Monday morning arrived with the usual enthusiasm of a Monday morning.
Which is to say, very little.
The adults were tired.
Alfie was ready for school because Alfie was always ready for school.
Marmaduke was ready because Marmaduke generally enjoyed whatever was happening.
Barry was ready because Mrs Brand had told him he was ready.
There was a difference.
At breakfast, Mrs Brand reminded everyone that she and Mr Brand were going into Reception that morning.
“I’m going to school?” asked Barry.
“No,” said Mrs Brand. “We’re coming into your classroom.”
Barry stopped eating.
“Why?”
“To watch your maths lesson.”
Barry looked horrified.
“Why?”
“Because that’s what parents do.”
“Do you have to?”
“Yes.”
“Can you watch someone else’s?”
“No.”
Barry sighed.
“This is embarrassing.”
Alfie looked up from his breakfast.
“You don’t have to do anything different.”
“I know.”
“Just do your normal maths.”
Barry thought about this.
“That could be embarrassing too.”
Marjory arrived a few minutes later with Marmaduke and walk with the Brands.
She had been invited along because Marmaduke had been particularly keen to show her what they did in maths.
“I want to show you the numbers,” he announced.
Marjory smiled.
“I’d love to see.”
Barry looked at her.
“We do shapes.”
“Excellent.”
“And counting.”
“Excellent.”
“And sometimes we do other things.”
“What sort of other things?”
Barry shrugged.
“Maths things.”
Marjory nodded.
“Very specific.”
By the time they reached school, they joined twenty Reception children settling into the classroom.
Mrs Abraham greeted the parents at the door.
“Come in and make yourselves comfortable.”
Mr Brand looked around.
The classroom was bright and busy.
There were number lines.
Shapes.
Pictures.
Counters.
Books.
Posters.
Children’s work displayed around the walls.
He looked at Marjory.
“This is very different from my maths lessons.”
Marjory nodded.
“Mine too.”
“How did we learn maths?”
Marjory thought.
“I remember a blackboard.”
“So do I.”
“And copying things.”
“Yes.”
“And doing pages of questions.”
“Yes.”
“And being terrified of getting something wrong.”
Marjory smiled.
“Don’t forget rulers.”
Mr Brand nodded.
“Ah yes. The ruler.”
“What was it for?”
“Maths.”
“What did you do with it?”
“I have no idea.”
Marjory laughed.
Mrs Abraham called the children over to the carpet.
Twenty little bodies shuffled across the room.
Mr Brand watched.
Barry found a space.
Marmaduke sat down beside him.
Alfie, who had been allowed to come and watch briefly before Year 4 registration, stood near the back with Mrs Brand.
Mrs Abraham sat down.
“Good morning, everyone.”
“Good morning, Mrs Abraham.”
Mr Brand blinked.
The children were sitting.
Quietly.
All twenty of them.
He looked at Mrs Brand.
She looked back.
He mouthed:
What is happening?
Mrs Brand tried not to laugh.
Mrs Abraham held up a card.
“Who can tell me what shape this is?”
A sea of hands shot up.
Barry’s went up too.
Marmaduke’s went up.
Mrs Abraham chose someone.
“A triangle.”
“Excellent.”
She held up another.
“What’s this?”
“Circle!”
Another.
“Square!”
Another.
“Rectangle!”
Another.
“Triangle!”
Mr Brand stared.
He had expected some sort of gentle chaos.
A child rolling around.
Someone asking for the toilet.
Someone eating a piece of carpet.
Perhaps Barry climbing a cupboard.
Instead, twenty children were identifying two-dimensional shapes as if they had been employed by a small mathematical consultancy.
Mrs Brand leaned towards him.
“Impressive, isn’t it?”
Mr Brand nodded.
“Very.”
Mrs Abraham held up another card.
“What can you tell me about this shape?”
A child said, “It has four sides.”
“Good.”
“Two long sides and two short sides.”
“Excellent.”
Barry raised his hand.
Mrs Abraham chose him.
“It looks like a door.”
Mrs Abraham smiled.
“Yes, it does.”
Barry nodded, satisfied.
He had contributed.
Mr Brand whispered, “That’s definitely his approach.”
Marjory smiled.
“He’s relating mathematics to doors.”
“Useful skill.”
Next came counting.
Mrs Abraham explained that they were going to count in tens.
Mr Brand looked at Marjory.
“Four-year-olds?”
Marjory nodded.
Apparently so.
“Ten!”
The children responded.
“Twenty!”
“Thirty!”
“Forty!”
“Fifty!”
“Sixty!”
“Seventy!”
“Eighty!”
“Ninety!”
“One hundred!”
Mr Brand looked genuinely stunned.
He whispered, “They can count to one hundred in tens.”
Marjory nodded.
“They’re four.”
“I know.”
“I think you may have underestimated them.”
“I may have.”
Barry was sitting perfectly still.
Marmaduke was equally focused.
Mr Brand stared at his younger son.
This was the same Barry who had recently spent ten minutes trying to convince everyone that Snowball might enjoy playing drums.
The same Barry who had once treated a glue stick as a scientific instrument.
The same Barry who had suggested explosions were essential to rock music.
And here he was.
Counting in tens.
Correctly.
Mr Brand felt a strange mixture of pride and disbelief.
“Ten!”
“Twenty!”
“Thirty!”
The children continued.
Marmaduke’s voice was clear and confident.
He looked completely at ease.
He wasn’t looking around.
He wasn’t fiddling with his jumper.
He wasn’t asking what was for lunch.
He was simply doing the maths.
Marjory watched him with a huge smile.
“He’s really comfortable with it.”
Mrs Brand nodded.
“He is.”
Mr Brand smiled.
“He’s going to be a clever boy.”
Marjory looked at Marmaduke.
“I think he is.”
Then she looked at Barry.
Barry was now staring at the ceiling.
Mr Brand followed his gaze.
“What is he doing?”
Mrs Brand whispered, “Looking at the light.”
“Why?”
“I have no idea.”
Barry suddenly looked back at Mrs Abraham.
He had returned to mathematics.
For the moment.
Mrs Abraham brought out number cards.
“I’m going to show you a number. Tell me what it is.”
She held up a card.
“Seven.”
Another.
“Three.”
Another.
“Ten.”
Another.
“Fourteen.”
The children answered quickly.
Marmaduke was particularly quick.
He knew the numbers.
He recognised them.
He wasn’t guessing.
He wasn’t copying.
He was genuinely beginning to understand what the symbols meant.
Mr Brand watched him.
“He’s good.”
Marjory nodded.
“He really is.”
Marmaduke looked at the next card.
“Twenty.”
Mrs Abraham smiled.
“Excellent.”
Barry raised his hand.
Mrs Abraham chose him.
“Eight.”
“Correct.”
Barry looked pleased.
Then he turned slightly towards Marmaduke.
Marmaduke grinned.
They had both got it.
The lesson moved on.
Mrs Abraham asked questions.
The children answered.
They counted.
They recognised numbers.
They discussed shapes.
They explained their thinking.
They listened to one another.
Mr Brand found himself thinking about his own childhood.
His maths lessons had involved a teacher, a blackboard and a terrifying amount of handwriting.
He remembered being told to copy sums.
He remembered learning tables by repetition.
He remembered doing worksheets.
He remembered the horrible sensation of seeing a red mark beside an answer.
This was completely different.
The children were talking.
Thinking.
Explaining.
Moving.
Using objects.
Looking at pictures.
Answering questions.
Making mistakes without the world ending.
And somehow, it was all maths.
Mrs Abraham eventually said, “Okay, everyone. We’re going back to our tables.”
The children stood.
For approximately three seconds, the classroom became a hurricane.
Chairs moved.
Children shuffled.
Someone dropped a pencil.
Someone else announced that they had lost a rubber despite the fact that they were four and therefore had almost certainly never owned a rubber.
Then everyone sat down.
Mrs Abraham began the next activity.
Barry and Marmaduke looked at one another.
They smiled.
Barry waved.
Marmaduke waved back.
Barry whispered something.
Marmaduke whispered something back.
Barry giggled.
Marmaduke giggled.
Mrs Abraham looked over.
Neither child was being naughty.
Neither was disrupting the class.
They were simply four.
Mr Brand watched.
He smiled.
“That’s more like it.”
Mrs Brand laughed quietly.
“Normal service has resumed.”
Barry waved again.
Marmaduke waved back.
Barry whispered something else.
Marmaduke covered his mouth to stop himself laughing.
Mr Brand leaned towards Marjory.
“They’ve lasted longer than I expected.”
Marjory smiled.
“They were brilliant on the carpet.”
“They were.”
“They focused really well.”
“They did.”
“Now they’re four again.”
Mr Brand nodded.
“Thank goodness.”
Mrs Abraham moved around the tables.
The children worked.
Barry was trying hard.
Marmaduke was quietly getting on with his work.
Every so often Barry looked across at him.
Marmaduke looked back.
Another tiny smile.
Another tiny wave.
Another whispered comment.
Mrs Abraham gently reminded them to concentrate.
“Yes, Mrs Abraham,” said Barry.
“Yes, Mrs Abraham,” said Marmaduke.
And they did.
For a few minutes.
Which, frankly, was an excellent result.
Mr Brand watched Barry carefully.
He realised something.
At home, Barry was always moving.
Always asking.
Always exploring.
Always finding something that hadn’t occurred to anyone else.
But here, in the classroom, he was learning how to focus.
He was learning numbers.
Shapes.
Patterns.
Listening.
Taking turns.
Explaining.
Thinking.
And he was doing it alongside twenty other little people who were all learning the same things at slightly different speeds.
Marjory looked at Mr Brand.
“You all right?”
“Yes.”
“You look emotional.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You do.”
“I’m just surprised.”
“By maths?”
“By them.”
Marjory smiled.
“Me too.”
Mr Brand looked across at Marmaduke.
“He’s so comfortable.”
“He is.”
“And Barry.”
“What about him?”
Mr Brand smiled.
“He’s actually doing brilliantly.”
Marjory nodded.
“He is.”
“He just doesn’t look like he’s doing brilliantly.”
Mrs Brand laughed.
“That is Barry’s special talent.”
At the end of the session, Mrs Abraham brought the children back together.
She asked a few final questions.
The children answered.
Then she thanked the parents for coming.
Barry immediately looked towards Mr Brand.
“Daddy!”
Mr Brand smiled.
“Hello.”
“Did you see me?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see me do maths?”
“I did.”
“I did loads.”
“You did.”
Marmaduke ran over to Marjory.
“Did you see me?”
“I saw everything.”
“I got twenty.”
“You did.”
“I’m good at maths.”
Marjory smiled.
“You are.”
Marmaduke beamed.
Barry looked at him.
“I’m good at maths too.”
Marmaduke nodded.
“Yes.”
Barry thought about it.
“I’m also good at guitars.”
Alfie, who was waiting nearby, raised an eyebrow.
“Not yet.”
Barry ignored him.
“I can do an A chord.”
Mr Brand laughed.
“Of course you can.”
Mrs Abraham smiled.
“Thank you for coming.”
Mr Brand shook her hand.
“Thank you. That was fascinating.”
Mrs Abraham smiled.
“They’re a lovely class.”
“They really are.”
As they walked out of the classroom, Mr Brand looked at Marjory.
“I honestly can’t believe how different maths is.”
Marjory nodded.
“It’s changed enormously.”
“I’m not sure I would have enjoyed it like this.”
“You didn’t enjoy it?”
“I tolerated it.”
Marjory laughed.
“That’s different.”
“It was numbers on a board.”
“And now?”
Mr Brand looked back through the classroom window.
Twenty four-year-olds.
Twenty little minds.
All learning.
All thinking.
All beginning to understand a subject that would eventually become increasingly complicated.
And somehow, they were already doing it.
He smiled.
“Now it looks like they’re actually enjoying it.”
Marjory nodded.
“They are.”
Behind them, Barry appeared at the classroom door.
“Daddy!”
Mr Brand turned.
“Yes?”
“Do we have to do maths at home?”
Mr Brand smiled.
“Not tonight.”
Barry looked relieved.
Then he asked, “Can we do guitar?”
Mr Brand hesitated.
“Probably.”
Barry grinned.
“Excellent.”
Marmaduke appeared beside him.
“Can we make a band?”
Mr Brand sighed.
“What sort of band?”
Barry shouted from behind him.
“THE EXPLODING GUITARS!”
Mr Brand closed his eyes.
Marjory laughed.
Mrs Brand laughed.
Even Mrs Abraham laughed.
Mr Brand looked at the ceiling.
Only minutes earlier, he’d been marveling at the sophistication of modern Reception mathematics.
Now he was being asked to fund an exploding children’s rock band.
Perhaps some things hadn’t changed that much after all.
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