Subway

Mrs Brand stared into the fridge with the expression of someone who had just opened a bank account to discover it contained one lonely pea, half a lemon and a bottle of ketchup that had been “nearly empty” since Easter.

“How,” she sighed, “can five people consume an entire week’s shopping in three days?”

Nobody answered because nobody was brave enough.

Mr Brand was upstairs on a work call explaining something terribly important  that nobody outside his chambers would ever willingly listen to.

Alfie was reading a book about the human body.

Barry was pretending not to poke Marmaduke with a cardboard tube.

Marmaduke was pretending not to be poked.

Mrs Brand checked the clock.

One hour for lunch.

Three hungry boys.

No food.

Right.

“Subway,” she declared.

Barry cheered so loudly that a pigeon outside briefly reconsidered living in London.

“I LOVE CHIPS!” Barry announced.

“There aren’t any chips at Subway,” Alfie replied.

“There SHOULD be.”

“There aren’t.”

“There SHOULD.”

Parents learn that some conversations have no destination. They simply continue until someone spots a squirrel.

Mrs Brand bundled everyone outside before another debate about potato products could begin.

Subway was only a block away.

Perfect.

Quick.

Fresh…well, fresh-ish.

The restaurant proudly displayed photographs of colourful salads, glistening tomatoes and smiling sandwiches that looked as though they had been photographed by someone who deeply loved lettuce.

“Looks healthy,” Mrs Brand muttered.

“It looks healthy,” Alfie agreed thoughtfully. “Appearance can be deceptive.”

Mrs Brand blinked.

“When did you become eighty-two?”

“Our biology teacher says processed foods can contribute towards cardiovascular disease.”

“You are eight.”

“I know.”

“Please try being eight.”

“I am.”

“You sound like a consultant.”

Alfie nodded seriously.

“I’ve started reading nutrition labels.”

Barry whispered to Marmaduke.

“I think Alfie’s broken.”

Marmaduke nodded.

“I think so too.”

Inside, the queue moved quickly.

Mrs Brand ordered first.

“A wholemeal baguette, no butter, lots of salad, please…and cheese.”

“A little cheese?” asked the server.

Mrs Brand looked tired.

“Enough to remind me life still has joy.”

Next came Alfie.

“The same, please. No cheese.”

“You sure?” asked Mrs Brand.

“Quite sure.”

“You don’t want a cookie?”

“No thank you.”

“Crisps?”

“No.”

“Drink?”

“Water.”

Barry looked horrified.

“He eats like a rabbit.”

“I eat like someone hoping his arteries will still be useful when I’m eighty.”

Mrs Brand rubbed her forehead.

“What are they teaching you?”

“Science.”

Then Mrs Brand’s mobile phone rang.

Her work ringtone.

Never a good sign.

She glanced at the screen.

“Oh no…”

She answered.

“Hello?…Yes…No, that’s fine…give me two minutes…”

She turned slightly away, listening carefully.

Meanwhile…

Barry looked up at the glowing menu board.

Then at Marmaduke.

Then back at the menu.

“I’ve got an idea.”

Marmaduke smiled.

History has shown that whenever Barry said those words, adults should immediately begin filling out insurance paperwork.

“What if,” Barry whispered, “we order the BIGGEST sandwiches?”

“Ooooo.”

“And put EVERYTHING in them.”

“Ooooo!”

“And lots of cookies.”

“Ooooooo!”

“And crisps.”

“Ooooooo!”

“And all the sauces.”

Marmaduke gasped.

“ALL?”

Barry nodded dramatically.

“Even the spicy ones.”

“They’re for grown-ups.”

“We’re nearly five.”

“We’re four.”

“Practically.”

When the server smiled at them, Barry stood on tiptoes.

“I’d like the really big one.”

“The Footlong?”

“Yes.”

“And you?”

Marmaduke copied instantly.

“Me too.”

“What filling?”

Barry looked at the pictures.

“That one.”

“The spicy Italian?”

“Sounds brilliant.”

“It has quite a strong flavour.”

Barry puffed out his chest.

“I’m quite strong.”

“So am I,” said Marmaduke, despite once crying because a strawberry had been unexpectedly sour.

“What salad?”

Barry thought.

“Everything.”

“Everything?”

“Everything.”

“Onions?”

“Yes.”

“Jalapeños?”

Barry had absolutely no idea what they were.

“They sound exciting.”

“Pickles?”

“Yes.”

“Olives?”

“Yes.”

“Cucumber?”

“Yes.”

“Peppers?”

“Yes.”

“Spinach?”

Barry wasn’t keen on spinach.

But Marmaduke was watching.

“Yes.”

“What sauce?”

Barry pointed randomly.

“And that.”

“And that.”

“And that.”

The server paused.

“You…want three sauces?”

Barry nodded confidently.

“Maybe four.”

Mrs Brand was still discussing work.

The card machine beeped.

Without looking, she reached over.

Tap.

Approved.

Phone still wedged against one ear.

Problem solved. Children fed.

Or so she believed.

Five minutes later everyone left carrying an impressive collection of bags.

Barry could barely hold his.

Marmaduke looked as though he’d won a raffle.

Halfway home, Mrs Brand finally ended the phone call.

“Right,” she sighed.

“Sorry about that every—”

She stopped.

Barry’s face was bright red.

Marmaduke’s eyes were watering.

Both boys had orange sauce around their mouths.

One pickle clung mysteriously to Barry’s eyebrow.

Marmaduke was chewing with the determination of a cow tackling particularly stubborn grass.

“What…”

Mrs Brand blinked.

“…are you eating?”

“Our sandwiches.”

“You haven’t got home yet!”

“We were hungry.”

Mrs Brand looked into Barry’s bag.

Then Marmaduke’s.

Then the receipt.

Silence.

The kind of silence parents develop shortly before asking questions they already know they won’t enjoy the answers to.

“Barry…”

“Yes?”

“Why does this receipt look like a shopping list?”

Barry shrugged.

“We got hungry.”

“You’ve ordered Footlong Spicy Italian sandwiches.”

“They’re big.”

“I can see that.”

“With triple cheese.”

“Cheese is delicious.”

“Extra meat.”

“Growing boys.”

“Every salad.”

“We’re helping.”

“Four sauces.”

“They were colourful.”

“Two packets of crisps each.”

“We like crisps.”

“Four cookies.”

“They were on offer.”

Mrs Brand looked at Marmaduke.

“Marmaduke?”

He smiled weakly.

“I just copied Barry.”

“Of course you did.”

Even Barry nodded.

“Yeah…he does that.”

Alfie adjusted his backpack.

“I did try to intervene.”

Mrs Brand raised an eyebrow.

“You did?”

“I was reading the nutritional information while they were ordering.”

“And?”

“They weren’t interested.”

Barry took another enormous bite.

Instant regret.

The jalapeños arrived.

His smile disappeared.

His eyes widened.

His ears seemed surprised.

He stopped walking.

“Mum?”

“Yes?”

“My mouth is…doing something.”

“What sort of something?”

“FIRE!”

Marmaduke nodded frantically.

“MINE TOO!”

Both boys began hopping.

Not because hopping helps.

It simply feels appropriate.

“I NEED WATER!”

“I NEED MORE WATER!”

Mrs Brand calmly handed them their drinks.

Barry gulped.

Nothing happened.

He gulped again.

Still fiery.

“My tongue’s exploded!”

“It hasn’t.”

“It HAS!”

“It really hasn’t.”

Alfie examined the sandwich.

“I believe the jalapeños are responsible.”

Barry frowned.

“I don’t like jalapeños.”

“You ordered them.”

“I didn’t know they were spicy.”

“The clue was probably in ‘Spicy Italian’,” Alfie replied.

Barry considered this.

“That’s quite sneaky.”

Back home, everyone unpacked lunch.

Mrs Brand cut Barry’s enormous sandwich into manageable pieces.

Mostly because no four-year-old should resemble a python swallowing a goat.

Barry bravely attempted another bite.

“No.”

Another.

“No.”

Another.

“Still no.”

Marmaduke copied him precisely.

“No.”

Mrs Brand exchanged a look with Alfie.

“I think,” she said carefully, “we might remove some ingredients.”

Within minutes the dining table looked like a tiny salad farm.

Pickles here.

Olives there.

Jalapeños in a separate pile that Barry regarded with lifelong suspicion.

Spinach abandoned.

Onions politely evicted.

Eventually, the sandwiches became edible.

Barry smiled again.

“That’s much better.”

“So,” said Mrs Brand, “what have we learned?”

Barry answered immediately.

“Don’t order spicy volcano circles.”

“They’re called jalapeños.”

“Same thing.”

“And?”

Barry thought.

“Maybe…listen when people warn you?”

Mrs Brand smiled hopefully.

“And?”

Barry looked at the remaining cookies.

“Always save room for pudding.”

Mrs Brand sighed.

“Close enough.”

Alfie quietly finished his healthy lunch.

Mrs Brand looked at his sandwich.

“No butter. No cookies. Water.”

“Yes.”

“Are you absolutely sure you’re eight?”

“I think so.”

Barry pointed at him.

“He’s secretly forty.”

“I’m not.”

“You definitely are.”

Mr Brand finally emerged from upstairs.

“How was lunch?”

Everyone answered differently.

Barry said, “HOT!”

Marmaduke said, “SPICY!”

Alfie said, “Nutritionally interesting.”

Mrs Brand simply handed him the receipt.

He unfolded it.

His eyebrows climbed slowly towards his hairline.

“Good grief.”

“They ordered while I was on the phone.”

“I can see that.”

“I paid without looking.”

“I can also see that.”

Barry smiled sweetly.

“We helped.”

Mr Brand laughed.

“You certainly helped somebody.”

“Who?”

“The nice people at Subway.”

Barry looked pleased.

“I like helping.”

Later that afternoon the boys sat in the garden.

Barry still had one cookie left.

Marmaduke still had one.

Alfie had declined one.

Again.

“You know,” Barry said, “next time we’ll just order normal sandwiches.”

Mrs Brand smiled.

“Really?”

Barry nodded.

“Normal-sized sandwiches.”

Mrs Brand relaxed.

“…with normal fillings.”

She relaxed further.

“…and maybe just one cookie.”

Excellent.

Progress.

Barry looked at Marmaduke.

“…each.”

Mrs Brand’s shoulders slumped again.

Baby steps.

Very, very tiny baby steps.

After all, Barry wasn’t malicious.

He was simply four years old.

Curious.

Optimistic.

Entirely convinced that “extra” always meant “better.”

Sometimes he was right.

Sometimes he discovered jalapeños.

As for Marmaduke, he remained Barry’s loyal companion, willing to follow almost any plan, provided somebody else thought of it first.

Alfie continued eating like a retired heart surgeon.

Mr Brand returned to his spreadsheets.

Mrs Brand eventually managed to buy some groceries.

This time she bought extra bread.

Extra fruit.

Extra milk.

Extra cheese.

And, just to be safe…

She hid the receipt before Barry could see what “double portions” looked like.

It was a wise decision.

After all, somewhere in London, Barry was already planning his next brilliant idea.

Parents everywhere would have preferred he didn’t.