Chelsea Flower Show

It was Chelsea Flower Show week in London.

For Mrs Brand, this was a very important event.

Some people looked forward to Christmas.

Some people looked forward to birthdays.

Mrs Brand looked forward to spending six uninterrupted hours looking at flowers while nobody asked her for a snack, a drink, help finding a sock, or assistance removing a Lego brick from somewhere it should never have been.

For three years in a row she had planned to go.

For three years in a row something had happened.

One year Barry had put a toy dinosaur into the washing machine and somehow flooded the kitchen.

One year Alfie had caught chickenpox.

One year Mr Brand had accidentally booked a work trip to Singapore.

This year was finally going to be different.

Then Mr Brand was sent to Manchester for work.

For three whole days.

Mrs Brand stared at her phone.

Then she stared at her calendar.

Then she stared out of the window.

Then she stared at Barry.

Barry was hanging upside down from the sofa attempting to feed grapes to a remote control.

“Why?” asked Mrs Brand.

“I think it’s hungry,” said Barry.

Mrs Brand closed her eyes.

Marmaduke sat beside him.

“I think he’s right,” Marmaduke agreed.

Marmaduke agreed with Barry about almost everything.

If Barry announced that pigeons were secretly running Parliament, Marmaduke would probably ask if they wore little ties.

Alfie walked into the room carrying a library book.

“Remote controls don’t eat grapes,” he said.

“Have you tested every remote control?” Barry asked.

Alfie sighed.

Being eight was exhausting.

Especially when Barry was four.

And especially when Marmaduke was also four.

The two boys together had the decision-making abilities of a damp sponge.

Alfie was spending two nights at his friend Arthur’s house. Arthur was quiet. Arthur organised his pencils by colour.

Arthur once apologised to a chair after bumping into it. Alfie respected Arthur.

Mrs Brand looked at the calendar again.

Then a thought appeared.

A terrible thought.

A dangerous thought.

A thought that should have come with warning sirens.

“What if,” she said slowly, “I take Barry and Marmaduke with me?”

The room went silent.

Even the remote control seemed concerned.

Alfie lowered his book.

“To Chelsea Flower Show?”

“Yes.”

“With Barry?”

“Yes.”

“And Marmaduke?”

“Yes.”

Alfie looked as though someone had informed him the moon was falling.

“Mother,” he said carefully, “that seems unwise.”

“Thank you, Prime Minister.”

“I mean it.”

Mrs Brand smiled weakly.

“It’ll be fine.” She’d booked the day off work and everything. 

Narrator’s note: When an adult says “it’ll be fine,” events are almost never fine.

The next morning, Mrs Brand, Barry and Marmaduke arrived at the Chelsea Flower Show.

Flowers stretched everywhere.

Beautiful gardens.

Elegant displays.

Rare plants.

Colourful blooms.

Mrs Brand looked around happily.

“This is wonderful.”

Barry immediately disappeared.

“Barry!”

“I’m here!”

He was standing inside a flower bed.

“Get out of the flower bed.”

Barry climbed out.

Marmaduke followed.

“Why were you in the flower bed?” asked Mrs Brand.

“We thought it might be quicker.”

“Quicker for what?”

“We don’t know yet.”

A volunteer politely asked them not to stand in exhibits.

Mrs Brand apologised.

Three minutes later Barry became fascinated by a giant topiary fox.

“Can we have one?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because we live in London.”

“So?”

“Where would it go?”

Barry considered.

“The bathroom.”

Mrs Brand continued walking.

Barry and Marmaduke followed.

For almost six whole minutes. A personal record.

Then they discovered the garden gnomes.

There weren’t actually any garden gnomes on display.

That didn’t stop Barry.

He spotted an elderly gentleman in a red hat.

“Gnome!”

Barry shouted.

The gentleman looked startled.

Marmaduke pointed.

“Gnome!”

Soon several visitors were being identified as gnomes.

Mrs Brand apologised repeatedly.

One lady found it hilarious.

One man did not.

One actual garden ornament became extremely popular.

Eventually they reached a magnificent show garden featuring a winding path through wildflowers.

Mrs Brand was enchanted.

Barry was suspicious.

“Where does the path go?”

“Nowhere.”

“That’s silly.”

“It’s decorative.”

Barry frowned.

“Imagine spending all that money on a path that doesn’t even get you to Tesco.”

An excellent point, in fairness.

As they rounded a corner, a small crowd gathered nearby.

People were taking photographs.

Barry stood on tiptoes.

“What’s happening?”

Mrs Brand looked.

“Oh.”

Her eyes widened.

“It’s Monty Don.”

Barry gasped.

Marmaduke gasped because Barry gasped.

Neither child actually knew who Monty Don was.

But he sounded important.

Monty Don was chatting with visitors.

Mrs Brand looked delighted.

“Oh my goodness.”

Barry tugged her sleeve.

“Who’s Monty Don?”

“He’s a famous gardener.”

Barry considered this.

“Like Batman?”

“Not exactly.”

“Does he fight weeds?”

“No.”

“Then why is he famous?”

Before Mrs Brand could answer, Barry was already heading toward the crowd.

“Barry!”

Too late.

Barry squeezed through legs.

Marmaduke squeezed through after him.

The crowd parted slightly.

Suddenly Barry found himself standing directly in front of Monty Don.

Monty smiled warmly.

“Hello there.”

Barry stared.

Monty stared back.

The crowd waited.

“So,” Barry said eventually, “have you ever eaten a flower?”

The crowd burst out laughing.

Monty chuckled.

“Not recently.”

“Would you?”

“I suppose it depends on the flower.”

Barry nodded.

This seemed reasonable.

Marmaduke stepped forward.

“Do you know which flowers taste most like crisps?”

Monty looked thoughtful.

“I don’t think any do.”

“That’s disappointing.”

Mrs Brand finally arrived.

“I’m so sorry.”

“It’s quite all right,” said Monty.

Barry had another question.

“Can plants hear?”

“Possibly.”

Barry leaned toward a rose bush.

“You look lovely.”

Then he turned back.

“There. Just helping.”

Monty laughed.

Mrs Brand was beginning to think perhaps the day might actually go well.

Then disaster struck.

Not a huge disaster.

Not a flood.

Not an explosion.

Not even a llama.

Just a duck.

A single duck.

Nobody knew exactly where it came from.

One moment there wasn’t a duck.

The next moment there absolutely was.

Barry spotted it immediately.

“Duck!”

The duck began waddling.

Barry followed.

Marmaduke followed Barry.

Mrs Brand followed both.

Several visitors joined in because they assumed something exciting was happening.

The duck accelerated.

Barry accelerated.

The duck headed through a display garden.

Barry headed through the display garden.

Marmaduke followed.

Mrs Brand’s heart left her body and attempted to emigrate.

“STOP RUNNING!”

Barry did not stop running.

The duck reached a decorative pond.

Barry reached the decorative pond.

Marmaduke reached the decorative pond.

The duck flew away.

Barry stopped suddenly.

Marmaduke did not.

Splash.

Straight into the pond.

For one terrible second there was silence.

Then Marmaduke emerged.

Wet.

Covered in pondweed.

Blinking.

“I found the fish.”

Mrs Brand nearly fainted.

A volunteer rushed over.

Another volunteer rushed over.

Several gardeners rushed over.

Monty Don somehow appeared again.

“Everything all right?”

Marmaduke held up a water lily leaf.

“I think I live here now.”

Fortunately, everyone was very kind.

Marmaduke was dried off.

No plants were harmed.

The fish remained emotionally stable.

Mrs Brand bought emergency souvenir T-shirts.

Barry’s read:

I LOVE GARDENS

Marmaduke’s read:

PLEASE KEEP OFF THE FLOWER BEDS

This felt oddly appropriate.

By late afternoon the boys were finally tiring.

They sat eating ice cream beneath a tree.

Mrs Brand gazed across the beautiful gardens.

Despite everything, she had actually enjoyed herself.

Barry leaned against her.

“Did you have fun?”

“I did.”

“Even though Marmaduke fell in a pond?”

“Yes.”

Marmaduke nodded.

“I had fun too.”

“Even though you fell in a pond?”

“Especially because I fell in a pond.”

That was fair.

Mrs Brand smiled.

Perhaps chaos wasn’t always terrible.

Perhaps sometimes it became a story.

As they prepared to leave, someone called out behind them.

“Goodbye, Barry!”

They turned.

It was Monty Don.

Barry waved enthusiastically.

“Goodbye, Flower Batman!”

Mrs Brand froze.

The crowd nearby began laughing again.

Monty grinned.

“I’ll take that.”

On the train home, Barry finally fell asleep.

Marmaduke fell asleep too.

Both boys snored softly.

Mrs Brand sat quietly and smiled.

Her phone buzzed.

A message from Mr Brand.

How was the Flower Show?

Mrs Brand thought carefully.

Then she replied:

Met Monty Don. Lost a duck. Found a pond. Nobody arrested. Massive success.

A few minutes later another message appeared.

Should I be concerned?

Mrs Brand looked at the sleeping boys.

Barry chose that exact moment to mumble in his sleep.

“Don’t trust the gnomes…”

Mrs Brand smiled.

Yes. Very concerned.