Father’s Day

Father’s Day in London always arrived with three guarantees.

First, Barry Brand would wake up too early.

Second, Marmaduke, his best friend, would agree to every terrible idea Barry had. To be fair it didn’t need to be Father’s Day for this. 

And third, Alfie Brand would spend the entire day wishing he lived with sensible people.

This particular Father’s Day was extra ‘special’ because it was also Make Music Day.

Now, Barry was four years old and curious about everything.

“Curious” was what teachers called him.

“Dangerously inventive” was what his parents called him.

“Please stop helping” was what most other people called him.

Barry sat bolt upright in bed at six o’clock in the morning.

“I HAVE AN IDEA!”

This announcement woke absolutely nobody because his parents were already downstairs and Alfie had developed the survival skill of sleeping through Barry’s ideas.

Barry bounced into Alfie’s room.

“I’ve had an idea.”

Alfie opened one eye.

“Should I alert the fire brigade now or later?”

“It’s a GOOD idea.”

“That’s what you said before the washing machine incident.”

“The bubbles made it better.”

“The bubbles came out of next door’s letterbox.”

Barry ignored this.

“Today’s Father’s Day and Make Music Day.”

“Yes.”

“We should make Dad a concert.”

Alfie sat up.

“That sounds lovely.”

“We need drums.”

“Fine.”

“And trumpets.”

“Fine.”

“And fireworks.”

“No.”

Barry frowned.

“Why does everyone hate innovation?”

Before Alfie could answer, the doorbell rang.

It was Marmaduke and his mum, Marjory.

Every year since Marmaduke’s dad, Mark Jackson, had died, they spent Father’s Day with the Brands.

Nobody ever talked about it in a sad way all day long.

They remembered him properly.

With stories.

With laughter.

And occasionally with food so spicy it made people cry anyway.

Marmaduke burst through the door.

“Barry! What are we doing?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Brilliant!”

That was Marmaduke in a nutshell.

If Barry announced they were building a rocket out of custard, Marmaduke would ask what flavour.

The grown-ups gathered in the kitchen.

Dad was attempting to drink coffee.

Mum was attempting to answer emails.

Marjory was attempting to convince both of them to take one day off.

Alfie was attempting to keep order.

Barry and Marmaduke were attempting absolutely none of those things.

Which is how they found themselves in the garage.

The garage contained bicycles, tools, paint tins and approximately one million objects Barry had been told not to touch.

Barry pointed dramatically.

“We need instruments.”

Marmaduke nodded.

“Obviously.”

Twenty minutes later they emerged carrying:

Two old saucepans.

A garden rake.

Three empty biscuit tins.

A bicycle bell.

And something that might once have been part of a vacuum cleaner.

“What is that?” Alfie asked.

“A tuba.”

“It absolutely isn’t.”

“It is if you believe in yourself.”

The concert preparations began.

Dad was instructed to remain in the living room.

Mum was instructed not to ask questions.

Marjory wisely sat where she could see everything.

Experience had taught her that seeing trouble arrive was slightly less stressful than being surprised by it.

At eleven o’clock, the performance began.

Barry banged a saucepan.

Marmaduke banged a different saucepan.

The bicycle bell rang continuously.

The rake somehow became percussion.

The vacuum cleaner tuba produced a noise resembling an angry goose trapped inside a wardrobe.

Dad smiled bravely.

A neighbour closed their window.

Then neighbour on the other side closed their window.

Then several pigeons abandoned the street entirely.

When the concert finally ended, Dad applauded.

“That was… unforgettable.”

“Really?” said Barry.

“Oh yes.”

“Should we do an encore?”

“Absolutely not.”

Lunch arrived as a rescue operation.

They all went to the park carrying sandwiches, juice, footballs and enough snacks to feed a small army.

The sun shone.

Children played.

Parents relaxed.

For nearly seven minutes.

Then Barry spotted the community Make Music Day stage.

A local event was underway.

People were performing songs.

Children were dancing.

Volunteers were organising instruments.

Barry’s eyes widened.

Alfie recognised that expression immediately.

It was the same expression Barry had worn before attempting to improve a toaster.

“We’re leaving,” said Alfie.

But it was too late.

Barry was already marching towards the stage.

Marmaduke followed.

“What are we doing?”

“I don’t know.”

“Excellent.”

The boys discovered a table full of kazoos.

Hundreds of them.

A mountain of kazoos.

Barry picked one up.

Then another.

Then seven more.

“What if everybody played at once?”

Marmaduke gasped.

“That would be amazing.”

It would not.

The organisers certainly did not think so.

Unfortunately they didn’t realise Barry was asking a rhetorical question.

Five minutes later, Barry had convinced twenty random children that the world record for loudest kazoo orchestra was about to be attempted.

No such record existed.

That did not stop him.

The resulting noise could probably be heard from space.

Dogs barked.

Babies cried.

A nearby squirrel fell out of a tree.

Alfie arrived looking horrified.

“Barry!”

“What?”

“You can’t just organise random orchestras!”

“Why not?”

Alfie opened his mouth.

Then closed it.

Then opened it again.

Finally he sighed.

“Actually, I don’t know why not.”

The organisers, to their credit, found the whole thing surprisingly funny.

Especially when Marmaduke conducted the orchestra using a breadstick.

Afterwards everyone sat beneath a large oak tree eating ice cream.

The conversation turned, as it often did on Father’s Day, to Mark Jackson.

Marmaduke’s dad.

Marjory smiled softly.

“Your dad loved music.”

Marmaduke grinned.

“Was he good?”

“No.”

Everyone laughed.

“Not even slightly.”

“Really?”

“He couldn’t sing.”

Dad nodded.

“That’s true.”

“He couldn’t play guitar.”

“Also true.”

“He once tried to learn bagpipes.”

Dad nearly dropped his ice cream.

“The neighbours still talk about that.”

Even Alfie laughed.

Marjory continued.

“But he loved making music.”

Marmaduke looked thoughtful.

“Like Barry.”

“Exactly like both of you.”

Barry looked pleased.

Then suspicious.

“Was that a compliment?”

“Mostly.”

They shared stories.

Stories about camping trips.

Stories about burnt barbecues.

Stories about dance moves nobody should ever attempt in public.

Stories that made everyone smile.

Even the sad memories felt warm.

Like sunshine through a window.

Eventually they headed home.

Which should have been the end of the excitement.

Unfortunately Barry had one final idea.

The most dangerous words in the English language.

“I’ve had an idea.”

Alfie groaned.

Dad groaned.

Mum groaned.

Marjory groaned.

“We should have an evening concert.”

“No,” said everyone.

Barry ignored them.

“We can write a song for Dad and Uncle Mark.”

Marmaduke’s face lit up.

“That’s brilliant.”

Alfie hesitated.

Actually…

That wasn’t terrible.

The grown-ups exchanged glances.

This was unusual.

A Barry idea that wasn’t likely to involve emergency services.

So they agreed.

The children worked together.

Barry supplied enthusiasm.

Marmaduke supplied enthusiasm.

Alfie supplied literally everything else.

After much discussion, several arguments about rhyming words, and one disagreement involving whether “sausages” rhymed with “courageous,” the song was finished.

That evening they gathered in the garden.

Fairy lights glowed.

The air smelled of summer.

The children stood proudly before their audience.

Then they sang.

It wasn’t perfect.

The tune wandered off occasionally.

Barry forgot some lyrics.

Marmaduke invented new ones.

Alfie desperately tried to keep everything on track.

But it was wonderful.

Because it was theirs.

When they finished, everyone applauded.

Even the neighbours.

Possibly because the song had ended.

Dad wiped his eyes.

Marjory did too.

Not because they were sad.

Because some memories are precious enough to make you cry and smile at the same time.

Dad raised a glass.

“To Mark.”

Everyone raised theirs.

“To Mark.”

Barry raised his orange squash.

Marmaduke raised his lemonade, “Dad.”

Alfie raised his apple juice with appropriate seriousness.

Dad smiled.

“Missed every day.”

“Every day,” said Marjory.

For a moment, everything was quiet.

Then Barry spoke.

“Do you think heaven has kazoos?”

Everyone laughed.

Even Marjory.

“Knowing Mark,” she said, “he’s probably leading an orchestra.”

Marmaduke smiled.

“A really loud one.”

“The loudest,” said Dad.

Barry looked pleased.

“Good.”

“Why?”

“Because if Uncle Mark’s in charge, nobody can tell him to stop.”

And somewhere, everyone thought, Mark Jackson would probably have found that very funny indeed.