Short Stories written by A.C. Brokenshire

The End of the Line

‘Be careful with that chair!’ I shouted to my apprentice Vickers.

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‘It’s all right, Henry. It’s only a small dent.’

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‘How can it be all right?’

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As the cast iron legs of my dentist chair collided with the doorframe, flakes of ruby coloured paint flicked to the ground. On Vickers’ side, I might add.

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‘You’ll pay for that damage.’ Darwin the pub landlord glared at me.

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‘Add it to my bill.’ I gently cuffed the lad’s ears.

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Vickers and I had unlashed the chair and humped it off my pony and trap but struggled to manhandle it through the front door of the Bear Inn in Street. To my patients it boasted sumptuousness featuring a velvet seat and comfortable head rest, however without doubt, it was heavy and cumbersome. It was essential travelling dentist equipment. As I had to transport it to regular surgeries in other Somerset pubs in Glastonbury and Wells, it had inflicted numerous bruises.

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Father had wanted us boys to have a profession, and I excelled at dentist school, but I hated the job.  He had helped me to launch my business, so I had money tied up in my foot drill, spittoon and this overweight chair. Somehow though there was no passion in my bones, and I was an entrepreneur primarily to prove myself to him and settle unpaid debts.

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My preference was to work at the Bear Inn on a Friday, as Darwin would have a sherry with me afterwards and we could reminisce about King Edward VII, who had recently passed away. It was the thirteenth of May 1910.

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‘Fetch the other equipment. This time be careful,’ I ordered. Vickers tapped his cap and rushed outside to unload the final tools.

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‘How many have you got today? Are we having a little drinkie together later?’ asked Darwin.

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‘For sure, I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Now let’s see.’ I flipped my notebook open to the last page.

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‘A fair few. I should be done by five.’

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‘Suits me.’ Darwin turned back to serve his customer, a local well-to-do farmer.

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‘Give me a shot of Irish, squire.’

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‘Is that for Dutch courage?’ Darwin asked, as he served the farmer a whisky.

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‘Yes, I’ve an appointment with Henry presently. I’ve had a pain in my mouth for days, so this might numb my tooth till he sorts it out.’

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Vickers and I, set up shop in the parlour besides the bar. It had a grand window fronting the common and was lavishly designed for prestigious guests’ entertainment.

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‘First up, extraction. Right, you’ve done one of these with me before. Can you remember the drill?’ I asked Vickers.

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‘Yes. I hold his head still with this strap.’

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‘Tie it down here, otherwise you’ll have to use both hands. Once the tooth is loose, pass me my forceps. I need this one. Got it?’

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‘Yes, Henry.’

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‘Then I think we can proceed. Next! Mr. Cripps.’

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My instruments on the plate were like shining soldiers all in a row, lined up so that their handles faced identically and stood in height order. Such tools of the trade were my family, my loved ones, but items of torture in the wrong hands.

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Vickers escorted the farmer into surgery.

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‘Welcome Mr. Cripps.’

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He straightened his coat tails and settled himself down. He was normally rosy cheeked, but on that day, he had an unusually pallid face. Positioned on my swivel stool near him, I recoiled from his booze stinking breath.

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‘Now then, what seems to be the trouble?’

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‘I’m in a lot of pain. It’s this one.’ Mr. Cripps pushed a chubby finger into his mouth.

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I relaxed the chair backwards and held a light to shine inside his orifice. Sure enough, the troublesome tooth was severely decayed and sat proud on rotten gums.  I prodded it. Mr. Cripps’ feet pushed against the footplate.

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‘I see. Upper right second molar. Then we’ll deal with this, won’t we? My usual charge of three shillings for an extraction. Please relax.’

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Vickers tied a strap across Mr. Cripps’ forehead, and I began my textbook procedure.

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For the technical folk, I forced my elevator, like a screwdriver, into the ligament space between his tooth and bone. I twisted it around to rock the tooth and press it against the walls of its socket, to stretch the hole and separate the molar from its ligament. I’m a somewhat talented dentist if I can pull a tooth using this technique alone, but this didn’t happen.

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‘Forceps, please, then brace.’ At this point I placed my knee against his chest and Vickers pulled the strap, but it sprung off. Mr Cripps’ head shook from side to side as I wrenched in his mouth to release the damn tooth. I had it, in my forceps, tight, but my patient commenced a frenzied fit and gripped at his throat in a manic fashion. Suddenly it occurred to me that I had dropped the tooth straight down his open windpipe, sideways on! My eyes blurred. I grabbed him by the scruff, pulled him to his feet, as he gasped to breathe. I shuffled behind him, placed my hands over the lower end of his sternum and yanked with quick thrusts. To no avail! He collapsed to the floor and shortly afterwards died. Asphyxia caused by airway obstruction was what the coroner reported.

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And that’s when I stopped dentistry. It was the end of the line.

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Darwin took on Vickers as a pot wash in the pub. I was grateful that there were no charges pressed against me, it was an accident. My father passed away soon after and I took my inheritance and went into gentleman’s farming, a less risky enterprise. Without question, it was time for me to be my own man.

From Unfit to Fit

16th September 1916

Stark naked, I shivered.

Outside from where I waited, armed soldiers simulated warfare.  They scurried around a network of excavated practice trenches.

It was almost my turn for a three-hour physical examination in a dungeon like, military tent at Higher Barracks, Exeter which boasted one single antique stove down its far end.

‘You’re next, Drake,’ an officer instructed a recruit, who was close enough in front of me that I enjoyed his body warmth and could reach around his torso for extra, if needed.  Drake dutifully peeled off the line, as more men behind me shuffled forward. I was at the front. 

‘Open wide,’ the medic said.

‘Ahhhh,’ said Drake as the medic peered into his mouth.  I made a mental note of this as it was a sensible response.

I took his place, then was told,

‘Up on the scales.’

I stood as tall as my five foot seven could reach.  The medic dropped a measurement bar to my crown and extended a tape measure from the floor to my chin.  This I deemed acceptable, as I was a tailor’s apprentice, and I had often taken gentlemen’s personal measurements for suits.

‘Get down!  Now cough!’ he said as he weighed my privates.  I experienced an automatic reaction to a cold palm, but things got worse.

‘Bend over!’ he ordered.

Somehow, I was accepted for support duty class C2 in the Home Service.  Far from, I remember, last autumn, when I had been rejected on medical grounds by Doctor Nesbit for a weak instep and half inch under normal chest measurement.  For the life of me that day in September 1916, I couldn’t see how my physical condition had changed.

Eight months later after a bout of spotted fever at boot camp, I was once again ‘reviewed’ and by a miracle was moved up to a category B2 level of fitness, to take my duties as sailmaker in the Royal Flying Corps.  I was billeted to an aircraft repair section at Beverly Aerodrome, Yorkshire.

I read a Hansard report on medical examinations a month later.

‘We were told by the Under-Secretary for War in the Debate last Thursday that men are being examined under the Review of Exceptions Act at the rate of 15,000 a day.  It is ten weeks since the examinations began,’ Mr Snowdon said.

‘Many of the greatest scandals have been in relation to these men. The hon. and learned Member for Ealing has already pointed out in the House.  This matter of re-examination had been raised, and particularly the methods pursued in respect to the re-examination of men in the lower categories and the passing of them into classes A and B.  If a man has been classed as C3, it is true as has been alleged frequently that these men are subsequently passed into B1 and into B2, without any examination at all,’ Mr Pringle said.[1]

I was one of these exceptions, however, I was ready to serve for my country.

[1] Hansard  HC Deb 26 June 1917 vol 95 cc217-26. Online. Accessed 12 January 2025.  Available from: MILITARY SERVICE ACTS (MEDICAL EXAMINATIONS). (Hansard, 26 June 1917)