Great British Barbecue

Saturday had arrived.

It was supposed to be summer.

Not technically summer, because technically it was still summer. But the weather had apparently decided that summer was an administrative error and had returned to November.

Rain hammered against the windows of the Brand family house.

Not polite rain.

Not the sort of rain that gently pattered on the glass while birds sang and people drank tea.

This was London rain.

The sort of rain that appeared to have a personal grudge.

Mr Brand stood in the hallway wearing old clothes and holding a bucket of cleaning supplies.

“I’m off to Marjory’s,” he announced. “I’m going to finish stripping and cleaning the second-floor bedrooms.”

Mrs Brand looked up from her laptop.

“Good luck.”

“Thank you.”

“You’ll need it.”

“I know. I’ll be back by 2.30ish for the BBQ.”

Barry appeared from the sitting room.

“Where are you going?”

“Marjory’s.”

“Why?”

“To work.”

“Why?”

“Because the bedrooms need doing.”

“Why?”

Mr Brand looked at Mrs Brand.

Mrs Brand looked at Mr Brand.

Both had learned over the years that answering Barry’s questions merely created more questions.

“Because,” said Mr Brand carefully, “that is what grown-ups do.”

Barry considered this.

“Do they have to?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Mr Brand put his coat on.

“Goodbye, Barry.”

“Bye, Daddy.”

Barry had barely reached the front door when he heard it close.

Three minutes later, there was a knock.

Barry hadn’t moved far, so opened the door.

Marmaduke stood outside in a waterproof coat, looking delighted with himself.

“Hello!”

Barry grinned.

“You came!”

“Of course I came.”

“Why?”

“Because you were here.”

This seemed perfectly logical.

Within thirty seconds, the two four-year-olds had disappeared upstairs.

Mrs Brand sighed.

“Three minutes,” she muttered.

From upstairs came a loud crash.

Then silence.

Then Barry shouted:

“IT WASN’T ME!”

Mrs Brand closed her eyes.

“It’s going to be a long day.”

By three o’clock, everyone was about dressed and ready for the barbecue.

They had been invited to the house of one of Alfie’s school friends.

It was the same family who had hosted the legendary Gladiators birthday party earlier in the year.

This family had an outdoor swimming pool.

The boys had been told to bring swimming things.

There was just one slight problem.

The weather.

Rain was pouring down.

The temperature had dropped dramatically after weeks of glorious heat.

The swimming pool looked less like an exciting summer attraction and more like something the Royal Navy might use for training.

Mrs Brand looked out of the window.

“Are we actually going swimming?”

Mr Brand shrugged.

“It might be warm in the pool.”

“It’s outside.”

“Yes.”

“In the rain.”

“Yes.”

“In November weather.”

“It’s not November.”

“It feels like November.”

Barry appeared wearing his swimming trunks.

“Can I go swimming?”

“We’ll see,” said Mrs Brand.

“Can I go swimming in the rain?”

“Possibly.”

“Can I go swimming in my clothes?”

“No.”

“Can I go swimming in my wellies?”

“No.”

“Can I go swimming with Marmaduke?”

Mrs Brand paused.

“That depends on whether Marmaduke’s mum allows it.”

Marmaduke shouted from the hallway.

“My mum lets me do loads of things!”

Marjory, who had just arrived, called back:

“No, I don’t.”

Marmaduke thought about this.

“You let me do some things.”

“Yes.”

“Like eat biscuits.”

“Yes.”

“More than one.”

“Yes.”

“See?”

Marjory looked at Mrs Brand.

“I’ve created a monster.”

“You didn’t create him alone,” said Mrs Brand. “Barry helped.”

Barry looked pleased.

By the time they arrived at the barbecue, the rain had become biblical.

There was water everywhere.

The garden was slowly transforming into a swamp.

The swimming pool was still there, but nobody was swimming in it.

The children stood beneath a large gazebo wearing coats over their swimming costumes.

One boy was wearing swimming goggles because the rain was literally coming down in stair rods.

Then came the barbecue.

It was enormous.

It was shiny.

It had more knobs and dials than the dashboard of a commercial aircraft.

“This,” announced the host proudly, “is the new barbecue.”

The dads gathered around under another gazebo.

There were three cooking zones, a temperature gauge, a warming rack and something described as a “precision flame management system.”

Mr Brand nodded thoughtfully.

“Very impressive.”

The barbecue hissed.

Rain poured down.

A gust of wind blew directly into it.

The flames disappeared.

Everyone stared.

The host pressed a button.

Nothing happened.

He pressed it again.

A tiny flame appeared.

“There we go.”

Ten minutes later, everyone had food.

Sausages.

Burgers.

Chicken.

Vegetables.

Everything looked delicious.

Everyone began eating.

Except Alfie.

Alfie picked up his sausage.

He sniffed it.

He frowned.

He cut it in half.

He stared at the middle.

“It’s pink.”

“It’s probably fine,” said Mr Brand.

Alfie looked at him.

“It’s definitely pink.”

“It might just be the lighting.”

Alfie looked at the sausage.

Then at the grey sky.

Then at his father.

“Dad, there is no lighting.”

Mr Brand laughed.

“Just eat around it.”

Alfie shook his head.

“No.”

He quietly wrapped his sausages in his napkin.

Then, while everyone was talking, he sidled towards the bin.

One sausage disappeared.

Then another.

Alfie returned to his seat.

He looked entirely satisfied with himself.

Meanwhile, Barry and Marmaduke were eating happily.

“This is lovely,” said Marmaduke.

“Very nice,” agreed Barry.

They ate another sausage.

Marjory took a bite of hers.

She chewed.

She stopped.

She looked at it.

She looked at the host.

Then she looked at Mrs Brand.

Mrs Brand raised an eyebrow.

Marjory gave the tiniest possible shake of her head.

She put the sausage down.

She had lost her appetite.

But she was British.

And there are some things one simply doesn’t say at a barbecue.

Particularly when someone has spent a fortune on a shiny new barbecue.

At 7:20pm, Mr Brand noticed something.

His stomach rumbled.

Loudly.

It was not an ordinary rumble.

It sounded like a distant aircraft.

He stopped walking.

Marjory looked at him.

“You all right?”

“Fine.”

His stomach rumbled again.

“Definitely fine.”

Mrs Brand glanced at him.

“You don’t look fine.”

“I’m fine.”

Another rumble.

This one sounded like a washing machine full of bricks.

Mr Brand went pale.

“Actually…”

He stopped.

“I think I might need to walk a little faster.”

They were strolling through the park on the way home.

Mr Brand suddenly broke into a jog.

“Where are you going?” called Mrs Brand.

“Home!”

“Why are you running?”

“I HAVE MY REASONS.”

He disappeared around the corner.

Marjory watched him go.

“That doesn’t look promising.”

“No,” said Mrs Brand.

Barry yawned.

Marmaduke yawned.

Alfie looked suspiciously cheerful.

“I’m glad I didn’t eat that sausage.”

Nobody answered.

They reached home.

Within minutes, the house descended into chaos.

Mr Brand was ill.

Mrs Brand was ill.

Marjory had taken Marmaduke home, and they were ill too.

Barry was looking rather pale.

“Oh dear,” said Mrs Brand.

Barry looked up.

“Mummy?”

“Yes?”

“My tummy feels funny.”

Mrs Brand closed her eyes.

“Of course it does.”

Barry nodded.

“I think my tummy is angry.”

“I think your tummy has every right.”

Mr Brand staggered upstairs.

“I’m going to bed.”

“You’re not going to bed,” said Mrs Brand.

“Why not?”

“Because you need to stay near the bathroom.”

He considered this.

“Fair point.”

Alfie, meanwhile, was absolutely fine.

He sat downstairs reading.

He looked up as his father hurried past.

“Dad?”

“Yes?”

“Are you all right?”

“No.”

“Was it the sausages?”

Mr Brand stopped.

There was a long silence.

“Yes.”

Alfie nodded. “I knew it.”

Then he went back to his book.

Mrs Brand looked at him.

“You know, Alfie, you may have saved yourself a terrible evening.”

“I know.”

There was something smug about the way he said it.

Not unpleasantly smug.

Just… scientifically smug.

By ten o’clock, it was clear that the bedrooms needed rearranging.

Alfie was moved into the spare room on the second landing.

It had a freshly cleaned en-suite bathroom.

His mother tucked him in.

“You all right?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not frightened?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“What are you reading?”

“A book about dinosaurs.”

“Lovely.”

“Actually, Mum?”

“Yes?”

“Can you close the door?”

“Why?”

“So I don’t have to hear Dad.”

Mrs Brand listened.

From downstairs came a noise that sounded like someone dropping a saucepan down a staircase.

She nodded.

“Good thinking.”

She closed the door.

Alfie returned to his book.

The brontosaurus looked considerably healthier than anyone downstairs.

Barry was now tucked up in the main bedroom with Mrs Brand.

Unfortunately, Barry had inherited his mother’s tendency to ask questions at precisely the wrong moment.

“Mummy?”

“Yes?”

“Are you sick?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I ate some food.”

“Was it bad food?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you eat it?”

“Because I thought it was cooked.”

“Was it?”

“No.”

Barry thought about this.

“Then why did you eat it?”

Mrs Brand sighed.

“Because I am an adult.”

Barry nodded wisely.

“Adults are silly.”

Mrs Brand stared at the ceiling.

“Sometimes.”

Barry closed his eyes.

For approximately seventeen seconds.

“Mummy?”

“Yes?”

“Can I have some water?”

“Of course.”

She helped him sit up.

He took a sip.

“Mummy?”

“Yes?”

“Do you think Marmaduke is poorly?”

“Probably.”

“What about Daddy?”

“Definitely.”

“What about Marjory?”

“Probably.”

“What about Alfie?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because Alfie didn’t eat his sausages.”

Barry frowned.

“That wasn’t very friendly.”

“No.”

“But it was clever.”

“Yes.”

Barry lay down again.

“Can I have another drink?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me a story?”

Mrs Brand looked exhausted.

“Once upon a time…”

Barry smiled.

“…there were two little boys called Barry and Marmaduke.”

“That’s us!”

“Yes.”

“They went to a barbecue.”

“Yes.”

“They ate sausages.”

“Yes.”

“Bad sausages?”

“Yes.”

Barry giggled.

“And then they got poorly.”

“Yes.”

“That’s funny.”

Mrs Brand smiled weakly.

“It’s absolutely hilarious.”

Barry closed his eyes.

Five minutes later, he was asleep.

Mrs Brand remained on the bathroom floor.

She had reached the point where she no longer knew whether she was waiting for Barry’s stomach to misbehave, her own stomach to misbehave, or simply waiting for life to improve.

She lay there listening to the rain.

From upstairs came the sound of Alfie turning a page.

From downstairs came a groan from Mr Brand.

From three doors down, Marjory’s house was presumably experiencing a similar disaster.

Mrs Brand sighed.

“This,” she whispered, “is parenting.”

There was a pause.

Then she heard Barry’s sleepy voice.

“Mummy?”

“Yes?”

“I think my tummy’s going to do something.”

Mrs Brand slowly sat up.

“Right.”

She looked at the bathroom.

Then at Barry.

Then at the ceiling.

“Come on, then.”

And so another Saturday night in London continued.

Not with cocktails.

Not with dancing.

Not with a relaxing glass of wine after a long week.

But with parents lying on bathroom floors, children being sick, rain hammering the windows and one extremely sensible eight-year-old peacefully reading about dinosaurs upstairs.

Some families made memories with photographs.

The Brand family made theirs with disinfectant.

And somewhere, in a large shiny barbecue sitting sadly in a rain-soaked garden, several sausages were probably still glowing with enough bacteria to start their own small community.

Nobody mentioned it.

Because that would have been rude.

And this was Britain.

Even in a crisis, there were standards.