03 Dear Teacher

by Jack Sheffield

  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 swoll
en 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.

  Anne looked sadly after Jo. ‘It must be difficult for young couples,’ she said. ‘One day a decent house might cost more than £20,000 the way things are going.’ She, too, collected her register and made for the warmth of the staff-room.

  Vera looked out of the window at the children arriving for school. They appeared completely impervious to the cold with their rosy cheeks glowing on this cold winter’s day. ‘Well, at least the children don’t seem to feel it,’ she said quietly to herself. Then she picked up her coffee and newspaper and joined Sally and Jo in the staff-room, where she settled to admire the front-page photograph of Angela Rippon. The BBC’s prettiest newsgirl had been picked to compete at Olympia against Prince Charles’s all-star showjumping squad in order to raise money for the British Equestrian Olympic Fund.

  ‘Pity she’s too old for Charles,’ murmured Vera as she sipped her coffee. ‘He really needs a beautiful, innocent young girl.’

  ‘Innocent!’ exclaimed Sally.

  ‘I think Vera means someone fitting to be our future queen,’ said Anne quickly, ever the peacemaker.

  ‘Well, his latest girlfriend sounds a bit of a tearaway,’ said Sally. ‘Apparently her nickname’s “Whiplash Wallace”,’ she added pointedly.

  ‘Whiplash!’ exclaimed Vera. ‘Oh dear, how very common.’

  ‘He’s certainly had a few interesting companions,’ mused Anne.

  ‘I liked Lady Jane Wellesley,’ said Vera. ‘She would have been perfect, but he was too young then,’ she added.

  ‘Better than that Fiona Watson,’ said Jo.

  ‘I don’t remember her,’ said Anne.

  ‘Her nickname was “Yum-yum”,’ said Jo, ‘and I think she posed for Playboy.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Vera, ‘what must his mother think?’

  ‘Mind you, every time he needs a shoulder to cry on, he goes back to that Camilla what’s-her-name,’ said Anne.

  ‘Parker-Bowles,’ said Vera with authority. ‘Yes, that was a pity. I read he was heartbroken when she got married.’

  ‘And then there was Skippy, that bubbly Australian blonde,’ added Anne.

  ‘Kanga, not Skippy,’ said Jo. ‘Skippy’s that intelligent kangaroo.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ said Anne with a grin.

  ‘Maybe he secretly fancies one of the Three Degrees,’ said Sally mischievously. ‘He did invite them to sing at his thirtieth-birthday party last year.’

  ‘That reminds me, everybody,’ said Vera: ‘we’d better turn the gas fire down.’

  Grumbling under their breath, Anne, Sally and Jo walked back to their draughty classrooms, while, for me, the thought of Beth’s phone call meant that the cold weather was no longer important.

  In the entrance hall I passed Mr and Mrs Dudley-Palmer deep in conversation. Mrs Dudley-Palmer was having Victoria Alice’s costume for the nativity play professionally made in York and had called in to discuss the correct shade of blue for Mary’s headscarf. In preparation for the big event, Geoffrey Dudley-Palmer had bought an Olympus Trip 35mm camera for his wife. ‘It will fit neatly into your handbag, dear,’ said Geoffrey persuasively. ‘And, apart from the birth of Jesus, you can photograph pieces of furniture before you buy them.’ Geoffrey was a past master at appealing to Petula’s baser instincts. Sadly, although this was a tactful strategy, the state-of-the-art, cutting-edge technology was completely lost on Petula. Her first photographic results were destined to comprise twenty-four perfectly focused close-ups of her right ear against a variety of backgrounds.

  Just before the end of school Deke Ramsbottom arrived on his tractor and unloaded the school Christmas tree. Immediately, a throng of children from Anne’s reception class gathered in the corner of the hall to watch Ruby and me erect it in a half-barrel plant tub. As we stood back to admire our handiwork a host of little faces shone with excitement and I recalled once again the magic of Christmas for our four- and five-year-olds. ‘Santa’s coming soon,’ whispered five-year-old Victoria Alice to the Buttle twins, Rowena and Katrina. They both nodded in perfect unison and dreamed of Tressy dolls with their stylish hair and Mary Quant’s fashionably dressed Daisy dolls. They were also determined to discuss the possibility of a pet goat when they next met Santa in his grotto.

  I left school earlier than usual and settled down in my cosy lounge with a cup of tea and switched on the television. It was just before five o’clock and Ed Stewart was encouraging his youthful audience to join in the fun of Crackerjack. I felt slightly guilty watching such a youthful programme and switched to ITV. A young female with legs that went up to her armpits was telling me that she was sick of stubble-rash but fortunately her life would now be complete with a new Ladies’ Remington Shav
er. I wished my life was as simple. When Better Badminton came on at seven o’clock I switched off, unwilling to watch fit, athletic men in tight shorts and headbands knocking the feathers off a shuttlecock.

  After looking in my empty cupboards and at the lonely slice of cheese in my fridge, I decided to go into Ragley for a drink and enjoy one of Sheila Bradshaw’s famous ‘Belly Buster’ mince and onion pies.

  When I arrived, The Royal Oak was filling up with its usual Friday night crowd and topics that were in the news were being discussed.

  ‘A Channel tunnel?’ exclaimed Big Dave.

  ‘That’s reight, Dave,’ confirmed Little Malcolm: ‘a tunnel under t’English Channel.’

  ‘It were in t’paper this morning,’ said Stevie ‘Supersub’ Coleclough with authority. Stevie, as the only member of the football team with any academic qualifications, was proud of his superior knowledge. ‘A Member o’ Parliament called Norman Fowler said so.’

  ‘Norman Fowler? Who’s ’e when ’e’s at ’ome?’ asked Don the barman.

  ‘ ’E’ll be some southerner wantin’ cheap ’olidays in France,’ said Chris ‘Kojak’ Wojciechowski, the Bald-Headed Ball Wizard.

  ‘Y’reight there, Kojak,’ agreed Little Malcolm. ‘Warm beer an’ cheap ’olidays – y’can’t trust southerners.’

  ‘ ’Ow they gonna dig it?’ asked Big Dave.

  ‘Frenchies will be diggin’ from their side an’ we’re gonna dig from ours,’ said Stevie.

  ‘But ’ow will they meet in t’middle?’ said Kojak. ‘Couple o’ degrees out an’ they’ll miss each other.’

  ‘Then you’ll ’ave two tunnels,’ said Norman ‘Nutter’ Neilson. While Norman was not regarded as the sharpest knife in the drawer, everyone agreed he had made a good point.