New shoes

Barry Brand was sticky.

Not emotionally sticky. Physically sticky.

There was jam on his elbow, chocolate on his socks, and something suspiciously yellow in his hair that Mrs Brand decided not to investigate because she still had three unanswered work emails, one missed Teams call, and a vague feeling she’d forgotten to pay for something important. Possibly electricity.

“Right,” she said, steering Barry and his best friend Marmaduke out of preschool like someone evacuating civilians from a war zone. “Shoes. We are buying shoes and then we are going home.”

Barry looked up at her with enormous blue eyes.

“Can we go in the sweet shop?”

“No.”

“The toy shop?”

“No.”

“The pet shop?”

“No.”

“The knife shop?”

“There is not a knife shop.”

“There should be.”

Marmaduke nodded solemnly. “For pirates.”

Marmaduke agreed with Barry the way leaves agree with hurricanes.

Behind them trudged Alfie, Barry’s seven-year-old brother, carrying his school bag properly on both shoulders like a child from a toothpaste advert about responsibility.

“I think,” Alfie said carefully, “you should probably not let Barry have any more sugar today.”

Mrs Brand laughed the laugh of a woman who had already lost.

“Too late for that.”

At preschool they’d had cake for pudding because apparently someone named Isla had turned five, which meant thirty-two small children had been legally permitted to consume enough icing to see through time.

Barry was vibrating slightly.

By the time they reached the shopping centre, he had already:

• pressed every lift button twice,
• asked a security guard whether he was “the king of the escalators,”
• and attempted to lick a decorative fountain “to see if it was lemonade.”

It was not lemonade.

The shopping centre itself was enormous and shiny and loud. People hurried past clutching shopping bags and coffees and expressions of spiritual exhaustion.

Mrs Brand checked her phone.

“Oh no.”

“That’s your work voice,” Alfie observed.

“Yes. Nigel’s emailed.”

“Nigel always emails.”

“Nigel,” said Mrs Brand darkly, “could email during a volcanic eruption.”

Barry tugged her sleeve.

“Mummy.”

“One second.”

“Mummy.”

“One second.”

“Mummy.”

“What?”

“There’s a man dressed as a banana.”

Mrs Brand blinked.

Sure enough, outside a smoothie shop stood a six-foot banana waving flyers.

Barry stared at him in awe.

“He’s magnificent.”

Before anyone could react, Barry and Marmaduke sprinted toward the banana.

“NO RUNNING!” Mrs Brand shouted.

They ran faster.

The banana, whose actual job description probably hadn’t prepared him for this, smiled nervously.

“Hello, children! Would you like a flyer—”

“ARE YOU REAL?” Barry yelled.

“Yes?”

“Do bananas have bones?”

“No?”

“Can you fight?”

The banana hesitated. “Emotionally, no.”

Marmaduke poked the costume.

“It’s squishy.”

Barry gasped. “HE’S FULL OF BANANA GUTS.”

The banana backed away.

Mrs Brand arrived, slightly out of breath.

“Sorry. They’ve had cake.”

“Ah,” said the banana, instantly understanding everything.

Eventually, after detaching the boys from the fruit-based employee, they reached Sole Mates, the shoe shop.

It smelled of rubber and despair.

Mrs Brand sat Barry down firmly.

“You are getting sandals because your old ones make you look homeless.”

“I like my old ones.”

“They have holes in the bottom.”

“That’s for speed.”

The shop assistant approached cautiously. Her name badge read CLAIRE, though her eyes said I used to have dreams.

“And who are we shopping for today?”

Barry raised his hand.

“I have powerful feet.”

“I’m sure you do,” Claire said.

Alfie immediately removed his shoes politely and placed them neatly together.

Marmaduke tried to put his shoes on the wrong feet and got stuck halfway.

Claire brought out several boxes.

Barry hated every pair instantly.

“These are boring.”

“These light up,” Claire offered.

Barry’s face changed completely.

Tiny lightning bolts flashed in the soles.

“Oh,” he whispered. “Battle shoes.”

Mrs Brand sighed. “Fine.”

Meanwhile Marmaduke discovered a shoehorn.

“Look!” he shouted.

“It’s not a sword,” Alfie warned.

Marmaduke swung it anyway.

It made a loud CLANG against a display stand.

Somewhere nearby, a toddler began crying in sympathy.

Barry put on one flashing sandal and immediately started stomping.

“LOOK AT MY POWER.”

FLASH FLASH FLASH.

“Please stop kicking the mirrors,” Claire said weakly.

Then Barry saw the escalator outside.

Now, to most people, an escalator is simply stairs with ambition.

To Barry, it was destiny.

“Marmaduke,” he whispered, “I have an idea.”

Those five words should legally require adult supervision.

The boys slipped away while Mrs Brand was distracted answering Nigel’s latest emergency email, which appeared to involve fonts.

Alfie noticed first.

“Mum?”

“Mmm?”

“Barry’s gone.”

Mrs Brand froze.

Every parent knows this moment.

The horrible silence.

The sudden absence of chaos.

Like noticing the drummer has stopped during a concert and realising something catastrophic is happening backstage.

“Oh no.”

Meanwhile, Barry and Marmaduke were riding the escalator repeatedly.

Up.

Down.

Up.

Down.

They were shrieking with joy.

“This,” Barry declared, “is transportation.”

A businessman trying to get past them muttered, “Good grief.”

Barry looked offended.

“We’re children, actually.”

On the fourth ride, Barry discovered the emergency stop button.

Every important story has a moment where things could still be saved.

This was that moment.

Barry stared at the button.

Red.

Shiny.

Beautiful.

“Don’t press it,” Marmaduke said immediately.

Barry considered this.

“Why?”

“Because… because Alfie said we had to stop pressing buttons unless told to…”

Barry nodded thoughtfully.

“That means it’s extra important.”

And he pressed it.

The escalator stopped with a violent jerk.

A lady carrying a hot tea screamed.

A man dropped six shopping bags.

Somewhere below, an elderly gentleman shouted, “NOT AGAIN.”

Alarms beeped.

Marmaduke looked horrified.

“We’ve killed the stairs.”

Security arrived astonishingly quickly, suggesting this was not the first escalator-related incident in the shopping centre’s history.

“Boys,” said the security guard sternly.

Barry pointed at the escalator.

“It was poorly.”

Mrs Brand appeared seconds later, looking like she might actually dissolve into dust.

“BARRY.”

“I fixed it.”

“You stopped it!”

“It needed rest.”

The security guard sighed.

To his credit, he looked more tired than angry.

“Please keep your children with you, madam.”

“I’m trying,” Mrs Brand said through clenched teeth.

Alfie arrived too, carrying Marmaduke’s abandoned shoe.

“You left this,” he said.

Marmaduke looked deeply moved.

“Thanks Alfie.”

“You’re welcome.”

Alfie turned to Barry.

“You cannot just press emergency buttons.”

“What if there’s an emergency?”

“There WASN’T.”

“There could’ve been.”

“You were the emergency!”

Barry thought about this.

“That’s fair.”

At this point, most sensible parents would have gone home.

Unfortunately, Barry and Marmaduke still needed shoes.

Also unfortunately, Mrs Brand needed coffee.

“Right,” she announced. “Nobody runs off. We are getting drinks.”

They stopped at a café.

Mrs Brand ordered a large latte with the desperate energy of a Victorian woman requesting medicinal gin.

Alfie got apple juice.

Marmaduke asked for “whatever’s blue.”

Barry found a display of giant muffins.

“Mummy.”

“No.”

“You haven’t heard my question.”

“I know the answer.”

“But these ones have Smarties.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“No.”

“I’m becoming weak.”

“You had three slices of cake two hours ago.”

“That was old Barry.”

Eventually they sat down.

For exactly eleven peaceful seconds.

Then Barry spotted the indoor fountain.

In the middle of the shopping centre stood an enormous decorative fountain with coins glittering beneath the water.

Barry stared.

“Marmaduke.”

“No.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“I know your face.”

Children should not have “plans” written across their faces.

Barry pointed at the coins.

“Treasure.”

“That belongs to wishes,” Alfie said immediately.

Barry frowned.

“That’s not efficient.”

Mrs Brand was typing furiously on her laptop now.

“Yes Nigel, I’ve attached the spreadsheet, Nigel,” she muttered.

And that was all the freedom Barry required.

He climbed onto the fountain edge.

Marmaduke followed because of course he did.

“Pirates,” Barry announced, “retrieve gold.”

“Boys—” Alfie started.

Too late.

Barry leaned too far.

Every parent watching nearby inhaled sharply as one.

SPLASH.

Barry disappeared into the fountain entirely.

Marmaduke screamed.

“HE’S GONE TO MERMAID JAIL!”

Barry resurfaced immediately, soaked head to toe and grinning like a lunatic.

“I FOUND MONEY!”

Mrs Brand closed her eyes.

Several nearby adults were openly laughing now.

A tiny girl pointed at Barry and asked her father, “Is he allowed?”

“No,” said the father, delighted.

Security Guard returned.

Same one.

That felt personal.

“Sir,” Barry said proudly, holding up 27 pence, “I’m rich.”

The guard pinched the bridge of his nose.

“You can’t swim in the fountain.”

“I fell heroically.”

“You jumped.”

“Agree to disagree.”

By now Barry’s flashing sandals were squelching.

Claire from the shoe shop reappeared carrying a bag.

“You forgot these.”

Mrs Brand nearly cried with gratitude.

“Thank you.”

Claire glanced at soaking wet Barry.

“…Rough afternoon?”

“He’s four.”

Claire nodded like a war veteran recognising another survivor.

Finally, somehow, impossibly, they began heading toward the exit. 

Mrs Brand carried Barry because his clothes were drenched.

Marmaduke carried one sock for reasons nobody understood.

Alfie walked beside them, exhausted but dignified.

“I think,” Alfie said, “today could have gone better.”

Barry leaned sleepily against his mum.

“But it didn’t go bad.”

“You stopped an escalator and fell into a fountain.”

Barry considered this.

“Yes. But I got shoes.”

The new sandals flashed proudly.

FLASH FLASH.

Marmaduke yawned, “So did I.”

“I liked the banana.”

“I still think,” Barry mumbled, “he was full of banana guts.”

Mrs Brand finally started laughing.

Not the tired sort.

Real laughing.

The kind that happens when the disaster is over and everyone survived and one day it will become a story told at birthdays forever.

Even Alfie smiled slightly.

“You know,” he admitted, “the escalator thing was a little bit funny.”

“Thank you,” Barry said graciously.

As they reached the car, Mrs Brand checked her phone one last time.

Another email from Nigel.

Subject line: QUICK QUESTION.

Mrs Brand stared at it for a long moment.

Then she locked her phone and shoved it into her handbag.

“No,” she said firmly.

Barry blinked up at her.

“No what?”

“No more work today.”

Alfie smiled.

Marmaduke asked, “Can we have McDonald’s?”

Mrs Brand thought about cooking.

Thought about Barry dripping fountain water across the kitchen.

Thought about Nigel.

“Absolutely,” she said.

The boys cheered.

Even Alfie looked thrilled, though responsibly thrilled.

And as they drove home through London traffic, Barry finally fell asleep in his car seat wearing one flashing sandal, clutching 27 pence in treasure.

A tiny sticky pirate king.

Mrs Brand looked at him in the rear-view mirror and shook her head.

“How does he survive himself?”

Alfie answered immediately.

“Mostly luck.”

“Fair.”

From the back seat, half asleep, Barry muttered:

“The stairs still needed rest.”

And honestly?

He wasn’t completely wrong.