The morning after

The Brand household looked exactly like a family who had hosted a dinner party the previous evening.

There were wine glasses and coffee cups everywhere.

Half a baguette sat mysteriously on the windowsill.

Someone had thoughtfully placed three empty wine bottles neatly beside the recycling bin… and then apparently decided that was enough tidying for one weekend.

Mrs Brand wandered into the kitchen wearing sunglasses.

Indoors.

“It’s very bright,” she muttered.

“It isn’t,” said Mr Brand, peering blearily into the toaster. “I think that’s just the kitchen.”

The toaster popped.

Everyone jumped.

Meanwhile, four-year-old Barry had been awake since 5:52 a.m.

Children have an astonishing ability to detect when adults are least capable of supervising them. Scientists haven’t officially confirmed this, but every parent already knows it’s true.

Barry had already:

• attempted to butter a banana,
• asked fourteen questions about bacon,
• and loudly announced that he was “practising whispering.”

His version of whispering was only marginally quieter than roadworks.

Alfie, already dressed, hair combed, teeth brushed and halfway through reading a library book about volcanoes, looked up over his glasses.

“Barry.”

“What?”

“Please don’t whisper.”

“I’m not.”

“I know.”

Three doors down, Marjory Jackson quietly unlocked her own front door.

She stretched.

“My own kettle,” she sighed happily.

“My own sofa.”

“My own…”

Bubble appeared.

“Mrrrow.”

“Oh yes. You’d like breakfast.”

Bubble rubbed against her legs before trotting confidently towards the kitchen.

Marjory smiled.

“At least one of us knows what we’re doing this morning.”

She followed Bubble.

Bubble stopped.

His ears twitched.

His tail puffed slightly.

“Oh no,” sighed Marjory.

“I know that face.”

Something moved.

Tiny.

Grey.

Very, very fast.

A little garden mouse shot from underneath the dishwasher.

Marjory blinked.

“Not again.”

The mouse froze.

Bubble froze.

Marjory froze.

For approximately half a second.

Then absolute chaos exploded.

The mouse dashed across the floor.

Bubble launched himself after it like a furry guided missile.

The mouse zig-zagged beneath the table.

Bubble skidded after it.

A chair moved.

A tea towel flew into the air.

One slipper landed somewhere near the fridge.

Marjory simply stood in the middle of the kitchen clutching her handbag.

“I’ve literally been home ten seconds.”

The mouse made one final desperate dash.

Bubble made one very professional pounce.

Silence.

Bubble looked extremely pleased with himself.

Marjory looked rather less pleased.

“Oh…”

Bubble gently placed the mouse on the floor.

He sat beside it proudly.

“Mrrrow?”

“Yes,” sighed Marjory.

“You’ve done exactly what cats have been doing for thousands of years.”

Bubble purred.

Marjory fetched a small dustpan and, with a little sad smile, carefully wrapped the tiny mouse in newspaper.

“Poor little thing.”

She carried it outside and gently placed it into the wheelie bin.

Bubble followed, looking offended that his excellent work wasn’t receiving more applause.

“You’ve certainly earned breakfast.”

Bubble immediately forgot all about the mouse.

Food had always been his strongest subject.

Twenty minutes later Marjory was back at the Brand house carrying fresh croissants from the bakery.

Mrs Brand opened the door.

“Oh, thank goodness.”

“I’ve brought emergency pastries.”

“I love you.”

“I know.”

Mr Brand wandered into the hallway.

“Did someone say croissants?”

“I’ve also brought coffee.”

“I love you too.”

“I know.”

Within minutes everyone was gathered around the kitchen table.

Fresh coffee.

Croissants.

Bacon sandwiches.

Orange juice.

Strong tea.

A table capable of curing almost any hangover.

Almost.

Steve and Denisa had stayed overnight in the spare room.

Steve appeared looking surprisingly cheerful.

“I slept brilliantly.”

Mr Brand stared at him.

“Why are you smiling?”

“I don’t get hangovers.”

The room became very quiet.

Mrs Brand narrowed her eyes.

“I don’t trust people like you.”

Denisa laughed.

“He says that every time.”

Eight-year-old Dora was already dressed and helping Alfie clear plates.

Like Alfie, she believed plates should be stacked sensibly.

Like Alfie, she believed knives belonged pointing inwards.

Like Alfie, she thought Barry was fascinating…

…provided she remained a safe distance away.

Barry burst into the kitchen.

“Dora!”

“Yes?”

“I’ve got to show you Mousey’s house!”

“Oh.”

“It’s AMAZING!”

Dora looked politely interested.

“Is Mousey there?”

“Probably.”

Nobody looked at Marjory.

The children hurried into the garden.

Barry marched proudly towards the little mouse house he’d built beneath the bushes.

It was now rather impressive.

There were bottle tops.

Tiny pebbles.

A lolly stick bridge.

Several leaves arranged as furniture.

A small acorn Barry insisted was “the telly.”

Dora crouched beside it.

“This is… actually really clever.”

Barry beamed.

“I know.”

“Did you really build all this?”

“Yes.”

“Does a mouse actually live here?”

Barry nodded confidently.

“He’s called Mousey.”

Dora folded her arms.

“I don’t think he is.”

“He is.”

“I think you’ve just made a tiny house.”

“I HAVE NOT!”

“You probably have.”

“I HAVE A PET MOUSE.”

“You don’t.”

“I do.”

“You don’t.”

“I DO.”

“You’ve never shown anyone.”

“He’s shy.”

Dora raised one eyebrow exactly the way her father did during business meetings.

“Convenient.”

Barry gasped dramatically.

“Marmaduke!”

Marmaduke wandered over carrying half a croissant.

“What?”

“Tell Dora!”

Marmaduke looked from Barry…

…to Dora…

…to the tiny house.

“Oh yes.”

“What yes?” asked Dora.

“Mousey.”

“You’ve seen him?”

“…Probably.”

“Probably?”

“…Once.”

“When?”

“I can’t remember.”

Barry whispered loudly.

“JUST SAY YES.”

“I am saying yes.”

“You don’t sound convincing.”

“I’ve only had half my croissant.”

Alfie wandered over with the expression of someone arriving to investigate an insurance claim.

“What’s happened?”

“Dora doesn’t believe Mousey’s real.”

Alfie considered this carefully.

“Well…”

Barry looked hopeful.

“…there isn’t actually any evidence.”

Barry looked horrified.

“YOU TOO?”

“I’m just saying.”

“I’ve seen him.”

“Briefly.”

“He lives there.”

“Possibly.”

“He definitely does.”

“Maybe.”

Barry folded his arms.

“You adults are ruining everything.”

“I’m eight,” said Alfie.

“Exactly.”

Inside the kitchen, the adults watched through the window.

Mrs Brand smiled.

“They’re all getting on beautifully.”

Outside, Barry had begun giving what he called “a guided tour.”

“And this is Mousey’s bedroom.”

“It looks like a leaf,” said Dora.

“It IS a leaf.”

“So…”

“It’s camouflage.”

“Oh.”

“And this bottle top…”

“Yes?”

“…is his hot tub.”

Dora blinked.

“I don’t think mice have hot tubs.”

“They would if they were sensible.”

Then Barry froze.

“LOOK!”

Everyone looked.

Something moved underneath the hedge.

Tiny.

Grey.

Barry’s eyes widened.

“Mousey!”

The little creature darted across the flowerbed.

Dora gasped.

“There really IS a mouse!”

“It isn’t Mousey,” said Alfie sensibly.

“It could be any mouse.”

Barry ignored him completely.

“MOUSEY CAME HOME!”

The tiny mouse paused for one brief second beside the little house.

Then disappeared through a gap in the fence.

Barry punched the air.

“I TOLD YOU!”

Dora looked amazed.

“I honestly thought you’d invented him.”

“I NEVER LIE.”

Alfie coughed politely.

“You once said the washing machine had eaten your shoes.”

“It LOOKED guilty.”

Back inside, Marjory quietly watched the tiny mouse disappear.

She smiled to herself.

“Well…”

“That’s fortunate.”

Mrs Brand looked at her.

“You were worried.”

“I was.”

“Because of Bubble?”

Marjory nodded.

“I rather thought Barry’s Mousey had… met Bubble this morning.”

Mrs Brand laughed.

“Apparently not.”

Mr Brand grinned.

“There must be dozens of little mice living around these gardens.”

Marjory sipped her coffee.

“And thankfully Barry can’t tell one tiny grey mouse from another.”

“Neither can I.”

Outside, Barry was absolutely delighted.

“You see!”

“I apologise,” said Dora.

“I was wrong.”

Barry accepted the apology with enormous dignity.

“It’s okay.”

“I forgive you.”

“You forgive me?”

“Yes.”

“That’s very kind.”

“I know.”

Marmaduke nodded wisely.

“Barry forgives everybody.”

“Mostly.”

“What don’t you forgive?”

Barry thought.

“People who don’t share biscuits.”

“Reasonable,” said Dora.

Just then Bubble appeared at the back door.

He stretched lazily.

Yawned.

Then wandered into the sunshine.

Barry waved enthusiastically.

“Hello Bubble!”

Bubble blinked at him innocently.

If cats could whistle while pretending nothing had happened earlier that morning, Bubble certainly would have.

Instead he wandered over to the little mouse house.

Everyone held their breath.

Bubble sniffed.

Barry gasped.

“No!”

Bubble examined the tiny bridge.

Sniffed the acorn television.

Then, deciding none of it was edible, flopped onto the warm paving stones and promptly fell asleep.

Barry sighed with relief.

“Good.”

“He’s respecting Mousey’s property.”

Marjory had to bite the inside of her cheek to stop herself laughing.

“Yes,” she managed.

“I’m sure he is.”

The morning drifted peacefully into the afternoon.

Steve and Denisa packed the car.

Dora hugged everyone goodbye.

“I hope Mousey stays.”

“He will,” Barry declared confidently.

“He likes London.”

“Does he?”

“Yes.”

“He told me.”

“Did he?”

“Well…”

Barry thought carefully.

“…he sort of nodded.”

Alfie smiled.

“I think that means Barry hopes he stays.”

Barry considered this.

“That’s probably what I meant.”

Mrs Brand ruffled his hair.

“Sometimes that’s enough.”

As everyone waved goodbye, Bubble sat proudly on Marjory’s garden wall, washing one paw with complete innocence.

No one looking at him would ever guess he’d been involved in a lightning-fast kitchen drama before breakfast.

Least of all Barry, who happily skipped back to Mousey’s little house with Marmaduke, already planning improvements.

“It needs a playground.”

“And a tiny slide!”

“And maybe a biscuit shop!”

“And a dinosaur!”

Alfie sighed.

“Mice don’t need dinosaurs.”

Barry grinned.

“They do if they’re having adventures.”

And somewhere beneath the hedges, another little grey garden mouse twitched its whiskers, sniffed the air, and decided that this garden—with its miniature furniture, enthusiastic four-year-olds, and one cat who had thankfully already eaten breakfast—was probably an interesting place to live after all.

Bubble opened one eye.

The mouse wisely chose a different hedge.

Some lessons, after all, only need to be learned once.