The Library visit

Today, Barry believed three things with absolute certainty.

First: dinosaurs would still be alive if grown-ups had stopped making them do homework.

Second: tomato ketchup counted as a vegetable.

And third: if adults whispered about something being “important,” it was almost certainly boring.

This is why, on a drizzly Tuesday afternoon in London, Barry nearly fell off the sofa when Dad announced:

“We’re all going to the library.”

Alfie looked up from his maths homework with cautious optimism.

“The library?” he said. “To read?”

Dad nodded proudly, waving his phone around like a politician who’d just solved taxes.

“I listened to a parenting podcast on the train. Apparently successful children read books.”

Mum barely looked up from her laptop.

“Excellent,” she muttered. “Can they read quietly?”

Dad ignored this.

“Yes! Libraries expand the mind.”

Barry narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

“What’s a library?”

“It’s a building full of books,” said Alfie.

Barry gasped.

“By purpose?”

Marmaduke, who was sitting upside down in an armchair eating dry cereal from his pockets, looked horrified.

“All of them?”

“Yes,” said Alfie.

“Even the bad ones?”

Dad clapped his hands together.

“Right! Shoes on. We’re becoming intellectuals.”

Dad had recently started saying things like “intellectuals” after listening to podcasts. Last month he’d listened to one about healthy living and bought a bicycle that now lived sadly in the shed beneath six bags of compost and a broken badminton racket.

Ten minutes later, they marched through the streets of North London.

Alfie walked sensibly beside Dad.

Barry and Marmaduke walked several miles behind because they’d found a stick.

It was an extremely good stick.

Long. Slightly bendy. Mud at one end.

“A wizard staff,” Barry declared.

“A laser bazooka,” Marmaduke argued.

“A horse whip,” Barry suggested.

“A crocodile poker.”

“A sausage sword.”

Eventually they reached the library, where Dad crouched dramatically beside the boys.

“Now,” he whispered, “libraries are places of calm.”

Barry stared at the building.

It smelled like rain, carpet, and old people.

A woman inside sneezed so softly it sounded apologetic.

Dad pointed a finger.

“No shouting. No running. No chaos.”

Barry nodded solemnly.

Then immediately walked into the automatic doors without waiting for them to open.

WHUMP.

An elderly man reading newspapers looked up over his glasses.

“Promising start,” he muttered.

Inside, the library was enormous.

Shelves towered everywhere like forests made entirely from homework.

There were tiny children sitting on beanbags reading picture books. Students typing furiously at computers. Pensioners staring suspiciously at everyone.

And behind a large desk sat a librarian with silver glasses hanging from a chain.

She smiled politely.

“Welcome.”

Dad smiled back too enthusiastically.

“We’re introducing the boys to literature.”

The librarian glanced at Barry, who was licking the condensation off a window.

“How brave,” she said.

Dad disappeared toward the history section with Alfie.

“Choose anything educational,” he called.

Barry looked at Marmaduke.

Marmaduke looked at Barry.

This was always dangerous.

Within three minutes they’d found the children’s section.

Within five minutes they’d built a “reading fortress” out of beanbags.

Within seven minutes Barry discovered the wheeled trolley librarians used for returned books.

“This,” he whispered, “is a racing car.”

Marmaduke’s eyes widened.

“It’s got wheels.”

“That’s how you know.”

Barry climbed aboard.

“Push me.”

Marmaduke pushed.

At first it rolled slowly.

Then alarmingly quickly.

Barry zoomed past the picture books holding a copy of The Gruffalo above his head.

“FASTER!”

“WE’RE GOING TOO FAST!”

“THAT MEANS IT’S WORKING!”

The trolley shot around a corner directly toward the quiet study area.

A university student looked up just in time to see Barry flying toward him screaming:

“I AM THE LIBRARY POLICE!”

CRASH.

Books exploded everywhere.

The trolley tipped sideways.

Barry rolled across the carpet like a dropped sausage roll.

Silence filled the room.

Absolute silence.

Then, from somewhere deep in the library, came the slow squeak of sensible shoes.

The librarian appeared.

Not angry.

Which was worse.

She looked at Barry.

She looked at Marmaduke.

She looked at the trolley upside down beside a sign reading PLEASE WALK.

“What,” she asked calmly, “is happening here?”

Barry stood up.

“We’re learning.”

“Really.”

“Yes,” said Barry confidently. “About speed.”

Marmaduke nodded.

“And gravity.”

The librarian closed her eyes briefly.

Dad appeared moments later, clutching a book titled Helping Your Child Thrive Academically.

“What’s going on?”

The librarian smiled the smile adults use when they’re trying not to scream in public.

“Your son appears to have weaponised library furniture.”

Dad rubbed his forehead.

“Barry…”

Barry tried his most innocent face.

Unfortunately he still had a beanbag stuck to his jumper with static electricity.

“We were exploring.”

Alfie arrived behind Dad carrying three neat books about planets.

“I told you this would happen,” he sighed.

“You always say that,” Barry pointed out.

“Yes,” said Alfie. “Because it always does.”

Dad apologised profusely while helping restack books.

Barry and Marmaduke were sentenced to “quiet browsing.”

This lasted almost four minutes.

Mum squinted at Barry.

Barry wandered between shelves until he discovered something miraculous.

A tiny staircase leading downstairs.

He froze.

“Marmaduke.”

“What?”

“There’s a basement.”

Marmaduke looked terrified instantly.

“Basements are where murderers live.”

“No they don’t.”

“Yes they do. My cousin said.”

Barry considered this.

“Well maybe library murderers.”

Together they crept downstairs.

The basement was dim and dusty.

Rows of shelves stretched into shadows.

There were old books everywhere.

Huge ones. Tiny ones. Some smelled like ancient biscuits.

At the far end sat a single door labelled:

STAFF ONLY

Barry stared at it.

Marmaduke whispered, “Don’t.”

Barry placed a hand dramatically on the handle.

“What if there’s treasure?”

“What if there’s a skeleton?”

“What if the skeleton guards treasure?”

This complicated things for Marmaduke.

Barry slowly opened the door.

Inside was a tiny archive room filled with boxes.

And in the middle stood an ancient-looking machine covered with a sheet.

Barry pulled the sheet off.

“A HA!”

Marmaduke jumped six feet.

It was a strange metal box with buttons and a slot.

“What is it?” whispered Marmaduke.

Barry pressed a button.

The machine roared to life with a deafening WHIRRRRRRRR.

Lights flashed.

Paper shot everywhere.

Marmaduke screamed.

Barry screamed because Marmaduke screamed.

Upstairs, several librarians screamed because screaming appeared contagious.

The machine spat out hundreds of paper slips across the floor.

Dad came charging downstairs with Alfie and the librarian.

There was a long pause.

Paper drifted gently through the air like confused snow.

Dad looked exhausted already, and it was only half past four.

“What,” he said slowly, “have you done now?”

Barry pointed at the machine.

“It attacked first.”

The librarian stared.

“That,” she said, horrified, “is our archived microfilm printer.”

Barry blinked.

“…good?”

“No.”

Alfie folded his arms.

“Why can’t you just read a normal book like a normal child?”

Barry thought carefully.

“Because normal is boring.”

Dad spent twenty minutes helping clear paper while Barry and Marmaduke sat in the “reflection corner.”

This sounded educational but was actually two tiny chairs beside a fake plant.

Marmaduke leaned close.

“I think your dad’s angry.”

“He always looks like that after emails.”

Nearby, Alfie happily read a science book while occasionally glaring at Barry like a disappointed headteacher.

Eventually Dad returned carrying a stack of books.

“Right,” he announced. “We are borrowing these and leaving before anyone calls security.”

Barry peered at the pile.

“Where’s my one?”

Dad handed him a brightly coloured dinosaur encyclopedia.

Barry’s eyes widened.

“Whoa.”

“It has facts,” said Dad hopefully.

Barry opened it.

“Did you know some dinosaurs had feathers?”

“Yes.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

As they headed for the checkout desk, the librarian stopped them.

She looked directly at Barry.

Then she handed him a small card.

“A library card,” she said.

Barry held it reverently.

“This means I’m in charge?”

“It means,” she replied carefully, “you may borrow books.”

Barry grinned.

“I’m basically the mayor of books.”

The librarian looked at Dad.

“Good luck.”

Outside, rain drizzled over the pavements.

Dad looked exhausted.

Alfie looked dignified.

Marmaduke looked sticky.

Barry carried his dinosaur book proudly against his chest.

“You know,” Dad said cautiously, “libraries are actually quite fun when everyone behaves.”

Barry nodded thoughtfully.

Then stopped walking.

“Dad?”

“Yes?”

“What’s microfilm?”

Dad sighed the sigh of a man who missed silence.

“Old newspapers stored on film.”

Barry considered this.

“So… not treasure.”

“No.”

“Could there still be skeletons?”

“No.”

Marmaduke looked disappointed.

Back home, Mum was still working at the dining table surrounded by coffee cups and stress.

“How was the library?”

Dad stared into the distance.

“They’re banned from the basement.”

Mum nodded as though this was entirely expected.

“Tea?”

“Please.”

Alfie went upstairs to read responsibly.

Marmaduke was collected by his mum, who apologised automatically before hearing what happened, which suggested experience.

And Barry curled up on the sofa with his dinosaur encyclopedia.

For once, he was quiet.

Dad blinked suspiciously.

“What’s wrong with him?”

Barry didn’t look up.

“Nothing.”

Dad touched Mum’s arm dramatically.

“I think books worked.”

“No,” she said. “He’s planning something.”

She was right.

Because Barry had just reached a page about volcanoes.

And tomorrow, at school, they were making papier-mâché models.

Barry smiled slowly.

Very slowly.

“Oh,” he whispered to himself, “this is going to be excellent.”