Chapter 17
MAMAN
Johnny
“Ew, gross. Gross, gross, gross! This is DISGUSTING!” Gabriella shrieked, throwing both hands in the air so Kumba dough flew everywhere.
Johnny grabbed her arms to stop any more of the sticky, sweet goop firing up the walls and all over the wood-slat blinds. “For goodness’ sake,” he said, plunging both of her hands into the ceramic bowl and holding them there. “Stop that.”
“This is amazing,” Clementine said, standing at his other shoulder. Her face was filled with awe as she stared at her own hands—also covered with dough—and held them out as though she was dual-wielding infinity gauntlets. “The enzymatic breakdown, the gelatinisation process, it’s… it’s beautiful!”
She looked as though she was experiencing some kind of culinary rapture, so Johnny left her to it.
“Don’t make me, JP. Please, please don’t make me knead it, I’m begging you! It’s like massaging a slug on steroids.”
He sighed and pushed Gabriella’s fingers deeper into the dough. “Just knead it for a few minutes and it’ll stop being sticky.” He hooked it out of the bowl and plopped it onto the floury worktop. “You said you’d do anything for extra pocket money, and this is what Maman has chosen for you.”
“I take it back! I don’t need another sketch pad, o-or paints, or anything, just please don’t make me!”
He looked over at Taylor for some moral support, but he was elbow deep in Lego farm animals because Marty had decided that Taylor’s orc army needed a horde of llamas to back them up.
“Lord give me strength,” Johnny whispered, looking up at the ceiling. “And if you can’t give me strength, give me patience.”
“JP, look!” Clementine said, holding her perfectly kneaded dough up to the kitchen light. “Look at the dough structure. It’s like a membrane; I can practically see it breathing!”
Gabriella shrieked, and whilst Johnny appreciated Clem’s newfound love for baking, he did not need her sending Gabriella into a tailspin.
“Lovely,” he said, sliding Gabriella’s dough over to her. “Seeing as you’re doing such a good job, why don’t you finish your sister’s.”
She nodded enthusiastically.
“No way!” Gabriella said, snatching it back. “That’s my bread, you’re not touching it.” She began kneading in earnest, all whilst heaving into the crook of her elbow.
The evening had been chaotic, to say the least, so when Maman and Papa finally appeared with takeaway fish and chips, Johnny couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief.
The sound of crunching filled the kitchen, and whilst Johnny couldn’t in good faith compliment the British for many of their culinary achievements, he was partial to fish and chips every now and again.
Although, the way Taylor mixed curry sauce and mushy peas made him want to gag.
“Taste it,” Taylor said, waggling a chip in his direction. “You should try anything twice, just in case you don’t like it the first time.”
Johnny was about to ask if he applied the same logic to sleeping with alphas, but remembered they were around the family dinner table.
Marty’s head popped up between them and he snatched the chip with his teeth. His eyes went wide. “It’s good!” he said, giving Johnny an unhindered view of the greenish brown mush on his tongue.
“I’m good, thanks,” Johnny said, peeling another chip off the paper.
He caught Maman’s eye from across the table. She smiled at him in that same warm way as always, but there was something strained about it, exhausted, like the smile might drop from her face at any moment. He glanced at Papa, who was at the sink. He looked tired too. Bone tired.
Maman covered a yawn, wiggling her fingers as though casting it off into the atmosphere.
“Who wants pudding?” Papa said, flipping back the lid on a takeaway box and shaking it in their direction.
“Puff-puffs!” Marty squealed, hopping down from his seat and making a grab for one of the deep-fried doughnuts. “Aww, they’re cold!”
Papa smiled, cupped Marty’s cheek and pushed the tip of his nose up with his thumb. “We’ll put them in the microwave, little piggy.”
They managed to make it through the dessert, and Maman did look genuinely impressed by the Kumba bread.
The girls, of course, fought over which one was the best, and although Johnny would never say it, Clementine’s looked better by a country mile.
They were still bickering as they moved into the living room, and the argument turned to who could tidy up Marty’s Lego the fastest.
Taylor washed up whilst Papa dried, singing in horribly broken French as some pop song from the 1980s blasted from the ancient CD player. It looked like Papa was trying to teach Taylor how to dance, but Taylor looked no more coordinated than he had on Dance Dance Revolution.
“You’ve got to have rhythm, son!” Papa said, gyrating like some kind of demented belly dancer. “Move your hips in time with the beat, not the words!”
Taylor laughed, flicking foamy water at him. “There’s nothing wrong with my hip rhythm, old man.”
Papa bit his bottom lip and smiled with his top teeth. “Pounding is different to dancing. There’s more to it than bam, bam, bam. Ask Maman, she knows.”
“Oumar!” she said, smacking him with a tea towel.
Papa laughed. “What? Five kids later and you still wake me up in the middle of the night. There’ll be a sixth if you—”
“Please stop,” Johnny said, putting his hands over his ears.
Maman covered her face. “That’s not true, don’t listen to your father.”
Papa gave a devilish grin. “No? You said you wanted to try for—”
She punched his arm and threw the tea towel over his head. “I’m too old, you filthy cretin.”
“Nonsense,” Papa said, gathering her up in his arms and kissing her on the mouth with an obscene amount of enthusiasm for a fifty-one-year-old.
Johnny grimaced, but as they smiled and rubbed their noses together he found that he couldn’t look away.
They just made it look so effortless, like loving each other was the easiest thing in the world.
They’d met in Cameroon, planned to make a life there, raised Johnny in Yaoundé, and when Maman had said she wanted to leave, Papa had followed without question.
Even though it meant leaving the rest of the Ateba pack behind.
Johnny’s eyes slipped to Taylor, who was also watching them but with an expression of quiet despondency.
He blinked a few times, hand falling still on the plate he’d been drying.
His eyes trailed up and met Johnny’s, and they just looked at one another, the sound of kissing, and laughter and terrible French pop songs fading into the background.
Johnny wanted to go to him. Wanted to toss the plate into the sink and pull Taylor into his arms. He wanted it so much it hurt.
“Mama!” came Gabriella’s voice as she barrelled into the kitchen. Taylor coughed, dropped his eyes and turned back to the sink. “Clem’s broken the TV and Marty’s crying again!”
“I am not!” Marty yelled from the living room, voice heavy with tears.
It was already gone ten when the kids finally went to bed and Papa resumed his usual position on the sofa. He nodded and hummed as he read the newspaper, his foot tapping against the coffee table even though the music had long been turned off.
“Will you stay tonight?” Maman asked, shaking a pile of sweet potatoes in a colander over the sink.
She handed them to Johnny and he began peeling them ready for her to use the following day.
Cooking, he’d long known, was a kind of therapy in itself—the feel of the food beneath his fingers and the small satisfaction of knowing that he had fed someone.
He understood why Maman worked so hard, but she and Papa were growing older and the restaurant busier by the day.
“It’s your day off tomorrow, isn’t it?”
Johnny looked down at the sweet potatoes. “Yes,” he replied, scooping the peel into a tub. “What did you have in mind?”
Maman sighed. “Kofi’s taking the kids fishing, but I’m worried he’s not well enough after his operation.”
Pressing his lips together, Johnny began on another potato. “Sure. I’ll see if Tay wants to come.”
Maman nodded and pressed herself under his arm. “Thank you.”
They stood in comfortable silence for a little while, until Johnny said, “You can take a day off, you know? The restaurant will still be there when you get back.”
Maman huffed out a breath. “I know, but you know how it is. There is always more work to be done.”
“And that work will still be waiting for you after a few hours with the kids.”
Maman shook her head. “I know; that’s the problem.”
Johnny ran his tongue over his top lip. “Their childhoods are passing you by, Maman, like it did with mi—” He clamped his mouth shut before any more words came out.
Oh shit, that came out wrong. Really wrong.
Maman jolted as though physically struck. She went to move away, but Johnny pulled her into him. “I didn’t mean that,” he said. “God, I did not mean it like that. I know things were hard when we left Yaoundé.”
She went quiet, a small, regretful sound coming from her throat.
“No, you’re right. I… I did miss out on a lot when you were growing up.
I was…” She went quiet again and gently tugged at the front of her shirt.
“I was so worried about Chichi starting a life over here, I…” Her words trailed off into a breathy sigh.
“Shall we feed the pigs?” Johnny said, throwing the last of the peel into the tub. “Make the most of the warm air whilst the kids are quiet?”
Maman looked up at him, her eyes shining slightly. “Yes, I would love to. Do you want to get Taylor?”
Johnny shook his head. “I think… I think I need some space for a bit. Not from him, just…”
From the ache in his chest? The constant pulling sensation behind his lungs?
Taylor was up in their old room, sorting out their clothes for Marty and the girls. Gabby was rapidly growing out of her girly girl phase and was well on her way into her oversized clothes, paintbrush in hair, starving artist era, and she had asked whether she could have some of their old T-shirts.