Another number.

The moon still hung pale over the Lake. It sneered a little then seemed to glow stronger as the snow came down in sheets. The car was slow to start: it gasped and coughed until the engine finally spluttered into life. The driver was tired and very late. He´d never wanted to leave the house but he felt obliged, obliged to be another number in a queue doomed to finish back here in the end.

New snow upon old ice! It cloaked and choked the country road, blurring the ditches and leveling the dips. The bends straightened and where they´d found old Pat dead in his overturned wreck the year before, he braked too hard and lost control.  Clutching desperately, the engine dampened and the tyres took off, they whizzed for a second then floated across the whiteness.  Time slowed; he let go.  And silently the car slid sideways down the road in the stillness of a winter morning.

He didn´t panic, moon – hedge – T-junction – hedge, he simply closed his eyes until the music then thoughts came in steady succession. “Who will buy my sweet red roses? Two blooms for a penny, a wonderful morning. You love Oliver but what was that actor´s name, the one who played Fagin? He reminds you of your Dad, dancing, singing and always smiling. How you miss those long walks on the farm, wellies disappearing in his huge footprints. Will your son think of you in the same way when you´re gone…”

His head was a hive of arcane activity, he whispered to himself as the car spun on. “Shit, you forgot the telephone bill; herself won´t be happy. Nor will she be happy when she hears about this tumour under your tongue. It doesn´t hurt but you should have told her, she´s already suspicious of these early starts and sure anyway, you´ll have to come clean in the end. Or with any luck, this will be the end.” He stopped.

The car had too, the motor cut, it now pointed back in the direction of home.  He gathered himself, removed the wool cap and mopped the sweat from his brow. Relentlessly, the snow fell still in the immense silence of space. And after a moment´s consideration, he started up again, turned the car around and continued into town.

The waiting room was busy with numbers. Knowing looks and long names isolated the professionals from the non-infectious, gloves and masks from their ulcers and lumps.  There was no explanation when he opened wide his mouth, nor when the surgeon pulled his tongue first this way, then that. Few courtesies as the painless ulcer was measured and catalogued and little poetry as the expert felt excitedly for that hard swelling beneath his chin.

Old ice and new snow, he mused, “you´ll tell her this evening so”.

Dr D. Mac Auley.

Published Meath Chronicle 27/03/2013.

The thin veneer

Published Meath Chronicle 26/06/2013

After all these years, the receptionist watched the dentist finally sign the papers. She whisked them up, packed them into an oversized envelope and presented it back to him. He threw her a tight-lipped smile and headed for the post. As the glass shuddered after him, she recalled those signs from her college days in London, grubby signs hung in hotels and guest house windows, often hand scribbled yet still carved in her heart.

Heavy clouds hovered overhead, the air was saturated. A few hardy types well insulated against the elements led the way. Mid-morning breaks never used to be a reality but since the bubble burst he had time on his hands, too much time. Scurrying past the shopping centre he clutched the envelope as if his future depended on it. At least the older clients hadn´t abandoned him. Yet he still felt a little embarrassed when they enquired about business. He didn´t enjoy lying to them, nor to his family for that matter, however the signs were there – flaking paint on the exterior, the patched-up equipment and same-day appointments always available. Most knew his prices hadn´t budged in years; those that complained weren´t sent reminders. After all, he was an experienced dentist and deserved every penny he could wring out of them.

The queue at the post office was moving well until the waves of doubt rolled in again. Suddenly, he felt like an old cloth, once useful but now scrunched up and discarded to dry and wither in some window where one day, if someone should find and try and open him up, he would simply crumble to dust. “Was this envelope the answer to his troubles?” The question still hung on the line when a retired colleague interrupted his thought convention. This good old boy was in great form, having sold up before the crisis, he praised his friend for holding out.  Heads turned as the old-timer worked himself into a lather of criticism against other dentists in town who had dropped their prices, practically foaming at the mouth on the subject of websites and patients shopping around.  “That never happened in our day, eh? If they didn´t like it they went up North, now the Northerners are down here!”

Distracted by the commotion, he didn´t realise he was now hiding the envelope behind his back. Until the old boy spotted it, “What have you got there?” The other retreated, his face reddening with every step towards the door. “Hey, where are you going…and why aren´t you working this morning?” the sentiment squeezed him into the street. He ran for it. 

The receptionist saw him coming. Her heart sank at the sight of the envelope containing the application forms. Those signs from her youth came flooding back – "No Blacks, no Dogs, no Irish". She trembled as she touched her own envelope deep in her tunic´s pocket. Resignation or overreaction, thoughts of family kept it hidden.  The dentist stormed in, refusing to look her in the eye, he casually straightened his sign in the window, it read – NO MEDICAL CARDS.

Dr. Don Mac Auley.