Assistant Pharaoh

Mrs Brand had reached the stage where her work laptop permanently balanced on one knee, a cup of tea sat permanently going cold beside her, and she answered Teams calls with the sort of smile usually reserved for hostage negotiations.

Mr Brand wasn’t doing much better.

“I’ve got a meeting at ten.”

“I’ve got one at ten too.”

“What about Barry?”

A silence.

“What about Barry?”

Both parents slowly turned to look into the garden.

Barry, aged four, was lying upside down in a wheelbarrow wearing a pirate hat and eating a banana with the skin still on.

“He’s…occupied,” said Mr Brand hopefully.

“He won’t stay occupied.”

“He never does.”

Inside the house, Alfie was reading a book about Ancient Egypt that he’d borrowed from the school library before term ended.

“Did you know,” he announced, without anyone asking, “that Tutankhamun became Pharaoh when he was about nine?”

Barry looked up.

“I’m four.”

“Yes.”

“So I could be Assistant Pharaoh.”

“That’s…not really how it worked.”

Marmaduke arrived five minutes later wearing a dinosaur T-shirt and carrying three snacks despite having left home approximately forty-three seconds earlier.

His mum, Marjory, smiled sympathetically.

“Good luck.”

Mrs Brand sighed.

“Thank you.”

Marjory looked at Barry.

“Please don’t discover any lost tombs.”

Barry nodded solemnly.

“I won’t.”

He paused.

“I’ll discover new ones.”

Thankfully, Mrs Brand had a plan.

The boys were all going to the immersive Tutankhamun exhibition at ExCeL London.

Air conditioning.

Educational.

Booked in advance.

Two glorious hours where nobody could climb a tree or accidentally adopt a pigeon.

It was, in theory, foolproof.

History, however, has repeatedly demonstrated that fools are exceptionally inventive.

The Docklands Light Railway fascinated Barry almost as much as Ancient Egypt.

“It hasn’t got a driver!”

“It does,” said Alfie.

“It hasn’t.”

“It has.”

“It hasn’t.”

“It—”

Mrs Brand interrupted before they recreated the entire constitutional crisis of Ancient Egypt on public transport.

“It uses computers.”

Barry stared thoughtfully out of the front window.

“So…

…the train is driving itself?”

“Yes.”

He nodded respectfully.

“I trust him.”

The exhibition entrance was magnificent.

Huge golden statues.

Towering columns.

Projected hieroglyphics dancing across the walls.

Music echoed dramatically through enormous halls.

Barry’s eyes became the size of dinner plates.

“WOOOOOOW!”

Even Marmaduke gasped.

“It’s shiny.”

Alfie whispered reverently,

“This is amazing.”

Mrs Brand smiled.

Money well spent.

Perhaps today would actually—

Barry disappeared.

Of course.

He hadn’t gone far.

He’d simply wandered into a projected desert scene and was trying to catch digital camels.

“They’re escaping!” he shouted.

“They’re not real!” Alfie called.

“They look real!”

“So does Uncle Steve’s hair.”

Mrs Brand muttered, “That’s…unexpectedly accurate.”

The exhibition explained how Howard Carter discovered Tutankhamun’s tomb.

Alfie absorbed every word.

Barry absorbed approximately three words.

“TOMB.”

“TREASURE.”

“GOLD.”

Unfortunately those were exactly the wrong three.

Five minutes later he whispered to Marmaduke, “We should look for secret treasure.”

Marmaduke looked alarmed.

“Should we?”

“Definitely.”

“Okay.”

Marmaduke had once been persuaded to wear two left shoes for an entire day because Barry had claimed it improved running speed.

This was, somehow, still not the worst idea Barry had ever sold him.

They wandered into the immersive chamber.

Walls glowed.

Stars shimmered overhead.

The floor became projected sand.

Ancient temples appeared around them.

Visitors stood quietly enjoying the atmosphere.

Barry crouched dramatically.

“I’ve found clues.”

“You haven’t.”

“I have.”

“Those are arrows telling people where the toilets are.”

“They’re Egyptian arrows.”

Soon the boys reached an area where visitors could decode hieroglyphics.

Alfie happily worked out that one symbol meant bird.

Another meant river.

Barry pointed at one.

“That says biscuits.”

“It absolutely does not.”

“It does.”

“It says king.”

“I think kings like biscuits.”

Mrs Brand couldn’t actually argue with that.

Then came the virtual tomb.

Lights dimmed.

Doors slowly opened.

Fog drifted gently across the floor.

Everyone oohed.

Everyone aahed.

Everyone admired the golden treasures.

Barry whispered,

“I bet there’s a secret door.”

“There isn’t.”

“There always is.”

“This is an exhibition.”

“Exactly.”

Marmaduke nodded.

“That’s where I’d hide one.”

While Mrs Brand listened to the narrator explaining burial rituals, Barry noticed something.

A velvet rope.

Behind it… a staff doorway.

Now, sensible people see a staff door and think, “That’s for staff.”

Barry saw it and thought,

“I wonder what’s in there?”

Those two thoughts explain most of civilisation.

Before anyone realised— under the rope.

Past the sign.

Round the corner.

Marmaduke followed automatically.

“You know we’re probably not meant to…”

“We’re exploring.”

“Oh.

Right.”

The corridor contained…

cleaning supplies.

Extension leads.

Boxes.

One disappointed mop.

Barry frowned.

“This isn’t treasure.”

“No.”

“It’s mostly buckets.”

“I like the yellow bucket.”

“Focus, Marm.”

Then a security guard appeared.

He wasn’t cross.

He simply looked like a man who had seen this exact situation approximately four hundred and twelve times.

“Hello, explorers.”

Barry smiled.

“We’re archaeologists.”

“I see.”

“We’re looking for Tutankhamun.”

“I think you’ve just missed him.”

“When’s he back?”

Mrs Brand arrived at jogging speed.

“I’m so sorry.”

The guard smiled kindly.

“No problem.”

He crouched down.

“Real archaeologists stay behind the ropes.”

Barry nodded.

“Because of curses?”

“…Mostly because of insurance.”

The next exhibition room contained replicas people could touch.

Barry loved this.

He carefully picked up a fake scarab beetle.

“A beetle!”

Marmaduke found a pretend necklace.

“Oooo.”

Alfie examined replica tools.

Mrs Brand relaxed again.

Perhaps… just maybe… 

Barry placed the scarab carefully on Marmaduke’s shoulder.

Marmaduke noticed it in the reflection of a shiny display case.

He screamed.

Barry screamed because Marmaduke screamed.

Two nearby adults screamed because two children screamed.

The scarab fell onto the floor.

A toddler began crying in solidarity despite having absolutely no idea why.

Chaos rippled through the gallery.

The scarab, meanwhile, remained entirely plastic and emotionally unaffected.

Later everyone watched a huge projected river Nile flowing across the walls.

Hippos appeared.

Crocodiles swam.

Birds flew overhead.

Barry stared thoughtfully.

“If I lived here…”

“Yes?”

“I’d definitely get eaten.”

Mrs Brand smiled.

“Probably.”

“What about Marm?”

“He’d follow you.”

“I would,” admitted Marmaduke.

“What about Alfie?”

Alfie looked horrified.

“I simply wouldn’t go near crocodiles.”

Sensibility. It’s rarely glamorous, but it does significantly reduce crocodile-related incidents.

Eventually they reached the gift shop.

Every parent knows this place.

It appears mysteriously at the end of attractions like an unavoidable side quest.

Barry found a plastic Pharaoh’s crook.

Marmaduke found a golden snake.

Alfie chose…a beautifully illustrated history book.

(Naturally.)

Mrs Brand looked at the prices.

“I remember when pencils cost fifty pence,” she muttered. 

She left noticeably poorer.

Outside, they sat eating sandwiches overlooking the Docklands.

Barry wore his plastic Pharaoh’s headpiece.

“I am King Barry.”

Alfie sighed.

“Pharaoh.”

“What?”

“It’s Pharaoh.”

“I’m Pharaoh Barry.”

Marmaduke bowed.

“Hello.”

“You may call me Your Tallness.”

“Your Majesty,” corrected Alfie.

“That one.”

On the journey home, the DLR gently rattled through London.

Barry leaned sleepily against Mrs Brand.

“I liked Egypt.”

“So did I.”

“I’d like to go.”

“The real one?”

“Yes.”

Mrs Brand smiled.

“Maybe one day.”

Barry thought carefully.

“Do they still have mummies?”

“Yes.”

“Do they still have crocodiles?”

“Yes.”

Barry considered this new information.

“I’ll stay near the gift shop.”

That evening, Mr Brand returned downstairs after finally escaping work.

“So…”

“How did it go?”

Mrs Brand laughed.

“No one got cursed.”

“Excellent.”

“No one broke anything.”

“Wonderful.”

“The security guard only had to rescue Barry once.”

“Remarkable.”

“Barry briefly declared himself Pharaoh.”

“I’ve seen worse.”

“Someone screamed because of a fake beetle.”

“I assume Barry?”

“No.”

“Marmaduke?”

“Eventually everyone.”

Mr Brand nodded.

“So…

…a successful day?”

Mrs Brand smiled.

“Actually…”

“It really was.”

She looked through the photographs on her phone.

Alfie standing proudly beside a golden sarcophagus, grinning from ear to ear.

Barry pretending to command invisible armies with his plastic crook.

Marmaduke saluting a statue because Barry had confidently informed him that was “the Egyptian way.”

Three boys laughing so hard that none of them could remember what had been funny in the first place.

Yes.

It had been chaotic.

Yes.

It had involved an unscheduled meeting with security.

Yes.

The snack boxes had somehow ended up containing more sand-coloured crumbs than actual snacks.

But Alfie had spent the train home enthusiastically explaining everything he’d learned.

Barry had decided history was “actually quite exciting if there are treasure stories.”

Marmaduke had announced he wanted to become “an assistant archaeologist, or possibly a sandwich tester.”

And for one whole day, none of them had been watching television.

As Mrs Brand finally sat down with a fresh cup of tea, Barry wandered into the kitchen wearing his Pharaoh’s headdress.

“Mummy?”

“Yes?”

“If I build a pyramid in the garden…”

Mrs Brand slowly put her tea back down.

“…how many wheelie bins am I allowed to use?”

Somewhere, deep in the distance, thunder rumbled.

Or perhaps it was simply every parent in Britain, simultaneously realising there were still five weeks and six days of the summer holidays remaining.

The ancient Egyptians built pyramids that lasted over four thousand years.

Parents, meanwhile, considered surviving six weeks with Barry and Marmaduke to be the greater engineering achievement.