Londoners liked to pretend it was calm at half past three in the afternoon… all under control.
It wasn’t.
Cars honked. Buses sighed dramatically. Cyclists rang their bells as though everyone else had personally offended them. Children poured out of school carrying paintings, lunch boxes and enough of them had forgotten jumpers to clothe a small town.
Barry considered rules to be exciting suggestions, and today, skipped along the pavement beside his mum.
Mrs Brand had her phone tucked between her shoulder and ear.
“Yes… yes… send me the spreadsheet… no, not that spreadsheet…”
She was walking, working and steering Barry with one hand at the same time, which is a remarkable skill learned only by parents.
Alfie marched ahead carrying his school bag properly over both shoulders.
“I need Book Three of the Summer Oboe Studies,” he reminded everyone for the seventh time.
“I know,” sighed Mum.
“It specifically says I should begin during the holidays.”
“I know.”
“It will delay my progress if I don’t.”
“I know.”
Barry looked up at his older brother.
“You’re excited about homework.”
“It’s not homework,” Alfie replied seriously. “It’s musical development.”
Barry whispered to Marmaduke, who had joined them after school.
“I think Alfie was born forty.”
Marmaduke giggled.
Marmaduke was Barry’s best friend in the world and wasn’t really naughty. He simply believed Barry had excellent ideas.
This was unfortunate because Barry had almost exclusively terrible ideas.
They turned onto a narrow street lined with tiny shops.
“There it is,” said Alfie.
A faded sign hung over a little shop.
JUST MUSIC
The window was filled with trumpets, violins, guitars, clarinets, drums and enough shiny brass to distract every magpie in Britain.
Barry’s eyes became enormous.
“So many things to touch.”
“No,” said Mum automatically.
“I didn’t even say I was going to touch them.”
“You were thinking it loudly.”
Inside, the shop smelled of polished wood, old books and expensive mistakes.
Every wall was covered in instruments.
Guitars dangled from hooks.
Violins rested in velvet cases.
Flutes sparkled under glass.
Drums stood proudly in rows like they were waiting for a parade.
In the middle stood Old Mr King.
He looked about a hundred years old.
His glasses balanced on the very end of his nose.
His hair resembled a surprised cloud.
He smiled when he saw the children.
Not a warm smile.
Not exactly a friendly smile.
It was the smile of a man who had recently updated his “Accidental Damage” price list.
“Good afternoon!” he called.
“Children!”
His eyes twinkled.
Interesting.
Mrs Brand smiled politely.
“Hello. Alfie needs an oboe practice book.”
“Excellent choice,” said Mr King. “Splendid instrument. Quiet.”
Barry snorted.
Alfie frowned.
“The oboe isn’t quiet.”
“No,” admitted Mr King. “But people who play it tend to be.”
He disappeared into the back room.
Before he vanished completely, Mrs Brand crouched down.
“Barry.”
“Yes?”
“Marmaduke.”
“Yes?”
“You will not play.”
“No.”
“You will not touch.”
“No.”
“You will not blow.”
“No.”
“You will not strum.”
“No.”
“You will not move anything.”
Barry nodded earnestly.
“Can we look?”
“Only with your eyes.”
Barry pointed at Marmaduke.
“What if he uses my eyes?”
“No.”
Mrs Brand stood up.
“Good.”
Then her phone rang again.
“…Yes, I’m still listening…”
Barry looked around.
The shop seemed… lonely.
Surely instruments wanted friends.
A tiny triangle sat on a shelf.
It looked particularly lonely.
Barry folded his hands behind his back.
“I’m not touching.”
“Very sensible,” whispered Marmaduke.
“I’m just… standing near.”
They stood near.
The triangle remained silent.
Barry leaned closer.
“It looks bored.”
Marmaduke agreed.
“Very bored.”
Barry sighed.
“I wish triangles could tell jokes.”
“They probably only know one.”
“What?”
“‘I’ve got three sides.’”
They laughed far harder than that joke deserved.
Then Barry noticed something wonderful.
A small card beside the triangle said:
PLEASE ASK BEFORE PLAYING
Barry gasped.
“It doesn’t say don’t.”
“It doesn’t?”
“No.”
Barry nodded wisely.
“But Mr King is just in the back.”
“So?”
“So… he might hear us.”
Marmaduke blinked.
“What?”
Barry whispered,
“If we ask quietly, we won’t be overheard, but will be allowed.”
“That’s still asking.”
It was flawless four-year-old logic.
Barry breathed in.
“Excuse me, triangle…”
Nothing happened.
“I think it said yes.”
Marmaduke nodded immediately.
“I heard that too.”
Barry reached out.
Then remembered.
“Oh.”
He pulled his hand back.
“Mum said don’t touch.”
There was a long pause.
Then Barry smiled.
“You touch it.”
Marmaduke looked nervous.
“But—”
“You’ve got longer arms.”
That made absolutely no difference.
It sounded convincing anyway.
Marmaduke gently tapped the triangle.
Ting!
The tiny note floated around the shop.
Barry grinned.
“It worked!”
From the back came Mr King’s voice.
“Everything all right?”
“Yes!” shouted Barry.
“We’re being excellent!”
Mr King smiled to himself unseen.
Parents always paid more in damages when children claimed they were behaving perfectly.
Barry wandered a little farther.
There sat a ukulele.
It was smaller than the guitars.
Almost child-sized.
It looked friendly.
“I bet it knows campfire songs.”
“I’ve never been camping,” said Marmaduke.
“Neither have I.”
“We could still learn.”
Barry remembered.
“No touching.”
He stared at it.
The ukulele stared back.
Actually it didn’t.
Instruments don’t have eyes.
But Barry was certain it looked hopeful.
Meanwhile Alfie had found the music books.
“This one,” he announced.
“Actually, there are revised editions.”
Mrs Brand nodded while replying to another email.
“Get whichever your teacher recommends.”
“I have a list.”
“Wonderful.”
Barry spotted something else.
A gigantic shiny tuba.
He walked slowly around it.
“It’s enormous.”
Marmaduke peered inside the bell.
“I can see my face.”
Barry peered inside too.
“My head looks tiny.”
“Everything looks tiny in there.”
Barry whispered,
“I wonder if it echoes.”
“It probably does.”
Barry put his hands behind his back again.
“I’m not blowing.”
“No.”
“I’m just…”
He leaned toward the bell.
“…saying hello.”
“Hello!”
The echo bounced back.
“…hello…hello…”
Barry burst into laughter.
The tuba sounded like it wanted another conversation.
Marmaduke tried.
“Do you like sandwiches?”
“…sandwiches…sandwiches…”
“It does!”
Mr King peeked around the corner.
He saw two delighted children chatting with a tuba.
Excellent.
Nothing broken.
Yet.
He quietly returned to pretending not to notice.
Barry wandered again.
This time he found the percussion shelf.
Tambourines.
Maracas.
Wood blocks.
Egg shakers.
Cabasas.
Things that looked musical even though nobody knew their names.
“So many rattly things,” Barry whispered.
“They all want shaking.”
“They absolutely don’t,” said Alfie, appearing suddenly.
Barry jumped.
“You scared me.”
“I was trying to.”
Alfie folded his arms.
“You promised Mum.”
“I know.”
“So stop looking like you’re planning something.”
“I’m not.”
“What are you thinking?”
Barry considered telling the truth.
“I was wondering whether maracas get dizzy.”
Alfie closed his eyes.
Sometimes being the older brother felt like unpaid employment.
“I’m going back.”
“Okay.”
“And Barry?”
“Yes?”
“Please don’t become a story.”
“What?”
“You always become a story.”
Alfie walked away.
Barry looked puzzled.
“I don’t become stories.”
Marmaduke nodded.
“You definitely do.”
Just then Barry spotted a little drum on the floor.
Except…
It wasn’t on the shelf.
It had rolled away.
Barry frowned.
“It escaped.”
“It did?”
“If we leave it there someone might trip.”
Barry looked around.
No adults.
Only distracted grown-ups.
This was practically permission.
“We should rescue it.”
Marmaduke nodded.
“Heroes.”
Barry carefully nudged the drum with one finger.
It rolled.
Further away.
“Oh.”
He nudged again.
It rolled faster.
Straight into another drum.
Boom.
That drum rolled into another.
Boom.
Another.
Boom boom boom.
Within seconds an entire family of drums was slowly travelling across the shop like a very confused parade.
Barry gasped.
“I’ve invented drum dominoes.”
Marmaduke looked impressed.
“I don’t think anyone’s done that before.”
There came complete silence.
Then…
Mr King hurried out.
“My goodness!”
Mrs Brand looked up from her phone.
“What happened?”
Barry pointed at the drums.
“They escaped.”
Mr King stroked his chin thoughtfully.
“They’re terribly mischievous.”
Barry nodded with complete sincerity.
“I tried helping.”
“I can see that.”
Mr King sighed dramatically.
“Oh dear.”
He inspected everything.
Nothing scratched.
Nothing dented.
Nothing broken.
How disappointing.
Still…
Perhaps…
He picked up one drumstick.
“Hmm.”
Barry looked worried.
“Is it poorly?”
Mr King smiled sadly.
“This drumstick may have suffered… emotional damage.”
Mrs Brand blinked.
“Emotional?”
“It has had quite a fright.”
Even Alfie looked suspicious.
Barry stepped forward.
“I’ll tell it a joke.”
“You will?”
“Why did the piano need glasses?”
Nobody answered.
“Because it lost its keys!”
Barry laughed so hard he nearly fell over.
Marmaduke collapsed into giggles.
To everyone’s surprise…
Mr King laughed too.
Not a polite laugh.
A proper laugh.
The sort that starts in your tummy and escapes before you can stop it.
He laughed until he had to remove his glasses.
Barry smiled.
“You liked it.”
“I did.”
Mr King wiped his eyes.
“I haven’t laughed like that in ages.”
Mrs Brand smiled.
“I’m terribly sorry about the drums.”
Mr King looked around his perfectly undamaged shop.
He sighed.
“I suppose…”
Another sigh.
“…nothing appears broken.”
Barry looked relieved.
“I fixed the drumstick.”
“You did?”
“I made it happier.”
Mr King chuckled.
“I believe you did.”
He walked over to the counter.
“You know…”
His voice became softer.
“The truth is…”
Barry listened carefully.
“I enjoy having children in here.”
“You do?”
“Oh yes.”
“They make everything noisier.”
“They certainly do.”
“And more interesting.”
Barry grinned.
“I thought you were cross.”
“I pretend.”
“Why?”
Mr King smiled mischievously.
“Sometimes worried parents buy extra things.”
Mrs Brand raised an eyebrow.
“You’ve admitted that rather openly.”
“I’m getting old.”
He shrugged.
“I’ve decided honesty is easier.”
Even Mrs Brand laughed.
Alfie brought over his oboe book.
Mr King wrapped it carefully in brown paper.
Then he disappeared briefly into the back.
When he returned he carried two tiny wooden kazoos.
“They’re practically indestructible.”
Barry’s eyes sparkled.
“For us?”
Mr King nodded.
“On one condition.”
Barry stood very straight.
“What?”
“You may only play them…”
He looked directly at Mrs Brand.
“…outside my shop.”
“Deal!” shouted Barry.
“Excellent.”
Mrs Brand paid for the book.
“And thank you for not charging me for emotional damage.”
Mr King winked.
“I’ll recover.”
Outside, Barry and Marmaduke proudly buzzed their kazoos.
The sounds were somewhere between a bee, a goose and a vacuum cleaner that had given up on life.
Alfie sighed.
“I practise a refined orchestral instrument.”
Barry buzzed happily.
“I sound like an angry potato.”
Mrs Brand finally slipped her phone into her handbag.
“No more work today.”
Barry looked up.
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Can we all get ice cream?”
She smiled.
“I think after surviving the music shop…”
She looked at Barry.
“…we’ve earned it.”
Even Alfie smiled.
“I suppose one ice cream won’t affect my embouchure.”
Barry blinked.
“My what?”
“Exactly,” said Mum.
As they walked home through the busy London streets, Barry held Marmaduke’s hand.
“We were very good today.”
“We mostly were.”
“I only rescued one drum.”
“And talked to a tuba.”
“And fixed emotional damage.”
Marmaduke nodded wisely.
“I think that’s enough adventures for one day.”
Barry agreed.
Then he spotted a shop selling model dinosaurs.
“Oh.”
Marmaduke followed his gaze.
“Oh dear.”
Behind them, Alfie looked up at the sky.
Sometimes he wondered if growing up with Barry counted as advanced life training.
It probably did.
And somewhere inside Just Music, Old Mr King smiled as he straightened a slightly crooked triangle.
He had sold one oboe book.
Nobody had broken anything.
He’d laughed more than he had done in months.
Not bad for an ordinary Tuesday.
Although…
He quietly moved the drums a little farther from the front door.
Just in case Barry came back tomorrow.
Alfie, Barry and Marmaduke Stories 
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