Barry had been awake since 5:14 a.m.
Nobody knew this except Barry.
The rest of the Brand household believed the day had begun at a perfectly respectable 6:45, when Barry dramatically burst into his parents’ bedroom wearing one shoe, his preschool jumper back to front, and carrying a dinosaur.
“I’ve packed everything,” he announced proudly.
Mrs Brand opened one eye.
“The dinosaur isn’t on the school list.”
“He gets lonely.”
“I’m sure he does.”
Barry nodded gravely.
“Exactly.”
From downstairs came the unmistakable sound of someone making toast.
That someone was Alfie.
Because Alfie was beginning Year 4 today, and apparently Year 4 children became responsible citizens overnight. He had laid out his uniform the evening before. His shoes had been polished until they reflected nearby furniture. His water bottle was already filled. His reading book was neatly tucked into his bag.
He had even packed two pencils.
Nobody knew why.
“It’s called being prepared,” Alfie said when Barry asked.
“For… what?”
“For needing a pencil.”
Barry considered this.
“What if you need three?”
Alfie froze.
“…That’s actually an excellent point.”
Across the road, Marmaduke was having a rather different morning.
His mum, Marjory, a brilliant neurosurgeon who could calmly perform operations lasting twelve hours, was currently chasing a four-year-old around the kitchen holding a tiny school tie.
“Marmaduke…”
“No.”
“You have to wear it.”
“I’ve decided ties are for meetings.”
“You are going to Reception.”
“Exactly.”
Marjory sighed.
“I save lives for a living.”
“And today,” said Marmaduke, sprinting behind the sofa, “you save ties.”
By eight o’clock, three slightly emotional adults and three very different children stood outside the school gates.
Mrs Brand smiled.
“I can’t believe our babies are starting Reception.”
Mr Brand took several photographs.
Then several more.
Then one from slightly further back.
Then one “with better lighting.”
Then one because Barry had picked his nose in the previous photo.
Marjory was also taking pictures.
“So we have memories.”
Barry was less interested in memories than he was in the enormous playground beyond the gates.
“It has climbing frames.”
“It does.”
“And football.”
“Yes.”
“And Year Sixes.”
“…Yes.”
“What do they eat?”
Mr Brand blinked.
“The Year Sixes?”
Barry nodded.
“They’re enormous.”
Alfie adjusted his backpack straps.
“I’d better go.”
Mrs Brand kissed his forehead.
“Have a lovely first day of Year 4.”
“I intend to.”
“You sound like you’re reporting for military service.”
“It is Year 4.”
He marched confidently away.
Barry watched him disappear.
“He’s walking like the headteacher.”
“He practised,” Marmaduke added.
“I know,” sighed Mrs Brand.
The Reception teachers welcomed everyone warmly.
“Good morning, Barry!”
“Morning!”
“Good morning, Marmaduke!”
“Morning!”
“Today you’re officially part of the school.”
Barry’s eyes widened.
“So…”
“Yes?”
“I can use the big playground?”
“You can.”
“The WHOLE big playground?”
“At playtime, yes.”
Barry looked at Marmaduke.
Marmaduke looked at Barry.
This was, they silently agreed, the greatest news since dinosaurs.
Their classroom felt wonderfully grown up.
There were pegs with names.
Tiny drawers.
Book bags hanging neatly.
Actual exercise books.
Not just endless sheets of paper.
Miss Thorpe smiled.
“Today we’ll learn about our classroom routines.”
Barry raised his hand.
“Excellent sitting.”
“Thank you.”
“What happens if we accidentally find treasure?”
Miss Thorpe paused.
“…In the classroom?”
“Yes.”
“We’d probably tell an adult.”
“What if pirates arrive first?”
“I think we’ll manage.”
Golden Time had changed.
There was still some free play.
Just… less.
Miss Thorpe explained.
“Because now we’ll have more lessons.”
Barry frowned.
“Lessons?”
“Yes.”
“So…”
“Yes?”
“…playing has been reduced?”
“A little.”
Barry looked genuinely heartbroken.
“This feels political.”
Miss Thorpe bit her lip.
Several teaching assistants suddenly found fascinating things to organise behind cupboards.
Their first lesson involved recognising their names.
Barry proudly found his.
Marmaduke accidentally collected someone else’s.
Then another.
Then three more.
“I’ve got lots!”
“They aren’t yours,” whispered Barry.
“Oh.”
He quietly returned them.
Next came phonics.
Miss Thorpe held up cards.
“A…”
“APPLE!” shouted everyone.
“B…”
“BALL!”
“C…”
Barry’s hand shot up.
“Yes?”
“CROCODILE.”
“It says ‘cat.’”
“It could become a crocodile.”
“That’s… unlikely.”
“You haven’t met determined cats.”
Playtime finally arrived.
The big playground.
The legendary playground.
The playground previously occupied only by Big Children.
Barry stepped outside dramatically.
“It’s beautiful.”
Marmaduke whispered,
“I’ve got goosebumps.”
“It’s ‘cause it’s windy.”
“Oh.”
There were footballs.
Skipping ropes.
Hopscotch.
A climbing frame that looked approximately the size of Buckingham Palace.
Older children ran everywhere.
Barry looked around with enormous eyes.
“We’re tiny.”
“We are.”
“I like it.”
Within forty-three seconds…
…Barry had discovered a drain cover.
Naturally.
Every playground has one.
Most children ignore them.
Barry crouched beside it like an archaeologist uncovering ancient civilisation.
“I wonder where this goes.”
Marmaduke immediately crouched too.
“I wonder too.”
Barry poked it gently.
“It probably leads to secret tunnels.”
“Definitely.”
“Or crocodiles.”
“School crocodiles.”
“Exactly.”
Mrs Brand would later reflect that if Barry ever became a detective, every investigation would somehow begin with a drain.
The lunchtime bell rang.
Barry gasped.
“We’re eating in the refectory!”
The refectory felt enormous.
Tables stretched forever.
Hundreds of children chatted happily.
Dinner ladies somehow knew absolutely everything.
Including who hadn’t eaten vegetables yesterday.
Barry and Marmaduke sat in the reception corner.
“This is like a restaurant,” Barry whispered.
“It is.”
“But with more shouting.”
“It definitely is.”
Today’s lunch was pasta.
Barry inspected it carefully.
“It appears acceptable.”
Marmaduke copied him.
“Minealso appears acceptable.”
Neither had ever described pasta as “acceptable” before.
Halfway through lunch…
…Barry noticed Year Fours sitting nearby.
Including…
Alfie.
Alfie spotted them.
He smiled politely.
Gave a tiny wave.
Then immediately continued eating sensibly.
Barry waved back with both arms.
“ALFIE!”
Half the refectory looked around.
Alfie slowly slid lower in his chair.
One of his friends asked,
“Your brother?”
“Unfortunately.”
After lunch came story time.
Then counting.
Then painting.
Barry managed paint on:
His paper.
His sleeve.
His elbow.
One shoe.
The table.
Somehow one eyebrow.
Miss Thorpe examined the evidence.
“Barry…”
“Yes?”
“How?”
“I committed fully.”
Meanwhile Marmaduke had painted exactly one careful blue circle.
“It’s a whale.”
“It’s lovely.”
“Barry says it’s also a biscuit.”
Barry nodded confidently.
“It can be both.”
Later in the afternoon the children explored the library.
Barry looked around in amazement.
“So many books.”
Miss Thorpe smiled.
“You can borrow one soon.”
Barry picked one about space.
Then one about sharks.
Then dinosaurs.
Then trains.
Then volcanoes.
Then bugs.
“You can only choose one.”
Barry looked horrified.
“One?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“This is impossible.”
“It is called making a decision.”
Barry sighed deeply.
“School is difficult.”
Just before home time everyone packed their book bags.
Barry carefully placed his picture inside.
Then his reading folder.
Then…
A pine cone.
Miss Thorpe noticed.
“Why is there a pine cone?”
“For emergencies.”
“What kind of emergency?”
“The sort requiring a pine cone.”
She decided not to ask further.
Some questions truly have no satisfying answer.
Outside, parents gathered excitedly.
Mrs Brand practically bounced.
“How was it?”
Barry took a dramatic breath.
“There were lessons.”
“Oh?”
“And less Golden Time.”
“I know.”
“But…”
He grinned.
“…the playground is MASSIVE!”
Mr Brand laughed.
“What was your favourite part?”
“The playground.”
“What did you learn?”
Barry thought carefully.
“Drains are still interesting.”
Mrs Brand looked at Miss Thorpe.
Miss Thorpe simply nodded.
“…Yes.”
Marjory crouched beside Marmaduke.
“Did you have fun?”
“Yes.”
“Make friends?”
“I already brought Barry.”
“Good point.”
“What happens tomorrow?”
“You come back.”
Marmaduke looked delighted.
“We get another playground?”
“The same one.”
“Even better.”
Alfie emerged from the Year 4 classrooms carrying approximately six sheets of paper.
“I’ve got homework.”
Mr Brand smiled.
“Already?”
“It’s only reading.”
Barry looked horrified.
“Homework?”
“Yes.”
Barry whispered to Marmaduke,
“We should stay four forever.”
Marmaduke nodded vigorously.
“Definitely.”
Alfie overheard.
“You’ll get homework eventually.”
Barry looked thoughtful.
“What if I politely decline?”
“It doesn’t work.”
“Have you tried?”
“…No.”
“There you are then.”
Walking home through the warm London afternoon, three children chatted over one another.
“I climbed the frame!”
“I painted a whale!”
“We’ve got spellings on Friday!”
“There was pasta!”
“I’ve got a new reading book!”
“I found a drain!”
One of these achievements clearly meant more to Barry than the others.
Mr Brand carried three book bags because apparently small people became incapable of carrying anything after school.
Mrs Brand listened to every excited sentence.
Marjory laughed as Marmaduke demonstrated how “grown up” the playground felt by stretching onto tiptoes.
The three adults exchanged that familiar smile parents wear after a milestone.
One part pride.
One part relief.
One part wondering whether tomorrow morning would involve fewer arguments about school ties.
(It would not.)
That evening Barry carefully unpacked his bag.
Out came:
His picture.
His reading folder.
One slightly squashed banana.
A mysterious feather.
The emergency pine cone.
Nobody knew where the feather had come from.
Even Barry wasn’t entirely certain.
“I think it adopted me.”
Mrs Brand accepted this explanation because she no longer had the energy to question the natural laws surrounding her youngest child.
At bedtime she tucked Barry in.
“So…”
“Yes?”
“Did you like being a proper Reception child?”
Barry smiled sleepily.
“I did.”
“What was the best bit?”
“The big playground.”
“And the lessons?”
“They’re all right.”
“And lunch?”
“Very acceptable.”
Mrs Brand kissed his forehead.
“I’m proud of you.”
Barry yawned.
“I was brave.”
“You certainly were.”
“And tomorrow…”
“Yes?”
“…I might investigate the other drain.”
Mrs Brand closed her eyes for just a moment.
Some children dreamed of superheroes.
Some dreamed of pirates.
Barry dreamed of municipal drainage systems.
Every family, after all, has its own special talent.
And just down the road, Marmaduke was already laying out his uniform for the morning because Barry had announced that “professional explorers wear tidy jumpers.”
Alfie had finished his reading homework, packed three pencils instead of two—just in case—and was already asleep, content that Year 4 had begun exactly as planned.
The adults, meanwhile, sat quietly with mugs of tea.
“Our boys are growing up,” Mrs Brand said softly.
“They are,” said Mr Brand.
There was a thoughtful silence.
Then Mrs Brand added, “Do you think we should ask why Barry came home with a feather?”
Mr Brand considered this carefully.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because if we ask, he’ll explain.”
She nodded.
“You’re right.”
Some mysteries are simply too dangerous to solve. After all, tomorrow was another school day—and experience suggested it was only a matter of time before Barry discovered something even more fascinating than a drain.
Perhaps a manhole.
The teachers, blissfully unaware, were looking forward to another lovely day.
Alfie, Barry and Marmaduke Stories 
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