THE LAST STRAW

New Zealand Listener, Volume 15, Issue 390, 13 December 1946, Page 12

THE LAST STRAW

(Written for "The Listener" by

BEATRICE

WAYNE

HAD just cliribed the steepest flight of stairs in Christchurch. Exhausted, I paused, and studied the brass plate. Unhappily I tried to convince myself that I was unfit for the ordeal aheaddefinitely I was run down; I should have to consult Dr. Muriel Bell or at least Elizabeth Arden for I could sense that my nose was shining; what had been my chic upswept hair-style was now a deflated mass. But I could not face the terrible descent-I rang the bell, and went in. Into the dentist’s waitingroom. Recklessly, I sat down in the nearest chair. (I might have known it would be the most uncomfortable in the room, I have a sort of instinct for that sort of thing), and seized. a magazine, the slippery kind which must be held grimly. But being a keen student of human nature I did not give it all my attention. No: I observed my fellow sufferers furtively. At least I supposed they were sufferers: Somewhat to my chagrin they appeared beautifully composed, and almost cheerful (especially the girl with the hair-style I had spent an agonising 15 minutes trying to achieve). ‘ A nurse opened an inner door-my heart and stomach lurched treacherously. But-the call was for a toothless fellow in the corner who whisked past the rest of us with an unconcern horrible, at least for me, to see. He had nothing

to fear within, I reflected bitterly. I attempted to concentrate on the magazine. I passed from the determinedly antiseptic. advertisements to an article -I groafed softly-on relaxation, But I succeedéd only in increasing the quivering state into which the characteristic dental odours had _ precipitated me. I started timidly as the door opened again. Yes, it was for me. As I drifted into the darksome chamber I caught a glimpse of the Cathedral spires. Prayer... * * * HE nurse left me in the chair with a piece of towelling and the assurance that the Great Man would be with me presently. I was alone. "No matter which way I twisted my head I could still see the monster of a driller, and the smaller, shining objects with which the dentist plies his craft. My unhappy eyes wandered on to a notice which exhorted brightly "KEEP SMILING." My gloom blackened. It was a fitting moment for my tormentor to enter the room. (His voice was ever brisk and gay, a depressing thing in dentists). I clutched the chair moistly as he pricked and peered in my mouth. Just one very small filling-I swear he sounded disappointed. I preserved a dignified silence as he hoisted the thing into position, but my heart ached and a drowsy numbness pained my senses as I watched him adjusting the needle, and his intimate smile failed to soften (continued on next page)

(continued from previous page) me. To. suffer I was determined. Settling as pained an expression as possible on my flushed face, I exposed my ulvula with the abandon of despair. It disturbed him. He paused with the horrible driller just above my nose (still shining, need I add), his tone playfully severe. Come, now, we can’t have this. (Ugh!) It won’t hurt a bit. Of course he had the advantage over me. My cutting retort was muffled by two of his immaculate fingers and what always seems to be a_ specially-chilled mirror. My guttural mutter was accepted as acquiescence. %* % % | MUST admit, however, it was really not so terrible. But I still felt a victim, and the smiles and farewells of both dentist and nurse I could not regard as anything but false. My tongue caressed the tiny porcelain filling tenderly .... yet now I was cheerful. I sailed through the waiting-room with what was meant to be captivating joie-de-vivre, and interpreted the glances of those about to enter the Valley of Shadow as a tribute to my fortitude in surviving the ordeal. @ Cambridge Terrace never looked love- lier. I strode along, condescending to examine the passers-by with sympathy, and I observed with delight that they seemed to share my happy mood, A friend speeding by on a bicycle tossed me a startled hilarious greeting; complete strangers smiled on me (and I on them). I paused before a window to view what was optimistically termed the Spring Collection, and (merely en passant, mind you) caught a glimpse of myself*in the inevitable mirror . . . it was the final blasphemy. Round my neck was a small piece of dentist’s towelling, conspiciously white and odd against my dark jacket. I slunk away, dejected.