Teeth do. Make that satisfying sound, clack clack clack. Shows you’re alive. So what do you do when you’ve got hardly any left? Fallen, cracked and crumbled. No dentist wants to go near your mouth. Dusty with the breath of decades.
I’m not putting up with it. I want to clack, I want to crunch nuts. Gums aren’t doing it for me.
I try Jeff next door. A winked excuse, toilet’s blocked, can I…? He knows about bladders. I rifle through his bathroom cabinet hoping for a spare denture. Nothing but pills like smarties. I shove some in my pocket.
I sway along the high street with my trusty cane. A pirate surveying the seas in search of bounty. A fine pair of choppers.
A couple of incursions into charity shops and I’m still empty-mouthed. But here comes the number 69 and I set sail for the old codgers’ home. Sure to be a treasure trove.
I creak off the bus and the first thing I see is a man lounging against the wall. Natty fellow wrapped in a greatcoat like the ones they issued us in ’39. Smiling at me, teeth so bright I’m nearly blinded. ‘Harold,’ he says, ‘I have what you want.’ I spot the forked tip of his tail below the heavy wool. ‘Don’t worry, I don’t expect you to hand over your soul. I’ve got enough of them. Just a little helping hand.’
I’m tempted and he grins with those shark teeth. But then I see the boys in the trenches sharing everything, my darling Molly stopping me killing even a fly, a million dazzling kindnesses flying round the world. I don’t want teeth so sharp they’d shred them. ‘No, sir.’ I walk away and try clacking my gums. I like the sound of it.
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