The Vicar
The vicar has orca’s teeth. I noticed them as soon as he opened his mouth in church to read the sermon. I didn’t hear a word after that, all I could think was: TEETH!
He said hello to me as I followed my mum and dad out through the church door into the sunshine and I almost fell over in shock at having The Teeth in such proximity. My parents say he’s a lovely man and invite him over for lunch once a month; I hate those lunches – I have to sit at the table for an agonisingly long time, listening to dull conversations about the news, trying not to stare at The Teeth.
They’re stumpy and yellow with large spaces in between, just like an orca. Orcas have big gaps between their teeth so that the top set can lock together with the bottom set when they slam their jaws shut and that way their prey has no chance of getting back out. I often think that’s what it would be like if the vicar ate me: those big yellow teeth slamming shut behind my feet, no way out.
That first Christmas, there was a big Christmas fair in the church hall. My dad took me to see Santa, tucked away in a magical grotto guarded by elves; we all knew it was the tiny kitchen where the vicar made tea for visitors and kept a not-so-secret stash of brandy that the handyman was fond of helping himself to. There was a little queue of kids beside themselves with excitement and every so often the door to the grotto would swing open and a girl or boy would come dashing out brandishing a very fabulous-looking present. Finally, it was my turn – and I couldn’t wait! I rushed in before my dad could take my hand and hopped straight onto Santa’s lap. “Ho ho ho!” he said and smiled, The Teeth just inches from my face. Arrrrrgh! I will never get used to them.
