IRISH author Freddie Alexander said he’s “absolutely delighted” with the reaction to his book Mr Spicebag.
This is Freddie’s debut novel and follows the adventures of ten-year-old George who lives in a town of people that are obsessed with spice bags.
The Dublin author began to write the book in 2019, finishing it during the Covid lockdown, and it was released on September 2.
Speaking about the premise of his book, the author explained: “The book centres around George, a boy who lives in this town where everyone is obsessed with spice bags — they just can’t get enough of it.
“So all they live for, all they want morning noon and night and everybody’s focus in life is just to get more spice bags.
“It really is a result of this mysterious man called Mr Spicebag who is a very long and wiry man who George has no doubt is responsible for this.
“So George is actually the only one in town not addicted to spice bags; he’s a vegetarian. It’s really George trying to get to the bottom of it and the magic behind Mr Spicebag and the spice.”
Freddie’s first novel has already gotten rave reviews and he said he was “flattered” by the feedback he has received so far.
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The author explained to the Irish Sun: “I am absolutely delighted, it’s very surreal.
“I’m so new to all of this and I have no idea really how any of this works and I’m just thrilled by the feedback and I’m just embracing it. I would love to write more books, and I am, but it’s all about enjoying the moment and not looking too far ahead.
“I am blown away by the feedback but the most important and best feedback I have gotten was from a ten-year-old because ten-year-olds are the target audience and he loved it.”
And Freddie joked: “He read it in a day apparently, which I thought was very inconsiderate as it took me a year to write, so it was a little bit insensitive of him.”
He continued: “When I was ten years old I read books, of course. I was always out and about, I had a very active imagination and I was a perfectly normal child. I was easily distracted and got into trouble.
“This book was with ten-year-old Freddie in mind and I thought to myself I have to be able to make my ten-year-old self sit there and read this book and not put it down and not get into any mischief.
PERFECT KID’S BOOK
“So the whole way through while writing this book, every chapter or even every page or two pages, I had to stop and think to myself is this too dull for my ten-year-old self, will I keep reading this or will I put this down and walk away.
“And that was a really useful question to be asking myself the entire way through so it’s really rewarding when I see or hear that children are getting a kick out of it.”
Freddie also explained he is already working on another book and he wants to continue in the children’s literature genre. He said: “I’d like to continue with children’s books at the moment.
“It’s a really enjoyable process and I enjoy writing to engage with the reader and to be telling a story but also to be having an in-joke with the reader. That’s what I am kind of going for.
“It’s something I really enjoyed doing and children’s books is something I would love to keep doing. It’s a very enjoyable pastime and it’s very relaxing and please God long may it continue.”
EXTRACT FROM THE BOOK
CHAPTER 8
GEORGE froze. For a moment there was no sound but for the clock on the mantelpiece. It would soon chime midnight.
TICK . . . TOCK . . . TICK . . . TOCK . . . TICK . . .
George’s parents and Lucy all sat on the old leather couch opposite the fireplace. Lucy blew bubble gum and stared into her phone. George could tell by the glint in her eyes that she found this all very entertaining. The room stank of Spice Bags, which appeared to have a calming effect over George’s parents. But it was Mr Spicebag’s presence that really placated them.
His parents never entertained guests, but here they sat in their Sunday best: his dad in a grey suit, his mum in her peach dress and matching hat. The dusty, silver tea set saved for special occasions sat on the coffee table while both his parents beamed from ear to ear, staring across at Mr Spicebag.
They smiled so hard it looked painful.
TICK . . . TOCK . . . TICK . . . TOCK . . . TICK . . .
Mr Spicebag smiled at George. George studied Mr Spicebag.
The first thing George inspected were those teeth. Poor, neglected, disgustingly yellow teeth. Teeth that would make the local dentist faint (and this was no ordinary dentist, Reader, oh no, this was a former drill sergeant who had been to war, had seen terrible, terrible things, and made George do press-ups any time he needed a filling).
Mr Spicebag’s fingers were thin and bony, a bit like twigs from the great Copper Beech. Those long twigs stirred a cup of milky grey tea (so milky in fact that it was just milk) with a spoon that made a scrAAAAAtching, scraaaPing sound.
Mr Spicebag tapped the side of the cup – TING-TING-TING-TING – and rested the silver spoon on the saucer. He took a sip and placed it down on a coaster, making George’s mum swoon. He rose to his feet, extending up like a wiry lifting crane, higher and higher, taller and taller.
George looked up and felt dwarfed. And just as the great crane had risen, a long arm descended. That long twig-like hand, covered in red, blotchy grease burns, extended forward and enveloped George’s hand like, well . . . like an envelope.
George found Mr Spicebag’s attire intriguing: a worn, dark three-piece suit; a white shirt with black buttons; heavy, weathered boots and a floppy bow tie. He looked a bit like a funeral undertaker.
Mr Spicebag bent down with a nod and a toothy smile. The firelight illuminated his lined, weathered face. His skin was otherwise pale and covered with a film of sweat. George could see that his scruffy hair was thinning. His age was hard to place; he was definitely older than George’s parents.
But it was those black, marble eyes that struck George most. It was as if they were independent of the rest of his face. For while his mouth smiled and wrinkles followed, his eyes were vacant, hollow. Like Barnaby did to him, George peered into those eyes like a window into the man’s soul and saw . . . emptiness. No twinkle of kindness like in Barnaby’s eyes, nor the daftness in Jasper’s eyes, not even the glee in Lucy’s. Nothing.
‘Well, don’t just stand there gawping,’ snapped his dad, through a gritted fake smile. ‘Say hello to Mr Spicebag.’
‘Oh, uh, yeah, hi . . .’ ‘I think what you mean to say is, “Hello, Mr Spicebag,”’ said his mum.
Mr Spicebag waved away the formalities with his rake-like hands.
‘Not at all, Mrs George’s mum. Please, he is probably exhausted,’ he said, his voice warm and gentle, unlike his eyes. ‘After all, it is so late. Where have you been all this time, George?’
When Mr Spicebag spoke to George’s mum, he was charming and chatty. Light and breezy. But when he spoke to George, he was intense and sharp.
George was unsure how to respond, so decided to look at his feet (the tried and tested invisibility trick that never worked).
Mr Spicebag turned from George and opened his arms to the room, almost like a conductor to an orchestra. ‘George was involved in a little incident at my establish- ment earlier this evening. Sit, George,’ he added, and like a well-trained dog, George wedged in beside his mum and dad.
‘Incident? What incident?’ George’s dad glared at his son in his ever-present, simmering rage.
Mr Spicebag continued casually, towering from above. Light-heartedly almost, he picked up and inspected ornaments as he slowly paced back and forth.
‘You see, George entered my establishment earlier on the false pretence that I was open. It was partly my fault; the door was unlocked. Now, he must have been looking for a menu on the counter. Or a dog, or a toy, or . . . quite frankly, I don’t know what he was looking for because, well, I am not a six-year-old boy. Do I look like a six-year-old boy?’
‘I’m ten,’ corrected George.
‘Shut it,’ George’s dad muttered out the side of his mouth. ‘You most certainly do not look like a six-year-old boy, Mr Spicebag, sir!’
Mr Spicebag continued speaking in a leisurely way, walking from side to side, as if the rug were his stage and George’s family his captivated audience.
‘Moving immediately to the point, George saw it fit to break my antique vase, a family heirloom. It’s been in the Spicebag family for generations. I got it from my father, and he from his dad. He in turn got it from his old man, and he from his pop, and I’m pretty sure he stole it from his pappy and . . . well, I think you get the idea. It was priceless.’
His dad glared at George. He rose clumsily to his feet and pulled a cheque book from his pocket.
‘How much do we owe you?’ George’s dad said, dabbing his Biro on his tongue. ‘Name your price.’
Mr Spicebag considered George’s dad. For once it was his dad’s turn to be judged. After a brief moment, he took the pen from George’s dad and wrote a figure on a spare handkerchief.
Well, this time it was George’s dad’s turn to swoon, plonking back onto the couch. Flushing bright red, he loosened his collar. He awkwardly shifted, the couch creaking under his weight.
Mr Spicebag generously offered his handkerchief, and George’s dad generously wiped the sweat from his brow.
‘Well, I suppose George could work for me part-time to pay it off,’ suggested Mr Spicebag, as he inspected a chocolate digestive.
‘Yes, of course!’ agreed a relieved George’s dad, ‘Absolutely, wonderful idea, George shall work at your . . . establishment. Every day after school. And every Saturday and Sunday for a year!’
‘What?’ George cried. He had not forgotten Barnaby’s warning.
‘QUIET!’
‘Splendid!’ replied Mr Spicebag, finishing off the biscuit and picking up his coat. ‘Well, I must be off. See you tomorrow after school, George. Oh, and I almost forgot . . .’
Mr Spicebag pulled out a large brown paper bag and left it on the table. ‘Some Spice Bags, on the house. Don’t get up, I’ll see myself out.’
George’s parents greedily snatched the food up, ignoring Mr Spicebag’s departure.
