually. Have a look on the right!! 

I wrote a Christmas tale for inclusion, which proved popular, so as I am currently writing something new for 2022, and it's Christmas right about now, I thought I'd share it one more time.

Merry Christmas, everyone and have a wonderful New Year

Mark xx

    A Christmas Cavity

*

Dense flakes of snow descended from grey skies on to the car park. A white Christmas, the first for years. Janet’s car (an Audi, second-hand, a proper workhorse), was covered in a screed of uncontaminated white flakes. The walls surrounding the tarmac floor of the car park had become, in the blink of an eye, the innerscape of an ice-cube.

She wondered how she was going to get home.

And not for the first time she wondered why she had opened her dental practice on Christmas Day.

*

She turned from the window to her patient. Dennis. Old Dennis.

Open wide, she commanded. He obeyed and Janet began to probe the rancid circumference of one of his seven remaining teeth. His breath, imbued as it was with vodka and McDonalds, made her thankful for compulsory masks.

It wasn’t always the case. She’d spent twenty-six years of her life exploring the nuclear wasteland of mouths like that of Dennis, who lived in hostels and on benches and sometimes, she knew, in the car park behind her practice. She had never got used to it, the fire and the death inside mouths like his.

You would think after nearly a quarter of a century she would have done.

There was nothing for it. The tooth had to go.

*

I’m sorry to tell you this, Dennis, but you’re only going to have six teeth left after today. This one’s pretty poorly, she said. His eyes said it all (rheumatic, milky, the nicotine from his endless rollup invading the iris, painting it tobacco tan, like the dead molar about to be separated from is putrefacting, crimson gums), and he had no need to acknowledge her beyond that.

After (the tooth came out with a satisfying pfft, almost below the level of perception – a sound of relieved separation only a dentist would hear), Dennis signed his initials on an NHS form and went out to sit in the waiting room. He was the last patient of Christmas Day. Three pm. After some form filling and post-dental comedown, Janet said goodbye to young Nigel, her nurse of nine months, with an envelope containing ten purple twenty-pound notes and a card (a photomontage of Finland), from a luxury multipack she picked up at Debenhams last New Year.

Together, the two of them had prescribed three bottles of high strength Ibuprofen for infected gums, six bottles of antibiotics, propped up five teeth (employing the subtle dentistry skills she trained for) and removed eight others (using the brute force the modern realpolitick of British dentistry forced upon her by virtue of the credit crunch). 

He pecked her on the cheek before pulling up the hood of his parka and shut the door behind him, leaving her alone next to Big Jim, her faithful, fully equipped, eight-grand dentist’s chair. Nigel ushered a reluctant Dennis out into the cold and locked the door from the outside, a robust clicking sound that simultaneously filled her with relief and with a creeping dread.

She was alone. Again. On Christmas Day.

The fourth year in a row. Ever since Brian left, four days after her thirty seventh birthday.

Janet’s practice, Greensleeves, was the newest dental practice in the area – a vast, sprawling council estate, one of the biggest in Europe and her’s was the only practice in the City that opened on Christmas Day.

She opened every day, did Janet, for at least eight hours, and on Tuesday and Thursday, in the evenings too. For the last four years. She had a business partner, but he was happily married and he had gone back to Krakow for Christmas with his wife and two kids to see family. She gave her his blessing. Said she didn’t mind taking up the slack. At one point in the week before Christmas, she nearly asked him if she could tag along, but she left the unprofessional (and completely silly) impulse pass.

She supposed she was still stunned: Brian was the love of her life and she couldn’t imagine being apart when she was with him, and she still could not imagine life with anyone else. No-one would ever come close. Not that there had been many options since and not that her ex felt the same way. Brian met a receptionist at the practice in which he worked. Twenty-two. Now, he treated the molars of the middle class in Harrogate while the girl who took Janet’s place by his side raised his child.

*

Janet had never grieved. When he told her that he was leaving, Janet simply affirmed what she had heard, repeated it back, dug her fingernails into her palms and said okay.

Then she erected a logistical schedule that had lasted four long years, an unbreakable routine, an ironclad dam structure which she supposed was a defence against utter despair, a breakdown from which she would never recover.

Her parents had died and there were no children. Scottish, her few friends were all back home (and, of course, all married with kids, which meant visiting at Christmas was awkward and embarrassing for her, the maiden aunt in the party hat at the end of the table, no one beside her to tug on the Christmas cracker).

She was a stranger in a strange land here and not for the first time, as the silence embraced her in the now immaculate, antiseptic environment of her suite, she wondered why she was here. What it all meant, in the wider scheme of things.

As she did so, she heard footsteps outside in the waiting room.

Padding, as if someone was shaking snow off boots onto the welcome mat.

Who’s there, she shouted, startled, getting up from atop Big Jim. There was no reply. Then she heard the crackle of a zip-fastener – someone was taking off a coat! She reached for a pot of dental tools and picked up a scalpel. Held it. Janet wouldn’t go down without a fight, that was for sure.  

(Once, back in Aberdeen, someone had tried to mug her in the street after a night with the girls in the town, an alcoholic ex-oil worker down on his luck. She’d punched him so hard in the face, his nose cracked. When the coppers finally caught up with him, he asked for a solicitor - not to defend himself, but to sue…).

Stealthily, she crept up to the door. Opened it.

*

A man sat in the waiting room reading a magazine, with one leg across the other. A big fellow, with a red shirt and a proper pot belly hanging over his belt; a healthy, protuberant beard, almost white, like candy floss; thick, old-school jeans and boots.  She put him at sixty, but it was hard to tell ages nowadays (the older she became), and as she stared at him, incredulously, her scalpel in hand. Her fear abating, she realised that he had that ageless look about him, as if he’d been there forever and would always be there, like someone’s grandparent.

No – he looked like her own granddad. As she remembered him. Before he died thirty years ago.

The practice is closed, she told him, carefully and slowly.

Is it? He replied, putting down his magazine. And I’ve got such terrible toothache.

You don’t look like someone with toothache, she said, lowering her scalpel.

He gave her that all-encompassing smile again. I assure you I have, he said. I’ve got such an important day today too. Lots of work to do and I have people expecting me, but I am afraid that this bloody toothache is getting in the way. I was in the area and my tooth has been giving me tremendous gyp, and then I spotted a very nice chap coming out of the pub at the bottom of the hill…

The Lamp? She interrupted. He had a slight accent (French? German?) and his measured delivery – perfectly enunciated – was delivered with depth and a certain huskiness.

Yes, that’s it! A fine pub! The Lamp. Nearly stopped off for a Ploughman’s lunch and a pint of ale myself! Anyway, I inquired after a dentist - lovely chap, slightly the worse for wear! - and he told me that you may be open and I thought I’d pop by on the off chance. It really would be frightfully good if you could have a look. I’ll be happy to pay.

How did you get in? She asked, ignoring him. The door was locked.

Was it? He said, scratching his beard. He looked bemused, as if someone had just told him that the sky was habitually yellow. I could have sworn it was open when I arrived.

Janet walked over to the door. It was unlocked. Bloody Nigel! Yet she swore that she had heard her assistant lock the door. In fact, she was certain of it.

And now she had a decision to make.

There was something about him. Something familiar and reassuring. Something comforting. She didn’t feel threatened, nor up against a wall. The way he smiled was like a big welcome home from someone you loved and trusted. That smile was the equivalent of a generous and expansive hug.

And his voice.

She walked back into the waiting room. In the end, she had nothing else to do on Christmas Day.

Let’s have a look, she said. Take a seat in there.

Oh, thank you, thank you, he said, he said, hurrying past her. He was a big man and his belly wobbled under his shirt, and when he sat down on Big Jim, he only just managed to fit. Like an excited child, he looked around him at every possible novelty – her equipment, her pot of sterile tools, the illuminating spotlights above, the mouthwashes, the scales, the pile of blue forms the practice distributed to low-income folk (eighty percent of her punters. No. Ninety percent).

She scrubbed up, donned her mask and a fresh pair of gloves. Switched on the spots and took her seat next to the giant chair.

What’s your name? She asked.

Nicholas, he replied.

Surname?

Smith, he said. Nicholas Smith. He winked at her and she repeated the name back to him, feeling about seven again, sitting on her grandad’s knee. Janet hardly ever smiled nowadays. She wasn’t miserable, or taciturn or offputting – she had simply forgotten how, she supposed, but just being next to Nicholas Smith made her feel like chortling. But she remained professional. Wrote down his name on the form. Address? She asked.

I live abroad. I have my European health pass somewhere in my jeans, he said, starting to get up with an effort but she put up her palm.

Don’t worry about it. Let’s have a look at that tooth, shall we.

He opened his mouth and she leant over, altered the angles and spotlights, investigated the man’s cavernous maw.  Prodded, queried, fingered, delved, pointed (inside and out), inquired, and did all the stuff she was trained to do and while she did so, Nicholas ummed and aared and nodded and winced (at appropriate points) and gestured in the air with his corpulent, meaty fingers. She eventually spotted the problem (the beginnings of a nasty abscess) and after she had done so (feeling proud of herself, as she always did), Janet Brown did what she had to do.

Unfortunately, she said, there’s not a lot I can do, Nicholas.

Oh no, he replied, looking genuinely shocked.

You have an abscess. I cannot do anything while it is in this inflamed condition. I’m going to have to prescribe painkillers and anti-biotics. The latter will take a week to work, but the painkillers will take the edge off. I have some here, actually. They are very good.

That’s something I suppose, Nicholas said. I don’t really want to lose a tooth.

Actually, you have very good teeth, Janet commented, pouring a glass of water and removing two Ibuprofen (augmented, prescription stuff) from a translucent brown bottle. These will help the pain. What is it you do?

Oh, deliveries, he said, gulping the water and taking the tablets. Hospitals and care homes and residential places and such. I’m a delivery driver.

What do you deliver? Janet asked.

With a herculean effort, Nicholas got up from the chair and stretched. He boomed with laughter. His eyes sparkled and his cheeks flushed with life. She noticed for the first time that he had a remarkably red nose.

Oh, all manner of wonderful things, he said. But this year, books. Particularly books for the children. Yes, all manner of wonderful books. Do you like books, Janet? Are you a lady that enjoys a good read?

I do, yes. Books are brilliant.

He boomed with laughter once more. Yes, they are indeed. They are truly brilliant and thanks to you, Janet, your tender touch and your magic potion, I am able to carry on my deliveries. How can I thank you?

Nicholas reached into his jeans pocket, but Janet lifted her palm once more. That won’t be necessary. Merry Christmas, she said, grinning like a Cheshire cat on laughing gas for the first time in four years.

It’s inclement outside, Janet, so I’d best get wrapped up snug and toasty. Can’t catch a cold, now can I? Nicholas zipped up his giant red parka, still chortling. Then, he reached into one of his pockets, which seemed impossibly deep to her. Time stopped still as he searched inside, muttering to himself, querying (oh where is it? That’’s it…got it…oooh, not…ah! There it is), as he did so. He pulled out a box, no bigger than a matchbox, wrapped in Tyrian purple tissue paper. He handed it to her.

I would like you to have this, Janet, as a token of my appreciation. You have brought me pleasure today – my toothache is leaving already – and this little token will bring you great joy too.

I can’t accept...Janet, ever professional, tried to say, but she never finished. A wave of calm and peace washed over her and she held out her hand. Nicholas passed over the box. Thank you, she said simply, accepting the gift.

Now, I really must be going, he said, pulling up his hood. Lots and lots of people to see today. Thank you, Janet. I bid you adieu and goodbye.

Goodbye, Nicholas, she said, trying to remember whether she had introduced herself earlier, as he shut the door behind him, flakes of crystal snow landing on the doormat.

She looked at her gift box. Though small, it was deceptively heavy, with a proper heft, significant mass, like a cube of lead. She wondered what was inside. Then, as she did so, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a large hold-all on a waiting room chair in the corner. A black leather holdall with two big leather straps and gold press-stud pockets.

Nicholas must have left it behind, she thought. It may be important! She ran over, picked up the bag, raced for the door, hoping she might catch him, but outside, there was nothing.

No sign. The roads were empty and it was getting dark. She felt like calling his name into the wind and the driving snow as the light faded, but something stopped her – a sense of futility, perhaps - or even the strange sense of contentment she now felt.

Safe, out of the snow, a tremble and a shiver underneath her whites, Janet opened the hold-all on the table in her suite. She pulled back the zip and the bag opened neatly.

*

Inside, treasure. Paperback books. Hardback books. Anthologies. Novels. Histories. Magazines. Graphic novels. Comics, piles of comics. Children’s activity books. All new. All pristine. Photo-covers, painted covers. All manners of colour, all the colours of the rainbow. It was a treasure trove of books and for the size of the holdall, there seemed to be hundreds and hundreds of them. Big books. Small books. Tall books. Short books. Thin books. Thick books. Blue books. Red books. Hundreds and hundreds of books. How did they all fit inside? she wondered. It was surely impossible!

She began to remove the books and as she did so, trapped beneath a Roald Dahl and a Phillip Pullman, Janet discovered a blank envelope, sealed.

Clearly a Christmas Card. 

On impulse, and not knowing what else to do, she carefully opened it, taking it apart at the top using her scalpel as a letter opener. The paper sliced easily and swiftly.

She removed the card and stared at it.

Stared at it some more.

 

On that Christmas card was a photograph of Greensleeves, her dental practice. 

With a Happy Christmas inlaid in gold underneath. 

And it was snowing.

It hadn’t snowed on Christmas Day in years.

*

After doing what she had to do with the books, and then in her suite, Janet turned off the light. Picked up her coat and put it on, along with boots and scarf. It was cold out there, but inside, she was warm.

She hadn’t felt as warm as this in years.

Just before she left for home, she took the purple package from her pocket and assessed it once more. She would open that at home, by the fire, with a glass of malt whisky and a mince pie.

And she knew that her life, stalled as it was, hollow and dead, would begin again.

Her Christmas present safely in her pocket, Janet locked the door to her practice and made her way through the winter’s day to her snow-covered car.

xx

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All images are free copyright.

Originally published in:  

Access All Areas