Last day of term

Barry did not understand why grown-ups called it “the end of term.”

It sounded terribly serious.

Like someone had misplaced a giant punctuation mark.

Or perhaps all the worms had gone on strike.

He wasn’t sure.

He had asked Marmaduke.

Marmaduke had nodded wisely and said, “I think it means we’re turning into carrots.”

Barry had accepted this immediately because Marmaduke sounded confident, and confidence, as every four-year-old knows, is much more convincing than facts.

It was the final day of preschool.

The sun shone over London, buses rumbled past, pigeons strutted around as though they personally owned Trafalgar Square, and Barry bounced through the preschool gates carrying a backpack containing one sock, three toy dinosaurs, half a banana, and something sticky nobody wanted to identify.

His mum kissed his head while reading an email.

“Be good.”

“I will.”

She smiled absently.

His dad waved while talking into wireless headphones.

“Love you, champ.”

Barry waved back.

Neither noticed he’d accidentally worn two completely different shoes.

Not that Barry had noticed either.

Miss Patel stood at the classroom door.

Normally, Barry arriving meant she’d quietly check whether the first aid kit was fully stocked.

Today she smiled.

“Oh! Barry!”

Then, very unexpectedly…

…she burst into tears.

“Oh dear.”

She wiped her eyes.

“I’m absolutely fine.”

Barry looked alarmed.

“Did somebody steal your biscuits?”

“No.”

“Were they chocolate ones?”

“…Yes.”

“Oh.”

Barry patted her hand.

“I’m sorry for your terrible loss.”

Miss Patel laughed so hard she cried again.

Marmaduke arrived moments later.

He walked straight into the door because he had been waving at Barry instead of looking where he was going.

“I’m here!” he announced proudly.

“Yes,” said Miss Patel.

“We noticed.”

She hugged him too.

Then cried.

Then apologised.

Then laughed.

Then cried again.

Children accepted this as perfectly normal.

Adults were mysterious creatures.

Inside the classroom everything looked different.

Their paintings hung neatly.

Tiny chairs stood in rows.

There were balloons.

Paper stars.

A banner saying:

GOOD LUCK!

Barry whispered,

“I don’t think we’ll need luck.”

Marmaduke whispered back,

“We definitely will.”

Across the quad, Alfie sat in Mrs Bronson’s Year 3 classroom.

Everything felt…different.

He had loved Year 3.

He had learned chess.

His swimming was coming along well.

The oboe was his new passion. 

Which, despite sounding rather like an unhappy goose being gently squeezed, he had become surprisingly good at.

He had broken the school’s 200-metre running record.

Mrs Bronson had always encouraged everyone.

She explained fractions patiently.

She never shouted.

She wasn’t particularly funny.

In fact, she’d once said,

“Who wants a maths joke?”

The silence had been extraordinary.

Even calculators might have pretended not to exist.

Still…

She was kind.

She cared.

Alfie would miss her.

But next year he’d have Mr Whiteman.

More science.

Harder maths.

Bigger projects.

That sounded exciting.

Alfie liked the challenge.

Provided it came with sensible instructions.

Back at preschool…

Miss Patel gathered everyone onto the carpet.

“I just want to say…”

She sniffed.

“…how proud I am of all of you.”

Sniff.

“You’ve grown so much.”

Sniff.

“And Barry…”

Barry smiled.

“Yes?”

“…I’m amazed the building is still standing.”

Everyone laughed.

Including Barry.

Especially Barry.

He considered this a compliment.

The morning activity involved decorating memory books.

Barry glued three pages together.

Marmaduke glued his sleeve to the table.

Someone accidentally put glitter inside a cup of orange squash.

Nobody admitted who, but Amelia had very glittery lips and tongue now. 

Evidence strongly suggested Barry.

Barry maintained it was “creative hydration.”

Later they played outside one last time.

Barry found a ladybird.

Marmaduke found another.

Barry announced,

“They should get married.”

Marmaduke agreed.

“They’re in love.”

Miss Patel gently explained they were probably just walking across the same leaf.

Barry wasn’t convinced.

Adults often underestimated love.

Then Barry discovered something infinitely more interesting.

The garden hose.

Now…

Every preschool teacher develops a sixth sense.

Some hear raised voices.

Some notice suspicious silence.

Miss Patel had developed a very specific instinct.

Whenever Barry smiled that smile…

…something expensive was about to become wet.

She turned.

Too late.

Barry had already switched on the hose.

The water leapt into the air.

Marmaduke clapped.

“It’s a rainbow!”

Barry spun round.

Children squealed.

Plants were delighted.

Miss Patel briefly considered becoming a shepherd in rural Wales.

It seemed calmer.

Five minutes later…

Everyone was damp.

Barry had apologised.

Twice.

Mostly because the hose had eventually sprayed him.

Justice often works that way.

Meanwhile…

Mrs Bronson handed each Year 3 pupil a handwritten card.

When Alfie opened his, he read:

“Keep asking thoughtful questions. Never lose your kindness. Mr Whiteman is very lucky to be getting you.”

Alfie smiled.

He folded the card carefully.

Very carefully.

He’d keep that forever.

He wasn’t sentimental.

Not really.

He simply believed important things deserved looking after.

Which, for an eight-year-old, is practically the same thing.

Back at preschool…

Parents began arriving.

Miss Patel hugged everyone.

She cried after every hug.

Sometimes during the hug.

Once before the hug had even started.

Barry’s mum arrived while answering a work call.

His dad appeared moments later carrying a laptop bag.

Both looked slightly frazzled.

“Ready to go?”

Barry nodded.

Then pointed.

“Miss Patel’s leaking.”

His parents looked over.

Miss Patel laughed through tears.

“Oh, I’ll miss these two.”

Barry’s dad smiled.

“They’ve kept you busy.”

Miss Patel stared into the distance.

“I once found Barry teaching worms about traffic lights.”

“They needed to know.”

“I’m sure they did.”

“And Marmaduke was helping.”

“I was holding the worms.”

Miss Patel nodded slowly.

“Yes…”

“…you certainly were.”

She crouched in front of Barry.

“You know…”

“I know lots.”

“I believe you do.”

She smiled.

“Never stop asking questions.”

“I won’t.”

“Maybe…”

“…ask them slightly further away from electrical sockets.”

“I can do that.”

She hugged him.

Then Marmaduke.

Then cried again.

Barry hugged back with surprising gentleness.

Even four-year-olds know when hugs matter.

Outside the preschool gates…

Barry stopped.

“Can we come back tomorrow?”

His mum smiled sadly.

“No, sweetheart.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re growing up.”

Barry frowned.

“That sounds exhausting.”

“It is,” sighed his dad.

“You have absolutely no idea.”

Later that afternoon…

The family met Alfie outside his school.

Barry sprinted over.

“I’ve finished preschool forever!”

“I know.”

“My teacher cried.”

“I heard.”

“Lots.”

Alfie nodded.

“Mrs Bronson nearly cried too.”

Barry looked confused.

“Did you spray her with a hose?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

Alfie thought about it.

“I think…because teachers spend all year helping children grow.”

Barry looked puzzled.

“They don’t use watering cans.”

“No.”

“They use patience.”

Barry considered this carefully.

“That sounds much slower.”

“It definitely is.”

Walking home through busy London streets, Marmaduke and his Mum, Marjory, caught up with them.

The boys immediately started discussing school.

“We’re going to big school.”

“We are!”

“I’ll have homework.”

“I might eat mine.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“What if it’s delicious?”

“It won’t be.”

“You don’t know.”

“I do.”

“You haven’t tasted it.”

Alfie rubbed his forehead.

Sometimes talking to Barry felt like playing chess against a squirrel.

Entirely unpredictable.

Remarkably energetic.

Not technically following the rules.

That evening everyone celebrated with fish and chips in the park.

The grown-ups talked about their days.

Deadlines.

Meetings.

Emails.

Patients, in the case of Marjory. 

Barry attempted to teach a pigeon to fetch chips.

The pigeon stole one and left.

Barry looked impressed.

“He’s very advanced.”

Marmaduke applauded.

Alfie quietly packed away everyone’s rubbish because litter belonged in bins.

Some heroes wear capes.

Some carry recycling.

As the sun began to sink behind the trees, Barry lay on the grass looking up at the clouds.

“Do you think Miss Patel’s still crying?”

Alfie smiled.

“Maybe a little.”

“Why?”

“Because saying goodbye is hard.”

Barry thought.

“But saying hello is fun.”

“Exactly.”

“So…next year she’ll say hello to new children.”

“Yes.”

“And we’ll say hello to big school.”

“Yes.”

Barry grinned.

“Then it’s not really goodbye.”

Alfie looked at his little brother.

For someone who had spent part of the morning accidentally watering fellow students, himself and a wheelbarrow…

…that was surprisingly wise.

“No,” Alfie said softly.

“I suppose it isn’t.”

That night, after baths, pyjamas, two arguments about toothbrushes, one missing teddy, and an emergency search for a dinosaur that had somehow ended up inside the washing machine, Barry climbed into bed.

“Can I ask one more question?”

“Of course.”

“Will I still get into trouble at big school?”

His parents exchanged a glance.

The sort of glance married people develop after years together.

It contained concern.

Affection.

Experience.

And a tiny amount of surrender.

His dad answered carefully.

“I imagine…”

“…yes.”

Barry smiled proudly.

“Excellent.”

“But…”

“…try getting into trouble for helping people.”

Barry frowned.

“Is that possible?”

“Oh yes.”

“How?”

“By asking questions.”

“Being curious.”

“Trying new things.”

“Standing up for friends.”

Barry thought very hard.

“I can do that.”

“We know you can.”

Across London, Miss Patel tidied the now-empty classroom.

She found one dinosaur under a cupboard.

Almost certainly Barry’s.

A tiny painted handprint.

Marmaduke’s forgotten water bottle.

A drawing labelled:

“MISS PATEL IS THE BEST.”

The picture showed her with purple hair, seven arms, roller skates and what might have been a pet giraffe.

She laughed.

Then cried again.

Then laughed because she was crying.

Teaching little children, she decided, was rather like owning your heart outside your body for an entire year.

They filled your days with questions you couldn’t answer.

Stories that made no sense.

Sticky hugs.

Unexpected kindness.

And absolute chaos.

Especially if Barry was involved.

Perhaps particularly if Barry was involved.

She switched off the classroom lights.

Locked the door.

Smiled to herself.

And wondered—just for a second—what Barry would manage to do at big school.

Then she decided it was probably better not to know in advance.

Some surprises are easier if you meet them one at a time.