The Something-That-Had-To-Be-Done

William's knitted gloves dangled on a short string from each sleeve, making absolutely sure that he couldn't lose them, however hard he tried.  Today he was glad they did, because it was freezing outside and nearly as cold inside if you strayed more than three feet from the coal fire. His mum tightened the belt on his gabardine coat and threaded the spare through its loop before pulling his knitted balaclava over his head. Something was clearly afoot. 

They crunched and slid their way up to the bus stop, across ice cast footprints and crunchy frozen snow and joined the queue for the one o'clock into town. Their neighbour, Mrs Jackson, looked round from her place at the head and waved dutifully.  William's mum gave her one of her luke-warm smiles and muttered something into the chill air. 

People were restless with cold and glancing anxiously up the road for any sign of relief from their suffering, when the coal delivery waggon suddenly appeared, laden with hundredweight sacks of nutty slack. Its brakes wailed loudly as it slowed and turned into their street far too quickly to prevent a haul of wayward black nuggets spilling onto the road. The bus queue stared in disbelief at the bounty lying there for the taking, but quickly feigned disinterest as the one o'clock into town loomed into view and came to a halt by the kerb. William gazed with amazement at a number of icicles hanging from the underside of the bus and kicked one of them off before boarding.

The only detectable warmth inside the saloon came from the well-wrapped passengers themselves, as it was quickly evident that the large heater fan mounted on the bulkhead behind the driver's cab had nothing whatsoever to offer but a loud squeak and cold breath. William sat by the window, where he could watch the world go by while soaking up the pool of condensation in the window bottom through his receptive woollen fingertips. 

The mood inside the bus, in spite of the cold, was buoyant with banter, as a flame haired conductress in blue uniform busied her way along the aisle with a mysterious machine at her waist suspended from a leather strap. William watched intently as her chapped fingers twiddled dials, flicked switches and dispensed tickets at lightening speed, before taking fares and returning change from an equally mysterious contraption that looked like his grandad's harmonica with extra levers. 

William loved the bus ride into town because there was so much happening that was new and exciting. The bus rocked and rattled and stopped and started. Bells rang and people got off and new people got on, people he'd never seen before on secret missions to secret places and all carrying bags and boxes full of secret things. When his mum wasn't looking, William squeezed his finger tips to see if anything dripped out, but it didn't. Both the condensation and the cold had been absorbed by the sheer theatre of the journey.

They normally got off at the market stop, but today his mum told him they would go on into the bus station because they had something that had to be done first. William was pleased at this information, because it meant he would see all the other buses coming and going, filling the bus station with multi-coloured smoke as they set off for mysterious and distant places. As they stepped out into the raw afternoon, his moist glove was enveloped by his mum's large sheep skin mitten as they set off purposefully towards their something-that-had-to-be done.

Much to William's delight, the pavements were coated in thick layers of ice, a stressful issue for an unsteady mum on a mission, but an irresistible opportunity for an intrepid seven year old. William slid his hand from his mother's grasp and launched himself vigorously into a two footed slalom along the High Street, yelping with glee, before flailing wildly and crashing onto his backside in front of Gibson's Toy Emporium. His mum gasped with a mixture of horror and embarrassment as she slid and wobbled towards him, doing her best to lift him back into upright mode. William, completely oblivious of his sopping wet gabardine or his flustered mother hoisting him back into the perpendicular, stared transfixed at Hornby's Tornado Express whizzing wantonly around its elaborate circuit in the shop window.

Escaping the clutches of Gibson's Emporium took twenty-five minutes and involved an unavoidable ogle of the entire contents of the store, apart from the dolls that is, several promises that Santa would be advised accordingly, and the purchase of a Dinky Ferrari F1. The something-that-had-to-be-done was scheduled for two-fifteen and there was much slipping and sliding on treacherous ice still to come. William and his mum continued valiantly up the High Street before finally arriving, like two exhausted trekkers, at the intimidating entrance. 

The building was formidable, hewn from granite and destined for serious purpose. By the entrance, a large sign carved into the granite surface read: Institute of Dental Practices. William looked at the sign and looked up at his mum, but she responded by gripping his hand tightly and leading him up the steps into the building. It was time for the something-that-had-to-be-done.

William had no idea why he was in this building, but his primal responses certainly did; they sensed something immediately and they didn't like it. They didn't like the complex odours and the strange muffled noises, but most of all they sensed the anxiety that hung in the air. William stiffened as they were ushered into a room that smelled of cloves and seemed to be waiting for them. It was white and featureless and felt colder than the ice covered pavements outside. 

In the centre of this place stood a huge reclining chair riveted to the floor. Above it, a scary looking lamp hovered threateningly, suspended from a long mechanical arm. A tall, completely bald man, dressed in white from head to foot and hiding any hint of compassion behind a face mask, turned towards them, revealing ice cold eyes and rampant wiry eyebrows. He stood beside a wheeled trolley with shelves containing an assortment of strange implements; all looking as if they were ready and waiting. William's panic alarm triggered instantly and he frantically retreated towards the door, dragging his mother with him. 

The next twenty-five minutes were traumatic for all concerned, especially the dentist. William took exception to being forcibly restrained in the scary chair by a fearsome nurse, and the dentist had to suspend proceedings twice to recover from eye watering contact with flailing feet. The undulating rhythm of the old foot-pedalled drill was remorseless as William stared up cavernous barbed wire filled nostrils whilst vigorously resisting the ordeal of his first ever filling. 
After what seemed like an eternity for all concerned, the something-that-had- to-be-done, was finally done. 

William and his mum ventured back out into the icy afternoon and slipped and slid their way back to the bus station. His urge to slalom back down the High Street had been seriously subdued by his traumatic dental experience and he clung tightly to his mum without even casting a glance at the Hornby spectacular in Gibson's window. He was feeling the cold now. His feet were numb, his fingers were numb and worst of all, his mouth was numb too. As they rounded the corner by the Co-op, their bus passed them as it signalled its turn into the bus station and the flame haired conductress waved to them from the rear open platform. William and his mum smiled at each other before crossing the road and catching the three o'clock back home. Their ordeal over;  they now had things to look forward to. The bus journey home, sausage and beans for tea and a Ferrari F1 in racing red to unwrap in front of a comforting coal fire.