Sweet Tooth MP3 - click to play
Read by Cliff Chapman
I haven’t much of a sweet tooth, but I eat sugar for your sake. Ever since sweets came off the ration, I crunch barley-sugars between my crumbling molars like glass; I suck assiduously on mint humbugs. At the tobacconist's, I always buy a bag of sugar-mice with my 'Craven A' and Daily Sketch. Miss Hodgson drops them into the brown-paper bag like little pink bullets and seals it with a brisk twist and a brisker smile.
Her teeth are white and even; she'll never enjoy your attentions, my love. Unless, perhaps, she's one of those who had her full set pulled out, and replaced with gleaming dentures, as an eighteenth-birthday gift. My mother swore by hers: I remember them bared in her bedside glass, like a museum relic or a queer fish evolved to be all grin.
Mother would not approve of the way I am mistreating my teeth; but Mother will never know. She is lying with her dentures under the smooth lawns of Overbury Cemetery. I'm the master of myself now, and the house; I can eat sweets and drink beer and go up to town if I want to. Listen to jazz in the night-clubs, because I heard Charlie Parker floating out of the upstairs window of the surgery one night, walking home. Drink beer, because you once said the Noah's Ark did a good Sunday roast, and smiled. Drink endless cups of strong sugared tea which make my lips purse and my tongue shrink from the sweetness, like a slug. All for your sake, my love.
I remember when you first took over from old Mr. Benwood: the news swept around the village in minutes, quicker even than when the war ended or Lord Standish's colt won the Derby in '48. A lady dentist, in Miston Bridge: whatever next? The postmistress and Miss Hodgson, who have always been thick as thieves, agreed between themselves it wasn't natural – the postmistress declared that if she had to go all the way to Overbury to "have a proper dentist look at my choppers", it was a journey she was willing to undertake. I ought to confess that I had my doubts, too, until I saw you.
You were sweet as a sugar-mouse in your white coat and your cap, which only made your glossy curls seem softer and darker. I nearly said "Stop!" when you drew the mask up to cover your lovely lips, but you already had one warm finger on my lower bicuspid and I couldn't move, couldn't speak, with the dizzy dumb thrill of it.
You tapped each tooth in turn, murmuring to your nurse, a pop-eyed girl from the farms, used to quelling the fears of livestock bound for the slaughterhouse. But I was never nervous – not with your blue eyes to look into. And when you found that first cavity, and the tiny crease between your fine black brows deepened, and you asked for the gas and settled the mask gently – oh! so gently! – over my face, that was when I fell in love with you.
I don't know how many times I've been back to you since. That's a lie: fourteen. One visit for every tooth on the upper arch; I've another fourteen to go. It isn't easy, this slow process of dental destruction. I was never a sporty chap, but I joined the village rugby team hoping that one of the bigger lads would knock out, or at least loosen, an incisor. The front teeth are always the last to go: they're stubborn, and won't be neglected into decaying, unlike the molars, with their wrinkles and dimples where caries can hide.
You know that back right molar, which has been giving me so much trouble? You remember everything you told me not to do? I did it all, and it was worth the pain, the extra fillings, the noxious sweetness of the gas, to gaze at your beautiful face from six inches' distance as your warm fingers probed my gums, stroked my tongue. It was worth it. It's more filling than tooth, now: every time I drink tea (scalding hot, far too sweet) it throbs like a bursting heart. The pain is like a physical tug: towards you, back to you.
Last weekend I was lucky beyond what I'd dared to hope. There he was, Thomas Maines, landlord of the Noah's Ark – all six foot two of him, striped and sweaty even before we got in the scrum. He doesn't often play for Miston – too busy providing beer for after, and keeping his eye on you. Oh yes, I've seen him: heard him too, talking about "the lady dentist" the way a farmer might talk about a prize cow he's coveting, or a brand new tractor. It's not the way to talk about a lady, and I would've told him then and there, but I had other plans.
I got him just before half-time: never mind we're on the same team, strange things happen on the field. His underparts were unprotected; that was his mistake. Soft and sensitive as a tongue, and the twist of a fist was all that was required. He knew it was me because I looked him in the eye while I was doing it. Saw that animal pain, that dumb-beast fury. It felt like winning the pools. He came after me then, and I let him. His shoulder crunched into my upper jaw and oh! The sweet, piercing agony of it! Two teeth, not one – both incisors scattered white on the green and my mouth streaming blood for you, my love. For you.
I expect I'll need a lot of work done. I hope I will. And I know, one of these days, I'll dredge up the courage to talk to you, to tell you all I've done for your sake, to cry "I love you!", to finally say something more than –
Aahhh.
(c) Esther Cleverly, 2013
Esther Cleverly is a writer of short fiction and scripts. Her stage work has been performed at the Broadway Theatre, Barking and her short stories have been performed at Liars’ League Leeds and now – at last – at Liars' League London! She has her eye on New York and Hong Kong too.
Cliff Chapman grew up on the Isle of Man, where he did lots of theatrical things before tunnelling out under cover of darkness to London, to train at The Actor Works. He also occasionally directs – including audio books for Fantom Audio.
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