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 thefloury 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 didnotneed 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 fromthe ancient CD player. It looked like Papa was trying to teach Taylor how to dance, but Taylor looked no more coordinated than he had onDance 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.”
