The Gingerbread Baker

So the gingerbread man sits on the fox's tail. And the fox begins to swim

—The Gingerbread Man Ladybird book

She baked gingerbread men daily—whole families of them—using her own recipe. Ginger, cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg spiced the air as she swished her wooden spoon around her bowl, kneaded, rolled, and cut her figures. She'd even baked her own family—Mr Robinson and the children. It was the only way to guarantee a perfect family.

'If you want decent gingerbread, then bake your own,' she always said, 'you know what goes in; you're in control.'

She fed them homegrown vegetables, and anything in a packet containing more than one ingredient was off-limits.

The children grew into sturdy, flawless gingerbread kids. They pleased their parents with unblemished school reports, and impressive sporting and music achievements. Victoria played the violin in the orchestra while Harry's fingers rolled over piano keys like a sea breeze.

Each day, her husband kissed her on the left cheek and drove off to the city in his Tesla. Yes, she possessed the perfect recipe and no one, not even her husband and children, realised they were gingerbread. So perfect was her creation.

However, children grow and discover fast food. Victoria's first bite of a burger and chips from a well-known outlet caused her to almost crumble at the edges. Harry drooled when he licked his first lollipop at a friend's house. 'How is this not good for you?' he said, his lips red and sticky from food colouring and white sugar.

A week later, Mrs Robinson joined her family in the dining room, ready to enjoy a quinoa vegetable and seed bowl with them. Their laughter reached her and she smiled as she sat. But with no warning, Victoria stood up and cried out 'OW!' and glared at Harry. Harry's face was bright red and his eyes blazed.

'It was her!' He pointed, unnecessarily, at Victoria. 'She's been kicking me!'

'Go to your room Victoria.' Mrs Robinson said, her voice barely hid an odd quiver.

'Come on now,' Mr Robinson tapped his fingers on the table and nodded for Victoria to sit.

'Now!' Mrs Robinson ignored her husband, stood up and pointed at the dining room door.

'Let's calm down, love, there's no need to let this get out of hand. Children argue sometimes. Victoria, say sorry and we'll forget all about it.'

It was Mrs Robinson's turn to flush red. Taking deep breaths, she composed herself enough to sit and accept her daughter's apology. But as the winter wind blew outside and the rain beat against double glazing, she felt the same storm inside her. What is going on? What is happening to my perfect family? Even my husband contradicts me now. Was my recipe flawed? Did I not bake them right?

She looked at each one in turn, and suddenly she noticed them. Tiny, almost imperceptible crumbs gathering at their edges. And flaws, cracks. A faint hairline crack on Harry's left hand and a blemish on her husband's neck. This is not good, she thought. Her hands shook as she lifted the plates into the kitchen.

That night, when the children slept, she stole into their rooms and brushed away the minor flaws with her fingers. I can fix this, she resolved. I'll eat their flaws away if I have to, and all will be well.

That night, she slipped into her antique-lace slip, his favourite, and slid into bed beside him. His eyes failed to echo the smile on his lips but she interpreted his sigh as pleasure.

'I want to eat you.' Her voice was soft and raspy as she nuzzled into his neck and began to nibble. Nibble away the flaws, she thought. All of them.

Over the next few days, Mrs Robinson found herself eating up her family's flaws more often. More cracks, more spots, blemishes, and dents appeared, and she was finding it hard to keep up. It wasn't until she was putting clean washing away in Victoria's bedroom that she discovered the cause. Sweet wrappers. Sherbet sweet wrappers!

She combed through the children's drawers and found a discount coupon for Pizza Press and a small plastic toy from a famous fast-food chain. She folded into herself that tainted relief you get when something terrible is confirmed, but at least you have an explanation, a reason, a prognosis.

Her thoughts drifted to her husband. Surely he's not eating crap? She made for their bedroom and, after 20 minutes of frantic rifling through his cupboards, found nothing suspicious.

I know, I'll check the study, and she headed towards the oak-panelled room. Apart from the walls, the rest of the room was modest—one bookcase, a large wooden desk, and a fabric-covered chair.

She pulled open the drawers under the desk one by one and studied the contents. His black-covered diary held nothing more than appointments, figures, meeting notes, and calculations. Other than that, the contents comprised invoices, statements, a stapler, envelopes, pens, and other random bits of stationery.

She replaced the pens and something struck her, something unfamiliar. Amongst his pens—a spare fountain pen and a couple of bic biros—she saw an elegant one decorated in a dark Liberty-style design. Holding it up to the light, she admired the gold swirls against navy. Not his usual kind of thing, she noted. Then she noted again,

NOT his usual kind of thing!

That evening, Mr Robinson was working late. Mrs Robinson usually fussed over him on the evenings he returned late from work. She would wait for him, make him rest and give him homemade cookies—organic, coconut sugar only. She always noticed he looked tired, with his loose tie, dishevelled appearance, and thought he worked too much.

However, Mr Robinson hadn't been working late at all. That very evening, he passed on organic vegan amaranth, washed down with kefir. Instead, he quenched his thirst and satisfied his hunger for forbidden fruit elsewhere.

He ate of a foxy woman who nourished him with sweetmeats, white sugar doughnuts, and triple-fried fries. She relished crisp batter and non-organic peaches; he watched as pesticide-contaminated juices ran down her chin and traced the crevices between her breasts.

He tasted, he ate, and discovered he liked the taste of these juices and the salty sweat of imperfection. She had promised a way out. He ran to her outstretched arms as she seduced him and carried him away from his cage, if only for a while.

Mrs Robinson had made plans. She didn't need explanations or gory details. This could not continue. It had to be fixed before it contaminated the children any further. When Mr Robinson came home that night, Mrs Robinson didn't offer cookies—organic, coconut sugar only; instead, she pulled his tie knot, bringing his face closer to hers and ruffled his dishevelled hair with her other hand. Then she kissed him passionately, her tongue searching his, her hands undoing zip, buttons. He had nowhere to run. They made love on the living room floor, urgent, loud. Then she ate him. Every last crumb.

The next morning, after the children had gone to school, Mrs Robinson set about baking gingerbread. She knew she'd had to eat her husband, absorb all the badness, the flaws. But she needed to bake the children a new father before they returned home from school.