Heavy pyjamas

If you ask any grown-up what the most dangerous thing in London is, they’ll probably say traffic, or the Tube at rush hour, or trying to buy a coffee without accidentally spending the price of a small castle.

They would all be wrong.

The most dangerous thing in London was Barry.

Barry was four years old, endlessly curious, and had the remarkable ability to discover trouble that nobody else even knew existed.

If there were a button labelled DO NOT PRESS, Barry didn’t see a warning.

He saw a challenge.

His best friend Marmaduke—also four—was always nearby to help. Not because he had particularly good ideas.

Quite the opposite.

Marmaduke believed Barry knew what he was doing.

This was adorable.

It was also catastrophically incorrect.

Barry’s older brother Alfie, aged eight, spent much of his life sighing.

He sighed when Barry coloured the television remote.

He sighed when Barry tried to post toast through the letterbox “so the postman wouldn’t get hungry.”

He sighed especially when Barry said the words:

“I’ve got an idea.”

Their parents both worked from home and loved their boys very much.

Unfortunately, they also spent large portions of the day saying things like,

“Can you hear me now?”

“You’re on mute.”

“I’ll circle back.”

And…

“Barry, please stop trying to feed biscuits to the printer.”

Which meant Barry enjoyed what adults call “unsupervised creativity.”

Today, however, creativity had to wait.

It was swimming day.

Not just any swimming day.

Today was…

PYJAMA SWIM DAY.

Barry had talked about little else all week.

“You mean I get into the swimming pool wearing my pyjamas?”

“Yes,” Dad had explained.

“And nobody tells me off?”

“No.”

“And I don’t even have to brush my hair first?”

“You never brush your hair first.”

“Excellent.”

Outside the swimming pool, Barry spotted Marmaduke.

“Look!” shouted Barry, proudly.

“I’ve got dinosaur pyjamas!”

“I’ve got rockets!” said Marmaduke.

“They’ll go faster underwater.”

“I’m not sure that’s how rockets work,” said Marjory, Marmaduke’s mum.

“It is if you make the noises.”

Barry immediately demonstrated.

“WHOOSHHHHH!”

Three pigeons flew away.

Jess, the very tolerant swimming instructor, smiled patiently.

She had the smile of a man who had taught hundreds of four-year-olds.

The sort of smile that said:

Nothing surprises me anymore.

She was wrong.

Because today’s classes had been merged.

Many parents didn’t like the pyjama lesson.

“It’s uncomfortable.”

“They’ll get cold.”

“They’ll complain.”

“They’ll splash.”

Mr Brand privately suspected the last reason was the real one.

So Barry and Marmaduke’s classes were together.

Six children, and pyjama-clad. 

Enough excitement to power central London for a week.

Jess clapped her hands.

“Right everyone! Today we’re learning what it’s like to swim in clothes.”

Barry whispered loudly,

“So… pretending we’ve forgotten how wardrobes work?”

Jess pretended not to hear.

“When clothes get wet…”

“They get soggy,” Barry announced.

“They get heavier.”

Barry’s smile faded.

“…Oh.”

The children climbed carefully into the pool.

Immediately Barry’s dinosaur pyjamas wrapped themselves around his legs like affectionate octopuses.

“Oh!”

he squeaked.

“My trousers are attacking me!”

“They’re just wet,” laughed Jess.

Barry tried kicking.

It felt as though someone had secretly attached bricks to his knees.

Marmaduke attempted to glide.

For approximately six centimetres.

“I think…” puffed Marmaduke.

“…the rockets have run out of fuel.”

“They’ve filled with swimming pool,” Barry replied wisely.

The lesson continued.

The children floated.

They kicked.

They paddled.

They learned that ordinary clothes become surprisingly heavy.

Barry frowned.

“They’re cheating.”

“What is?”

“My pyjamas.”

“They’re just wet.”

“They weren’t this rude before.”

Even Mr Brand laughed at that.

Watching from the side sat Marjory and Mr Brand, keeping an eye on their boys, whilst chatting away. 

Marjory smiled every time Marmaduke managed another width with his woggle.

“He really is improving.”

“He is,” agreed Mr Brand.

“And Barry?”

Marjory looked.

Barry had somehow become tangled in his own sleeve.

“…He’s certainly… enthusiastic.”

After a short break, Jess gathered everyone together.

“Now we’re going to learn something very important.”

Even Barry stopped wriggling.

“If somebody falls into water…”

Barry immediately pointed at Marmaduke.

“I’d rescue him.”

Marmaduke nodded.

“I’d rescue Barry.”

Jess smiled.

“I know you would.”

Barry beamed proudly.

“But…”

Every adult knows children dislike the word but.

“…the first thing to remember is to keep yourself safe.”

Barry looked confused.

Jess continued.

“If someone falls into a river or pond, should you lean over to pull them out?”

Several children nodded.

“And should you jump in after them?”

Barry’s hand shot up.

“Yes!”

Marmaduke’s hand shot up too.

“Definitely yes!”

“Double yes!” Barry added.

Jess knelt beside them.

“Actually…”

Both boys stared.

“…the answer is no.”

Silence.

The sort of silence normally heard only just before Barry did something spectacularly unwise.

Barry frowned.

“But Marmaduke’s my best friend.”

“I know.”

“If he falls in…”

“Yes?”

“I’d jump in.”

“I know you would.”

“And I’d save him.”

“You’d certainly try.”

Marmaduke nodded confidently.

“I’d save Barry too.”

Jess smiled kindly.

“And then who saves both of you?”

The boys looked at one another.

This had not occurred to them.

Barry thought very hard.

“…Alfie?”

Mr Brand and Marjory watched Barry and Marmaduke screaming “help!” and waving both arms wildly, whilst slightly giggling. 

“He looks happy.”

Mr Brand smiled.

“Even though I know this is a class and there is no danger, it makes my blood run cold with fear.”

Then Barry attempted to heave himself onto a float.

“If someone is in trouble, what could you do instead?”

Barry considered this.

“Throw them… biscuits?”

“No.”

“A banana?”

“No.”

“My dinosaur?”

“No.”

“A grown-up?”

“Much better.”

Barry blinked.

“You throw the grown-up?”

“No.”

Even the lifeguard laughed.

“You call a grown-up.”

“Oh.”

“And you can throw something that floats.”

Barry nodded slowly.

“So…”

“No jumping in.”

“No.”

“No leaning over.”

“No.”

“No throwing Marmaduke.”

“Definitely not.”

Marmaduke looked relieved.

“I wasn’t keen on that plan.”

To help everyone remember, Jess invented a game.

She pretended a toy duck had fallen into imaginary water.

“What do we do?”

“SHOUT FOR HELP!” yelled the children.

“What next?”

“THROW SOMETHING THAT FLOATS!”

“What don’t we do?”

Barry and Marmaduke shouted together:

“BE HEROES!”

Mr Brand smiled.

“Exactly.”

Barry looked disappointed.

“But heroes are brilliant.”

“They are.”

“So why not?”

“Because the best heroes make sure nobody else needs rescuing.”

Barry thought about that.

That sounded…

actually rather clever.

Near the end of the lesson, the children swam one final lap in their soggy pyjamas, woggles wiggling around them.

This time Barry noticed something.

It was still hard.

His clothes were still heavy.

But…

he could do it.

Kick.

Pull.

Kick.

Pull.

Marmaduke swam beside him.

“We’re getting stronger.”

Barry grinned.

“I think my dinosaurs have finally learned to swim.”

“I think my rockets are submarines.”

“They’re definitely submarines.”

When the lesson finished, the children climbed out.

Everything squelched.

Every step sounded like someone walking through porridge.

Parents wrapped them in towels.

Barry looked at his soaking pyjamas.

“They weigh more than me.”

Dad picked them up.

“They might.”

Barry poked one sleeve.

“I don’t think they’re ever going to dry.”

“They will.”

“In my lifetime?”

“Probably.”

On the journey home, Marjory asked, “So… what did you learn?”

Barry answered proudly.

“Wet pyjamas are very rude.”

Marjory waited until she’d pulled out from the junction. Mr Brand’s hamstring injury was still sore and he was up for walking there and back, so Marjory had offered to drive.

“And?”

“They’re heavy.”

“And?”

“If someone falls into water…”

Both parents looked hopeful.

“…I shout for a grown-up.”

“Good.”

“And throw something that floats.”

“Excellent.”

“And I don’t jump in.”

“That’s exactly right.”

Barry grinned back.

Then he added,

“Unless it’s my rubber duck.”

“What?”

“He likes swimming.”

That evening, while Mum finished one last work call and Dad cooked dinner, Barry sat drawing.

Marmaduke had given him an idea.

On one side of the paper was Barry wearing dinosaur pyjamas.

On the other was Marmaduke in rocket pyjamas.

Between them floated an enormous inflatable unicorn.

Above it, Barry carefully wrote, in wonderfully wobbly handwriting. (Mr Brand had drawn dot letters for Barry to trace):

DON’T JUMP IN.

THROW THE UNICORN.

Mum came over.

“That’s lovely.”

Barry pointed proudly.

“We’re being safe.”

“You are.”

“I’d still save Marmaduke.”

“I know.”

“But first I’d shout.”

“Yes.”

“And find a grown-up.”

“Exactly.”

“And maybe Alfie.”

Alfie looked up from his book.

“I suppose I could help.”

Barry smiled.

“I knew you’d say yes.”

Alfie rolled his eyes.

“I didn’t.”

“You were thinking it.”

“I absolutely wasn’t.”

“You’ve got a sensible face.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means,” said Barry happily, “you’re the sort of brother who always knows the rules.”

Alfie pretended not to like that.

But secretly…

just secretly…

he did.

And somewhere across London, Marmaduke was almost certainly explaining to Marjory that rockets really did work underwater if you made enough noises.

His scientific research remained unconvincing.

His enthusiasm, however, was impossible to sink.

And as for Barry…

Well…

he still found trouble.

Trouble still found him.

But now, thanks to one very soggy swimming lesson, he knew that sometimes the bravest thing you can do isn’t jumping in.

Sometimes it’s shouting for help, keeping yourself safe, and throwing the biggest inflatable unicorn you can find.

Which, if we’re being honest, is also considerably easier to explain to the insurance company.