The Tooth Collector

My sleeping brain has chosen to drag me back to work again. It either thinks I enjoy a double shift, or it simply has a gloriously warped sense of humour. I’m leaning towards the latter. “You’re on a rural today!” the BIG Boss bellows across the depot. For reasons known only to him — and whatever deity oversees management incompetence — he’s wearing a grubby white string vest that clings desperately to what remains of his former glory, his spindly arms jab accusingly across the office towards Rachel. “She will show you the ropes.” She. Never our names. That would require a level of humility the man simply doesn’t possess. I follow the direction of his finger and spot Rachel. Rachel is one of my favourite people at Royal Mail. She’s genuinely lovely… right up until the moment she opens her mouth and unleashes the linguistic equivalent of fireworks in a swear jar. Jesus. I’ve never known anyone squeeze so many F-bombs into a single sentence. For someone barely five foot nothing, she somehow projects enough volume to send the depot pigeons scattering in all directions every time she drops the word “fuck.“ Then again, you have to make yourself heard around here. If you don’t make noise, this place swallows you whole. You don’t disappear all at once, either. You just slowly fade into the walls until people start walking straight past you. I’ve been practising for years. “Alright, love.” She grins. “Let’s fucking do this.” I nod, with considerably less enthusiasm than she seems to be feeling. This isn’t my routine. I don’t do rural rounds. Well… Bushy is technically classified as rural, but that’s about as accurate as calling a Greggs an artisan patisserie. It was countryside once, before someone bulldozed every blade of grass and replaced it with identical beige houses called things like The Willows, despite there not being a willow tree within five miles. Those poor fields. I’m still mourning them now. Rachel spends the entire morning barking instructions while we prepare the mail. “Stick that fucking bundle over there.” “No, not there.” “There.” “What the fuck are you doing?” The occasional C-bomb is launched in my general direction, just to keep the conversation feeling fresh. Despite the constant verbal assault, she’s smiling throughout. I still can’t decide whether she’s furious with me, or whether this is simply her love language. Eventually we’re packed and ready to load. Or at least we would be… Classic Royal Mail. There isn’t a van available. Most of them appear to have been abandoned in one corner of the yard, stacked together like some bizarre automotive graveyard. Metallic corpses left to rust in peace. Bonnets hang open like silent screams. We’ve somehow acquired our own scrapyard. “So…” Rachel sighs. “My car it is.” Her personal vehicle. An open-top convertible. It has enough room to swing a mailbag… provided that mailbag has recently been tumble-dried on ninety degrees and shrunk to the size of a handbag. Of course, Royal Mail don’t wash their mailbags. They simply allow them to fester until they evolve into their own lifeform and attempt to outrun their own shame. “Put ’em in the fucking boot,” Rachel says. I always think she’s shouting at me. Then I notice she’s smiling. Perhaps that is simply how affection sounds in her dialect. After fifteen minutes of pushing, shoving, compressing, standing on parcels and inventing several exciting new swear words, we somehow manage to bully every last mailbag into the tiny boot. Rachel slams the boot shut with a satisfying thud. “Fucking beautiful.” We pull out of the depot. I’ve always imagined driving through winding country lanes in an open-top convertible. The sun on my face. Wind in my hair. Music blasting. Feeling gloriously free. The sort of scene people put in car adverts. Reality, however, has other plans. The wind attacks me, grabbing fistfuls of my hair and repeatedly slapping me across the face with it. I’ve swallowed at least four flies, two unidentified insects and something with wings large enough to butter toast. At least I’m getting my protein. The music may as well not exist. It’s completely drowned beneath the relentless roar of the wind. “Fucking great, innit, mate?” Rachel laughs, her own hair whipping across her face hard enough to exfoliate skin. “Yeah,” I shout back, before clamping my mouth shut again in case any more unsuspecting wildlife mistakes it for affordable housing. Eventually, we turn through enormous wrought-iron gates. Beyond them sits a sprawling country mansion. The sort of place that whispers inherited wealth, old money… and several generations of deeply buried family secrets. Rachel swerves onto the gravel drive. “Just stopping at my grandfather’s.” She switches off the engine. “He’s a massive cunt.” She pauses. “But I’m absolutely dying for a piss.” Oddly, it’s the second sentence that concerns me more. Now she mentions it… So am I. In my rush this morning, I’d forgotten one of the sacred rules of being a postie. Always wee before leaving the depot. Especially on a rural round. Otherwise you spend the day slowly inflating like a water balloon while discreetly assessing every hedge, tree and secluded gateway as a potential emergency toilet. Reader… I’m simply not that kind of girl. Against all odds… I still possess a tiny, battered shred of dignity. Bizarrely, Rachel produces a toothbrush from absolutely nowhere. “Squeeze some fucking toothpaste on there, love.” I blink. Only then do I realise I’m somehow already holding a tube of toothpaste. Minty fresh. Dream logic, eh. Before I can even ask why, she answers. “My grandfather’s a fucking dentist.” Ah. Of course. “My favourite.” “Can’t visit the miserable bastard without him inspecting my fucking teeth.” Oddly enough… That makes perfect dream sense. We make our way up a gravel path that seems to stretch into another postcode. By the time we finally reach the enormous oak front door, I’m already regretting every mouthful of coffee I’ve consumed that morning. Before Rachel even has chance to knock, the door swings open. “Rachey!” an elderly gentleman beams. “How lovely to see you.” “I’m only here to use your shitter,” she replies, brushing straight past him into the house. “Of course you are,” he chuckles pleasantly. He doesn’t seem remotely offended. If anything, he seems delighted to have visitors. I remain standing awkwardly in the vast entrance hall. “And who have we here?” he asks warmly. Before I can answer, his eyes drift towards my mouth. Then my eyes. Then… My mouth again. His smile never quite leaves his face. He’s perfectly pleasant. Frankly, I’d rather he wasn’t. Every instinct I possess is quietly encouraging me to keep my mouth shut. He’s waiting. Waiting for me to smile. Open wide. Reveal every filling I’ve ever paid for. Every expensive mistake the NHS couldn’t save. Not today. My lips remain sealed. In the immortal words of Rachel… He can fuck right off. Instead, I let my eyes wander around the hallway. Anything that doesn’t require me to make eye contact with the dentist. Every inch of wall is covered with box frames. Inside them… Teeth. Hundreds of them. Dentures. Single molars. Perfect white smiles. Crooked yellow smiles. Tiny little milk teeth. Every size. Every shape. Every shade imaginable. I sincerely hope they’re fake. Because if they aren’t… This man isn’t displaying his life’s work. He’s displaying his trophies. A serial killer with impeccable oral hygiene. “Admiring my work?” he asks warmly. “Mmm.” It’s all I can manage through tightly clenched teeth. Come on, Rachel. Hurry the fuck up. Before your grandfather straps me to that suspiciously long dining table and performs a full-mouth extraction without so much as a local anaesthetic. Eventually she reappears. Holding a plunger. “I’d leave it a minute.” Lovely. “Has he done a full fucking inspection yet?” she asks. I shake my head. She nods, looking almost disappointed. I make my way towards the bathroom, half expecting what you’d normally find inside a millionaire’s country mansion. Gleaming porcelain. Brass taps polished so brightly you could probably check your own cavities in the reflection. Perhaps one of those enormous antique roll-top baths sitting proudly in the middle of the room. The sort of tub I’d literally sell my left ovary for. The sort of hand soap that costs more than my weekly food shop. Instead… I open the door. And immediately realise I’ve somehow stepped through a portal and ended up in the Middle Ages. The room is little more than a glorified broom cupboard. Damp walls. Cobwebs. The unmistakable smell of… urine. No toilet. Just a huge black hole carved into the floor. I cautiously edge closer. Please be pipes. Please be pipes. I peer inside. Something pale stares back. A skeleton. A human skeleton. An actual bloody skeleton curled up at the bottom, looking far more comfortable than I am. “What the fuck?” I whisper. My bladder immediately decides this is no longer an appropriate place to function. Still… Needs must. I awkwardly squat over the abyss, trying very hard not to make eye contact with the deceased remains beneath me. It’s difficult enough trying to wee anywhere that isn’t your own toilet at the best of times, but attempting it over a skeleton is not exactly creating the calming spa atmosphere my bladder was hoping for. I close my eyes. I breathe. Come on, bladder… Nothing. Just as I’m desperately trying to convince my body that there’s absolutely nothing unusual about urinating over human remains… The door swings open. Rachel strolls in. “Hurry the fuck up, love. We haven’t got all fucking day.” Brilliant. Performance anxiety has entered the chat. “I-I’m trying…” “Try fucking harder.” “I can’t!” She’s now standing there watching me. Arms folded. Perfectly relaxed. Meanwhile, my bladder has called an emergency union meeting and unanimously voted against releasing a single drop under these frankly unacceptable working conditions. Another thirty painfully silent seconds pass. I sigh. Yank my shorts back up. “I’ll hold it.” Rachel shrugs. “Suit yourself, love.” ⸻ Back on the road, one question has been clawing away at the inside of my skull ever since we left the house. It refuses to let go. “So…” “What’s with the skeleton?” Rachel laughs. “Oh, that fucking thing.” “That’s my grandmother.” I wait. Surely there’s more to the story. There isn’t. “Your grandmother?” “Yeah.” She shrugs. “Full tooth extraction.” “Gone wrong.” I blink. “Left her body to decompose in the dining room for fucking years.” She says it with all the emotion of someone discussing which bin goes out on a Thursday. “Eventually Grandad got sick of looking at her…” Another shrug. “…so he tossed her down the shitter.” “How awful.” It’s all I can think to say. “Your poor grandmother.” Rachel snorts. “She was a miserable cunt.” Apparently, that’s the entire eulogy. No further explanation. No fond memories. No tragic backstory. Just… A miserable cunt. The countryside rolls gently past us, all rolling hills and postcard-perfect villages. It should feel peaceful. Instead, all I can think about are those teeth. Hundreds of them. Smiling from the walls. Watching. Waiting. Grinning. I shouldn’t ask. Every instinct I possess tells me to leave it alone. Curiosity, however, has always been a nosy bitch. Today… She’s downright insufferable. “So…” I clear my throat. “Whose teeth were they?” For the first time all day… Rachel falls silent. Not a single swear word. Not even an under-the-breath mutter. Nothing. Her knuckles tighten around the steering wheel. For the first time all day, she looks… uncomfortable. The silence stretches between us until it becomes something solid. Something you could almost reach out and touch. Then, without a word, she reaches across and turns the radio up. This time we can actually hear it. A cheerful old song crackles through the speakers. “You are my sunshine…” Only… Something feels wrong. The singer doesn’t sound like they’re singing. They sound like they’re smiling. Every word slips out through a mouth that feels far too full of teeth. Rachel glances sideways. Not frightened. Just… Sorry. “Love…” “I think you’ve left something behind.” Instinctively, my tongue explores my mouth. Smooth gums. Nothing else. No incisors. No canines. No molars. Just… Empty. My breath catches. A thin whistle escapes instead. “But that’s…” I mumble. “…impossible.” Rachel doesn’t look at me. Her voice is barely louder than the wind. “He always did say teeth are wasted on the living.” I slowly turn in my seat. The mansion is already disappearing into the mist. High in one of the upstairs windows… The old dentist is standing perfectly still. Smiling. Holding a brand-new box frame. Inside it… A perfect set of teeth. Mine. Neatly arranged. Beautifully displayed. Still smiling. Long after I’ve forgotten how to.