Wednesday morning arrived with considerably more excitement than Tuesday.
Mainly because there were now two very important guests living in the Brand family conservatory.
Cinnamon.
And Pickles.
The two guinea pigs had spent another peaceful night munching hay with astonishing enthusiasm. Barry had discovered that guinea pigs appeared to have only three hobbies.
Eating.
Eating while squeaking.
And eating somewhere else.
“I wish I could eat all day,” Barry sighed as he watched Cinnamon demolish a piece of cucumber.
Mrs Brand looked over her coffee.
“You do certainly try.”
Across the table, Alfie was studying the care instructions Mr Henley had typed.
“‘Fresh hay available at all times.’”
“They’ve got hay.”
“‘Fresh water twice daily.’”
“They’ve got water.”
“‘Vegetables in moderation.’”
Barry frowned.
“What does moderation mean?”
“It means not too much.”
“So…one cabbage?”
“No.”
“Half a cabbage?”
“No.”
“A tiny cabbage?”
Mrs Brand laughed.
“It means sensible amounts.”
Barry looked disappointed.
“Sensible is Alfie’s department.”
“It certainly is,” said Mr Brand.
Alfie looked quietly pleased.
Being described as sensible was, to Alfie, roughly equivalent to receiving a knighthood.
Three doors down, however…
Another pair of eyes had begun to notice something.
Bubble.
Bubble was Marmaduke’s cat.
Nobody knew exactly how old Bubble was.
He had appeared as a scruffy rescue cat several years earlier and had very quickly decided that London belonged to him.
He visited everyone’s gardens.
He inspected everyone’s sheds.
He supervised wheelie bins.
He considered himself Head of Neighbourhood Security.
Unfortunately…
Bubble also considered himself a magnificent hunter.
Mostly he hunted leaves.
Occasionally socks.
Once, memorably, he stalked a garden gnome for twenty-three minutes.
The gnome won.
Still…
Bubble’s confidence never suffered.
That Wednesday morning Bubble wandered into the Jackson garden.
Sniff.
Sniff.
Something…
Something…
Smelled…
Interesting.
Not mouse.
Not squirrel.
Not bird.
Not hedgehog.
Definitely rodent.
Definitely fluffy.
Definitely…
Close.
Bubble’s ears twitched.
His whiskers pointed forwards.
His tail performed its slow hunting swish.
Somewhere nearby…
There was prey.
He followed the smell.
Across the fence.
Into next door.
Across another fence.
Into the Brand garden.
He stopped.
The smell became stronger.
Much stronger.
Bubble looked towards the conservatory.
His pupils became enormous.
“Oh dear,” sighed Mousey from underneath the shed.
Well…
Mousey didn’t actually sigh.
But if mice could sigh, this one absolutely would have.
Bubble ignored him.
Today’s mission was clearly far more interesting.
Inside the house Barry was introducing Marmaduke to “The Official Guinea Pig Breakfast Ceremony.”
This consisted of:
One lettuce leaf.
One carrot.
One cucumber slice.
And saying…
“Bon appétit!”
Very loudly.
Pickles didn’t care.
He was already eating.
Cinnamon squeaked approvingly.
Barry grinned.
“They like my restaurant.”
“They mostly like vegetables,” Alfie corrected.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Nobody noticed.
Bubble had reached the conservatory doors.
Inside…
Two fluffy things.
Eating.
Completely unaware.
Bubble flattened himself against the glass.
His hunting instincts tingled.
Cinnamon looked up.
She froze.
Pickles froze.
Bubble’s nose left a perfect cat-shaped smudge on the glass.
Barry turned.
“Oh!”
“Bubble’s here!”
Bubble blinked slowly.
His expression clearly said:
Kindly open this door. I have…business.
“No chance,” laughed Mrs Brand.
She gently shooed him away.
Bubble walked exactly three steps.
Then sat down.
Watching.
Waiting.
Cats, after all, possess remarkable patience.
Especially when plotting.
Half an hour later…
Mrs Brand answered a work call upstairs.
Mr Brand disappeared into his office.
Alfie settled down with another book.
Barry and Marmaduke built a cushion fort.
Bubble noticed.
Nobody was watching the conservatory anymore.
Excellent.
Attempt Number One.
The Cat Flap.
Bubble squeezed confidently through…
…straight into the utility room.
Success!
Except…
The conservatory door inside the house was shut.
Bubble stared.
He pawed it.
Nothing.
He looked offended.
Who designed houses like this?
Attempt Number Two.
The Kitchen Window.
Bubble leapt elegantly onto the windowsill.
Balanced perfectly.
Then accidentally knocked over Mrs Brand’s herb pot.
Basil flew everywhere.
Bubble pretended this had been intentional.
Attempt Number Three.
The Wheelie Bin.
Using the recycling bin as a step, Bubble climbed onto the garage roof.
From there…
The conservatory roof.
He peered through the glass ceiling.
There they were.
Cinnamon.
Pickles.
Completely oblivious.
Bubble licked his lips.
Not because he was hungry.
Well…
Mostly not.
Barry looked up.
“Marm.”
“What?”
“I think Bubble’s on the roof.”
Marmaduke looked.
“Oh.”
“He is.”
The boys waved enthusiastically.
Bubble did not wave back.
He remained focused.
Very focused.
Alfie arrived.
“Oh no.”
“What?”
“He isn’t visiting.”
“Yes he is.”
“No.”
“He’s hunting.”
Barry gasped.
“He wouldn’t!”
“He absolutely would.”
Barry looked horrified.
“But they’re guests!”
The boys rushed outside.
Bubble calmly walked along the roof ridge.
Barry pleaded.
“Bubble!”
Bubble ignored him.
“You can’t eat visitors!”
Bubble continued.
“We’ve literally only just met them!”
Bubble stretched lazily.
Cats have an extraordinary ability to ignore human negotiations.
Then…
Bubble spotted something.
The tiny opening window at the top of the conservatory.
It wasn’t fully shut.
Just…
Very slightly open.
Enough for fresh air.
Enough…
Perhaps…
For an extremely determined cat.
Bubble measured the gap.
Looked at his tummy.
Looked at the gap again.
Optimism won.
He wriggled.
One paw.
Head.
Shoulders.
More shoulders.
Far more shoulders than seemed physically possible.
Barry watched in horror.
“He’s coming in!”
Mrs Brand appeared at exactly the right moment.
“What on earth are you all…”
She looked upwards.
“…doing?”
Then she saw Bubble.
Halfway through the tiny window.
Looking remarkably like furry toothpaste being squeezed from a tube.
“Oh goodness!”
She sprinted for the conservatory.
Bubble gave one final determined wiggle…
…and popped inside.
Success.
Bubble landed gracefully.
Well…
Mostly gracefully.
He slipped slightly on a newspaper.
Pretended he hadn’t.
Then immediately spotted the guinea pigs.
Cinnamon squeaked.
Pickles disappeared into his hay tunnel so quickly he resembled an extremely fluffy magic trick.
Bubble crouched.
Barry gasped.
“No!”
Marmaduke looked close to tears.
“Bubble! They’re FRIENDS!”
Bubble remained unconvinced.
Friends.
Lunch.
Sometimes difficult to distinguish.
Fortunately…
Mrs Brand arrived.
She scooped Bubble into her arms.
Bubble objected with an indignant…
“Mrrrp?”
As if to say,
“I was simply introducing myself.”
Mr Brand appeared moments later.
“What happened?”
Mrs Brand pointed at the roof.
“The cat.”
Mr Brand blinked.
“The roof cat?”
“Yes.”
“The window?”
“Yes.”
“The guinea pigs?”
“Yes.”
Mr Brand sighed.
“I’ve missed something important again, haven’t I?”
Marjory arrived shortly afterwards, having finished early at the hospital.
Bubble sat in her car looking extraordinarily pleased with himself.
Marjory folded her arms.
“So…”
Bubble purred.
“Did you try breaking into someone else’s house?”
Bubble purred louder.
“I see.”
She looked at Barry.
“I’m guessing he wasn’t invited.”
Barry shook his head.
“He nearly got Cinnamon.”
Marjory scratched Bubble behind the ears.
“You ridiculous furry burglar.”
Bubble accepted this title with considerable dignity.
That afternoon the adults solved the problem.
The little top window was locked.
Extra catches were fitted.
The conservatory door stayed firmly closed.
Mr Brand even attached a tiny sign.
NO CATS.
Barry frowned.
“Can Bubble read?”
“No.”
“So why the sign?”
“It makes me feel better.”
Before bedtime Barry checked on the guinea pigs.
Both were peacefully eating again.
Apparently guinea pigs recovered from frightening experiences by having another snack.
Barry stroked Cinnamon gently.
“Sorry about Bubble.”
Cinnamon accepted another lettuce leaf.
Forgiveness, it seemed, came quite cheaply.
Pickles emerged from his tunnel.
Looked around carefully.
No cats.
Excellent.
He resumed eating.
As the boys climbed into bed, Barry asked quietly,
“Do you think Bubble’s sorry?”
Barry thought carefully.
“I think…”
“…he’s sorry he got caught.”
Alfie laughed.
“That’s probably accurate.”
Down the road, Bubble sat on Marjory’s windowsill, staring thoughtfully towards the Brand house.
His hunting mission had failed.
His dignity had suffered.
His humans had laughed at him.
Worst of all…
There was now a sign specifically banning him.
Cats don’t like being told where they can’t go.
Bubble narrowed his eyes.
The game, he decided, was not over.
Not by a long way.
Which meant, although nobody realised it yet…
Thursday was already quietly preparing to become considerably more complicated.
Alfie, Barry and Marmaduke Stories 
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