Lawrence came down to breakfast one day to see his wife Becky scattering small purple berries over her bowl of cereal.

"What are those, then?" he asked.

"Blueberries. I watched a programme about superfoods on the TV the other night. They have major health benefits," Becky eagerly explained. "And they're delicious."

"Just another way to con money out of you," Lawrence said.

He opened the fridge door and stared. "Becky! You've got six cartons of blueberries in here," he said.

"I had to. They were all they had left at the supermarket."

*

The next morning, he walked into the kitchen and gazed, open-mouthed, at his wife.

"Becky!"

"What's wrong?" she asked impatiently, looking up from her smashed blueberries on toast.

"Bloody hell! Your face! Less roses and cream, more blueberries and cream. You look like a blueberry."

"No, I don't," Becky said, stung.

"Look in the mirror if you don't believe me."

Becky trotted out to the hallway mirror.

To her dismay, Lawrence was right. Her skin was a very pale shade of lavender, and her freckles were now dark dots of violet. Becky's hands rose to her mouth, which made an o of dismay.

"Becky!"

She ran back into the kitchen. Lawrence was watching the news on the TV.

He gestured to her. "Come and watch this."

He'd paused the TV and now reran a news item.

The news presenter said, "There have been reports that blueberries have affected many people's skin colour."

The screen switched to a closeup of an elderly man and the name, Professor Ian Hutchinson, Head of the Department of Dermatology, flashed up underneath.

"Professor Hutchinson, what should people do?" asked a disembodied voice.

The professor looked grave. "I would advise people not to eat blueberries until notified they are safe to eat. I'd also advise people who are suffering from this condition to seek urgent medical attention."

"Will they stay like this?" the voice asked. "And are there any other side effects?"

"At the moment, we're unable to say."

Lawrence switched off the TV. "That's it, we're going to A&E."

But she got no help from the hospital, just tests and the same advice as the professor on the TV.

*

As soon as they got back home, Lawrence threw all the cartons of blueberries into the rubbish bin.

"No!" Becky opened the lid and started pulling them out. "How dare you!"

Lawrence wrestled with her to get them back. He succeeded and took the cartons outside to throw them into the large brown waste bin in the garden.

Tears of frustration rolled down Becky's cheeks. "You bastard!"

"It's for your own good, love."

"Fuck off."

Becky couldn't get any more blueberries. They'd been withdrawn from shops, supermarkets and no one seemed to sell them on the internet. However, despite no longer eating blueberries, her skin colour didn't change back.

*

Becky went out for a walk around her neighbourhood one evening a week later, as the sky was turning pink. Fewer people around to shout rude and hurtful comments at her. She was grateful she'd been working from home since Covid. 

She'd only gone a few feet when sharp needle like jabs of pain jabbed into her torso. A sense of helplessness and sorrow coalesced around her. The pain increased, as did the helplessness and sadness as she approached the nearest tree, which had a poster of a missing bulldog pinned to it. She gasped. The Cherry tree was telling her it was hurting. She ruined her acrylic nails by digging the pins out and throwing the poster to the ground. There were fewer jabs of pain, but they didn't stop. Then she realised there were more drawing pins left carelessly in the grey trunk. She dug out every one, but the jabs continued. Becky hurried to the next tree and did the same thing. The pain lessened. Then onto the next.

"Oy! What do you think you're doing?" It was a thick-set man with a wad of posters clutched in his hand.

"You're vandalising the trees," she told him.

"I'm just putting up posters of my missing dog."

"But you're hurting the trees."

"Oh, piss off, blue tits."

Becky stood there, frozen at the insult and the venom in his voice. Then the tree seemed to shudder and tilted. A branch struck the man hard on the shoulder. He yelped and backed away. Becky patted the tree.

"Thank you."

"You're a fucking freak," the man spat out and walked off.

*

After she got home on shaking legs, she fired up the computer and searched for 'blue-skinned people support groups'. After looking at the results, she got up and put her coat on.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to a support group meeting for people like me."

"What? The blueberries?" Lawrence teased.

"Don't call us that!"

"Sorry-" Lawrence started to say, but she was already slamming the front door shut.

*

Two weeks later, Lawrence burst through the front door, yelling, "Becky!"

He'd received several worrying notifications from his credit card company.

Silence greeted him. Looking around, he spotted a white envelope on the ash console table in the hall. He dropped his keys and newspaper and ripped it open.

"Lawrence," no dear, he noted, "I'm going to Brazil with my people to stop the destruction of the Amazon Forest. Becky."

His mouth dropped open. Who the hell were her people? Those blueberries? She'd left him for a bunch of weirdos. And she'd spent a huge amount of money on their joint credit card.

In a daze, he wandered into the sitting room, sat down, switched on the TV, and chose the news channel.

"Chaos at Manuas Airport in Brazil, the nearest city to the Amazon rain forest," a perky female news presenter was saying. A video appeared of an overcrowded airport, where most of the crowd had various shades of blue skin. "It's understood that most of the people are attempting to make their way to the Amazon Rain Forest. It's also reported that the president of Brazil has said that Brazil will ban tourists from flying on from Rio de Janeiro Airport to Manuas Airport if the situation continues."

Was Becky somewhere in that crowd?

The next news item showed a clip of protestors in the UK, most of them blue-skinned, protesting against the destruction of an "area of outstanding natural beauty" to make way for a new super-fast train line. Lawrence changed channels to a sports channel. He didn't want to hear any more about the bloody blueberries and their bleeding hearts. His wife had turned into a stranger and left him.

Ben Stokes appeared on the screen. Lawrence stared at his pale blue face in horror. Ben was a sodding blueberry, too! He didn't even hear what the captain of the England Cricket Team was saying then his ears caught the drift and relayed it to his brain.

"I realise now how selfish we've been," Ben was saying earnestly. "How much pain we've caused the trees over the years." He reached down and produced a cricket bat. The interviewer, a middle-aged man in a suit, flinched and cast a nervous glance at the cameras. "Look at this bat."

"It's a fine bat," the interviewer said, clearly puzzled.

"To me, it's covered in blood." Lawrence flushed with embarrassment to see actual tears in Ben's eyes. "Every tree we cut down screams in pain and yet we carry on killing them. I can only apologise to every cricket bat and stump."

The interviewer stared at him, nonplussed, then rallied himself. "So, what's the solution, Ben?"

"We must make amends."

Lawrence switched off the TV in disgust. Was there no end to this nonsense?

He opened the back door and stepped into the garden. The young apple tree that Becky had insisted on planting two years ago stood near the patio. Lawrence walked up to it and placed his hand on the slim trunk.

"I suppose you're going to start talking to me now?" he growled, sneering.

A sensation of loneliness and vulnerability flooded him, echoing the way he felt inside. He went to snatch his hand away when another sensation overwhelmed him. Welcome and acceptance.

Lawrence closed his eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispered.