Craving by Clair Wright
It was the craving that gave it away. I had already felt myself swelling like a fat bud. He thought I was ill. “Why are you so pale and tired?” he asked. I lay on the sofa, too queasy to face mash, and gravy, and gristly meat. I stroked my belly and watched his eyes grow wide and his mouth grow smug. The woman next door loved her garden. She grew carrots and courgettes, peas and parsnips. I watched her labour, digging and turning. Every day she trod the paths around the plot. She sprinkled with water. She tucked mulch around their tender stalks. As they grew unruly she trimmed and trained, tied and tethered. When the sun set, she seemed to whisper secret words of nourishment into the soil. It was the lush leaves that caught my eye, the spinach and rocket, the kale and cabbage. I longed for their peppery newness. Nothing else would do. “Jump over the wall,” I said to him. “Jump over the wall and bring me some greens. She’ll never ...