• Facebook
• Instagram

Apple Slices

Tess Woodhouse

__________

Sometimes she thinks about her mother. A house in Scotland, goats, cats, the warping edges of an idea of a man. Her mother tells stories.

‘We had these three little goats, I would go out in the early mornings to milk them, and laugh at the cats that followed me, desperately hoping to lick up a stray bit. I had this awful dairy allergy you know? Always covered in rashes and things as a kid, so we had goats instead of cows. A few years before you were born, I went to the hospital and booked one of those allergy tests, all these small swatches up my arms. And usually they can do something about it you know, if just one or two things show up all obvious. But my arms were covered in red patches, allergic to grass, dairy, sun, dust mites all sorts. I was ill all the time in that house, always remember my brothers making fun of me for it. I clean my house now every week, you know not obsessively, but if I see cobwebs I’ll get rid of them, and its always dust free you know. That house had this thin film layer of grime, my mum never wanted to clean. I think that’s why my allergies were so bad, but my dad he never did anything to help of course. It was just me being ill again.’

Her earliest memory is a tube. Her mother standing compressed, trapped. Like something in a science fiction film. Blue light. Now she knows this was a weekly UV allergy treatment, doses of sunlight gradually increased. She’s been told a nurse gave her lollipops and was kind. All she remembers is a sense of scared wonder.

—

There’s an old picture of her mother as a child, at the top of the stairs. She’s sitting in the middle, a brother on either side. Smiling slightly, and she looks innocent and lovely, soft blonde hair cut into a bob, hands clasped in her lap. She knows it’s her mother, has been told, this is a fact. But that little girl with all her loveliness, seems very far away. She imagines talking with her, playing with her, what was she like? How did she become recognisable, when did she grow to be her mother?

—

‘My dad had three children, and it always felt like the heirs and the spares. My oldest brother went to Gordonstoun, posh private school. They had sailing lessons! And the second, he went to a decent school too, but then there wasn’t enough money, or rather not enough love left over for me. I walked for half an hour, then caught the bus for another hour, all for my shitty comp. I stopped going to any lessons past about fourteen, but nobody really noticed. Sometimes I wish I worked harder.’ She thinks of these stories at university. It’s the end of her first year. She knows her mother wanted to come, but didn’t. Left school at sixteen with a small clutch of o-levels, married her father three years later. She is nineteen now, the age they were married.

First year has slipped away quickly. She has been lonely for the most part, but has also had friends for the very first time in her life. Friends she loves. Friends that make her laugh. Friends she half believes and hopes love her too. She thinks about apples.

‘I was in the school toilets one day, and there were these girls there, smoking, chatting. It was a pretty rough school, but I guess I was rough too. I watched one of them hold a needle up to the others ear, fag still hanging out her mouth. She held up an apple slice to the other side, to cool it I think, or catch the other end of the needle. And afterwards they just slid an earring right in. Sure fire way to get an infection right? I know, but maybe it was just as bad as Claire’s hey? I let them do mine after.’

All her friends have gone home for summer now. She remains. She thinks about the delicate press of a cool apple slice as the campus empties.

__________

Tess Woodhouse is a writer and poet. Her often experimental work centres around childhood, perceptions of nature and difficult emotion. When not writing, she enjoys long walks, good films and spending time with family.

__________

<< Back Next >>

To learn more about submitting your work to Boudin or applying to McNeese State University’s Creative Writing MFA program, please visit Submissions for details.