Джеймс Хэрриот - All Things Wise and Wonderful

Anyway, since those days I’ve had a marked preference for small frail soft-spoken dentists like Mr. Graver. I like to feel that if it came to a stand-up fight I would have a good chance of victory and escape. Also, Mr. Grover understood that people were afraid, and that helped. I remember him chuckling when he told me about the big farm men who came to have their teeth extracted. Many a time, he said, he had gone across the room for his instruments and turned back to find the chair empty.

I still don’t enjoy going to the dentist but I have to admit that the modern men are wonderful. I hardly see mine when I go. Just a brief glimpse of a white coat then all is done from behind. Fingers come round, things go in and out of my mouth but even when I venture to open my eyes I see nothing.

Hector McDarroch, on the other hand, seemed to take a pleasure in showing off his grisly implements, filling the long-needled syringe right in front of my eyes and squirting the cocaine ceilingwards a few times before he started on me. And worse, before an extraction he used to clank about in a tin box, producing a series of hideous forceps and examining them, whistling softly, till he found the right one.

So with all this in mind, as I sat in a long queue of airmen for the preliminary examination, I was thankful I had been to Mr. Grover for a complete check-up. A dentist stood by a chair at the end of the long room and he examined the young men in blue one by one before calling out his findings to an orderly at a desk.

I derived considerable entertainment from watching the expressions on the lads’ faces when the call went out. “Three fillings, two extractions!” “Eight fillings!” Most of them looked stunned, some thunderstruck, others almost tearful. Now and again one would try to expostulate with the man in white but it was no good; nobody was listening. At times I could have laughed out loud. Mind you, I felt a bit mean at being amused, but after all they had only themselves to blame. If only they had shown my foresight they would have had nothing to worry about.

When my name was called I strolled across, humming a little tune, and dropped nonchalantly into the chair. It didn’t take the man long. He poked his way swiftly along my teeth then rapped out, “Five fillings and one extraction!”

I sat bolt upright and stared at him in amazement.

“But … but …” I began to yammer, “I had a check-up by my own …”

“Next, please,” murmured the dentist.

“But Mr. Grover said …”

“Next man! Move along!” bawled the orderly, and as I shuffled away I gazed appealingly at the white-coated figure. But he was reciting a list of my premolars and incisors and showed no interest.

I was still trembling when I was handed the details of my fate.

“Report at Regent Lodge tomorrow morning for the extraction,” the WAAF girl said.

Tomorrow morning! By God, they didn’t mess about! And what the heck did it all mean, anyway? My teeth were perfectly sound. There was only that one with the bit of enamel chipped off. Mr. Grover had pointed it out and said it wouldn’t give any trouble. It was the tooth that held my pipe—surely it couldn’t be that one.

But there came the disquieting thought that my opinion didn’t matter. When my feeble protests were ignored back there it hit me for the first time that I wasn’t a civilian any more.

Next morning the din from the dustbin lids had hardly subsided when the grim realisation drove into my brain.

I was going to have a tooth out today! And very soon, too. I passed the intervening hours in growing apprehension; morning parade, the march through the darkness to breakfast. The dried egg and fried bread were less attractive than ever and the grey day had hardly got under way before I was approaching the forbidding facade of Regent Lodge.

As I climbed the steps my palms began to sweat. I didn’t like having my teeth drilled but extractions were infinitely worse. Something in me recoiled from the idea of having a part of myself torn away by force, even if it didn’t hurt. But of course, I told myself as I walked along an echoing corridor, it never did hurt nowadays. Just a little prick, then nothing.

I was nurturing this comforting thought when I turned into a large assembly room with numbered doors leading from it. About thirty airmen sat around wearing a variety of expressions from sickly smiles to tough bravado. A chilling smell of antiseptic hung on the air. I chose a chair and settled down to wait. I had been in the armed forces long enough to know that you waited a long time fcr everything and I saw no reason why a dental appointment should be any different.

As I sat down the man on my left gave me a brief nod. He was fat, and greasy black hair fell over his pimpled brow. Though engrossed in picking his teeth with a match he gave me a long appraising stare before addressing me in rich cockney.

“What room you goin’ in, mate?”

I looked at my card. “Room four.”

“Blimey, mate, you’ve ’ad it!” He removed his matchstick and grinned wolfishly.

“Had it …? What do you mean?”

“Well, haven’t you ’eard? That’s The Butcher in there.”

“The … The … Butcher?” I quavered.

“Yeh, that’s what they call the dental officer in there.” He gave an expansive smile. “He’s a right killer, that bloke, I’ll tell yer.”

I swallowed. “Butcher … ? Killer … ? Oh come on. They’ll all be the same, I’m sure.”

“Don’t you believe it, mate. There’s good an there’s bad, and that bloke’s pure murder. It shouldn’t be allowed.”

“How do you know, anyway?”

He waved an airy hand. “Oh I’ve been ’ere a few times and I’ve heard some bleedin’ awful screams comin’ out of that room. Spoken to some of the chaps afterwards, too. They all call ’im The Butcher.”

I rubbed my hands on the rough blue of my trousers. “Oh you hear these tales. I’m sure they’re exaggerated.”

“Well, you’ll find out, mate.” He resumed his tooth picking. “But don’t say I didn’t tell you.”

He went on about various things but I only half heard him. His name, it seemed, was Simkin, and he was not an aircrew cadet like the rest of us but a regular and a member of the groundstaff; he worked in the kitchens. He spoke scornfully of us raw recruits and pointed out that we would have to “get some service in” before we were fit to associate with the real members of the Royal Air Force. I noticed, however, that despite his own years of allegiance he was still an AC2 like myself.

Almost an hour passed with my heart thumping every time the door of number four opened. I had to admit that the young men leaving that room all looked a bit shattered and one almost reeled out, holding his mouth with both hands.

“Cor! Look at that poor bugger!” Simkin drawled with ill-concealed satisfaction. “Strike me! He’s been through it, poor bleeder. I’m glad I’m not in your shoes, mate.”

I could feel the tension mounting in me. “What room are you going into, anyway?” I asked.

He did a bit of deep exploration with his match. “Room two, mate. I’ve been in there before. He’s a grand bloke, one of the best. Never ’urts you.”

“Well you’re lucky, aren’t you?”

“Not lucky, mate.” He paused and stabbed his match at me. “I know my way around, that’s all. There’s ways and means.” He allowed one eyelid to drop briefly.

The conversation was abruptly terminated as the dread door opened and a WAAF came out

“AC2 Herriot!” she called.

I got up on shaking limbs and took a deep breath. As I set off I had a fleeting glimpse of the leer of pure delight on Simkin’s face. He was really enjoying himself.

As I passed the portals my feeling of doom increased. The Butcher was another Hector McDarroch; about six feet two with rugby forward shoulders bulging his white coat. My flesh crept as he unleashed a hearty laugh and motioned me towards the chair.