MEMORY LANE

I still remember my mother’s smile of pride when she took me, aged six, to the dentist in Iraq – in 1934 – and he told her what good teeth I had.

At the time, we were living in the Iraqi desert in ‘K3’ – a settlement guarding the oil pipeline, which ran from the Iraq Petroleum Company’s well at Kirkuk, through Transjordan, to Palestine

and the Refinery at Haifa Port.

My father was an accountant, and we lived in one of the bungalows inside the surrounding fence which protected K3 from invasion by Iraqi bandits. My father told me we needed the fort and the fence for two reasons.

Firstly, some Iraqis were feeling (he thought justifiably) exploited by the small price we paid for their oil; and, secondly, there were bands of Arabs around, out to destroy the pipeline and drive foreigners away.

We could see a van from afar, driving across the desert to K3, and I knew the

large, white vehicle contained a dental clinic. I watched the armed, Arab soldier guards opening K3’s gates to let it in.

I supposed the dentist would stay in the Bachelors’ Mess, where Santa Claus had arrived by plane at Christmas, bringing presents for the six or so children living on K3.

Despite hearing of potential attacks, the only problem was driving miles south to Baghdad in the winter season, when the rough road was soft with mud and, even with chains, the car wheels slipped and slid alarmingly.

In 2017, I have my teeth seen to in Harley Street. For all the fear of the dental drill, my dentist today provides a haven, as did the desert van. Harley Street may have ‘state of the art’ dental equipment, where the van in Iraq was basic – but to me they both represent a sense of peace and professional competence by men who want to heal rather than menace.

By Jean Thompson, who receives £50. Readers are invited to send in 400-word submissions.

Every Thursday, we update the Readers’ Corner of the website with unpublished Memory Lanes. Go to theoldie.co.uk