Monday began with a mistake.
Not a small mistake, like putting your shoes on the wrong feet.
Not even a medium-sized mistake, like forgetting to buy milk.
This was a grown-up mistake.
The sort of mistake that involved three adults, four diaries, several calendars, two mobile phones, and a family WhatsApp group that had become so confusing that nobody could remember why it had been created in the first place.
At 11.47pm on Sunday night, Mr Brand was standing in the kitchen staring at his phone.
Mrs Brand was staring at her laptop.
Marjory Jackson was staring at the wall.
Nobody spoke.
Finally, Mrs Brand said, very quietly, “We have a problem.”
Mr Brand sighed.
Marjory closed her eyes.
They had all checked their calendars.
Then they checked them again.
Then they checked each other’s calendars.
Then Mrs Brand had said, “Wait.”
Then Mr Brand had said, “Oh.”
Then Marjory had said a word that children were absolutely not allowed to hear.
The problem was Monday morning.
Mr Brand was in court. As a senior crown prosecutor, he was expected to stand up in front of important people and say things like, “My Lord,” while looking serious.
He could not take three children to court.
Especially not Barry.
Marjory had an 8.30am surgery.
If it went well, she would save a person’s life.
That seemed rather more important than supervising breakfast.
She couldn’t take the children either.
Mrs Brand was interviewing candidates for a junior member of staff. If she recruited the right person, it would open up her diary and allow her to do something she had not done properly for approximately six hundred years.
Actual work.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t cancel the interviews.
So Plan B was agreed.
Plan B was simple.
Mrs Brand would take the children.
And pray.
A lot.
At 6.42am on Monday morning, Barry woke up.
He opened his eyes.
He looked at the ceiling.
He frowned.
Then he announced:
“I DON’T LIKE MONDAY.”
Nobody had asked.
Down the road, Marmaduke woke up at almost exactly the same time.
Marmaduke was also unhappy.
In fact, Marmaduke had got out of bed on the wrong side for the first time that year.
This was quite an achievement because Marmaduke had previously been a remarkably cheerful child.
But not today.
Today Marmaduke’s socks were wrong.
His cereal was too crunchy.
His banana had a brown bit.
His spoon was “looking at him funny.”
Marjory, who had already left for hospital, would have been impressed.
Mrs Brand, meanwhile, was downstairs trying to make breakfast while simultaneously answering emails.
“Barry, please eat your toast.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s toast.”
Mrs Brand paused.
“Yes. That’s usually what toast is.”
Barry crossed his arms.
“I don’t want toast.”
“Fine. Have cereal.”
“No.”
“Yoghurt?”
“No.”
“Banana?”
“No.”
“Air?”
Barry considered this.
“Maybe.”
Mrs Brand stared at him.
“Excellent. One bowl of fresh London air coming up.”
Barry smiled.
He thought this was a joke.
Mrs Brand was not joking.
By 7.35am, Alfie was dressed, fed and ready for school.
He stood by the front door with his football bag.
“I’m ready,” he announced.
Mrs Brand looked at him gratefully.
“Thank goodness.”
Alfie frowned.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
She kissed him on the head.
“You’re just very easy.”
“I know.”
Barry wandered past wearing one shoe.
“Where’s my other shoe?”
Alfie looked at him.
“Where did you take it off?”
“I didn’t.”
“You’re wearing one.”
Barry looked down.
“Oh.”
He walked away.
Mrs Brand took a deep breath.
It was going to be a long day.
Alfie was dropped off at football club without incident.
This was the last peaceful thing that happened.
By 9.12am, Mrs Brand had started her first interview.
Barry and Marmaduke were sitting on the floor in the next room with instructions.
They had been given colouring books.
They had been given snacks.
They had been given water.
They had been given a solemn warning.
“Do not open that cupboard.”
Barry looked at the cupboard.
“What cupboard?”
“The one behind you.”
Barry turned around.
There it was.
A cupboard.
Marmaduke looked at Barry.
Barry looked at Marmaduke.
Both boys stared at the cupboard.
It was now the most interesting object in London.
“Why can’t we open it?” whispered Marmaduke.
“Because Mummy said no.”
“Oh.”
They stared at it again.
Barry whispered, “What do you think is inside?”
Marmaduke shrugged.
“Probably boring stuff.”
Barry nodded.
“Definitely.”
They lasted eleven seconds.
The cupboard contained stationery.
This was disappointing.
But Barry found a roll of sticky tape.
Marmaduke found some envelopes.
Within minutes, they had created what they called a “post office”.
Unfortunately, there was no post.
So Barry posted Marmaduke.
He wrapped him in several sheets of paper, put sticky tape around the outside and announced:
“Special delivery!”
Marmaduke crawled out.
“I don’t think I’m a letter.”
Barry looked thoughtful.
“You could be a parcel.”
“No.”
“An important parcel?”
Marmaduke considered this.
“Okay.”
Mrs Brand opened the door.
She saw two children surrounded by paper, sticky tape and envelopes.
She closed the door.
She went back to her interview.
The candidate was explaining their strengths.
Mrs Brand was trying very hard not to cry.
At 10.46am, things got worse.
Barry discovered the printer.
He pressed a button.
The printer woke up.
It made a noise.
Barry’s eyes widened.
“Marmaduke.”
“What?”
“It’s alive.”
Marmaduke came running.
The printer began producing pages.
One after another.
Barry picked one up.
It was an email Mrs Brand had printed accidentally.
“Look!” he whispered.
“What does it say?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why are you whispering?”
“Because it’s confidential.”
Neither child knew what confidential meant.
They only knew it sounded exciting.
They decided to make their own confidential documents.
Barry pressed buttons.
Marmaduke pressed more buttons.
The printer produced another twenty-seven pages.
Then thirty.
Then forty.
By the time Mrs Brand noticed, there was a small mountain of paper.
“What have you done?”
Barry smiled.
“Office work.”
Mrs Brand stared at the printer.
Then at Barry.
Then at Marmaduke.
Then at the ceiling.
“Right.”
She took a breath.
“Back to colouring.”
At 12.15pm, Mrs Brand’s interviews were finished.
She was exhausted.
Barry was cantankerous.
Marmaduke was grumpy.
Alfie was at football club.
And Mrs Brand had developed the thousand-yard stare of a woman who had spent four hours trying to work while supervising two four-year-olds.
She made lunch.
Barry complained.
Marmaduke complained.
Barry complained about Marmaduke complaining.
Marmaduke complained about Barry complaining about his complaining.
Mrs Brand put her sandwich down.
“Enough.”
Both boys went silent.
She looked at them.
“Would either of you like to tell me what you actually want?”
Barry thought.
“A dinosaur.”
Marmaduke nodded.
“Me too.”
Mrs Brand stared at them.
“Of course.”
At 3.30pm, Mrs Brand collected Alfie from football club.
Alfie came running over.
“How was the day?”
Mrs Brand looked at him.
He stopped smiling.
“That bad?”
“Worse.”
“What happened?”
She began counting on her fingers.
“Your brother opened the stationery cupboard, turned Marmaduke into a parcel, used forty-seven sheets of paper, nearly emptied the printer, and somehow made a sandwich disappear.”
Alfie frowned.
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
Barry appeared behind him.
“I ate it.”
Alfie nodded slowly.
“Right.”
Then the club organiser came over.
She looked at Mrs Brand.
Then at Barry.
Then at Marmaduke.
She smiled sympathetically.
“We’ve got an idea.”
Mrs Brand looked suspicious.
“What sort of idea?”
“We’re running activities here tomorrow and Wednesday. We can take Barry and Marmaduke for the day.”
Mrs Brand blinked.
“You’re offering to take them?”
“Yes.”
“For free?”
There was a pause.
“Well…”
Mrs Brand almost cried again.
“You’re angels.”
The organiser laughed.
“We’ve met them.”
She looked at Barry.
Barry grinned.
Then she looked at Marmaduke.
Marmaduke waved.
“We’ll manage.”
Mrs Brand hugged both boys.
“Thank you.”
Barry looked confused.
“Why are you crying?”
“Because I’m happy.”
“Oh.”
Marmaduke nodded wisely.
“She’s doing happy crying.”
“Yes.”
Barry thought about this.
“Can I make her sad crying stop?”
Mrs Brand smiled.
“Yes, please.”
Barry walked over and hugged her.
Marmaduke joined in.
Alfie stood nearby, watching.
He smiled.
Then he said, “Mum?”
“Yes?”
“Can we go home now?”
Mrs Brand sighed.
“Yes.”
Barry immediately said, “Can we have ice cream?”
“No.”
Marmaduke said, “Can we have cake?”
“No.”
Barry said, “Can we have ice cream cake?”
Mrs Brand looked at him.
“Absolutely not.”
Alfie nodded approvingly.
“Good answer.”
They began walking home.
After thirty seconds, Barry looked up.
“Mum?”
“What?”
“Tomorrow we’re going to football club all day, aren’t we?”
“Yes.”
“Will Marmaduke be there?”
“Yes.”
Barry smiled.
“Brilliant.”
Marmaduke smiled too.
Alfie looked concerned.
“Why are you both so happy?”
Barry and Marmaduke looked at each other.
Neither answered.
They didn’t need to.
Because sometimes, when adults are exhausted and children are suspiciously cheerful, it means trouble is already planning tomorrow.
And somewhere in the distance, Mrs Brand’s phone buzzed.
She looked at it.
A message from Mr Brand.
How did today go?
She stared at the screen.
Then typed:
Surprisingly, nobody died.
A moment later, another message arrived.
Excellent.
Mrs Brand put her phone away.
She looked at Barry.
Barry was walking backwards.
She looked at Marmaduke.
Marmaduke was copying him.
She looked at Alfie.
Alfie was walking normally because, unlike the other two, he possessed common sense.
Mrs Brand smiled.
Monday had been awful.
Completely, spectacularly, professionally awful.
But the children were safe.
The surgery had gone well.
Mr Brand had survived court.
And Mrs Brand had survived the interviews.
Which, in the Brand household, counted as a successful day.
Then Barry tripped over a paving stone.
He stood up.
“I’m okay!”
Mrs Brand sighed.
“Yes, Barry.”
Barry grinned.
“Tomorrow will be better.”
Alfie looked at his mother.
Mrs Brand looked at Alfie.
Neither of them believed him.
Not for one second.
Alfie, Barry and Marmaduke Stories 
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