David Walliams - Demon Dentist

“SSSSLLLLLLLUU UUUURRRRRPPPPPP!!!!”

She smacked her lips together again, and then let out another sigh.

“Aaaaaahhhhhh!!! !!!!”

It was only the second time she had done the slurpyaah *routine in front of him, but Alfie couldn’t hide how deeply annoying he found it.

* Made-up word ALERT

Dad broke the uncomfortable silence. “Oh, it’s so nice to have a visitor, isn’t it, Alfie?”

The boy said nothing.

Winnie slurped and aahed again before enquiring, “Have you got any more of these yummy biscuits, ha ha?” She laughed at the end of her own sentences, in that irritating way jolly people often do.

“Yes,” said Dad. “We should have another biscuit in the tin, shouldn’t we, Alfie?”

Still the boy sat in silence, staring at this multicoloured munching machine.

“Well…?” prompted Dad. “Go and bring another biscuit for the nice lady.”

“Another chocolate one if you have it please, ha ha!” added Winnie brightly. “Naughty, I know! Have to watch my figure! But I do love choccy biccies!”

Slowly Alfie stood up and trudged to the kitchen. He knew there was one last chocolate biscuit in the tin, but he had been saving that for their dinner tomorrow night. Half each. As he passed the scratched and mottled mirror in the hall, Alfie paused for a moment. He needed to pluck the larger fragments of spit-sodden biscuit that had sprayed out of the social worker’s mouth from his hair.

“You must be very proud of him, Mr Griffit,” said Winnie. Alfie could hear them from the hall.

“It’s Griffith…”

“That’s what I said! Griffit.”

“Griffith…” repeated Dad.

“Yes!” said the woman in an exasperated tone. “G, R, I, F, F, I, T, H. Griffit!”

“Well, erm, yes of course I’m very proud of my pup,” wheezed Dad. Long sentences sometimes got the better of him.

“Your pup…?”

“Yes, that’s what I call him sometimes.”

“I see.”

“Over the years he’s looked after me so well. His whole life he has been looking after me. But…” Dad’s voice lowered to nearly a whisper now, “I didn’t tell him but I had a fall last week while he was at school. I didn’t want to worry him.”

“Mmm, yes. I can understand that.”

Alfie shifted his weight so he was standing nearer the door. The boy listened intently as the grown-ups talked.

“I became short of breath and I just blacked out. I fell out of my wheelchair. Smacked straight on to the bathroom floor. I was rushed to hospital in an ambulance. The doctors did a load of tests…”

“Oh, yes…?” Winnie sounded very worried now.

“Well, they um…” Dad was struggling to find the words.

“Take your time, Mr Griffit.”

“Well, the doctors told me my breathing was getting worse and worse. And fast…”

“Oh no!” gasped Winnie.

The boy could hear his dad crying. It was heartbreaking.

“Here, Mr Griffit, have a tissue…” said the social worker softly.

Alfie took a deep inhalation of breath. Hearing his dad cry made him want to cry. But the proud man was fighting it, and sniffing back up the tears.

“We Griffiths are strong. Always have been. I worked down that mine for twenty years. As my dad did before me, and his dad before him. But I am a very ill man. And my poor little pup can’t cope all on his own…”

“Very sensible of you, Mr Griffit,” replied Winnie. “I am glad you finally decided to call the council. I just wish you had sooner. And remember, I am here to help you, and your son…”

Alfie stood frozen to the spot. Dad had a habit of keeping bad news from him. The rising debts, the TV and the fridge being repossessed, Dad’s worsening health. Alfie felt he was always the last to know.

Indeed, despite their closeness, there were plenty of chapters in Alfie’s life that he kept from his father. The boy had his secrets too.

That the bigger boys would bully him at school for ‘dressing like a tramp’.

The detention Alfie received for not doing his homework when he had been too busy cleaning the bungalow the night before and hadn’t had time.

When he was caught ‘bunking off’ by the headmaster. Actually he had had to leave school early to make it to the next town before the shops closed to collect a new wheel for his father’s wheelchair.

Alfie felt his dad had more than enough things to worry about without worrying about him too.

But overhearing the conversation from the living room, try as he might not to, the boy finally had to give in to his tears. He was a Griffith too. Strong and proud. But his tears had beaten him. Warm, salty drops ran down the boy’s face. Despite everything, Alfie had always believed that one day his dad would get better. Now he had to face the truth.

“Alfie?” called Dad from the living room. “What about that biscuit for our new friend Winnie?”

Hastily, Alfie tiptoed back across the hall to the kitchen, and busied himself there. He had heard something he was never meant to hear. And now he had to hide it.

“I’ll go and check on him, Mr Griffit,” announced the lady.

“By the way, Winnie, it’s Griffith,” said Dad.

“That’s what I said,” corrected Winnie. “Griffit.”

She thundered down the hallway. Alfie didn’t want this stranger to see him cry. He hated anyone seeing him upset. Growing up without a mum, Alfie’s life had been touched with more sadness than most children’s. As a result, he had learned to hide his feelings. To bury them somewhere deep within where no one could see. His heart was a fortress.

Alfie hastily dabbed his eyes with the sleeve of his blazer, before attempting to wipe away the tears that had run down to the end of his nose.

“Now, young Alfred, have you found any more biscuits?” enquired Winnie. The boy had his back to her, and didn’t turn around. He hoped that in a few more moments all trace of his tears would be gone, and his red and blotchy face would have returned to normal.

Winnie could sense something was wrong. “Alfred? Alfred? Are you all right, young man?”

The boy hastily grabbed the scratched-up old biscuit tin from the larder. Still not turning to face her, he passed it over roughly.

“There you go. Eat the last one, why don’t you?!”

Winnie slowly shook her head, then her eyes were drawn to the mountain of letters on top of the larder behind Alfie.

“And what are all these…?” she asked.

“All what?” replied the boy. Alfie turned round, and in a panic realised she meant all the dental appointment letters he had been hiding from his father for the past few years.

“That’s just rubbish,” he lied.

“Well, if it’s just rubbish, let me help you put it in the bin.” Winnie was a wise old bird. She reached up her hand to grab the letters. Before Alfie could say anything, her eyes started flickering through the pages. Soon his secret was out.

“Well, who would have thought it! They’re all letters from the dentist! Oh dear, Alfred, you haven’t been for years!” proclaimed the social worker. “Now I know a lot of children under my care are scared of the dentist, but trust me…”