Recovery

Sunday morning arrived over London with the sort of quietness normally associated with a library, a sleeping baby, or a house in which everyone had eaten sausages that had not been cooked properly.

At the Brand family home, nobody was moving.

Not properly, anyway.

There were occasional noises.

A groan.

A sigh.

A muffled “Oh dear.”

And, from somewhere upstairs, the unmistakable sound of somebody turning over in bed and immediately deciding that had been a terrible idea.

The previous afternoon had started beautifully.

The Brand family and the Jackson family had been invited to a friend’s house for a barbecue.

It was a lovely thought.

The main purpose was obviously to showcase the new BBQ which was a rather impressive semi professional machine that looked as though it had been designed by NASA.

The barbecue had several temperature settings.

It had three shelves.

It had a huge thermometer.

It had more knobs than the dashboard of Mr Brand’s car.

“It cooks everything perfectly,” their friend had announced proudly.

And, to be fair, it had cooked everything perfectly.

Well…

Almost everything.

The sausages had looked magnificent.

Brown.

Juicy-looking.

Beautifully charred.

They had practically waved a little flag saying, Eat me! I’m definitely safe!

Unfortunately, the inside had other ideas.

Alfie had been suspicious.

Alfie was suspicious of many things.

He was eight.

It was one of the advantages of being eight. You had enough experience to know that if a sausage was brown on the outside but looked strangely pink on the inside, it was probably best not to investigate further.

He had quietly put his sausages to one side.

Barry, aged four, had eaten his.

Marmaduke, also aged four, had eaten his.

Mr Brand had eaten his.

Mrs Brand had eaten hers.

Marjory had eaten some of hers.

And then, sometime later, everyone’s stomachs began to make noises.

Not ordinary noises.

These were noises that suggested a small angry orchestra had moved into their intestines.

Mr Brand had been the first to admit defeat.

“I think we should go home.”

Everyone agreed.

They said their goodbyes and began the walk back through the London streets.

At first, it seemed fine.

Barry skipped along beside Mrs Brand.

Marmaduke walked beside Marjory.

Alfie wandered along quite happily.

Mr Brand, however, suddenly sped up.

“Are you all right?” Mrs Brand called.

“Fine!” shouted Mr Brand.

He was now jogging.

“Why are you jogging?”

“Just need to get home!”

He disappeared around the corner.

Mrs Brand raised an eyebrow.

“That’s odd.”

Then her stomach growled.

She stopped.

Barry looked up.

“Mummy?”

“I’m fine.”

Another rumble.

“Was that your tummy?”

“Yes.”

“It sounded like a dinosaur.”

“It feels like one.”

A few minutes later, Mr Brand was well ahead.

Marjory and Marmaduke reached their front door first.

Marjory turned around.

“Goodnight!”

Mrs Brand waved.

“Goodnight!”

Marmaduke waved too.

“Goodnight, Barry!”

“Goodnight!”

Then Marmaduke suddenly clutched his stomach.

Marjory looked at him.

He looked at her.

They both understood.

“Toilet!” they shouted together.

They vanished through their front door.

Mrs Brand looked at Barry.

Barry looked at Alfie.

Alfie looked completely fine.

“Alfie,” said Mrs Brand.

“Yes?”

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

Barry frowned.

“That’s suspicious.”

Alfie sighed.

“I didn’t eat the sausage.”

Everyone looked at him.

“You what?” said Mrs Brand.

“I put it in the bin.”

There was a long silence.

Mr Brand’s voice floated faintly from somewhere ahead.

“You did what?”

“I put my sausage in the bin.”

Mrs Brand stared at Alfie.

“You knew?”

“It looked raw.”

Mr Brand shouted from the distance.

“WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME?”

Alfie shrugged.

“You were talking.”

There was another silence.

Then Mr Brand shouted, “Fair enough!”

And that was how Saturday night ended.

Not with a cheerful family film.

Not with everyone sitting around drinking hot chocolate.

Not even with someone saying, “What a lovely evening.”

Instead, the Brand family went to bed wondering whether their stomachs would still be attached to them in the morning.

They were.

Mostly.

At seven thirty on Sunday morning, Alfie woke up.

He stretched.

He yawned.

He got out of bed.

He felt… fantastic.

He walked downstairs.

The house was silent.

He made himself some toast.

He ate it.

Nothing happened.

He had a banana.

Nothing happened.

He poured himself some cereal.

Still nothing.

Alfie smiled.

He was beginning to feel rather smug.

Not deliberately.

Just naturally.

He was eight, after all.

He went upstairs and knocked on his parents’ bedroom door.

“Morning.”

There was no answer.

He knocked again.

“Morning?”

A weak voice emerged.

“What time is it?”

“Eight.”

“Go away.”

“Okay.”

Alfie went downstairs.

At nine fifteen, Barry appeared.

He was wearing his pyjamas, dressing gown and one slipper.

He stood at the top of the stairs.

“Alfie?”

“Yes?”

“Is everybody alive?”

“Probably.”

Barry slowly walked downstairs.

He looked pale.

His hair was enormous.

He had a teddy bear tucked underneath one arm.

“I don’t feel very good.”

Alfie looked at him sympathetically.

“You’re probably still feeling ill from yesterday.”

Barry nodded.

“My tummy is making noises.”

“What kind?”

Barry thought.

“Grumbly ones.”

“That’s probably not good.”

Barry sat down.

“What are you having for breakfast?”

“Toast.”

“I want toast.”

“Okay.”

Alfie made him some.

Barry took one bite.

Then stopped.

“I don’t want it.”

“Okay.”

“Can I have a biscuit?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because you were sick last night.”

“I’m not sick now.”

“You don’t look very well.”

Barry considered this.

“Do I look handsome?”

“Not particularly.”

Barry looked offended.

“I look handsome every day.”

“Fine.”

Barry smiled.

“Thank you.”

At ten o’clock, Mrs Brand emerged from the bedroom.

She moved very slowly.

So slowly, in fact, that Barry wondered whether she had become a tortoise.

“Morning,” she whispered.

Alfie looked up.

“Morning, Mum.”

“How are you?”

“Better… on the mend,” she said, holding her fingers crossed. 

“Of course you are.”

She shuffled into the kitchen.

“How’s Barry?”

Barry lifted his head from the sofa.

“I feel funny.”

Mrs Brand nodded.

“So do I.”

“Do you want a cuddle?”

“Yes.”

Barry cuddled in beside her.

She hugged him.

For several minutes, the house was quiet.

Then Mr Brand appeared.

He looked dreadful.

His hair was sticking up.

His dressing gown was tied incorrectly.

He was holding his stomach.

He stopped at the bottom of the stairs.

“Morning.”

Mrs Brand looked at him.

“Morning.”

“How are you?”

“Terrible.”

“Me too.”

Alfie raised his hand.

“I feel brilliant.”

His parents looked at him.

“Well done,” said Mr Brand weakly.

“Thank you.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been jealous of an eight-year-old before.”

“You should have thrown your sausages away,” Alfie said.

Mr Brand closed his eyes.

“Yes, Alfie.”

There was a pause.

“I’ve learned my lesson.”

“Good.”

“Please stop reminding me.”

“Okay.”

Alfie went back to his cereal.

By eleven thirty, the four Brands were still downstairs.

Mr Brand was lying on one sofa.

Mrs Brand was curled up on the other.

Barry was lying across the middle of it like a small, pale starfish.

Alfie was sitting in an armchair reading a book.

He had already finished breakfast.

He had eaten an apple.

He had drunk plenty of water.

He was now considering whether he might have some more toast.

His family watched him in horror.

“You eat like someone who isn’t afraid of sausages,” said Mr Brand.

“I’ve got things to do,” said Alfie.

“What things?”

“I might read another book.”

Mr Brand sighed.

“Wild.”

At precisely eleven forty-seven, there was a knock at the front door.

Nobody moved.

There was another knock.

Mrs Brand slowly sat up.

“Who is it?”

A voice came through the door.

“It’s us!”

Barry sat upright.

“Marmaduke!”

He leapt from the sofa.

“Careful!” shouted Mrs Brand.

Barry reached the door and opened it.

Marjory Jackson stood outside.

She looked slightly better than the night before.

Slightly.

Marmaduke stood beside her.

He looked as though he’d been assembled in a hurry.

His hair was sticking out on one side.

He was holding his stomach.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hello!” said Barry.

“How are you?”

“Not good.”

“Me neither.”

The two boys looked at each other.

Then they smiled.

This was the first sign of trouble.

Marjory walked inside.

“How are the patients?”

Mr Brand lifted a hand.

“Alive.”

Mrs Brand nodded.

“Just.”

Marjory looked at Alfie.

“And you?”

“Fine.”

She shook her head.

“You clever boy.”

Alfie smiled.

Marjory looked at Barry and Marmaduke.

“Now, you two. No running around today.”

Both boys nodded solemnly.

“Okay.”

“No jumping.”

“Okay.”

“No climbing.”

“Okay.”

“No experimenting.”

Barry frowned.

“What about a little experimenting?”

“No.”

Marmaduke nodded.

“That’s probably fair.”

They walked into the sitting room.

Barry whispered to Marmaduke.

“Do you know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think everybody is boring today.”

Marmaduke nodded.

“I think you’re right.”

Alfie looked up from his book.

“I can hear you.”

Barry smiled.

“We know.”

Alfie sighed.

Outside, London carried on as normal.

Cars drove past.

Dogs barked.

People walked their children to the park.

Somewhere, someone was probably cooking sausages.

Inside the Brand house, however, six people were recovering from the consequences of one very expensive-looking barbecue.

Five of them were ill.

One of them was smug.

And two four-year-olds had just discovered that an entire Sunday was available for them to get into trouble.

Alfie closed his book.

He had a horrible feeling that his very peaceful morning was about to end.