WI disaster, cat involved

If there was one thing everyone in the Brand family agreed on, it was this:

Barry was never consciously trying to cause trouble.

He was simply very, very talented at accidentally inventing it.

At four years old, Barry possessed the sort of curiosity scientists dreamt of studying. If someone said, “Don’t touch that,” Barry immediately wanted to know why. If someone said, “Be careful,” Barry assumed there was probably something exciting hidden underneath.

His best friend Marmaduke, also four, possessed exactly one superpower.

Following Barry.

If Barry announced they should climb something, Marmaduke was already halfway up it before asking whether it was safe.

If Barry suggested digging a tunnel to Australia, Marmaduke would ask whether they needed a spoon or a fork.

Then there was Alfie.

Eight years old.

Serious.

Sensibly dressed.

The sort of boy who read museum signs from beginning to end.

If Barry was chaos, Alfie was a laminated risk assessment.

It was Sunday morning.

Mr Brand remained dramatically horizontal on the sofa.

The previous Friday had been Sports Day.

He’d made the unfortunate decision to run alongside Alfie as he got his 200m school record.

For approximately twelve glorious seconds Mr Brand had believed he still possessed the legs of an eighteen-year-old.

His hamstring had disagreed with spectacular enthusiasm.

Now he shuffled around the house like an elderly pirate.

Mrs Brand folded her arms.

“No.”

“But—”

“No.”

“I could supervise.”

“You can’t reach your own socks.”

“I could supervise from here.”

“You couldn’t supervise a biscuit.”

Mr Brand sighed.

“I suppose.”

“You don’t suppose,” said Mrs Brand. “You recover.”

Mr Brand looked longingly at the front door.

Instead, he was left with an ice pack and enough sports injury forums to keep him anxious until Christmas.

The rest of the party set off towards Crouch End.

Mrs Brand.

Marjory.

Alfie.

Barry.

Marmaduke.

“The walk will tire them out,” Mrs Brand whispered hopefully.

Marjory laughed.

“You’ve met Barry, haven’t you?”

“…Fair point.”

The boys bounced down the pavement like rubber balls.

“Race you!”

“No pushing!”

“Look! A pigeon!”

“It looked at me funny!”

“Can pigeons wink?”

“I think that one’s called Steve.”

Alfie walked calmly behind.

“It isn’t called Steve.”

“How do you know?”

“Because pigeons don’t wear name badges.”

Barry considered this.

“They should.”

Half an hour later everyone was beginning to feel pleasantly tired.

Except Barry.

Barry had somehow gained energy.

Mrs Brand checked her watch.

“Perfect. M&S is just ahead.”

Marjory grinned.

“Operation Homemade begins.”

It wasn’t really either mother’s sort of event.

The Crouch End Village Women’s Institute cake competition was famously competitive.

People discussed butter with frightening seriousness.

Some contestants reportedly owned three different types of sieve.

Neither mum had baked.

Between work, school, football practice, laundry and remembering to feed children, baking had drifted gently into “perhaps next year.”

So…

Plan B.

Buy excellent cakes.

Remove packaging.

Place lovingly into Grandma Brand’s beautiful Christmas cake tins.

Smile confidently.

Lose gracefully.

Nobody gets hurt.

Simple.

Or so they thought.

Inside M&S the bakery looked magnificent.

Chocolate cakes.

Victoria sponge.

Lemon drizzle.

Millionaire’s slices.

Barry stared as though entering a magical kingdom.

“It’s beautiful.”

“It smells amazing,” agreed Marmaduke.

Mrs Brand selected two immaculate cakes. They had to be different flavours as they were so suspiciously identical, two next to each other would stand out a mile. Marjory and Mrs Brand giggled slightly at the idea of being mischievous.

“These will do nicely.”

Alfie frowned.

“Isn’t this…”

He lowered his voice.

“…cheating?”

Mrs Brand smiled.

“Entering them is cheating.”

“Exactly.”

“We’re not expecting to win.”

“So why enter?”

“Because sometimes adults make silly decisions.”

Alfie nodded thoughtfully.

“I appreciate your honesty.”

Five minutes later they reached a quiet side street.

Mrs Brand opened one elegant cake tin.

Marjory carefully removed the plastic wrapping.

Everything was going brilliantly.

Which was exactly when Barry noticed…

…a cat.

Not just any cat.

An enormous ginger cat.

Magnificent.

Fluffy.

Looking suspiciously well-fed.

It sat upon a wall observing proceedings with professional interest.

“Kitty!”

Barry waved.

The cat blinked.

Marmaduke waved too.

“Hello, Kitty!”

The cat continued staring.

“I think he likes cakes,” whispered Barry.

“I think you’re right.”

Children have many remarkable qualities.

Correctly interpreting a cat’s intentions is rarely among them.

The first cake slipped beautifully into the tin.

“Perfect,” said Mrs Brand.

The second cake emerged from its packaging.

Barry edged closer to the cat.

“What if he’s hungry?”

Marmaduke gasped.

“We can’t let him starve!”

The cat, who looked approximately the opposite of starving, watched patiently.

Barry picked up a tiny crumb.

“Here.”

The cat ignored it.

“I think he wants more.”

“He probably does.”

Barry looked around.

The adults were concentrating.

Alfie was reading the competition leaflet.

Nobody was watching.

Perfect.

Barry reached towards the beautiful chocolate cake, and opened the lid.

“Just one little bit.”

Snap.

Off came an entire corner.

“Oops.”

Marmaduke’s eyes widened.

“That’s quite a little bit.”

“It’s…a generous little bit.”

Barry offered it.

The cat sniffed.

Then…

Ignored it.

Instead…

With astonishing speed…

The cat launched itself directly into the open cake tin.

Everything happened simultaneously.

“AAAH!”

“My cake!”

“CAT!”

“Oh goodness!”

The ginger cat landed squarely in the chocolate sponge.

Cream exploded.

Chocolate flakes flew.

One paw hit Barry.

Another hit Marmaduke.

Its fluffy tail painted Mrs Brand’s coat with icing.

Startled by everyone’s shouting, the cat leapt again.

Straight onto Marjory.

Who squealed and dropped the second cake tin. The Victoria Sponge didn’t fair well.

This startled the cat further.

Which launched itself onto Alfie’s shoulder.

Alfie froze completely.

“I would like,” he announced calmly, “everyone to remain…calm.”

The cat disagreed.

It sprang away.

Taking nearly half the sponge with it, carried on body parts and in fur.

It vanished over the wall.

Silence.

Absolute silence.

Barry examined the devastation.

The elegant cakes now resembled something archaeologists might uncover after a small explosion.

Chocolate fingerprints decorated the pavement.

There was cream in Marmaduke’s hair.

Mrs Brand looked at the ruined cakes.

Marjory looked at Mrs Brand.

Then…

They both started laughing.

Proper laughing.

The sort where you can’t stop.

The sort that makes strangers smile.

“I suppose,” wheezed Marjory, “the cat appreciated our baking.”

Mrs Brand snorted.

“I don’t think even Hollywood would have written that.”

Barry looked guilty.

“I only wanted to feed him.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I,” said Marmaduke, although nobody was entirely sure why.

Alfie adjusted his jumper.

“I did warn everyone that honesty was preferable.”

“You did.”

“I dislike being right about these things.”

“You usually are.”

Mrs Brand looked inside the surviving chocolate cake.

Barry’s missing corner was unmistakable.

“So much,” sighed Marjory, “for our masterpiece.”

Barry’s little face crumpled.

“I spoiled everything.”

Mrs Brand crouched beside him.

“No.”

“But…”

“You made a mistake.”

“Then a cat made a much bigger one.”

Barry considered this.

“The cat definitely did more smashing.”

“Exactly.”

“What now?” asked Marmaduke.

Mrs Brand smiled.

“I suppose…”

She closed the ruined tin.

“…we go anyway.”

“With those?”

“Especially with those.”

The village hall buzzed with activity.

Tables groaned beneath magnificent cakes.

There were towering sponges.

Perfect éclairs.

Cupcakes that looked too beautiful to eat.

Barry stared.

“We definitely weren’t going to win.”

Mrs Brand laughed.

“No.”

When the competition organiser reached them she blinked.

“My goodness.”

Mrs Brand smiled brightly.

“There has been…”

She paused.

“…an incident.”

“A baking incident?”

“A cat incident.”

“You’ll have to explain.”

So she did.

Every ridiculous detail.

The walk.

The secret plan.

The shop-bought cakes.

Barry.

The ginger cat.

The flying cream.

The shoulder landing.

Everything.

By the end, half the hall had gathered around.

People laughed until tears rolled down their cheeks.

One elderly lady wiped her glasses.

“That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in years.”

Another nodded.

“Disqualified for dishonesty.”

Mrs Brand smiled.

“Fair enough.”

“…but awarded first prize for making us all laugh.”

The organiser disappeared.

Moments later she returned holding a small ribbon.

It read:

SPECIAL COMMENDATION – BEST CAKE DISASTER

The whole hall applauded.

Barry beamed.

“We won!”

Mrs Brand laughed.

“In a manner of speaking.”

On the walk home everyone felt surprisingly cheerful.

Even without a trophy.

Even with icing still hiding in unexpected places.

Mr Brand opened the front door.

“How did it go?”

Mrs Brand handed him the ribbon.

“We won.”

His eyebrows shot up.

“You did?”

“Sort of.”

Barry couldn’t contain himself.

“Dad! A cat exploded the cakes!”

“It…what?”

“It jumped.”

“It sat.”

“It squashed.”

“It ran away.”

“It climbed Alfie.”

“It didn’t climb me,” Alfie corrected. “It used me briefly as transport.”

Mr Brand looked from one face to another.

Then burst into laughter so hard he forgot about his hamstring.

Immediately afterwards he remembered.

“Owwww!”

Mrs Brand sighed.

“I did tell you not to laugh.”

“It was worth it.”

Barry climbed beside him.

“I’m sorry about the cake.”

Mr Brand smiled.

“I’m not.”

“You aren’t?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because in twenty years…”

He rubbed Barry’s hair.

“…nobody will remember who won the cake competition.”

Barry looked puzzled.

“But everyone will remember the day a cat stole the entries.”

Barry smiled.

“I suppose that’s better.”

“I think so too.”

Outside, somewhere in Crouch End, a large ginger cat enjoyed an exceptionally fine afternoon tea.

Perhaps he’d never know he’d ruined a cake competition.

Perhaps he didn’t care.

Cats rarely do.

And as for Barry?

Well…

He genuinely intended to stay out of trouble next weekend.

Everyone else, however…

…thought it would be wise to hide the biscuits.