The Day After Sports Day

The day after Sports Day should have been peaceful.

That was what Alfie Brand thought.

Alfie was eight years old, sensible, responsible, and deeply committed to following rules. If a sign said “Keep Off The Grass,” Alfie would walk around an entire football pitch rather than accidentally brush a blade of it with his shoe.

Barry, his four-year-old brother, viewed rules differently.

Barry considered rules to be exciting suggestions that deserved thorough testing.

His best friend Marmaduke agreed with whatever Barry said.

This was not because Barry was particularly persuasive.

It was because Marmaduke was very easily led.

“Let’s see what’s inside that hedge.”

“Okay.”

“Let’s see if worms like lemonade.”

“Okay.”

“Let’s see if Dad’s work laptop floats.”

“Actually, no, don’t do that one.”

“Okay.”

Then five minutes later:

“Let’s see if Mum’s work laptop floats.”

“Okay.”

Sports Day had happened yesterday.

The hottest day of the year.

Or at least it felt like it.

Teachers had melted.

Parents had melted.

One grandfather had become so red everyone checked he wasn’t secretly a traffic cone.

Alfie had been magnificent.

He had run like a gazelle.

A graceful, determined gazelle.

A gazelle who had remembered his PE kit.

Mr Brand had become emotional.

Normally Mr Brand was calm.

Controlled.

Reasonable.

The sort of man who used phrases like, “Let’s assess the situation.”

But when Alfie had started the 200-metre race and some particularly speedy children had appeared beside him, something snapped.

Mr Brand had begun running alongside the track.

“COME ON, ALFIE!”

The children ran.

Mr Brand ran.

The teachers stared.

“YOU’VE GOT THIS!”

The children were halfway round.

Mr Brand was halfway through a midlife crisis.

“KEEP GOING!”

Then:

TWANG.

Mr Brand grabbed the back of his leg.

His hamstring had surrendered.

His voice had also decided enough was enough.

By the finish line he sounded like a whispering frog.

Alfie had finished brilliantly.

Mr Brand had finished limping.

Meanwhile Barry and Marmaduke had been entered into the three-legged race.

The teachers had tied their legs together.

It had been intended as a sporting challenge.

Instead it had accidentally become a safeguarding strategy.

For twenty whole minutes Barry and Marmaduke had been physically incapable of wandering off.

Parents noticed.

Teachers noticed.

The headteacher noticed.

One governor allegedly took notes.

“Interesting,” said Mrs Brand.

“They haven’t caused a single problem.”

“They can’t.”

“Should we keep them tied together permanently?”

“No.”

“Just until university?”

Across the field, Marmaduke’s mum Marjory had watched events unfold with increasing horror.

Marjory loved her son very much.

Unfortunately, she knew him.

Every time Barry smiled, Marjory’s heart rate increased.

Every time Barry whispered something to Marmaduke, she considered calling emergency services in advance.

By the end of Sports Day she had spent three hours convinced something catastrophic was about to happen.

When asked later how she’d found the experience, she said:

“I can confirm brain surgery is far more relaxing.”

Nobody was entirely sure whether she was joking.

Parents were at home.

The next morning was a Saturday.

Children played.

This arrangement has famously never caused problems.

At eleven o’clock everyone gathered at the Brands’ house for a barbecue lunch.

The garden was sunny.

The barbecue smoked gently.

Mr Brand limped.

Mrs Brand drank water continuously.

“Honestly,” she said, pouring another glass, “I think I lost half my body weight yesterday.”

“You spent most of the afternoon crying.”

“It was survival.”

Marjory arrived carrying a bowl of salad.

And an expression suggesting she had slept with one eye open.

“Morning,” she said.

“Where are the boys?”

The adults looked around.

The garden was empty.

Silence.

A terrible silence.

The sort of silence adults recognise immediately.

Because children are only quiet when they’re asleep…

…or planning something.

“Where’s Barry?” asked Mrs Brand.

“Where’s Marmaduke?” asked Marjory.

Alfie looked up from his book.

“I think they’re in the shed.”

All the adults froze.

“The shed?”

“Yes.”

“What are they doing?”

Alfie shrugged.

“They said they were starting a business.”

The adults exchanged looks.

This somehow made things simultaneously funny and worse.

They hurried across the garden.

The shed door opened.

Inside stood Barry and Marmaduke.

Wearing gardening gloves.

Safety goggles.

And expressions of enormous confidence.

This was alarming because neither possessed any useful qualifications.

“What are you doing?” asked Mrs Brand.

Barry smiled.

“We’re entrepreneurs.”

Marmaduke nodded.

“We are.”

“What does that mean?”

Barry thought.

“Rich.”

“Right.”

On a tiny table sat several jars.

The labels read:

SUPER SPECIAL GARDEN JUICE

50P

“What exactly is Garden Juice?” asked Marjory cautiously.

Barry proudly pointed.

“We squeezed things.”

Mrs Brand stared.

“What things?”

“Leaves.”

“What else?”

“Dandelions.”

“What else?”

Barry pointed at a suspicious green lump.

“That.”

Nobody knew what “that” was.

Nobody wanted to know.

Mr Brand bent down.

Immediately regretted it because of his hamstring.

“What happens if people drink it?”

Barry looked surprised.

“Why would they drink it?”

There was a long pause.

“You called it juice.”

“Yes.”

“So people think it’s for drinking.”

Barry considered this.

“Oh.”

Marmaduke considered it too.

“Oh.”

Alfie appeared behind the adults.

“I told them.”

“You did?”

“Three times.”

The business closed shortly afterwards.

At lunchtime everyone sat in the garden.

Burgers sizzled.

Sausages cooked.

Mr Brand supervised from a chair because moving had become optional.

Conversation drifted back to Sports Day.

“Alfie’s race was incredible,” said Marjory.

Alfie tried not to smile.

Failed.

“Your dad nearly beat half the children.”

Mr Brand croaked something.

Nobody understood.

His voice still hadn’t recovered.

“He says thank you,” translated Mrs Brand.

“How do you know?”

“I’ve been interpreting all morning.”

Barry was eating ketchup with a spoon.

Nobody had authorised this.

Nobody had the energy to stop it.

“You know,” said Marjory, “I was sure Alfie would get revenge.”

Alfie looked confused.

“Revenge?”

“After Barry and Marmaduke accidentally befriended Mousey… and allowed him to do a hospital visit.”

Barry looked guilty.

Marmaduke looked guilty because Barry looked guilty.

“That wasn’t our fault.”

Barry thought carefully.

“When you say it out loud, it sounds bad.”

“It was bad.”

Everyone laughed.

Even Alfie.

Which was rare enough to deserve recording.

The barbecue continued.

The adults relaxed.

The children played.

And for almost fifteen whole minutes nothing went wrong.

Then Alfie noticed something.

“Where are Barry and Marmaduke?”

The garden went silent.

Again.

Every parent sat upright.

Marjory dropped a bread roll.

Mrs Brand stopped mid-sip.

Mr Brand attempted to stand.

His hamstring objected.

“Find them,” said Marjory.

They searched the garden.

No boys.

They checked the shed.

No boys.

Behind the hedge.

No boys.

Then Alfie pointed.

“There.”

At the far end of the garden stood Barry and Marmaduke.

They had acquired rope.

This is rarely positive.

“What are they doing?” asked Mrs Brand.

The boys looked delighted.

Barry waved.

“We had an idea!”

“That’s what we’re afraid of.”

“We remembered Sports Day.”

Marjory closed her eyes.

“Of course you did.”

Barry continued.

“Everyone said we behaved really well when we were tied together.”

“Yes.”

“So we fixed it.”

The adults approached slowly.

Barry and Marmaduke had tied themselves together.

Not just by one leg.

Everywhere.

An impressive amount of rope connected them.

They resembled a confused two-headed spider.

“We’re being responsible,” said Barry.

“We are,” agreed Marmaduke.

Then they tried walking.

Both fell over.

Into a flowerbed.

A very large flowerbed.

The adults stared.

The boys emerged covered in soil.

Smiling.

Mrs Brand laughed first.

Then Marjory.

Then Mr Brand made a strange croaking noise that was probably laughter.

Even Alfie smiled.

“Well,” said Marjory, wiping tears from her eyes, “they tried.”

“They did.”

Barry stood proudly.

Covered head to toe in mud.

“We solved the problem.”

“No,” said Alfie.

“You became a different problem.”

The afternoon rolled on.

The sun softened.

The barbecue cooled.

The adults chatted and laughed.

The boys remained supervised.

Very supervised.

Extremely supervised.

At one point Marjory watched Barry and Marmaduke for ten uninterrupted minutes.

Afterwards she looked exhausted.

“How do teachers do this every day?”

Nobody knew.

As evening approached, everyone packed up.

Marmaduke hugged Barry goodbye.

The rope was removed first.

A sensible precaution.

Marjory gathered her son.

Mrs Brand gathered plates.

Mr Brand gathered enough strength to limp indoors.

Alfie carried books.

And Barry stood in the middle of the garden.

Thinking.

This was always dangerous.

“What now?” asked Alfie.

Barry smiled.

“I’ve got an idea.”

Every adult stopped moving.

Every adult looked concerned.

Alfie sighed.

“What kind of idea?”

Barry pointed at the shed.

“The business.”

“No.”

“The rope.”

“No.”

“The hedge.”

“Definitely no.”

Barry thought for a moment.

Then smiled even wider.

“I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

The adults looked at one another.

Marjory groaned.

Mrs Brand laughed.

Mr Brand whispered something nobody could hear.

And Alfie simply looked at the sky and wondered whether gazelles ever had little brothers.

Probably not.

Which, he decided, was very lucky for the gazelles.