He becomes she

It was another of those very hot London days when even the pigeons looked fed up.

The sun had turned the Brands’ little back garden into something that felt suspiciously like the Sahara Desert, except with more wheelie bins and fewer camels.

Barry Brand was lying upside down on a garden chair.

“Why is everything melting?” he asked.

“Because it’s still hot,” said Alfie.

Alfie was sensible, and currently reading a book called Interesting Facts About Drainage Systems. 

Barry considered this.

“But why is it hot?”

Alfie sighed.

“Because it’s summer.”

“But why is summer?”

Alfie closed his book.

“You know what? Ask Mum.”

“Mum’s working.”

“Dad then.”

“Dad’s working too.”

The boys looked through the patio doors.

Their mum was typing furiously on a laptop.

Their dad was wearing headphones and talking to people on a video call.

Both occasionally nodded at screens.

Neither had moved for so long that Barry suspected they had become part of their office furniture.

At that moment the garden gate rattled.

It was Marmaduke.

Marmaduke was Barry’s best friend.

He was also four years old and possessed the remarkable ability to agree with absolutely anything Barry said.

Barry once convinced him that worms were government spies.

Marmaduke had believed it for nearly a week.

“Want to see Mousey?” Barry asked.

“Yes,” said Marmaduke immediately.

“Good.”

The boys marched toward the shed.

Behind it lived Mousey.

Mousey was a tiny brown garden mouse who had somehow become completely unafraid of them.

This was mainly because Barry kept leaving little bits of cereal nearby.

Mum called it feeding wildlife.

Dad called it encouraging rodents.

Barry called it friendship.

The boys crouched behind the shed.

“There!” whispered Marmaduke.

Mousey darted from beneath a pile of old flowerpots.

Something immediately seemed odd.

The mouse wasn’t really moving around.

“What’s he doing?” asked Marmaduke.

Barry narrowed his eyes.

“He’s hot.”

“What?”

“Look at all that stuff.”

Marmaduke nodded.

This comment explained absolutely nothing, but he nodded anyway.

“Maybe he’s building an air conditioner.”

“What’s an air conditioner?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay.”

“Something’s definitely wrong,” said Barry.

The boys watched for ten minutes.

Mousey continued lying in his nest, surrounded by the damp leaves (now drying), bits of fluff and feathers, and the tufts of grass and leaf he’d been collecting up until today. 

“Do you think he’s ok?” asked Marmaduke. 

“We should help him,” Barry declared.

Marmaduke nodded.

“Definitely.”

Alfie appeared behind them.

“What are you doing?”

“Helping Mousey.”

“Why?”

“He’s hot.”

Alfie blinked.

“What?”

“He’s gathered loads of stuff because he’s hot.”

Alfie stared at them.

The way adults sometimes stare at instruction manuals written in ancient Greek.

“That doesn’t make sense. He looks hotter for making himself a larder.”

“Does too.”

“No it doesn’t.”

“It does.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Alfie rubbed his forehead.

“Have either of you considered that he might be building a nest?”

Barry and Marmaduke exchanged looks.

This possibility had not occurred to them.

“No,” admitted Barry.

“Well he might be, but I wonder why.”

Barry folded his arms.

“Or he’s opening a mouse hotel.”

Alfie walked away. “One day,” he muttered, “I’m going to live somewhere quieter.”

That afternoon the boys launched Operation Help Mousey.

Unfortunately, Barry was in charge.

This meant it was doomed almost immediately.

First they collected grass.

Lots of grass.

Then leaves.

Then sticks.

Then feathers.

Then a sock they found under the trampoline.

Nobody knew whose sock it was.

Possibly nobody wanted to know.

They piled everything beside Mousey’s entrance.

Mousey emerged.

Stopped.

Looked at the mountain.

Looked at the boys.

Looked at the mountain again.

Then quietly waddled back inside.

“He’s grateful,” said Barry.

“Very grateful,” agreed Marmaduke.

“Exactly.”

Alfie happened to overhear.

“No.”

“What then?”

“I don’t know exactly, but definitely not a mouse apocalypse.”

That evening Dad finally emerged from work.

He stepped into the garden.

Stretched.

Saw the enormous pile of leaves.

Saw the mystery sock.

Saw the feathers.

Saw Barry.

Immediately understood who was responsible.

“Barry.”

“Yes?”

“Why is there a mini compost mountain behind the shed?”

“We’re helping Mousey.”

Dad nodded slowly.

The way someone might react to being told the moon had applied for a driving licence.

“Of course you are.”

Then something caught his attention.

Mousey wasn’t out and about.

Dad watched the nest for a moment.

“Hmm.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

The following morning there was excitement.

Major excitement.

The sort of excitement normally reserved for birthday cake or television remote controls.

Mousey hadn’t appeared.

Not once.

The boys waited.

Nothing.

They checked behind the shed.

Nothing.

They sat quietly.

Still nothing.

Barry began to worry.

“What if he’s moved?”

“What if he’s been kidnapped?” said Marmaduke.

“What if aliens took him?”

“What if he’s become a secret agent?”

By lunchtime their theories had become increasingly ridiculous.

Alfie listened.

Then said, “Maybe he’s just inside his nest.”

Nobody paid attention.

Children rarely listen to sensible suggestions.

That’s one of the reasons parents develop grey hair.

Late that afternoon Mum came outside carrying cold drinks.

“Any sign of Mousey?”

“No,” said Barry sadly.

Mum smiled.

“I think I know why.”

Barry sat up.

“What?”

“I had a look earlier.”

“You looked inside?”

“Carefully.”

“And?”

Mum crouched beside them.

“First of all, Mousey isn’t actually a boy.”

The boys gasped.

Even Alfie looked surprised.

“What?” said Barry.

“Mousey’s a girl.”

The boys stared at one another.

This was already shocking.

But Mum wasn’t finished.

“And secondly…” she continued, “…I think she’s had babies.”

Silence.

Absolute silence.

Even the pigeons seemed interested.

“Babies?” whispered Barry.

“Lots of babies.”

Marmaduke’s eyes nearly fell out.

“Mouse babies?”

“That’s generally how it works.”

Barry looked toward the shed.

Suddenly everything made sense.

The nest building.

The food collecting.

The endless trips.

The giant mouse supermarket.

“She wasn’t hot,” he said.

“No.”

“She was getting ready.”

“Exactly.”

For the first time in days, Barry felt a little embarrassed.

Not very embarrassed.

Just enough.

The next morning Mum took them to look carefully.

Very carefully.

Very quietly.

Hidden inside the nest were several tiny pink baby mice.

They were unbelievably small.

Like pink jelly beans with whiskers.

Well.

Future whiskers.

Current whiskers were still under construction.

“Wow,” whispered Barry.

Mousey sat nearby.

Watching.

Not frightened.

Just alert.

Like any mum with babies.

“She’s a mum,” said Marmaduke.

“Yep.”

“That’s amazing.”

“It is.”

Even Alfie smiled.

And Alfie didn’t smile often unless something had been alphabetically organised.

Over the next few weeks the boys watched from a respectful distance.

Mousey worked constantly.

Feeding babies.

Cleaning the nest.

Fetching food.

Looking after everyone.

The baby mice grew.

They sprouted fur.

Opened their eyes.

Started wobbling around.

Eventually they looked less like jelly beans and more like actual mice.

One afternoon Barry sat beside the shed watching them.

“I was wrong.”

Alfie nearly dropped his book.

“Did you just say you were wrong?”

“Yes.”

“Are you feeling alright?”

Barry ignored him.

“I thought Mousey was collecting food because she was hot.”

“Yes.”

“But she was actually getting ready to look after her babies.”

“That’s right.”

Barry nodded thoughtfully.

Then grinned.

“Although if there is ever a mouse apocalypse, we’ll be prepared.”

Alfie groaned.

Marmaduke nodded enthusiastically.

“Definitely.”

The baby mice began exploring more each day.

Soon there were tiny noses poking everywhere.

Tiny ears.

Tiny paws.

Tiny squeaks.

The garden suddenly felt much busier.

Dad counted seven babies.

Mum thought there were eight.

Barry claimed there were twelve hundred.

His counting skills remained a work in progress.

One evening the family sat in the garden together.

Work had finally finished.

The sun was setting.

Mousey and her babies scurried around behind the shed.

Barry smiled.

He felt proud somehow.

Not because he’d helped.

His giant pile of garden rubbish clearly hadn’t helped at all.

But because he’d noticed.

Because he’d cared.

Because Mousey had become part of their little corner of London.

“Do you think she knows us?” he asked.

Mum smiled.

“Maybe.”

“Do you think she likes us?”

Dad looked at the compost mountain that still hadn’t entirely disappeared.

“She probably finds us interesting.”

“That’s basically the same thing,” said Barry.

And for once, nobody argued.

Not even Alfie.

Because behind the shed, Mousey was teaching her babies how to explore the world.

And in her own tiny mouse way, she seemed just as busy as every parent