Gardening Club

Barry Brand was the sort of child who could fall into trouble while standing perfectly still.

Some children needed climbing frames, fireworks, or at least a running start. Barry, aged four and three-quarters (“Nearly five,” he reminded people solemnly), merely needed silence. Silence was dangerous. Silence meant Barry was thinking.

His best friend, Marmaduke, was no help whatsoever.

Marmaduke had the wide-eyed optimism of a Labrador wearing school shoes. If Barry announced they were building a rocket from wheelie bins and yoghurt pots, Marmaduke would nod thoughtfully and ask whether they should pack sandwiches for the moon.

Alfie, Barry’s older brother, was seven years old and already exhausted by life.

He liked rules.

He liked lists.

He liked things being where they belonged.

He once alphabetised the spice rack during a power cut because, as he explained later, “There was no point wasting the evening.”

Unfortunately, Alfie belonged to the Brand family, which meant chaos arrived daily like the post.

One rainy Friday, the Brands drove from London to Leicestershire to visit Grandma Brand.

Mr Brand drove.

Mrs Brand worked on her laptop.

Barry kicked the back of Alfie’s seat rhythmically for nearly two hours.

Marmaduke ate something blue.

Nobody knew where he got it.

“Barry,” sighed Alfie eventually, turning around with the expression of a tired accountant, “please stop kicking my chair.”

“I’m testing your reflexes,” Barry explained.

“My reflexes don’t need testing.”

“That’s exactly what someone with weak reflexes would say.”

Marmaduke nodded. “Very suspicious.”

Alfie stared out of the window and considered becoming an only child.

By the time they arrived at Grandma Brand’s cottage near Mountsorrel, Mrs Brand had three missed calls, Mr Brand had developed a twitch in one eye, and Barry had somehow glued a biscuit to Marmaduke’s forehead.

“Right,” said Grandma Brand briskly. “Tea?”

“Desperately,” said Mr Brand.

The adults gathered around the kitchen table almost immediately, speaking in hushed Important Voices about mortgages, work contracts, pensions, and something called “projected expenditure,” which sounded to Barry like a weapon from Star Wars.

Children, naturally, were treated as background noise.

This was a terrible mistake.

The next morning, Mrs Brand appeared at breakfast holding her phone triumphantly.

“I’ve found something!” she announced. “Dobbies Children’s Gardening Club in Mountsorrel. Four-hour Saturday session.”

“Doing what?” asked Alfie suspiciously.

Mrs Brand read aloud.

“Seed planting, tree hugging, campfire activities, and bug hunting.”

Barry’s eyes widened.

“Bug hunting?”

“Yes.”

“With actual bugs?”

“I should imagine that’s the general direction of bug hunting.”

Marmaduke gasped happily. “This is the greatest day of my life.”

Alfie looked concerned already. “Who supervises?”

“Oh, there’ll be staff there,” said Mr Brand vaguely, already answering emails.

Then he leaned toward Alfie while the others packed bags.

Quietly, so only Alfie could hear, Dad whispered:

“You are not obliged to control Barry or Marmaduke.”

Alfie blinked.

“What?”

Mr Brand squeezed his shoulder solemnly.

“It’s not humanly possible.”

Then he walked away carrying coffee and stress.

Alfie stood frozen.

For the first time in his life, authority had abandoned him.

It felt unsettling.

And slightly exciting.

The gardening club was held behind the enormous garden centre, where cheerful adults in waterproof jackets bounced around with terrifying energy.

One woman wore earrings shaped like carrots.

Another introduced herself as “Nature Nicky.”

Nobody trusted Nature Nicky immediately.

“Welcome, little acorns!” she cried.

Barry whispered to Marmaduke, “I think she lives in the woods.”

Marmaduke whispered back, “Do you think she eats bark?”

The children were divided into groups.

Alfie was put with the older children to plant herb gardens neatly in wooden boxes.

Barry and Marmaduke were placed with the younger ones around a muddy patch labelled BUG EXPLORATION ZONE.

This sounded to Barry less like an activity and more like destiny.

“Now,” said Nature Nicky brightly, “bugs are our friends!”

Barry raised a hand.

“What about wasps?”

“We respect wasps from a distance.”

“What about worms?”

“We love worms.”

“What about centipedes?”

A pause.

“We admire centipedes emotionally.”

Barry nodded thoughtfully.

Then the digging began.

Within minutes, every child had found something tiny and harmless.

Except Barry.

Barry found a hole.

Now, sensible people understand that mysterious holes in the countryside should not be investigated by four-year-olds armed with sticks.

Barry was not sensible people.

“Marmaduke,” he whispered, “there’s definitely treasure in here.”

Marmaduke crouched beside him. “Or goblins.”

“Treasure goblins.”

“Yes.”

Together, they widened the hole enthusiastically while Nature Nicky explained composting to children who were not actively excavating Leicestershire.

Suddenly Barry’s stick struck something hard.

CLONK.

The boys froze.

“Gold,” breathed Marmaduke.

“Pirate gold.”

“Royal pirate gold.”

Barry dug faster.

Out came… a rusty metal box.

The boys stared at it in awe.

“This,” Barry whispered, “changes everything.”

Inside the box were old gardening gloves, two marbles, a spoon, and a laminated photograph of a man holding a giant courgette.

Marmaduke looked disappointed.

Barry did not.

“This is evidence.”

“Of what?”

“I don’t know yet.”

That was enough for Marmaduke.

Meanwhile, Alfie carefully labelled basil seedlings while enjoying the strange, peaceful sensation of not being responsible for Barry.

He could hear distant shouting.

But crucially, it was not his problem.

“Lovely work, Alfie,” said a volunteer.

“Thank you,” said Alfie calmly, placing mint plants in symmetrical rows.

Then came the scream.

Not a frightened scream.

A delighted Barry scream.

Alfie closed his eyes.

No.

No, no, no.

He turned slowly.

Across the field, Barry and Marmaduke were running triumphantly toward the campfire area carrying something large between them.

Something wriggling.

“Oh dear Lord,” whispered Alfie.

It was a chicken.

Not a wild chicken. Just an ordinary escaped chicken from somewhere nearby. But Barry carried it with the confidence of a medieval knight returning from battle.

“We rescued him!” Barry shouted.

Nature Nicky hurried over.

“Oh! That’s Nigel!”

“Nigel?” said Barry.

“He belongs to the farm next door.”

Nigel the chicken flapped indignantly and escaped directly into the tree-hugging activity.

Children scattered.

One little girl burst into tears.

Another shouted, “HE KNOWS MY NAME!”

Nigel flew onto a picnic table.

Marmaduke screamed with admiration.

“He’s magnificent!”

The next twenty minutes became what staff later described in official paperwork as “a fluid situation.”

Nigel escaped into the gardening centre.

Barry and Marmaduke pursued him heroically.

Several children followed because chaos is extremely attractive to children.

One volunteer lost a welly in a pond.

Another accidentally tipped compost onto a grandfather buying begonias.

Alfie arrived just in time to see Barry crawling beneath a display of ornamental grasses shouting:

“NIGEL! WE ONLY WANT TO HELP YOU!”

“Why is he helping?” Alfie demanded of nobody in particular.

Nobody knew.

Nigel burst from the grasses, sprinted through automatic doors, and disappeared into Dobbies café.

The children followed.

Adults followed the children.

One pensioner quietly abandoned his scone and left.

Inside the café, Nigel leapt onto a table.

A woman shrieked as the chicken stole half her Victoria sponge.

Barry pointed dramatically.

“He’s hungry!”

“HE’S A CHICKEN!” shouted a volunteer.

Nigel flew again.

Straight onto Mr Brand.

Because naturally the Brands had chosen that exact moment to arrive for coffee after finishing their Important Discussion.

Mr Brand froze as Victoria sponge and feathers slid slowly down his jumper.

Mrs Brand stared.

Grandma Brand removed her glasses.

“Good heavens,” she murmured.

Barry beamed proudly.

“We found him.”

There are moments in parenthood when mothers and fathers silently ask themselves whether boarding school accepts nursery-aged children.

This was one of those moments.

“Barry,” said Mrs Brand carefully, “why are you covered in mud?”

“Investigation.”

“Marmaduke,” said Grandma Brand, “why are you carrying a spoon?”

Marmaduke checked his pocket thoughtfully.

“I don’t remember.”

“And Alfie,” said Mr Brand weakly, “what happened?”

Alfie adjusted his glasses.

Then, for the first time in recorded history, he smiled.

Not a polite smile.

Not a sensible smile.

A genuine smile.

“You told me I wasn’t obliged to control them.”

Mr Brand opened his mouth.

Closed it again.

Fair point.

Eventually Nigel the chicken was captured using a bread roll and what witnesses later called “unexpected negotiation skills” from Barry.

The gardening club leaders attempted to restore order.

Children returned reluctantly to wholesome activities.

The campfire session finally began.

Everyone sat on logs while Nature Nicky taught them how to toast marshmallows safely.

This lasted eleven seconds.

Barry discovered that flaming marshmallows looked “more dramatic.”

Marmaduke agreed.

One marshmallow achieved low Earth orbit.

Another attached itself to Alfie’s sleeve.

A third somehow landed in Mr Brand’s tea.

Nobody entirely understood how.

As smoke drifted into the chilly afternoon air, Alfie sat beside Barry quietly.

“You know,” Alfie admitted, “today was actually quite fun.”

Barry looked astonished.

“You liked bug hunting?”

“No.”

“The chicken chase?”

“No.”

“The flaming marshmallows?”

“Absolutely not.”

Barry frowned. “Then what?”

Alfie considered this.

Then he glanced over at their parents, who looked ten years older than yesterday, and Grandma Brand, who was laughing so hard she nearly dropped her tea.

“I liked not being responsible for civilisation.”

Barry nodded wisely.

“That’s exhausting.”

“It really is.”

For a few peaceful minutes, the boys sat together watching the fire crackle.

Then Marmaduke wandered over holding the rusty metal box.

“Good news,” he announced.

“What?”

“I solved the mystery.”

Barry gasped. “Really?”

“Yes.”

Marmaduke opened the box proudly.

Inside, beneath the old gloves, was a label.

PROPERTY OF GEOFF.

PLEASE STOP BURYING THIS.

Barry stared at it.

“Oh.”

Marmaduke nodded seriously.

“We may have interrupted something important.”

At that exact moment, Nigel escaped again and sprinted across the garden centre car park carrying an entire sausage roll.

Barry leapt to his feet instantly.

“NIGEL NEEDS US!”

Marmaduke charged after him.

Alfie watched them go.

Then he sighed the sigh of an elderly man trapped inside a seven-year-old.

And very slowly…

He followed.