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Phoenix FM Podcast - Mark Hayhurst AUTHOR INTERVIEW: Jessica Gregson
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Babers Apple
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Extract from Baber's Apple - The Morning Crackles Twigs of the apple tree, stiffly welded from knuckle to knuckle, snap at Baber's frosty windowpanes. Baber's eyelids spring apart, but he sees nothing. His bedroom is as dark as the winter working mornings. The neatly drawn curtains hide from his view the town's unexciting provinciality, its terraces of old houses stepping down to the silent river and then up the other side of the shallow valley. ‘Baber! It's half past six!' His grandmother calls him from the bottom of the stairs. Her fruity voice bounces up the threadbare treads. He wants her, one morning, to call, ‘Baber! Ten minutes to curtains!' but it never happens. You might consider Baber's head to be empty or vacuous. I know he can sometimes seem empty-headed, but it's just that nothing sticks, at least not on the surface. The inside of this head is no bristling auditorium for a spectrum of doubts; this is a laser show clear and simple. Images and ideas pop across his mind. Remiss of me, but I never introduced myself. I am Beulah Mittough, and Baber imagines I am his brother, or sometimes his sister. I cannot say that my uncertain gender bothers me. I try to see the world through androgynous eyes, though this perception is inevitably clouded because they are Baber's eyes, not mine. It is my duty, ladies and gentlemen, to present to you, ta-daaah, Baber Mittough. It rhymes with sabre ditto, which will tell you more about him than you suppose. Baber creeps up behind Nan as she bustles about the kitchen. He stoops to kiss her on the back of her neck (it is as crusty as a turtle's), but satisfies himself instead with pulling on her apron strings. ‘Silly bugger,' says Nan . Refastening her apron, she turns and smiles her orang-utan smile. From behind his back Baber conjures a shiny, stiff envelope and gives it to her. ‘Happy birthday, Nan !' |
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