Going batty

Monday had been, according to Barry, “the most boring day since breakfast.”

Which was saying something, because Barry rather liked breakfast.

It had begun with high hopes. Summer holidays always did. You woke up convinced something marvellous was going to happen. Pirates might arrive on the Thames. Dinosaurs might escape from a museum. Dad might accidentally order twenty-seven pizzas.

Instead…

Nothing.

Alfie, who considered excitement to be something that happened inside books rather than outside them, had declared it “an exceptionally productive day.”

He had read four whole books.

Four.

One about volcanoes.

One about Roman Britain.

One about the solar system.

And one rather chunky detective novel for children where everyone was suspicious except the actual criminal.

“I’ve learned forty-three new facts,” Alfie announced proudly over lunch.

Barry sighed dramatically.

“I’ve learned boredom.”

Mrs Brand barely looked up from her laptop.

“That’s…nice, darling.”

She was trying to finish a report before Tuesday.

Mr Brand was on yet another conference call upstairs.

Every few minutes the ceiling echoed with phrases like:

“Let’s circle back.”

“We’ll pick that up offline.”

“Can everyone see my screen?”

Barry didn’t know what any of those meant, but he suspected they were all grown-up ways of saying, “I haven’t the faintest idea either.”

Luckily, Marmaduke appeared after lunch (late for him, who was usually in before breakfast). 

Marjory Jackson smiled as she walked him down the path.

“He’s eaten, he’s sun-creamed, and if you can stop him bringing worms into my kitchen tomorrow I’d be enormously grateful.”

“No promises!” shouted Barry.

“I know,” sighed Marjory.

“That’s what worries me.”

The two boys watched a Disney film.

Nobody could quite agree afterwards what the moral had been.

Barry believed it was, “Always sing if you’re in trouble.”

Marmaduke thought it was, “Animals can definitely understand English.”

Alfie muttered, “Neither of those.”

After the film they decided to visit Mousey.

Mousey lived underneath the old garden shed.

Or perhaps beside it.

Or perhaps under next door’s shed.

Nobody knew for sure.

But every afternoon a tiny brown mouse appeared for approximately eleven seconds before vanishing again.

Barry and Marmaduke became wildlife documentary presenters.

Barry whispered dramatically.

“And here…we observe…the extremely rare Shed Mouse…”

Marmaduke copied.

“…known scientifically as…Tinyus Speedius.”

Barry nodded.

“They survive entirely on sunflower seeds…”

“…and panic.”

“…mostly panic.”

For nearly two hours they sat absolutely still.

Well…

Mostly still.

Barry sneezed nine times.

Marmaduke accidentally stood on a rake.

A pigeon landed on Barry’s head for reasons known only to pigeons.

Eventually…

There!

Mousey wondered out.

Collected something invisible.

Looked directly at the boys.

Then disappeared again.

“Best eleven seconds ever,” whispered Barry.

Next came the Great Garden Bug Survey.

Mrs Brand had found an old notebook and suggested they record insects “like proper scientists.”

Barry loved the phrase.

Scientists sounded important.

Scientists got clipboards.

Scientists definitely didn’t have to tidy bedrooms.

The survey began.

Greenfly.

“Lots,” Barry wrote.

“How many?” asked Alfie.

Barry looked closely.

“…approximately all of them.”

Next…

One stink bug.

“It looks judgemental,” said Marmaduke.

“It probably is,” agreed Barry.

Then came the bees.

“One!”

“No, two!”

“Three!”

“Hang on…was that the first one again?”

The bees refused to cooperate by flying in perfectly numbered formation.

Eventually Barry wrote:

Bees: Four-ish.

Alfie looked horrified.

“Science doesn’t use ‘ish’.”

Barry shrugged.

“It does now.”

Finally…

One wasp.

Nobody wanted to get close enough to verify anything further.

The survey ended there.

By six o’clock everyone had run out of things to do.

Dinner disappeared.

Baths happened.

Hair was dried.

Pyjamas emerged.

It was shaping up to be the earliest bedtime in family history.

Even Barry yawned.

“I might go to bed before the moon.”

Mrs Brand looked delighted.

“I’ll frame this date.”

Upstairs…

Barry squeezed toothpaste onto his brush.

Marmaduke copied him.

Far too much.

There was enough toothpaste to clean a hippopotamus.

Alfie was already brushing methodically.

Top teeth.

Bottom teeth.

Circular motions.

Exactly as instructed by the dentist.

Barry looked into the bathroom mirror.

Something moved behind him.

He froze.

“Marm…”

“What?”

Barry slowly pointed towards the landing ceiling.

Something dark swooped silently past.

Flap.

Flap.

Flap.

Marmaduke’s eyes became enormous.

“Barry…”

“What?”

“I think…”

“What?”

“…your upstairs has birds.”

Another flap.

Something circled the light fitting.

Barry screamed.

Marmaduke screamed because Barry screamed.

Alfie didn’t scream.

He simply dropped his toothbrush.

Which, for Alfie, was practically hysteria.

Mrs Brand called from downstairs.

“What’s happened?”

Barry pointed wildly.

“The ceiling’s alive!”

Within seconds everyone was on the landing.

Something fluttered through the hallway.

Tiny.

Brown.

Fast.

Silent.

Mr Brand emerged from his office still wearing his wireless headset.

“Sorry everyone, I just need to—”

The bat flew directly past his face.

Mr Brand performed what can only be described as an interpretive dance involving surprise.

He ducked.

Spun.

Made a noise somewhere between “Goodness!” and “Eeeeeeee!”

His headset flew off.

Somebody on the conference call faintly shouted…

“David? David? Are you still with us?”

“No!” shouted Mr Brand instinctively.

“I’ve got a BAT!”

There was a very long silence.

Then someone quietly replied…

“…perhaps we should reschedule.”

The call ended remarkably quickly.

Mr Brand looked around.

“I’ve got this.”

He sounded confident.

The family exchanged glances.

Even he didn’t quite believe himself.

The bat looped around the landing again.

Barry whispered,

“Dad’s basically Batman.”

Mr Brand puffed out his chest.

“I’ll simply encourage it towards an open window.”

The bat ignored every encouraging word.

It flew into Alfie’s bedroom.

Then Barry’s.

Then the bathroom.

Then back again.

It was like a tiny flying sat-nav that had lost all signal.

Mr Brand armed himself.

With…

A washing-up bowl.

Mrs Brand blinked.

“That’s your plan?”

“It seemed sensible.”

“It absolutely does not.”

He swapped it.

Now he had…

A butterfly net from an old seaside holiday.

Barry gasped.

“Excellent choice.”

The handle immediately bent.

“Perhaps not.”

Marjory wandered in through the front door after hearing all the commotion.

“I thought someone had fallen through the roof.”

She looked upwards.

“Oh.”

“A bat,” said Mrs Brand.

“Yes.”

“I see that.”

Marjory folded her arms.

“So…”

“What?”

“Who’s catching it?”

Every adult looked at Mr Brand.

He sighed.

Apparently it was still him.

The children sat halfway down the stairs.

This was much more entertaining than television.

Barry whispered commentary.

“And here…we see the Great British Dad…attempting to catch his natural predator…”

“I don’t think bats eat dads,” Alfie replied.

“They might if they’re annoyed.”

Mr Brand opened every upstairs window.

“Excellent.”

The bat ignored every single one.

Instead it flew three perfect circles around the spare room. 

“Perhaps,” suggested Mrs Brand helpfully, “it’d like to stay.”

“No way.”

“It seems very interested.”

The bat vanished.

Everyone froze.

“Where’s it gone?” whispered Marmaduke.

Nobody moved.

Silence.

Then…

Tiny squeaking.

Barry pointed.

“It’s behind the curtain!”

Mr Brand approached slowly.

Very slowly.

Ridiculously slowly.

He gently lifted the curtain.

Nothing.

The bat had already flown away.

Straight over his head.

Mr Brand ducked so quickly he nearly headbutted the radiator.

Barry collapsed into giggles.

“You nearly fought a curtain!”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

Finally, Alfie quietly said,

“Dad…”

“Yes?”

“I read that bats use echolocation.”

“I know.”

“So if everyone stops shouting…”

“…”

“…”

“…”

The whole house fell silent.

The bat flew calmly around the landing.

Without frightened people waving bowls and nets everywhere, it seemed much less confused.

Mr Brand slowly opened the loft hatch.

Nothing.

He gently opened the biggest bedroom window even wider.

Still nothing.

Then…

Almost as if it had finally remembered it had somewhere else to be…

The tiny bat swooped gracefully towards the fresh night air.

It flew through the open window.

Across the gardens.

Over the rooftops.

And disappeared into the London evening.

Everyone waited.

Just in case.

Nothing.

It had gone.

Mr Brand leaned against the wall dramatically.

“I meant to do that.”

Mrs Brand smiled.

“Of course you did.”

Marjory grinned.

“You looked incredibly professional while losing an argument with a curtain.”

Barry nodded solemnly.

“I’ve learned a lot tonight.”

“Oh?” asked Alfie.

“Dads are brave.”

Mr Brand smiled proudly.

Barry continued.

“But only after they’ve squealed a tiny bit.”

“I did not squeal.”

Mrs Brand raised one eyebrow.

Marjory burst out laughing.

Even Alfie smiled.

“You definitely squealed.”

“It was a tactical vocalisation.”

“There is no such thing.”

“There is now.”

Back in bed, Barry lay staring at the ceiling.

“Do you think the bat will tell all his bat friends about us?”

Marmaduke considered this carefully.

“He’ll probably say…”

“‘Don’t fly into Number Twenty-Two.’”

“‘There’s a giant man with a washing-up bowl.’”

“‘And a curtain that’s surprisingly aggressive.’”

Both boys dissolved into sleepy laughter.

Next door, Alfie opened his notebook.

He added one final fact beneath the forty-three he’d learned from his books.

Fact 44: Real life is sometimes much stranger than books.

Downstairs, Mr Brand quietly put the butterfly net back in the cupboard where he hoped nobody would mention it ever again.

Unfortunately for him…

Barry had an excellent memory.

By breakfast the next morning, the story had already become:

“And then Dad karate-kicked the curtain while the bat laughed.”

Mr Brand sighed into his tea.

Children, he reflected, were wonderful.

They were also spectacularly unreliable witnesses.

Which, as Mrs Brand reminded him while trying not to laugh, was probably for the best.

Because if the bat ever came back…

It might bring its friends.

And next time, Mr Brand was definitely wearing a bicycle helmet.