Mary bent down to the oven, waved away heat and pulled out the tray, nuts crackling against the foil. Belinda busied herself with chopping the onions, the heels of her hands wiping back hot tears.
‘Miss Belinda, I have some feelings about this one you have told.’
‘Of course you do. I will be pleased to hear them.’
‘Thank you kindly. So I don’t believe the story is a truth. Boiled egg to tell of later babies? No, I don’t agree with this one. And, also, sound to me like a horrible thing to do to a lady on her wedding day when you are already full of nerves and fears. Adjei! Why ask a girl to stand in front of the publics to watch her choke and become ashame? And, also, what if she choke so much on the egg it comes up from her mouth onto her princess dress? Can you imagine? Where have I placed the salt?’
‘Your mind is a sieve. Is over there. There, by the pan.’
‘You are correct. There it is. Is always the same: Belinda always right; Belinda never fail.’
The sharpness of Mary’s comment hung in the air. Belinda worked the pestle in the asanka, using her weight against the ingredients, grinding together the slippery onion and pepper. She stopped.
‘Yes, it sounds funny to me also. I don’t think I would ever be able to do it myself. My mouth is too small and not well equipped for such a thing. Look.’
Belinda turned round and opened her mouth as wide as she could, her lips and neck strained and stinging, embarrassment fierce across her cheeks. Mary laughed. Belinda liked that and began to cool.
‘You’re a nonsense, Belinda.’
‘Only sometimes.’
‘Yes. Only sometimes.’
Mary interrupted Belinda’s grinding to add a pinch of salt to the spicy paste forming. Dusting off her fingers, the little girl coughed like Uncle did before giving an instruction and let her shoulders fall. ‘I have to do an apology. I suppose.’
‘No.’
‘Yes.’
‘For what? I don’t mind. Truly.’ Belinda moved to the teak cupboards to find the frying pan. She placed it on the hob next to the boiling water.
‘You do, Belinda. You do. I think you hate things like a big shouting like I was doing in the zoo. You not use to it. So I have to say sorry. Because I know you hate that one.’
‘I don’t hate anything, Mary. Hating is very, very evil. That’s why it hurt me so badly when you used that word about me. Saying how you hate me. Adɛn?’
‘But it was my true feelings in that minute. Now: not so. Then: it was my God’s honest. You, you prefer me to lie as Pinocchio? Pretend I was really the happiest?’
‘No, but –’
‘You will want me, like me better if I didn’t speak anything at all? But I find that a difficult one.’
Belinda smiled to herself, placing a flat palm just above the frying pan to check its readiness. She tipped in the palm oil then tested the texture of the boiling plantain and the eggs, to find they both needed longer. ‘You seem to do a very good job of not speaking on the tro tro, me boa?’
‘Not really.’
‘Wo se sɛn?’
‘In my head I had very long talk with you. Very long.’
‘Sa?’ Belinda scooped the contents of the asanka into the frying pan and took a big step back while the oil hissed.
‘The conversation did not go good at all. You, you kept on trying as if to make me feel better. So annoying to me. So I got bored and I took some ice water from off your bag and spill it all over the top of your head. Sorry about that one, also.’
Mary did a small bow and Belinda went at her with a tea towel. The little girl pretended to have been wounded by one of the swipes. She pouted, winked, then returned to the high shelves to find plates, water glasses, place mats.
Belinda took the frying pan from the flames and poured the freshly fried ingredients into the asanka where they would wait for the plantain. Before seeking out her pestle again, Belinda checked on Mary, who was inspecting the crockery like Aunty had showed them to do on the first morning they had arrived.
There had been so many things to take in during that morning when Aunty, queen-like, had patted her headwrap as she showed them the house and its grounds, walking through echoing white corridors and grand arches and perfect gardens; past chaise longues and chandeliers and flashing glass-topped tables. So many rooms that Mother would have been jealous of but that left Belinda’s stomach feeling like it would fall through her feet. Throughout the tour, Belinda remembered, Mary had stared at the faint marks her flip-flops left on the squeaky floor, and Belinda had nodded while memorising Aunty’s endless notes about brands of bleach and meal times so she could recite them to Mary later, in the comfort of their new bedroom, when she hoped the girl might be less frightened. Now, as Mary polished silverware, Belinda wanted to offer her praise and kindness. She could work well. That was important and deserved to be recognised. So, smiling, Belinda opened her mouth, but then Mary dropped a fork. Mary did not flinch. Instead, staring ahead at the cupboards with their spotless, bronzed handles, Mary began to speak.
‘Once, in my hometown, a boy called Akwesi from a compound nearby to ours he won some test at Sunday School. Test or competition. Something like this. So he had been handed a reward. That day, I learn the foolish word for the prize he was getting. They call it a hula hoop. So much hu hu hu. Funny to me. Anyway, the boy was a selfish. He never said yes if any neighbour children we did ask to play with the thing. He only knew to refuse us.’ Mary picked up the fork, started wiping it. ‘It was pretty, Belinda. They made the hula with all rainbow colours and they even tied ribbon to some parts. But I didn’t mind too much that I couldn’t play on the thing because I got to watch Akwesi using it. He use to stand, in the middle of the yard, with all us children clapping and clapping. And he will spin so quick with all the colours flying up and all over. And when he was spinning like that my heart it went running and running and my smile was really smiling. Because how beautiful. Wa te? And I thought I could never feel anything nicer or happier than watching Akwesi in that way. Then. Then I met you. So.’
Mary took out a slotted spoon, dipped it into the water and transferred the two eggs into her hands. She yelped at the heat of the things bouncing in her palms. She blew on them and hopped. Struggling, her fingers tried picking off the eggs’ shells by jabbing. Defeated, she rolled the eggs onto the black worktop and whimpered. Outside, Sarah Vaughan held a low note for a long time then melted into nothing.
Belinda straightened her spine, hunched her back then straightened it again. In a scrunch of kitchen towel, she gathered up the two eggs carefully and pressed them against the worktop until cracks appeared across them. She picked at the first one with patient fingernails until she could uncurl the whole shell with a few swift pulls. Then she repeated it on the next.
Hoping it would be enough because it was all she had and all she could do, Belinda stepped forward and held Mary’s wrists gently, feeling the slight bones there, as well as the little girl’s latest insect bites. Turning the hands over, it was good to see no scalding, only one or two pinker patches in places.
‘You brave to grab those eggs so fast, Mary.’
‘No, stupid.’
Still clutching her wrists, the boiling pot rumbling away, Belinda walked Mary to the tap and ran her fingers under the cold, just to be safe. At the sink, their four eyes fixed on the shut louvres behind which the evening sky now glowed. Droplets dripped down the tiled splashback, and Mary’s obedient palms cupped water. The two girls remained like that for much longer than they needed to.