He takes me gently by the arm, and steers me towards the chair. ‘Sit, plees.’
WHAT? I start to protest. ‘No no, it is Cristina with toothache, not me! My teeth are perfectly in order!’
He smiles, sweetly. ‘No, plees, you first, two minutos only!’ Oh well, it seems as if I am getting a check-up as well as my wife. Just as well I suppose, as neither of us has had one, since moving here, one of the many things we just haven’t got around to, what with all the lying around we seem to do. Now, I know that many people, Chrissie included, have a dread of the dentist. Luckily, however, I am not of that number, and when I was working, used to positively look forward to a thorough examination, with a bit of drilling thrown in for good measure. Am I a masochist? Not a bit of it. No, I am sure I read somewhere, years ago, that the dental profession in general were overwhelmingly in agreement that the best antidote to the taste of antiseptic, numb gums and general fiddling with the old molars was a Littlewood’s ‘Big Eight’ breakfast, with free fried bread. I therefore arranged my appointments for first thing in the morning, nine-ish, to enable me to get into said breakfast emporium before the crowds of old folks descended. ‘Ooh, what do I fancy?’ ‘What are you having, Mavis?’ ‘Well the bacon looks nice!’ ‘No I can’t eat bacon, gets under me plate!’ ‘Think I might have beans on toast!’ ‘What about scrambled eggs?’ No. In and out by half nine, avoid all that. Eight items, plus fried bread, some ridiculously low price. No wonder they went bust. My work colleagues knew what I was up to, of course. ‘Funny dentist you have, J-A, there are baked beans on your chin!’ ‘Don’t think much of that bloke, you have bits of sausage between your teeth!’ Our receptionist, Sarah, was the worst. ‘I see you have a dental appointment at eight-forty-five. Does that mean you will be visiting your special client, Mr Littlewood, on the way back to the office?’
Alphonso steps to the side of the room, retrieves his ciggy, and draws a luxurious lung-full, before exhaling pleasurably, like the Flying Scotsman pulling into King’s Cross. He then rummages among his equipment, bringing forward a metal plate, which he gestures for me to hold between my teeth, pushing it into place with his nicotine-stained fingers. Blimey, I am partial to oak-smoked pork and leek chipolatas, of course, although usually I prefer them fried… He pulls a camera into place, then retreats behind a screen. It appears I am having an x-ray, although sadly, zero chance of a good old-fashioned fry-up afterwards. He repeats the operation on the opposite side, then gestures to Chrissie, who all this time has been standing as close to the window as possible, without actually sticking her head out, that it is her turn. And she doesn’t eat sausages…
Eventually, we stumble gratefully onto the pavement, inhaling deeply, rubbing our eyes, my wife clutching an appointment slip for a filling on Friday. ‘You don’t need me to come with you, Friday, do you?’ I splutter, wafting my hands dramatically. ‘Do you have an old boiler-suit tucked away in your wardrobe somewhere?’ Our first Spanish dental appointments, which, like everything else in this nutty country, were about as far removed from anything we ever experienced in the UK. Will there be a charge? Is this on the local NHS, or will someone shove a tatty yellow slip into our letterbox, addressed to Jose Ocana Pastor, in about three years time? Not the absolute foggiest.
There is just time to dash home, hot showers, throw our whiffy clothes into the wash-basket, before the conversation group at the library. To which Marie arrives a few minutes late, panting breathlessly, fanning her face with a large manila envelope, which she hands to Chrissie. ‘Sorree I late! I see Alphonso thees day, he give me you raddyo-graffia. Take, plees. He say me, plees to give he you raddyo-graffia, from Eengland.’
There are nods around the table, and murmurs of ‘yees,’ ‘raddyo-graffia,’ ‘much important,’ whereas we are mystified, as always. Chrissie peers apprehensively into the package, and draws forth an x-ray, four x-rays in fact, two each I presume. She bursts out laughing. ‘Well these are yours, look, like a row of condemned houses!’ And she slides them across the table. Damn cheek! Condemned houses indeed? Lucky to have a single tooth in my head, quite honestly, after all the beer bottles I opened with them, as a callow youth, outside the Plough and Windmill, and the wallops I incurred, in the name of sport.
I throw Marie a puzzled look. ‘Why do we need these? They are called x-rays in English. What are we supposed to do with them?’
There are incredulous gasps from the assembled Spaniards. Juan, as always, is the serious one. ‘Ees much important, you must to keep you raddyo-graffia safety. Where you raddyo-graffia from Eengland, plees? You must to show Alphonso you raddyo-graffia from Eengland!’
Damn. I knew there was something we forgot to bring with us, when we moved. All those x-rays we had stored away in the loft. Never mind those Beatles albums we didn’t have room for. Rafi senses our confusion. ‘You no have raddyo-graffia from Eengland? I no understand.’
She doesn’t understand? How does she think we feel? Got to be careful here, of course, they have their systems, however ridiculous they might seem to us, and we don’t want to upset local sensibilities, a fact Chrissie recognises, to avoid me jumping in with both feet. ‘We do things slightly differently in Britain’ she smiles. ‘Usually the dentist keeps the x-rays, so we don’t have to. Can you imagine John here, losing his? You know what he is like!’ Oh yeah, knew it would be my fault. She is correct, of course. Can you picture me, leaving my x-rays in Littlewood’s cafe? Or turning up at the dentist the next time with bits of fried egg stuck to them?
‘So what you call you different teeth in Eengliss, plees?’ Teri enquires. ‘In Espain we say incisivos, muela, canino, pre-muela, like thees. And why you laughing me, Jonneee?’
‘Sorry!’ I smile, ‘I was not laughing at you, Teri, but in Britain we do not generally use the technical words, incisors, molars, canines. Dentists do, of course, but the public usually just say ‘teeth.’ Top teeth, bottom teeth, front teeth, back teeth. If you ever go to England, and need to visit the dentist with a toothache, just point to it, you will be fine!’ I was going to add that she should pop in Littlewood’s afterwards, but sadly that option no longer exists.
So there you have it. Another top tip. For anyone planning on buying a house over here, don’t forget your x-rays!
A couple of weeks later, I return from my pre-breakfast jog to find Chrissie in the bathroom, slumped over the sink, in floods of tears. Gently, I place a supportive arm around her. ‘What is it, what is wrong?’
She is inconsolable, however. ‘I have a lump, inside my nose. You know, I told you, I have been having trouble breathing lately, I have just had a look, but I cannot see properly, but there is something up there, a growth of some kind……. here, take this torch…. I cannot see properly…. you look.’
My stomach lurches. In cold dread, I hold her in my arms. ‘OK, it will be fine, don’t worry, we will get it sorted, whatever it is. Just put your head back, and let me see.’ I am terrified, quite honestly, what I might find, but have to stay strong. I flick on the torch and begin my examination, first one side, then the other. Oh my God. Slowly, I pull her upright, and grab a tissue. ‘All right, dry your eyes, there is a small blockage, looks like bone, or cartilage to me, but is it painful, can you feel it?’
She wipes her tear-stained face. ‘No, it doesn’t hurt at all, I am not aware of it, but it felt blocked, so I just thought I would see if there was anything……’
The elephant in the room, of course. That dreaded word. I take a deep breath. ‘So you have never had a peek up there before, in the past?’
‘NO. Of course not’ she sniffles. ‘Why would I?’
‘So think about it’ I whisper. ‘You might have had that bone, or cartilage or whatever it is, for years. Since you were young. You might even have been born with it. Do you see what I mean?’
Her face softens, visibly. ‘Do you really think so?’
I smile, reassuringly. ‘I am no doctor, of course, and we will get straight down there, get it checked ou
t, but it doesn’t look angry, or inflamed, or recent, to me.’
She perches herself on the bath. ‘Oh my God, I was so worried….. yes, I think you might be right, I do vaguely recall, when I was a little kid, I had a similar problem, my mum took me to the doctor….’ And she stands, and envelops me in a huge hug. ‘Sorry to get so emotional.’
I have tears in my eyes, but blink them away. ‘Well, we had the pleasure of the dentist a few weeks ago, today I guess we will find out what the doctors are like in this town! And heaven alone knows how you go about getting an appointment. Go down there and queue up for about a hundred years, I imagine?’
‘Ah, well that is where you are wrong!’ she giggles. ‘Marie was telling me, when you were explaining the laws of cricket, or some other man-crap, to Jose and Juan, she said one of her boys was sick recently, and that they have a new online booking system now, at the doctors. So let’s fire up the internet, and find out!’ And it is true! ‘Look at this!’ she giggles, clearly feeling much happier. ‘Appointments at three-minute intervals! Can you believe it? Look, eleven-oh-oh, eleven-oh-three, eleven-oh-six, oh-nine, and so on. Can you imagine a Spaniard having a three-minute medical appointment? Blimey, it would take that long for just the kissing! Then another three minutes shouting, and flapping their arms, another three telling about what happened in the street last night, then their life stories. Hell, they’d need a half-hour, minimum!’
‘Perhaps you need to block-book!’ I giggle. ‘Although how long will we actually need? Better look up the Spanish word for nose, before we go, however!’
She claims what appears to be one of the last available appointments, at the remarkably un-Spanish time of eleven thirty-six, and, leaving plenty of time, we head down there, the same grand street as the dentist, a similar palatial four-storey building, thankfully on this occasion with the distinct absence of tobacco fumes. The massive wooden doors are wide open, leading to what appears to be a reception area, with typical medical posters lining the walls, a reception desk, but sadly no receptionist. Not a single soul, filing their nails. We stand around for a few minutes, unsure of what to do next, before an old man shuffles in from the street, although whether he has a medical complaint, or just needs a quick sit down, is unclear. I indicate the empty desk, and shrug, in a what is supposed to be happening fashion. ‘Breakfast!’ he hollers. ‘The bastardos have gone for breakfast. Follow me, please.’ And turning, he heads painfully up a flight of elegant marble stairs.
What is it with these locals and their breakfasts? Is there no concept of having it before they start work? And the lack of any form of consideration for customers, or patients in this case, is staggering, to my mind. OK, so if the receptionist is due a statutory break, and I don’t actually believe they should be, having only opened half an hour ago, here’s an idea. Why not arrange someone to cover, at a time when patients are booked in? Don’t they need to check us off the list, so that the doctor can access our notes? Not that Chrissie has any previous notes, of course, but that will be most of the three minutes gone before we even start. ‘Sorree, I not to find you raddyo-graffia. You must to go, plees.’
Wheezing mightily, the old fellow reaches a landing on the first floor, then barges unceremoniously into a small room which could comfortably hold five people, at a push, but into which around a dozen pensioners are crammed. ‘ULTIMO?’ he bellows. Ah yes, the famous ultimo. You hear it anywhere a queue has formed, and it translates as something like ‘who is next before me?’ And it always provokes the same response. ‘I am next.’ ‘She was before me.’ ‘That man came in after her.’ ‘I think I was after her.’ ‘How’s your Bert’s lumbago?’ ‘Ooh, mustn’t grumble!’ OK, so I made one of those up, but you get the picture. The other day, I was standing patiently in the queue at the greengrocers, minding my own business, when an old woman came up behind me. ‘Ultimo?’ Well actually I was thinking of firing this cauliflower into that imaginary basketball hoop up there on the wall………. ‘Si.’
So what is actually happening? Is there a doctor in the house? Is there a doctor in the province, given this apparent absence of any medical staff whatsoever? Surely not? Twelve people, three minutes each, that’s thirty-six minutes, or it was when I was at school, appointments should have started at eleven, it is now gone half-past, all this lot are before us, none of them have been seen yet…. surely not? Looking around the room, I can almost mind-read. Everyone is thinking the same thing….. Suddenly the old fellow staggers to his feet, and flings open a door to another room, the surgery possibly, which anyone might reasonably assume to contain a medical professional. ‘BASTARDO! He’s gone for his breakfast!’ Yep. The room is empty.
Suddenly, everyone is talking at once, although above the hullabaloo, I can hear footsteps on the stairs, slow, steady, heavy, laborious, and a what appears to be a paramedic materialises breathlessly in the doorway, an ambulance-woman in fact, mid-forties maybe, blonde pony-tail, dressed in dark-green scrubs and a huge florescent jacket, from which I swear she is brushing toast-crumbs…. So what is she doing here? Has there been a critical injury we haven’t noticed? Is she here in case a fight breaks out, after all this time-wasting? Does she suspect the old chap might, I dunno, knee the doctor in the goolies, when he actually deigns to turn up? Wouldn’t blame him, to be honest. Regaining her breath, slowly, she turns to face the room. ‘Buenas dias. How are we all today?’
How are we… oh we are all absolutely fine, thank you, there is not a single thing wrong with any of us, we just popped in to check you enjoyed your coffee and tostada, did you have it with olive oil, a few slices of jamon maybe….. how the bloody hell do you think we are? We are all sick. Sick of waiting for this cursed doctor, if you must know, so stagger your way back downstairs, get the doors of the ambulance open and the blue light flashing, because this thrice-damned quack is gonna need it….
She turns towards the surgery door, then barges it open with her meaty hip. ‘Ultimo?’ The effect is exactly like firing a starting pistol. Everyone, excluding us but including the formerly hobbling old man, leaps to their feet and charges towards the surgery, like a savage pack of dohhs weeld. ‘I am ultimo’ ‘you were after me’ ‘she was before you’ ‘get off my toes’ ‘what is that sticking in my back?’ With a deftness belying her age, and size, the startled paramedic steps rapidly into the room, and bangs the door, leaving the baying Spaniards in her wake.
‘Bloody hell!’ I whisper, although I might as well have shouted it from the rooftops, the row this lot are making, ‘so much for your precious appointment system! Quick, dial nine nine nine! Get reinforcements!’
She is shaking with laughter. ‘It definitely said, on the website, that you have to make appointments online, or with the receptionist. You cannot just turn up on-spec, and if you do, you have to wait. Marie was saying this, there was hell-up when she came here, loads of old duffers trying to jump the queue!’
‘Well anyway’ I frown, surveying the chaos, ‘all this lot are before us, aren’t they? You got the last available appointment, you said, so we will just have to wait. Did you bring a book? Sadly I forgot my copy of War and Peace!’
‘I’m not so sure now, actually. I booked it on my Kindle, so the script was a little small, clicking the time-slot. It looked like the last one, but maybe…..’
Suddenly the door of the surgery opens a crack and ambulance-woman pokes her head out. ‘Reechard Cristina, plees.’
And the room goes berserk. ‘I am ultimo!’ ‘No I was before you!’ ‘She is next!’ ‘Who is Reechard Cristina?’ Everyone is hollering and bawling at the same time, whereas we sink lower in our seats, in total embarrassment.
The beleaguered paramedic holds up her hands, placatingly, although she might as well have fired a pea-shooter at a charging rhino, for all the good it does. ‘LOOK!’ she bellows. ‘We have a new system. You must book online.’
Like poking a stick in a hornets nest. ‘I don’t have a computer!’ ‘Do I look like a little kid?’ ‘I am eighty
, not eighteen!’ ‘I don’t even have a phone, you tonta!’
Which doesn’t go down well. ‘Then you must telephone the receptionist. This is not my fault. Who is Reechard Cristina, plees?’
‘WHAT PUTA RECEPTIONIST?’ ‘THERE IS NO RECEPTIONIST!’ ‘SHE IS HAVING HER EFFING BREAKFAST!’ ‘YOU ARE ALL TONTAS!’
Toes curling, we slink across the room, like a pair of whipped mongrels, shoulders hunched, avoiding eye-contact, slalom our way around the outraged oldies and slip gratefully into the surgery, closing the door silently behind us. Slumped in her chair, ambulance-woman rolls her eyes in a Spaniards, eh, what are they like gesture, although she might actually be thinking how the bloody hell did you English jump the queue. ‘Dee-may?’
Ah yes, the famous dee-may. Literally ‘tell me.’ The universal greeting of any waiter, shopkeeper, and, it would appear, pretend-doctor. Not ‘good morning what can I do for you?’ Very direct, the Spanish language, but then again, we have just jumped an unruly queue and almost caused a riot, judging by the noise outside. So where is this elusive quack, anyway? Is this woman some sort of triage? Is she going to waste several of our precious three minutes discovering what is wrong, before passing us on to the actual doctor, who is, what, hiding in a broom cupboard somewhere, in a vain attempt to rid his white coat of traces of chopped tomato?
Sunsets and Olives 2: Back to Spain...... the madness continues! Page 37