Alfie, Barry and Marmaduke Stories

On a damp London morning—the kind where everything feels slightly soggy, including your mood—Barry Brand woke up with a very important mission.

Today, he was going to become a fish.

This was not, strictly speaking, the plan.

The actual plan was that Barry, age four, was going to his first swimming lesson. But sometime between breakfast and putting his shoes on the wrong feet, Barry’s dad had made a crucial mistake.

“You’ll be fine,” Dad had said, juggling his laptop, his keys, and what looked like his last shred of patience. “You’ll be swimming like a fish in no time.”

Barry had heard exactly one part of that sentence.

A fish.

And now, the idea had taken hold.

“I need gills,” Barry announced, standing in the kitchen wearing swimming trunks, one sock, and a colander on his head.

Mum didn’t even look up from her phone. “You absolutely do not.”

Alfie, already dressed neatly for school and eating toast in a way that suggested he had read the instructions beforehand, sighed.

“You can’t just become a fish, Barry.”

Barry frowned. “Why not?”

“Because you’re a human.”

“That’s just your opinion.”

Alfie opened his mouth, then closed it again. He had learned, over seven years, that arguing with Barry was like trying to explain tax returns to a squirrel.

Marmaduke, who had arrived early and was watching this unfold with deep admiration, leaned in.

“You look like a pasta strainer,” he said.

“It’s for breathing underwater,” Barry replied confidently.

Marmaduke nodded. “That makes sense.”

“IT DOES NOT MAKE SENSE,” Alfie said, louder than intended.

From the hallway, Dad called, “We’re going to be late!”

This, in the Brand household, was less of a warning and more of a daily tradition.

There had been some discussion about whether Marmaduke should come along to the swimming lesson.

By “discussion,” we mean Mum and Dad said no, and Barry and Marmaduke said yes, and then Barry and Marmaduke said yes again, louder.

In the end, the decision was made.

“No Marmaduke,” Mum said firmly. “We need to focus.”

Marmaduke looked heartbroken.

“I can be focused,” he said.

“You once tried to eat a crayon because Barry said it was a carrot,” Alfie pointed out.

“It looked like a carrot,” Marmaduke said defensively.

Barry nodded. “That’s on the crayon.”

Mum shook her head. “You can come another time. Today is just Barry.”

Marmaduke sighed deeply, as if he had been excluded from something truly historic.

“Tell me everything,” he whispered to Barry. “Especially if you turn into a fish.”

“I will,” Barry promised.

The journey to the swimming pool was… tense.

Barry insisted on wearing his goggles the entire time.

“Fish don’t take them off,” he explained.

“You are not a fish,” Alfie muttered for the fifteenth time.

Dad was driving, which meant he was also attempting to mentally attend a meeting, remember where the pool actually was, and ignore the fact that Barry was making bubbling noises in the back seat.

“Blub blub blub,” Barry said.

“Please stop blubbing,” Dad said.

“Blub.”

“Barry.”

“Blub.”

Alfie leaned forward. “If you don’t stop, I will explain evaporation to you in detail.”

Barry considered this.

“…Blub quietly,” he compromised.

The swimming pool was loud, echoey, and smelled strongly of chlorine and mild panic.

Children splashed. Parents hovered. Lifeguards watched everything with the thousand-yard stare of people who had seen too much.

Barry stood at the edge of the pool, staring into the water.

“This is it,” he whispered.

“This is not it,” Alfie said. “This is a beginner class.”

Dad crouched down. “Remember, just listen to the teacher, okay?”

Barry nodded seriously.

“Do not try to become a fish,” Dad added.

Barry nodded again.

This was not reassuring.

The teacher, a cheerful woman named Jess who had the bravery of someone who regularly managed small, unpredictable humans near water, clapped her hands.

“Okay everyone! Let’s get in the pool!”

The other children climbed in, some confidently, some cautiously.

Barry jumped.

Not climbed.

Not eased.

Jumped.

There was a splash.

A large splash.

A very enthusiastic splash.

And then—

Nothing.

For one second.

Two seconds.

Three—

Barry’s head popped up.

“I’M A FISH!” he shouted, coughing slightly.

Jess blinked. “Let’s maybe start with floating.”

The lesson began.

“Hold the side,” Jess instructed.

Barry held the side.

“Kick your legs.”

Barry kicked his legs.

Water splashed everywhere, including into Alfie’s face, who had been watching from the edge with the intensity of a concerned inspector.

“This is not controlled,” Alfie muttered.

“It’s swimming,” Dad said.

“It’s chaos.”

“It’s learning.”

“It’s chaos learning.”

Meanwhile, Barry was thriving.

“I’M DOING IT!” he shouted.

“You’re kicking,” Jess corrected gently.

“I’M KICKING LIKE A FISH!”

“That’s… not really how fish—never mind.”

Things were going surprisingly well.

Too well.

And in the world of Barry Brand, “too well” usually meant something was about to go wrong.

“Okay,” Jess said, “now we’re going to try putting our faces in the water.”

Barry froze.

Alfie leaned forward.

Dad held his breath.

Barry looked at the water.

The water looked back.

“Blub?” Barry said uncertainly.

“Just for a second,” Jess encouraged.

Barry took a deep breath.

He bent forward.

He put his face in the water.

One second.

Two seconds.

Three—

He came back up.

“I SAW BUBBLES!” he shouted.

“That’s great!” Jess said.

“I THINK I MET A FISH!”

“There are no fish in this pool,” Alfie said immediately.

Barry frowned. “Then what did I see?”

“Your imagination,” Alfie replied.

Barry considered this.

“…It waved at me.”

Then came the twist.

“Alright,” Jess said, “let’s try a little swim.”

She guided Barry away from the edge.

“Just kick and move your arms.”

Barry nodded.

He kicked.

He moved his arms.

For a moment—a brief, shining moment—it actually worked.

Barry moved forward.

Not gracefully.

Not elegantly.

But forward.

Dad’s eyes widened. “He’s doing it.”

Alfie leaned in. “He’s doing it.”

Barry grinned.

“I’M A—”

And then he forgot to keep his mouth closed.

Water went in.

Panic followed.

Arms flailed.

Legs splashed.

It was less “fish” and more “washing machine.”

Jess calmly guided him back.

“You’re okay,” she said.

Barry coughed.

“I DRANK THE POOL,” he announced.

“Please don’t do that,” Jess said.

On the side, Alfie shook his head.

“This is exactly what I expected.”

Dad smiled. “He tried.”

“He nearly drowned himself.”

“He swallowed some water.”

“He swallowed a lot of water.”

Barry, recovering, looked up.

“I’m fine,” he said. “Fish drink water.”

“That’s not how fish work,” Alfie said.

“Stop ruining fish,” Barry replied.

And then, somehow—accidentally, wonderfully—it happened.

One more try.

One more kick.

One more set of flailing arms.

And Barry moved.

Properly this time.

A short distance.

But clearly.

Undeniably.

Swimming.

Jess clapped. “That’s it!”

Dad beamed.

Alfie blinked.

“…He did it,” Alfie admitted.

Barry reached the edge and grabbed on, panting.

“I… am… a fish,” he declared.

Jess smiled. “You’re learning to swim.”

Barry shook his head.

“Fish.”

On the way home, Barry was exhausted, damp, and extremely proud.

“I swam,” he told Marmaduke later, reenacting the entire event with dramatic splashing in the living room.

“Did you become a fish?” Marmaduke asked.

Barry paused.

He thought about the bubbles.

The kicking.

The accidental drinking of the pool.

“…Part fish,” he decided.

Marmaduke nodded. “That’s still good.”

Alfie, sitting nearby with a book, sighed—but this time, there was a hint of a smile.

“You did quite well,” he admitted.

Barry beamed.

Dad looked up from his laptop. “See? Like a fish.”

Mum raised an eyebrow. “Careful what you promise.”

That night, as the house finally grew quiet, Mum looked around at her family.

At Alfie, sensible and steady.

At Barry, curious and chaotic.

At Dad, still answering emails.

And she smiled.

Because the day had included:

One near fish transformation.

One minor water incident.

Several sarcastic comments.

And one very small, very real success.

Not perfect.

Not calm.

But somehow—just right.

And definitely worth a story.