Marty winced. “Yeah. She wasn’t happy. And then…” He trailed off, glancing at the door. “Gabby got in trouble for punching William on the nose.”
Johnny let out a huff of laughter, eyes drifting to Taylor again, who had taken to shoving a reluctant Frank up the drive by his backside.
Dropping to one knee, Johnny wrapped his arms around Marty and squeezed.
“You tell me if anything like that happens again, okay?”
Marty squealed. “Too tight, JP!” Marty rubbed his neck as Johnny let him go. “Please don’t tell Tay. You know how mad he gets.”
Johnny squeezed his shoulders. “Can’t guarantee he won’t find out, and I’m not gonna lie if he asks.”
Marty let out a defeated sigh. “I know, just… please don’t make a big deal of it. I don’t want William’s dad causing problems for the restaurant again.”
Johnny’s jaw ticked, remembering the two smashed windows at La Fourette last summer. As much as he hated bullies, he hated seeing Maman cry even more. They’d installed a fancy CCTV system since then, so even if William’s father did start causing trouble at the family business again, they’d get him.
Johnny nodded and let Marty go.
“Martin! Clementine! Gabriella! Come and tidy the living room!” Maman’s soft French accent called from within the house. Johnny smiled at the way her voice strained; well and truly ironed out from having all three kids at home over the summer holidays.
“Go on, Mart. We’ll be in in a sec,” he said, gently pushing Marty towards the bright red front door.
Martin nodded and bolted inside, covering his ear as he went. Johnny rolled his eyes. Kids were so fucking obvious it was painful.
“Je—sus,” Taylor said, sweat rolling down his forehead as he reached the top of the hill. “Stubborn fucker.” He patted Frank’s flank and pulled on his makeshift bridle. “Let me guess, the kids buggered off.”
“Yep,” Johnny replied, tugging Ham and Chop along as he followed Taylor around the side of the house.
The whitewashed brick was alight with bursts of colour. Papa had let the kids paint murals all along the house—part of his waragainst the downfall of self-expression, or so he said, but Johnny suspected he just didn’t want to re-mortar the brickwork.
The paint and chalk had been applied with varying degrees of skill, and Johnny noticed three massive pink blobs with black dots for eyes that were new. The pigs, presumably. Clementine’s work, no doubt, because what she possessed in book smarts could not make up for her complete lack of creativity. Johnny laughed, because that girl did not possess a single artistic bone in her body.
Next to the pigs were the rest of the family, Maman front and centre, with her long twists of black hair floating around her head like octopus tentacles. Then there was Papa, ball-shaped in his brightly coloured dashiki, blinding even in paint form. Clem stood next to Maman, eyebrows slanted down and pointed white fangs gnashing like a fucking shark. Which was fair, because Clem had a hell of a temper.
Marty was next, half the size of the rest of them with big blue tears spilling out of his eyes. The poor guy was a bit emotional, especially when the pigs went off to slaughter every winter.
Gabriella’s portrait was much,muchmore flattering, with her massive cloud-like afro and long curling eyelashes. Extra attention had been given to the little pink flowers on her dress and the lace trim of her socks, and Johnny was beginning to suspect who the artist was.
Then, at the end of the line were Johnny and Taylor. In comparison to the rest of them they weremassive.Like two giants barely able to fit on the remaining wall space. Johnny, with his black curls shaved short at the sides, and Taylor with a bright splash of flame-red hair. Gabriella had given them huge muscles, like beach balls attached to their arms, which Johnny appreciated.
The kids were—rightly or wrongly—British through and through, and when Maman had sworn she was never going backto Cameroon she had meant it. Johnny was the only one out of all his siblings who had ever known Yaoundé, with its insanely good street food—the suya and puff-puff especially—the packed sports bars, hiking up Mont Fébé to watch the sunrise and playing golf on the way back down.
He sighed at the memory of it, how life had been so easy back then. But back then there was no Taylor, so he could never be too mad about leaving.
Chickens pecked the dusty ground in the flower-beds as his eyes trailed up his dad’s sunflowers. They were reaching record-breaking heights again, with their huge emerald leaves pushing out everything else that tried to sprout. Johnny would never admit it, but Taylor reminded him of a sunflower—big and bright, chasing the sun but with this dark centre that seemed to suck in the light some days.
They carried on along the path, the breeze rattling the French-style shutters that adorned every window. They were Maman’s idea, something they’d installed when they moved to High Enfield, when Johnny and Taylor were almost men and the three younger pups weren’t born yet. They were alternating bright red, yellow and green of the Cameroonian flag—an homage to their Camfranglais roots—much to the disdain of their very British, very conservative neighbours across the field.
The kids at college had called it ‘The Rainbow House,’ which Johnny had been fucking mortified by at the time, but he kind of liked it now. Plus, the smell of peeling paint in the summer was nostalgic as hell.
“Off you go, pig,” Taylor said, slipping Frank’s bridle off and ushering him towards the sties at the top of the field.
Ham and Chop nudged Johnny’s legs, their snouts invading his pockets again. Man, theystank, but Johnny still scratched their floppy ears before finally letting them go.
“You good?” Johnny said, looking at Taylor as they stood shoulder to shoulder. They were practically the same height despite Johnny’s hair giving him half an inch, and they had similar builds, although Taylor had bulk where Johnny had longer limbs.
Taylor let out a breath, nodding slowly. “Yeah. I think you’re right about getting a haircut. It’s time to shake off this fucking fog.”
Johnny’s mouth tipped into a relieved smile as he reached up to tickle Taylor’s beard. “Play your cards right and Papa might give you a cutthroat shave, too.”
