Saturday morning began at 5.54am.
This was not, Mrs Brand felt, a reasonable time for Saturday morning to begin.
It was the sort of time that should have existed only on clocks in hospital corridors, airports and houses containing newborn babies.
It was certainly not a suitable time for a house containing two four-year-olds who had fallen asleep at school the previous day because they were so exhausted.
Mrs Brand opened one eye.
She heard footsteps.
Tiny footsteps.
Fast footsteps.
Then a door opened.
Then came Barry’s voice.
“Marmaduke!”
A second voice replied.
“I’m awake!”
Mrs Brand closed her eyes.
Of course he was.
Why would either of them sleep in?
They had spent Friday looking like they might collapse into their chip lunches, had fallen asleep during the school day and had needed practically carrying home.
Surely that meant they would sleep until at least eight?
Perhaps nine?
Maybe even ten?
Apparently not.
Apparently their bodies had decided that after an exhausting week of mental stimulation, the correct response was to wake up before six and begin whispering.
Mrs Brand heard Mr Brand moving beside her.
“What time is it?” he whispered.
“5.54.”
There was silence.
Then:
“That’s illegal.”
“I agree.”
Downstairs, Barry shouted:
“Mummy!”
Mrs Brand pulled the duvet over her head.
“I don’t exist.”
Mr Brand sighed.
“It’s no use.”
“I know.”
There was another shout.
“MUMMY!”
Then Marmaduke:
“Barry, she might be asleep.”
“I know!”
“Then why are you shouting?”
“So she knows we’re awake.”
Mr Brand looked at his wife.
“Very thoughtful.”
There was another complication.
Marjory had stayed overnight.
The builders had been working at her house and had turned the water off while fixing a leak.
So she had arrived at the Brands’ house the previous evening with an overnight bag and the slightly defeated expression of someone who had discovered that apparently plumbing could make an entire house unusable.
She was now asleep in the spare room.
Or had been.
Until 5.54am.
A small knock sounded on her door.
“Marmaduke?”
“Yes?”
“What?”
“It’s morning.”
Marjory opened one eye.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“It is.”
“Who said?”
“The clock.”
Marjory looked at the clock.
5.54.
She stared at it.
Then turned over.
“Go back to sleep.”
Marmaduke considered this.
“Okay.”
There was silence.
Thirty seconds.
Then:
“Mum?”
“Yes?”
“Can I ask you something?”
Marjory sighed.
“What?”
“Are we having breakfast?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“In the morning.”
“It is morning.”
Marjory closed her eyes.
“Go away.”
“Okay.”
He left.
For approximately twenty seconds.
Then Barry appeared.
“Marmaduke!”
“I’m here!”
Marjory pulled the duvet over her head.
She was a neurosurgeon.
She had dealt with emergencies.
She had worked nights.
She had been on call.
She had managed patients who were critically ill.
None of that had prepared her for two four-year-olds before six o’clock on a Saturday.
Eventually everyone made it downstairs.
Mr Brand looked like he had been dragged backwards through the week.
Mrs Brand made coffee.
Marjory sat at the kitchen table.
Barry and Marmaduke ate cereal.
Alfie appeared at a perfectly reasonable time.
He looked at the others.
“Why are you all awake?”
Mrs Brand stared at him.
“Because your brothers are defective.”
Barry frowned.
“I’m not defective.”
“No.”
“I’m awake.”
“We’ve noticed.”
Marmaduke yawned.
Barry yawned.
Marjory yawned.
Mrs Brand yawned.
Mr Brand yawned.
Alfie looked around.
“You’re all making me tired.”
Mrs Brand pointed at him.
“Don’t.”
The morning was supposed to be slow.
There were no urgent plans.
No school.
No work.
No clubs.
Swimming wasn’t until 2.30pm.
It was, in theory, the perfect opportunity for everyone to recover from the week.
In practice, Barry and Marmaduke were now wide awake.
They built a den.
They played with toy cars.
They looked through a book about dinosaurs.
They discussed Barbados.
They asked what Snowball was doing.
They fed Snowball.
They watched Snowball eat.
They watched Snowball wash herself.
They watched Snowball sleep.
They watched Snowball wake up.
Barry announced that he had watched Snowball “for almost a whole minute without blinking.”
Mrs Brand told him this was an impressive achievement.
Marjory suggested he might like to try it with his eyes closed.
He did.
For approximately three seconds.
Then he opened them.
“It’s boring.”
“Yes,” said Marjory. “That’s usually why people sleep.”
At about eleven, Barry went outside.
He wandered into the garden.
The morning was cool and bright.
Leaves covered parts of the lawn.
Barry crouched near the shed.
“Mousey?”
There was a tiny movement.
Barry froze.
A little brown garden mouse appeared.
Mousey.
Barry smiled.
“Hello!”
Mousey looked at him.
Then stopped.
Then sniffed.
Mousey had been around the Brands’ garden before.
She knew Barry.
She knew his voice.
She knew that he sometimes brought crumbs.
She knew that he was four.
What Mousey did not know was why Barry now smelled strongly of cat.
Barry leaned closer.
Mousey sniffed again.
She took one tiny step backwards.
“Mousey?”
Another step backwards.
“It’s me.”
Mousey appeared unconvinced.
Barry had spent considerable time cuddling Snowball.
He smelled of cat.
Not faintly.
Not subtly.
He smelled, to a mouse, like a large and highly suspicious predator had recently moved into the house.
Barry smiled.
“Come here.”
Mousey disappeared.
Barry looked disappointed.
“She ran away.”
Mrs Brand, who had been watching from the kitchen window, smiled.
“Can you blame her?”
“Why?”
“You smell like Snowball.”
Barry sniffed his sleeve.
“I do?”
“Yes.”
He looked towards the shed.
“Mousey likes Snowball.”
Mrs Brand laughed.
“I don’t think that’s quite the conclusion Mousey has reached.”
At lunchtime, Mrs Brand made sure the boys had a proper meal.
Swimming was at 2.30pm.
Marjory had thought the timing was perfect.
A good lunch.
Enough time to digest.
A leisurely walk to the pool.
Then swimming.
It was sensible.
Organised.
Calm.
Mrs Brand liked sensible.
She had learned, however, that sensible plans had a rather limited shelf life when Barry was involved.
The boys ate.
A lot.
Marmaduke had seconds.
Barry had seconds.
Then Barry looked at Mrs Brand.
“Can I have more?”
“You’ve had two helpings.”
“But swimming makes you hungry.”
“You haven’t swum yet.”
“I need energy.”
“For what?”
“Swimming.”
“You’ve just eaten enough to swim across the Atlantic.”
Barry nodded.
“Good.”
Eventually it was time to leave.
Swimming bags were packed.
Towels.
Goggles.
Costumes.
Water bottles.
Everything was checked.
Marjory came too.
The four of them walked towards the pool.
Barry and Marmaduke were excited.
But this time there was something different.
Last term, swimming had been full of noise.
Armbands.
Games.
Splashes.
Floats.
The boys had been more interested in everything except actually swimming.
This term, something had changed.
Perhaps it was getting older.
Perhaps it was confidence.
Perhaps it was simply that they had spent three weeks being told by every adult they knew that they could do things for themselves.
Whatever the reason, when they arrived at the pool, both boys looked at the water differently.
The pool seemed enormous.
Much bigger than Barry remembered.
Marmaduke stared.
“It’s huge.”
“Yes,” said Mrs Brand.
“Was it this big before?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“It looks bigger.”
“That’s because you’re smaller.”
Barry looked suspicious.
“I haven’t got smaller.”
“No.”
“Have I?”
“No.”
“Good.”
The swimming teacher called the children over.
“Right, everyone. Today we’re going to work without armbands.”
Barry looked at Marmaduke.
Marmaduke looked at Barry.
No one spoke.
Then Barry whispered:
“Where are our armbands?”
“We’re not using them.”
Barry frowned.
“Why?”
“Because you’re learning to swim without them.”
Barry looked at the water.
Then at his mother.
Then at Marjory.
Then back at the water.
“Oh.”
There was no dramatic protest.
No argument.
No attempt to retrieve inflatable equipment.
Barry simply nodded.
Marmaduke did the same.
They climbed into the pool.
And immediately began concentrating.
The floats were handed out.
But even those seemed different.
Last term, the boys had happily clung to them.
Today, they used them properly.
The teacher demonstrated.
Kick.
Breathe.
Reach.
Float.
Move.
Barry tried.
His legs kicked.
His face disappeared beneath the water.
He came back up.
He looked surprised.
“I did it.”
“Yes,” said the teacher.
Marmaduke tried.
He moved smoothly through the water.
Barry watched.
“That’s good.”
Marmaduke smiled.
“Thanks.”
Then Barry tried again.
This time he went further.
The teacher smiled.
“Excellent.”
Barry grinned.
He was beginning to understand.
This wasn’t just splashing anymore.
He was actually swimming.
The floats seemed less buoyant than he remembered.
Barry looked at his.
“It doesn’t work.”
“It does.”
“It doesn’t hold me up.”
“It’s not supposed to do all the work.”
Barry looked offended.
“Why not?”
“Because you’re learning to swim.”
Barry thought about that.
“So I’m supposed to do it?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
He kicked harder.
Marmaduke was already getting the hang of it.
The teacher moved between them, correcting arms and legs.
The lesson had a different feel.
More serious.
Less frantic.
The boys were still four.
They still laughed.
They still splashed.
But they were listening.
They wanted to improve.
They wanted to move through the water themselves.
Mrs Brand watched from the side.
She smiled.
Marjory smiled too.
“They’re changing,” she said.
“Yes.”
“They’ve only been at school three weeks.”
“I know.”
“And they’re already getting more independent.”
Mrs Brand watched Barry push himself away from the side.
“It’s lovely.”
“Yes.”
“Although I’m not sure I’m ready for them to become independent.”
Marjory laughed.
“You’ll have to be.”
“Not yet.”
At the end of the lesson, both boys climbed out.
They were soaked.
Tired.
Cold.
And absolutely delighted.
Barry wrapped himself in his towel.
“I swam.”
“You did.”
“Without armbands.”
“Yes.”
“And the float didn’t do it.”
“No.”
“I did.”
Mrs Brand smiled.
“You did.”
Marmaduke was equally proud.
“We’re proper swimmers now.”
Barry nodded.
“Almost.”
“Almost?”
“We need to swim in Barbados.”
Marmaduke’s eyes widened.
“That’s a long way.”
Barry considered it.
“Maybe we can use a float.”
Marjory laughed.
“Perhaps we’ll start with the hotel pool.”
“That sounds safer.”
On the walk home, both boys were quieter.
Their legs were tired.
Their hair was damp.
Their swimming bags felt heavy.
Barry held Marmaduke’s hand.
“I liked swimming today.”
“So did I.”
“It was hard.”
“Yes.”
“But good.”
Marmaduke nodded.
They walked on.
Then Barry stopped.
“Do you think Mousey will like the smell of me now?”
Marjory laughed.
“Probably not.”
Barry sniffed his sleeve.
“I smell like swimming.”
“Exactly.”
“Maybe Mousey likes swimming.”
“She is a mouse.”
“Oh.”
Barry thought about it.
“Maybe she needs lessons.”
Mrs Brand laughed.
“Let’s leave Mousey out of this.”
They continued home.
Behind them, the pool disappeared around the corner.
Ahead was home.
Snowball.
Lunch.
A quiet afternoon.
And, hopefully, some sleep.
Although nobody was making promises.
After all, it was only 4pm.
There was plenty of time for Barry to discover something else.
And if he did, Marmaduke would almost certainly be there.
Because that was the thing about being four.
The world was enormous.
Everything was interesting.
Every animal was potentially a friend.
Every swimming pool was an ocean.
Every holiday was an adventure.
Every tiny mouse deserved investigation.
And every apparently sensible Saturday had the potential to become something completely different.
That evening, Barry climbed into bed.
Mrs Brand tucked him in.
“Goodnight.”
“Night, Mummy.”
“Did you enjoy swimming?”
“Yes.”
“Did you like not having armbands?”
“Yes.”
“Did you feel like you were really swimming?”
Barry nodded.
“I was.”
Mrs Brand smiled.
“I’m proud of you.”
Barry smiled sleepily.
“I think I’m getting bigger.”
“You are.”
He yawned.
“I’m still four.”
“Yes.”
“But nearly five.”
“Not for quite a while.”
“Oh.”
He closed his eyes.
There was silence.
Then:
“Mummy?”
“Yes?”
“When we go to Barbados, can I swim without armbands?”
“Yes.”
“With Marmaduke?”
“Yes.”
“Can Snowball swim?”
“No.”
“Can Mousey swim?”
“Probably.”
“Can Daddy swim?”
“Yes.”
“Can you?”
“Yes.”
“Can Alfie?”
“Yes.”
Barry smiled.
“Everyone can swim.”
Mrs Brand smiled back.
“Goodnight, Barry.”
“Goodnight.”
She turned out the light.
Within seconds, he was asleep.
Down the hall, Marmaduke was already asleep too.
After three weeks of Reception, a cat with FIV, a forthcoming trip to Barbados, autumn leaves, bonfires, tropical fish, guide dog puppies, handwriting, hot chocolate, swimming lessons and the general exhausting business of being four, they had finally discovered something useful.
They could swim.
They could learn.
They could try.
And they could, apparently, survive an entire Saturday starting at 5.54am.
Although Mrs Brand was fairly certain that particular achievement would never be celebrated on a certificate.
And if it was, she intended to frame it.
Right next to the swimming certificates.
Because honestly, getting two four-year-olds to sleep past six o’clock would require considerably more skill than swimming 10 metres.
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