The hospital call

Sunday evenings in the Brand house were usually very predictable.

Dad would pretend he wasn’t thinking about Monday.

Mum would actually be thinking about Monday.

Alfie would carefully pack his school bag as though the success of civilisation depended on having two sharpened HB pencils.

Barry would bounce on his bed until someone shouted, “Barry! Beds are for sleeping!”

To which Barry always replied, “I’m testing it.”

No one had ever asked him to test it.

This Sunday was different.

The telephone rang just after eight o’clock.

Not Mum’s mobile.

Not Dad’s mobile.

The house phone.

Nobody liked the house phone ringing at night. It always sounded far more dramatic than mobile phones, as if it had watched too many hospital dramas.

Dad answered.

“Hello?”

His smile disappeared almost instantly.

“Oh… yes… I understand.”

Barry looked up from trying to balance three toy dinosaurs on his head.

“Who’s dead?”

“Barry!” Mum whispered sharply.

“What? It might be.”

“It isn’t.”

Dad listened quietly, asked several questions, thanked the caller and slowly put the phone down.

“It’s Leicester Royal Infirmary,” he said softly. “Mum’s been admitted. She’s very unwell.”

The room became strangely quiet.

Even Barry noticed.

Children often don’t understand everything that’s happening.

They understand perfectly that something important is happening.

Dad was already finding his car keys.

“I need to go.”

“When?”

“Now.”

Mum nodded.

“I’ll keep checking in.”

Within twenty minutes Dad had packed an overnight bag, hugged the boys tightly and disappeared into the warm London night, heading north towards Leicester.

Barry stood at the front window.

“Daddy forgot his biscuits.”

“I don’t think biscuits are his biggest concern,” Alfie said quietly.

“Oh.”

Barry thought about that.

“Should I eat them so they don’t go stale?”

The house felt different afterwards.

Mum kept looking at her phone.

Every couple of hours a message arrived.

At hospital.

Waiting.

Still doing tests.

Nothing seemed certain.

Which, adults will tell you, is often the hardest part.

A little later there was another knock at the door.

Marjory.

Marmaduke’s mum.

Still wearing hospital scrubs beneath her coat.

“I came as soon as I could.”

As a doctor, she knew exactly the sort of questions to ask.

She phoned Leicester Royal Infirmary and spoke directly with the doctors who had admitted Grandma Brand.

Barry and Marmaduke sat on the stairs listening.

They understood roughly one word in every twenty.

“Bloods…”

“Observations…”

“CT…”

“Monitoring…”

“Further investigations tomorrow…”

Barry whispered, “They’re definitely building a robot.”

Marmaduke nodded.

“Or a dinosaur.”

“It could be both.”

Meanwhile Marjory finished the call.

“They’ve done everything they safely can tonight,” she explained gently. “The specialist tests need more staff tomorrow morning.”

“So we wait,” Mum sighed.

“We wait.”

Adults hate waiting.

Children merely find waiting an opportunity to invent games involving socks.

Alfie noticed everything.

Mum’s worried face.

The unanswered questions.

The way nobody laughed quite as much.

Without being asked, he quietly loaded the dishwasher.

Packed Barry’s nursery bag.

Laid out his own school uniform.

Even folded Dad’s favourite jumper that had been abandoned over the sofa.

Mum smiled.

“Thank you.”

Alfie shrugged.

“It’s helping.”

Sometimes the smallest jobs are actually the biggest help.

A little later Marjory smiled.

“I’ve got an idea.”

“What?”

“Why doesn’t Marmaduke stay over tonight?”

Barry gasped as though someone had suggested Christmas should happen twice.

“A sleepover?”

“You have twin beds.”

“I KNOW!”

“Inside voices,” Mum laughed.

“Sorry.”

Barry whispered loudly.

“I HAVE TWIN BEDS!”

Ten minutes later the two four-year-olds were charging around Barry’s bedroom.

Well…

Charging is perhaps too generous.

Imagine two overexcited Labrador puppies wearing pyjamas.

That was closer.

Barry’s room had twin beds because Marmaduke stayed over at least once a week.

One bed was permanently occupied by Barry.

The other contained approximately eleven soft toys, a pirate blanket and something sticky nobody wanted to identify.

After relocating the wildlife, Marmaduke climbed in.

“This bed’s comfy.”

“I know.”

“Can I have it forever?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because then I’d have nowhere for visitors.”

“You could visit me.”

Barry stopped.

His brain tried to process that.

It overheated.

Mum appeared carrying hot chocolate.

Tiny mugs.

Extra marshmallows.

“Tonight,” she smiled, “I think everyone deserves a treat.”

Barry looked suspicious.

“Is this medicine?”

“No.”

“Excellent.”

Five marshmallows vanished immediately.

One somehow ended up stuck to Marmaduke’s eyebrow.

Neither boy noticed for twelve minutes.

The adults talked downstairs.

Quietly.

Barry could hear the gentle murmur but not the words.

Alfie came upstairs carrying a pile of books.

“Story?”

Barry grinned.

“You read funny.”

“I read properly.”

“You do the voices funny.”

“I do appropriate characterisation.”

Barry blinked.

“Exactly.”

Alfie read about pirates.

Barry interrupted seventeen times.

Marmaduke interrupted twenty-three.

Mostly to ask whether pirates brushed their teeth.

Eventually Alfie finished.

“Right. Sleep.”

“We’re not sleepy.”

“You are.”

“We’re really not.”

Barry yawned so widely he nearly inhaled his teddy bear.

“I wasn’t yawning.”

“No?”

“I was checking how big my mouth is.”

The lights went out.

Five seconds later…

“Alfie?”

“Yes?”

“I’ve got a question.”

“I know.”

“How?”

“Because you always do.”

“If Grandma gets better…”

“Hopefully.”

“…can we make her a cake?”

“I think she’d like that.”

“With dinosaurs?”

“Maybe not dinosaurs.”

“Why not?”

“They’re difficult to ice.”

Barry accepted this as entirely reasonable.

Silence.

For nearly forty-five seconds.

“Marm?”

“Yeah?”

“If hospitals have beds…”

“They do.”

“…are they bunk beds?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.”

“They should have slides.”

“They definitely shouldn’t.”

Barry giggled.

“So doctors can slide into work.”

Even Alfie laughed quietly in the next room.

Eventually the whispering became softer.

Then slower.

Then disappeared altogether.

Barry fell asleep clutching Teddy upside down.

Marmaduke somehow rotated 180 degrees until his feet were where pillows normally lived.

Scientists may one day explain how sleeping children manage this.

Current evidence suggests magic.

Or wriggling.

Probably wriggling.

Monday morning arrived astonishingly early.

Mostly because Barry believed six o’clock counted as “a lovely lie in.”

He climbed onto Marmaduke’s bed.

“Marm.”

Nothing.

“Marm.”

Still nothing.

Barry poked him gently.

“MARM!”

Marmaduke sat bolt upright.

“WHERE’S THE FIRE?”

“There isn’t one.”

“Then why did you shout?”

“I wanted breakfast.”

“That’s not an emergency.”

“It is if you’re hungry.”

Fair point.

Downstairs Mum was already awake.

Phone beside her.

Coffee beside that.

Another text had arrived from Dad.

Doctors starting more investigations this morning.

Still waiting.

Waiting again.

Adults become remarkably good at pretending they’re not constantly checking their phones.

Children notice anyway.

Barry climbed onto Mum’s lap.

“Is Grandma poorly?”

“Yes.”

“Will the doctors help?”

“We really hope so.”

Barry thought for a long moment.

Then wrapped both arms around Mum.

It wasn’t elegant.

One elbow was somehow in her ear.

But it was exactly the hug she needed.

Breakfast was cheerful by design.

Toast.

Cereal.

Fruit.

Marmaduke accidentally dropped Weetabix into Barry’s orange juice.

Barry declared this “breakfast soup.”

Nobody volunteered to taste it.

Just before school and nursery, another message arrived.

Dad had spoken to one of the consultants.

More tests were happening.

Nothing definite yet.

But Grandma was comfortable.

Sometimes that’s the best news available.

Mum smiled a tiny bit.

“I’ll take that.”

As they put on shoes, Barry suddenly disappeared.

Everyone searched.

Hallway.

Kitchen.

Garden.

Under the dining table.

Finally Alfie looked into Barry’s bedroom.

Barry and Marmaduke were both standing very seriously beside a piece of paper.

“What are you doing?”

“We’re making Grandma better.”

“How?”

Barry proudly held up the drawing.

It featured what was probably Grandma.

Or possibly a potato.

She was surrounded by enormous smiling hearts, a bright yellow sun wearing sunglasses, three dinosaurs holding balloons and something Barry insisted was Dad driving “really carefully.”

Across the top, in gigantic wobbly letters, Alfie read:

GET WELL GRANDMA. LOVE BARRY AND MARM.

There were several extra letters that had wandered in accidentally.

Alfie smiled.

“I think she’ll love it.”

“You really think so?”

“I know so.”

Marmaduke nodded wisely.

“Pictures are stronger than medicine.”

Marjory, who had arrived to collect Marmaduke for nursery, overheard.

“They’re not,” she smiled.

“But they certainly help people feel loved.”

Barry looked pleased.

“I helped.”

“You did.”

As Mum tucked the picture carefully into an envelope to send to Leicester, the house still felt worried.

Still uncertain.

Still waiting.

But it also felt warm.

Because sometimes, when grown-ups are carrying heavy thoughts, the greatest comfort comes from two little boys in dinosaur pyjamas, an unexpectedly sensible big brother, and a drawing that makes absolutely no anatomical sense whatsoever.

Hospitals have doctors.

Families have each other.

And somehow…

both are very important.