Reasons to Be Cheerful

by Nina Stibbe

  Caller: ‘No.’

  Tammy: ‘Are you registered anywhere?’

  ‘Not locally, I’ve just moved to the area.’

  ‘Are you on social security benefits?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘OK, what name is it, please?’

  ‘Mr Kapoor.’

  ‘Oh, right, erm, I’m sorry, Mr Kapoor, but we’re not taking any patients at the moment. You can come in for an emergency appointment but it will not be on the National Health, and you will have to wait until the dentist can squeeze you in, and you will have to pay in advance for any treatment and, I repeat, no National Health.’

  ‘But, OK, I—’

  ‘Sorry about that, Mr Kapoor, goodbye.’

  Tammy hung up, cleared her throat and fiddled with her pendant.

  ‘All right,’ she said, looking at me, ‘did you follow all that?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘So, we don’t take NHS casuals unless they pay up front.’

  ‘What is a casual?’

  ‘Someone with toothache but no dentist.’

  ‘But he didn’t say he had toothache…’

  ‘Yes, but he probably did though–he was tricking us.’

  ‘How could you tell?’

  ‘The name,’ said Tammy, twisting the pendant. ‘And JP isn’t very good at handling them.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Indians.’

  ‘So what will happen to Mr Kapoor?’ I asked.

  ‘He’ll have to go and queue for the emergency NHS clinic on Sunday,’ she said, ‘unless he manages to find a dentist before that–it’s up to him, I don’t know, it’s not our problem.’

  I went up to my flat at the end of that day feeling quite melancholy–I didn’t like the idea of watching my life disappear patient by patient, appointment by appointment, page by page. I’d already wasted half my life worrying about my mother, various dogs and my siblings. I’d failed at the smoke square and had to resort to my Prince Charles. But mostly, I couldn’t stop thinking about that phone call from Mr Kapoor.

  One of the patients in my early days was Mrs Woodward. I found her waiting at the door when I opened up after lunch one day. She didn’t have an appointment but had broken her partial upper denture, which she presented to me. It looked as if it had been run over by a car.

  Mrs Woodward had been a patient of Mr McWilliam’s so I had to look for her card in the old filing cabinets in the hall. Tammy helped and eventually found it in the wrong place. She apologized for having taken so long.

  ‘The thing is, Mrs Woodward, your dental record says you died in July 1978,’ she said.

  ‘That’s when I remarried.’

  Tammy laughed. ‘That will have been me then, filing you away in the deads. I’m always mixing up death and marriage.’

  As it happened, Mrs Woodward’s newish husband, Reverend Woodward, was the vicar of my granny’s village parish and I had a clear recollection of her referring to him as a ‘people pleaser’ because of his comparing Jesus to Jimmy Young in a modern sermon.

  I told Mrs Woodward to relax with a magazine and we’d do our best to fit her in as soon as possible.

  ‘Hullo, hullo, Miss Wood,’ JP boomed, some while later. ‘Come in, come in, take a seat.’

  ‘It’s Mrs Woodward,’ she corrected him, before describing how she’d only popped the denture out to remove a jam pip that had got underneath and, somehow, it had slipped from her hand on to the driveway where her husband–a novice driver–had let the car kangaroo forward over it. ‘It was awful.’

  She was currently wearing her spare, she told him, which didn’t fit very well. She had stored it in moist tissues as per instructions, but they must have dried out over time.

  ‘Well, it’s a shame that you didn’t store it correctly, Mrs Wood,’ said JP, and, before she could protest, he lifted two sides of her upper lip and stared into her mouth, as if he were estimating the age of a horse at the fair.

  ‘Uh huh, uh huh, uh huh,’ he said. Then, ‘Bite,’ he ordered, and hooked his little finger under the palate to whip out the ill-fitting spare, which he ran violently under the tap, turning it over and over in his hands and gazing at it.

  ‘Show me the damaged one,’ he said.

  Mrs Woodward rummaged about in the handbag in her lap and handed over the mangled pink plastic.

  JP joked that her husband must have run it over deliberately, to stop her yacking. Mrs Woodward didn’t dignify the comment with a response but instead told him she remembered giving his son driving lessons some years previously.

  JP clicked the spare back into her mouth. ‘So you did,’ he said, ‘and I seem to recall very slow progress–open again, please–no offence–and close again–open, please, bite–and now he’s a maxillofacial consultant at the Royal Infirmary.’

  Unable to respond verbally, Mrs Woodward opened her eyes wide in congratulation.

  ‘Rinse out,’ he instructed.

  She did so vigorously and then asked, ‘Any grandkiddies?’

  JP stopped and stood slightly back. ‘No, since you ask, and not likely to–he’s just had a vasectomy.’ His head wobbled slightly, a sort of defiant sadness.

  ‘Good grief,’ said Mrs Woodward, ‘that’s a bit drastic. He can’t be more than thirty.’

  ‘Thirty-two, and my only child.’

  ‘What on earth has he done that for?’ Mrs Woodward was shocked but somehow more confident now.

  ‘His girlfriend’s got three of her own and doesn’t want any more, apparently.’ JP blinked.

  ‘Well, but…’

  ‘I know. It’s causing me something of an existential crisis.’

  ‘I bet it is.’

  Tammy chipped in from the admin desk, ‘Are you still at the vicarage, Mrs Woodward?’

  But the patient was preoccupied. ‘You’ve got the girlfriend’s kiddies, so all’s not lost,’ she said.

  ‘They’re no relation to me whatsoever, Mrs Wood. They barely speak any English.’

  She tried to reply but he shoved his thumb into her mouth.

  ‘I can’t go teaching them how to make a reed-whistle or tearing them off a strip for busting a window, can I?’

  ‘Give it time. Keep an open heart.’

  ‘OK, we’re going to have to make you a new upper denture. Can’t have you walking around like a hag.’

  Tammy telephoned Mercurial Dental Lab for a late pick-up while JP got on with making the impressions–first loading a palate-shaped plastic tray with alginate and then shoving it into Mrs Woodward’s mouth, pushing it up into the roof with such force that she began to gag on the inevitable displacement of the pink goo. Oblivious to her discomfort, JP held the tray up with two fingers and gazed around the room, visibly thinking.

  The extra inches of staircarpet that had once put him in such an admirable light sprang to mind now; they seemed to belong to a world of JP’s imagination, populated with children running up and down the stairs, none of whom were his or related to him, and none of whom even looked like him; they did not speak his language or want his teachings. He would be irrelevant. Dead and gone.

  ‘If it were up to me, I’d sue the surgeon,’ JP said wistfully. ‘He’s ended my bloodline.’ Then he looked at Mrs Woodward, without seeming to notice that she was on the point of suffocation. He eventually fished the impression tray out of her mouth and rinsed the slime off under the tap. Mrs Woodward sat forward, gasped, coughed and spluttered and, taking the tissue I held out, dabbed at her eyes.

  ‘Yes, he castrated my only son.’

  JP began the process again for the lower jaw, which was considerably less stressful, since Mrs Woodward had no lower teeth to displace the alginate. Afterwards she was sent to the waiting room to recover her composure, reapply her lipstick and do the paperwork, which I watched and learned from. And then, with perfect timing, the young man from Mercurial Lab appeared to collect the impressions.

  It was our first official meeting. I’d seen him briefly a few times, deliv
ering appliances–crowns and so on–and I always liked the way he narrowed his eyes when JP pontificated.

  ‘Ah,’ said JP now, noting his arrival, ‘we’ve got some impressions for this replacement partial upper denture–now, just wait one second while I fill out a purchase order.’

  While he scribbled, Tammy introduced us. ‘This is Andy from the Mercurial Dental Laboratory,’ she said, and turning to me, ‘and this is Lizzie, our new girl.’

  ‘Hello,’ said the young man, ‘I think we’ve met before.’ I squinted at him. ‘Andy Nicolello,’ he said. ‘I live near Kilmington.’ I didn’t speak. I couldn’t quite believe my eyes. Andy Nicolello was a laboratory technician. It was like seeing Stig of the Dump all cleaned up in a suit.

  He inspected the impressions and he wasn’t happy. ‘I’m afraid these have dragged a bit,’ he said calmly.

  ‘Let me see,’ said JP, snapping his fingers. ‘There’s nothing wrong with them.’

  ‘Is the patient still here?’ asked Andy. ‘We need better impressions than these, really.’

  Mrs Woodward was called back in and to JP’s annoyance she and Andy also knew each other–they exchanged a few friendly words about their mutual village and its exciting new bus shelter.

  ‘Sit down, please, Mrs–would you, please,’ said JP crisply. And then, ‘Mix me another alginate, nurse.’

  Tammy began measuring powder and water, while Andy watched from the door. JP loaded a new impression tray and was about to insert it when Andy interrupted.

  ‘Actually, sorry, would you mind if I did it?’

  JP threw his arms up. ‘What? Oh, go on then, hurry up before it sets.’ And then to Mrs Woodward, ‘Sorry, Mrs Wood, the lab boy wants a turn.’

  Andy brought Mrs Woodward forward in the chair so that she wasn’t lying back, and put the filled tray into her mouth, angling and thumbing it into the upper palate with gentle precision.

  ‘Is that OK?’ he asked. Mrs Woodward nodded. While he waited for the alginate to set, Andy further irritated JP by giving a short talk on the best way to take dental impressions. ‘Alginate mixed with cold water can be uncomfortable, especially for those with amalgam restorations. I’d suggest mixing with lukewarm water–it’s a much better experience for the patient.’

  JP ignored him and looked out of the window, bridging his fingers and humming ‘Bright Eyes’.

  ‘Breathe steadily through your nose,’ Andy told Mrs Woodward, tapping the rubbery material under her lip. ‘Not long now.’

  Mrs Woodward nodded. It was clearly much less of an ordeal this time–none of the frantic gagging of the previous session. All was calm when JP suddenly said, ‘I say, nurse, do your Prince Charles impression.’

  I shook my head. ‘No, I can’t.’

  ‘I think it would be entertaining for Mrs Wood,’ he said. ‘Take her mind off it.’

  I did a diluted version and Mrs Woodward opened her eyes wide to indicate her appreciation. Andy Nicolello smiled politely and, after telling Mrs Woodward to rinse out her mouth, inspected the impression. ‘This looks fine,’ he said, wrapping it in wet paper. ‘Right, let’s get a wax bite, and we’re done.’

  After Andy and Mrs Woodward had gone, JP complained about his attitude. ‘I’ll give him “lukewarm water and a wax bite”–arrogant little B.’ JP never liked saying the word but often wanted to call people bastards. ‘I wish Mercurial would stop sending him. Whatever happened to old Mr Burridge?’

  JP and Tammy left for the weekend in unexpected drizzle, both in grumpy moods. I tidied the surgery and thought about Andy Nicolello. The last time I’d seen him he was helping his brother dismantle a shed in my grandmother’s garden and the two of them had carried the timber, bit by bit, across the fields to the shack where they lived. She’d given them an unwanted coffee table and a toy garage. I remembered being quite frightened of them. Neither spoke; they only grunted at each other.

  I phoned my friend Melody at the nurses’ quarters in Luton and Dunstable Hospital.

  ‘Do you remember Andy Nicolello?’ I asked her.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He works for a dental laboratory now and calls in at the surgery almost daily.’

  ‘He can’t do,’ she said. ‘He lives in a bus at the Midland Red depot–eats scraps from the Golden Egg and dresses like a tramp.’

  ‘Well, his life must’ve taken a turn for the better, because he’s now a respected technician who dines on shop-bought sandwiches and wears a Fred Perry.’

  ‘Do you speak to him?’

  ‘Yes, I spoke to him today and he’s completely polite and normal,’ I said, which he was–considering he came from a family that made mine look like the Leadbetters.

  4. The Nuclear Bunker

  The next morning a letter came addressed to my mother. I was a bit puzzled by its arrival at my flat but also excited to have a bona-fide excuse to call her. I loved speaking to my mother on the phone–it felt luxurious and adult.

  ‘A letter has come here for you,’ I said.

  She was still cross about the spoon, I could tell.

  ‘Oh, well,’ she said, ‘you’d better open it.’

  So I did.

  ‘It’s from Curious Minds Day Nursery in Victoria Park.’

  ‘And…?’

  ‘“Dear Mrs Vogel-Benson-Holt,”’ I began.

  ‘Yes,’ said my mother, impatient.

  ‘“We are delighted to inform you that in view of your recent move to the area, we are delighted to offer your son Daniel John Henry Holt a place in the day nursery, starting immediately.”’

  ‘Gosh, was that two “delighted”s?’ said my mother.

  ‘Oh, yes, they are delighted to be delighted.’

  ‘Well, that’s wonderful news,’ she said.

  Curious Minds was a fifteen-minute walk up the hill from the surgery and stood opposite the park very near the traffic lights which had stuck on red the morning Mr Holt moved me into town. It was much sought-after and my mother had jumped the queue due to having a local address.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind my telling a white lie,’ she said. ‘It’s just that it’s the best nursery for miles.’

  ‘Of course I don’t mind, but what’s so good about it?’

  ‘Well, for a start, it shares a nuclear bunker with the accountant next door.’

  ‘Jacobs the accountant?’

  ‘Yes, Jacobs, that’s it–but it’s not just the nuclear bunker,’ said my mother, ‘it’s a great nursery. Danny will have number-knowledge and high self-esteem before he starts proper school.’

  My mother wondered if I might consider collecting Danny once or twice a week to give her a bit of breathing space. I jumped at it.

  ‘Oh, yes, I’d love to,’ I said. ‘I’m going a bit mad here on my own, I’m so lonely.’

  ‘You should read some novels or write a play.’

  ‘I’m reading Woman’s Own back issues. We get it for the waiting room–it’s marvellous.’

  She groaned.

  It was hard for her to hear this. I had been an avid reader; a bookworm, bookaholic, librarian–call it what you will–as much as the next brainy young person, having been exposed, no, subjected, to the classics, the southern gothicists, the modernists, the post-modernists, the angry young men and more. But there I was at eighteen, an ordinary young working woman; I had life to live, real life. I had no use for men harpooning whales to death, pouring leperous distilments into other people’s ears, or Marge Piercy. The words that truly met my needs were to be found in the magazines in the waiting room. The world depicted therein, scattered with personal itching, erratic hair and special offers, was not only instructive, but unexpectedly soothing. I’d been unaware of it up to then–my mother being too intellectual to concern herself with the sort of things that went on inside those pages. Oh, but my goodness, how she’d missed out! How much nicer her life would have been if instead of punishing us all with Herman Melville, James Joyce and all that terrible Shakespeare, she’d known that sometimes pe
ople missed their own weddings or turned up at the wrong church (but saw the funny side afterwards), and that half a lemon dispelled fridge odours.

  The practice had both Woman and Woman’s Own delivered for the waiting room. The two were quite similar: Woman, ‘the world’s greatest weekly for women’, cost 15p, while Woman’s Own, Britain’s ‘top-selling magazine for women’, was a snip at just 14p. These facts were printed at the top of each. The former’s claim to be the greatest irritated slightly, whereas I found the latter’s more tangible ‘top-selling’ claim both impressive and reassuring.

  Woman’s Own encouraged me to change my flat from a boring wheat-coloured box of convenience into a vibrant French bistro–on a shoestring. It exposed me to special shampoo for brunettes, high-roughage breakfast cereals, clothing catalogues and the lesser royals. And, to borrow a phrase from the magazine itself, I was pleased as punch.

  The writers knew that life could be tricky and lonely and painful. They knew you didn’t earn a king’s ransom, and that popping a sensible shirt dress over a colourful bikini turned office wear into beach wear.

  I did wish there was more humour, though, more of the tone that you found in the readers’ letters, which although sometimes judgemental, self-congratulatory or pathetic, were often at the same time quite funny.

  I tried to explain the appeal to my mother on the phone but she thought it nonsense and then remembered with a jolt that she’d been told about Jacobs the accountant’s nuclear bunker in strictest confidence. I mustn’t gossip about it, she said, because Jacobs didn’t want all and sundry arriving on his doorstep in the event of a nuclear warning, and barging past little kids to get to safety.

  ‘OK, I’ll keep it to myself.’

  ‘Also, Lizzie,’ she said, ‘never admit to being lonely.’

  The days went by and I learned the ropes quickly, and apart from the odd bumping accident or spillage on to the maroon rubber disc caused by the over-crowdedness of the surgery, all went well. There was an awkward pause when Tammy started to experiment with housewifery and came in only for odd half-days here and there, and we started to compete. We’d race to greet the patients as they arrived. We’d try to get the bib on or take it off, to mix amalgam, hold the aspirator, or perform surgical tasks–before the other had a chance. Don’t ask me why we started doing this, it just evolved. It was quite inelegant, and sometimes dangerous. There was a terrifying incident in which JP tripped over one of us while holding the hand-piece (drill). He was supposed to take his foot off the pedal if things like that happened, but he’d gone into a catatonic state because we’d got the heater on. And another, when Tammy and I tried to slam beakers of mouthwash into the cup holder at the same time and it had been as brutal and desperate as opposing players in a rounders match racing to touch base. JP had had to shout at us, ‘Nurses, please!’