The Flower Plantation by Nora Anne Brown Page B

snapped his rubber gloves and readjusted his mask, then brought down the lamp, blinding me. I heard him select an instrument from his rack.
    â€œOpen wide,” he said, then forced his rubbery fingers into the corners of my mouth, shoving in two pieces of cotton. “Hmm,” he muttered, as he dragged the hookaround my mouth. “Yeesss,” he said, and tapped on my brown front tooth.
    A current of pain coursed round my jaw, up through my temples, and filled my skull. He removed his fingers, cotton wool and instrument from my mouth, clicked off the lamp and sat me up.
    â€œArthur,” he said from behind his mask, his eyes boring through me. “I need to extract a tooth.”
    * * *
    I'm not sure I ever quite forgave Mother for leaving me alone with the dentist. When she returned from shopping I was waiting in reception, my mouth still numb from the huge needle Mr Patel had stuck into my gum.
    â€œWell, maybe the tooth fairy will come,” Mother said lightly as we got into the truck.
    She had placed a tarpaulin over her shopping in the back, which was odd: she only covered her shopping during the wet season, and we weren't expecting rain. I stared through the back window hoping I could see something, maybe something for Christmas, but Mother pulled at my T-shirt and said, “Sit still until the anaesthetic has worn off. You don't want to be sick.”
    When we got home, she told me to go for a lie-down, adding: “Remember to put your tooth under your pillow.”
    I put it under my folded jacket and fell fast asleep.
    The next thing I knew it was Christmas morning. I checked under my jacket to see what the tooth fairy had brought. The disappointment of finding my tooth still there stung more than Mr Patel's syringe.

10
    â€œVery smart, Arthur,” said Father, who was wearing clothes similar to mine. Christmas clothes made me want to burst, even though they were almost the same colour as the clothes I wore every Sunday: brown and blue. My shirt collar pinched my neck, and the tie was so tight I thought I might choke. Celeste had ironed paper-sharp creases down my trousers – I felt like the chicken Fabrice had stuffed and bound the night before. I clutched my book to my chest.
    â€œOnly for an hour,” said Father, ruffling my hair. We were standing by the Christmas tree, its lights dimmed by the sunlight streaming through the windows. I cast him a doubtful look, knowing church dragged on for much longer on Christmas Day. “Well, maybe a little more than an hour,” he said with a smile. “Maybe two.” I knew we'd be lucky to get out before three hours had passed. “Then we can get stuck into presents and lunch. Good, huh?”
    â€œShall we go?” said Mother. “We don't want to be late.” I wondered why not; nobody else was ever on time for church. She tied a silk scarf round her neck that matched the dress that she was wearing – a very rare occasion. She appeared gentler than usual, prettier too. Father looked pleased and gave her a kiss on the mouth. Mother pursedher lips momentarily as if remembering something, then busied herself around me.
    â€œIt's important we show up,” she said, dabbing her handkerchief on her tongue and rubbing it on the corner of my mouth. “We don't want people thinking we're complete heathens,” she added, examining the big gap in my gum.
    â€œWe do after all live in a Christian country,” replied Father.
    â€œHardly.” She put her hanky into her purse and opened the front door. “If it weren't for the Belgians, we'd be living in a country of infidels.”
    â€œIf it weren't for the Belgians we wouldn't be here at all.”
    â€œWell, wouldn't that be terrible?” muttered Mother, closing the door behind us.
    On the walk to church, Father told me the story about how the Belgians had taken over Rwanda from the Germans nearly seventy years earlier. And he told me about