It was Tuesday morning, and the children of Reception had been given some very important information.
There was going to be a Harvest Festival in just over 2 weeks.
On Wednesday 15 October.
This was apparently an extremely important event.
Mrs Abraham had explained that the children would be singing songs about autumn, harvest, apples, vegetables, farmers, rain and other things that were considerably more exciting when you were four.
Barry had listened carefully.
For about thirty seconds.
Then he had asked whether there would be cake.
Mrs Abraham had explained that the school would not be providing cake.
Barry had immediately lost some of his enthusiasm for the entire agricultural industry.
Marmaduke, on the other hand, was delighted.
He liked singing.
He liked school.
He liked autumn.
He particularly liked anything involving being allowed to stand on a stage while grown-ups watched him.
By lunchtime, the Reception children had learned several songs.
By home time, they had learned them considerably louder.
And by the time Barry and Marmaduke arrived at the Brand house after school, they had apparently decided that the official school rehearsal could not possibly be enough.
They needed their own.
Mr Brand was sitting in the lounge with his laptop.
Mrs Brand was at the kitchen table working.
Alfie was upstairs doing homework.
Snowball was asleep in her favourite basket, having apparently discovered that the afternoon was considerably better when nobody was asking her to listen to them sing.
Barry and Marmaduke walked into the lounge.
Barry dropped his school bag.
Marmaduke dropped his coat.
Barry took a deep breath.
Marmaduke took a deep breath.
Mr Brand looked up.
“Oh no.”
Barry started singing.
“CAULIFLOWERS AND CABBAGES—”
Marmaduke joined in.
“PUMPKINS, APPLES, WHEAT AND HAY—”
Mr Brand slowly closed his laptop.
Mrs Brand appeared in the doorway.
“What are you doing?”
“Practising,” said Barry.
“For the Harvest Festival,” added Marmaduke.
“We’re very good,” said Barry.
Mr Brand looked at Mrs Brand.
She looked at him.
Neither of them said anything.
Then Barry started the song again.
Much louder.
There was an enthusiastic clapping section.
Unfortunately, Barry had misunderstood the rhythm.
Marmaduke tried to follow him.
This resulted in the two boys clapping at completely different moments.
It sounded less like a school Harvest Festival and more like two people trying to start a fire by hitting pieces of wood together.
Mr Brand smiled.
“Well, you’re certainly enthusiastic.”
“We need music,” said Barry.
Marmaduke nodded.
“We need a guitar.”
Mr Brand looked at the ceiling.
He had a sudden idea.
A terrible idea.
An idea that would either be brilliant or lead to an evening of noise.
Probably both.
He picked up his phone.
“I’m going to call Ted.”
Barry stopped singing.
“Ted?”
“The guitar teacher.”
Barry’s eyes widened.
“Really?”
“If he’s free.”
Mr Brand called Edward Carter-Brown.
Ted answered.
“Hi.”
“Hi, Ted. Are you busy?”
There was a pause.
“No. Why?” Ted never appeared to be busy.
Mr Brand looked at Barry.
Barry was now standing with his hands clasped, staring at him as if the future of Western civilisation depended on the answer.
“Would you mind popping round?”
Another pause.
“What for?”
“Harvest Festival rehearsal.”
There was silence.
Then Ted laughed.
“Seriously?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Give me twenty minutes.”
Barry punched the air.
“Yes!”
Snowball opened one eye.
She looked at Barry.
Then at Mr Brand.
Then closed her eye again.
She had clearly decided that whatever was about to happen was not her problem.
Twenty minutes later, there was a knock at the door.
Ted arrived carrying his guitar.
His hair was long.
He was wearing a black T-shirt.
His guitar bag was slung over his shoulder.
He looked, as usual, as though he had accidentally walked out of a rock concert and into a suburban London semi.
Barry stared at him.
“Ted!”
Ted smiled.
“Hello, mate.”
“We’re doing the Harvest Festival.”
“I heard.”
“It’s very important.”
“I can tell.”
Barry immediately led him into the lounge.
Marmaduke was already sitting on the floor.
Mr Brand moved the coffee table.
Mrs Brand moved a cushion.
Alfie came downstairs.
“What are you doing?”
“Harvest Festival rehearsal,” said Marmaduke.
“With Ted,” added Barry.
Alfie looked at Ted.
Ted waved.
“Hi, Alfie.”
“Hi.”
Alfie looked at the guitar.
Then at Barry.
Then at Marmaduke.
“This could actually be quite good.”
Mr Brand raised an eyebrow.
“Thank you for your vote of confidence.”
Ted sat down.
“Right. What songs have you learned?”
Barry answered immediately.
“All of them.”
Ted smiled.
“How many is all?”
Barry thought.
“Lots.”
Marmaduke helpfully said, “Four.”
“Four songs?”
“Yes.”
Ted nodded.
“Okay. Let’s hear one.”
Barry and Marmaduke stood up.
They began.
There was a little introduction about autumn.
Then came the singing.
Ted played gently along on guitar.
And suddenly the whole thing sounded different.
The boys’ voices were still very much the voices of two four-year-olds.
Barry was slightly ahead of the beat.
Marmaduke was slightly behind it.
At one point Barry forgot a word and substituted “pumpkin.”
It wasn’t the correct word.
It didn’t fit the sentence.
But he said it with such confidence that nobody interrupted him.
Ted kept playing.
Marmaduke kept singing.
Mr Brand smiled.
Mrs Brand smiled.
And then Barry’s face changed.
He had discovered something.
He looked at Ted.
Then at Marmaduke.
Then at the guitar.
Then at the room.
His eyes widened.
“This is a jam session.”
Ted laughed.
“What?”
“A jam session.”
Barry pointed around the room.
“We’re a band.”
Marmaduke nodded.
“We are.”
Ted looked at Mr Brand.
Mr Brand shrugged.
“I think you’ve created a monster.”
Barry immediately grabbed an imaginary microphone.
“Welcome to the Harvest Festival!”
Ted laughed.
“Let’s maybe wait until the actual Harvest Festival for that.”
Barry ignored him.
“Coming to you live from the school hall!”
Marmaduke joined in.
“With songs about vegetables!”
Barry shouted:
“And HARVEST!”
Mr Brand put his head in his hands.
Mrs Brand was laughing.
Alfie, however, was watching Ted’s hands.
He went upstairs.
A minute later he returned carrying his guitar.
Ted looked up.
“You want to play?”
Alfie nodded.
“I’ve been practising.”
Ted smiled.
“Go on then.”
Alfie sat beside him.
Ted played the chords.
Alfie joined in.
And this time, something quite different happened.
He was good.
Really good.
He wasn’t guessing.
He knew where his fingers went.
He changed chords cleanly.
He listened to Ted.
He matched the rhythm.
Ted glanced at him.
“That’s much better.”
Alfie smiled.
“I’ve been practising.”
“I can tell.”
Mr Brand looked delighted.
Mrs Brand looked at Marjory’s empty seat beside her, as though she wished she could see this.
Barry stopped singing.
He stared at his brother.
“Alfie’s playing.”
“Yes,” said Mr Brand.
“With Ted.”
“Yes.”
“He’s actually playing.”
“Yes.”
Barry looked slightly offended.
“Why is he good?”
Alfie grinned.
“Because I practise.”
Barry considered this.
“That seems like a lot of work.”
Ted laughed.
“It is.”
Marmaduke suddenly said, “I can do A to D.”
Ted looked at him.
“Can you?”
Marmaduke picked up his guitar.
He positioned his fingers carefully.
A chord.
Then D.
It was slow.
Very slow.
But he made the transition.
Ted nodded.
“Excellent.”
Marmaduke beamed.
“I can hold it.”
“You can.”
He tried again.
A.
D.
A.
D.
His fingers were getting quicker.
Barry watched.
Then he tried.
His fingers went in several directions at once.
Ted gently moved them.
“Nearly.”
Barry frowned.
“My fingers aren’t listening.”
“Mine don’t always either.”
Barry looked relieved.
“So it’s not just me?”
“No.”
Barry nodded.
“Good.”
Marmaduke continued.
A.
D.
A.
D.
He held the transition.
Ted nodded approvingly.
“That’s coming along really well.”
Marmaduke smiled proudly.
Barry looked at his own guitar.
Then at Ted.
Then at Alfie.
Then at Marmaduke.
“We’re all in the band.”
Ted smiled.
“I suppose you are.”
Barry stood up.
“I am the singer.”
Marmaduke said, “I’m the guitar player.”
Alfie looked up.
“And I’m the guitar player.”
Barry frowned.
“That’s too many guitar players.”
Ted laughed.
“Most bands manage.”
Barry thought about it.
“Then Alfie can be the really good guitar player.”
Alfie raised an eyebrow.
“Thanks.”
“And Marmaduke can be the other really good guitar player.”
Marmaduke smiled.
“What are you?”
Barry thought.
“The singer.”
“And guitar?”
“I’m still learning.”
Ted nodded.
“That’s fair.”
Barry looked pleased.
Then he had another thought.
“What about Snowball?”
Mr Brand immediately said, “No.”
Barry looked shocked.
“You didn’t even hear my idea.”
“I know your ideas.”
“She could play drums.”
“She cannot.”
“She could sit on them.”
“She would probably scratch them.”
Barry looked at Snowball.
Snowball was still asleep.
“She looks like she’d be good at drums.”
Mrs Brand laughed.
“I think Snowball has retired.”
Barry accepted this.
For approximately six seconds.
Then he turned back to Ted.
“Can we play another song?”
Ted nodded.
“Absolutely.”
They started again.
And although there were several moments where Barry forgot the words, Marmaduke came in too early and Alfie had to recover from one slightly enthusiastic chord change, it actually sounded surprisingly good.
The room filled with music.
Mr Brand leaned back.
He watched his three boys.
Alfie, eight years old, concentrating hard.
Marmaduke, four years old, carefully changing from A to D.
Barry, four years old, singing with the confidence of someone who had sold out Wembley despite having no idea where Wembley was.
Ted played alongside them.
For a few minutes, it really did feel like a little band rehearsal.
Barry finished the song and threw both hands into the air.
“YES!”
Marmaduke laughed.
Alfie smiled.
Ted stopped playing.
Barry looked at him.
“Did you hear that?”
“I did.”
“We were amazing.”
Ted smiled.
“You were enthusiastic.”
Barry frowned.
“That’s not the same.”
“No.”
“So were we amazing?”
Ted thought carefully.
“You’re getting there.”
Barry accepted this.
“Okay.”
He looked at Marmaduke.
“We need to practise.”
Marmaduke nodded.
“We do.”
Barry looked at Alfie.
“You need to practise too.”
Alfie laughed.
“I think I’m okay.”
“No.”
Barry shook his head.
“We all practise.”
Ted nodded.
“That’s actually exactly right.”
Barry looked pleased.
He had accidentally learned something useful.
The three boys began putting the guitars away.
Ted packed his things.
“Ten minutes a day,” he reminded them.
“Ten minutes,” said Marmaduke.
“Ten minutes,” said Alfie.
Barry nodded seriously.
“Ten minutes.”
Mr Brand looked suspicious.
“Every day?”
Ted nodded.
“Every day.”
Barry thought for a moment.
“Can we practise for an hour on Saturdays?”
Ted laughed.
“You can if your parents can cope.”
Mr Brand looked at Mrs Brand.
“No.”
Mrs Brand nodded.
“Definitely not.”
Barry smiled.
“Okay.”
Then he whispered to Marmaduke.
“We’ll do it when they’re not looking.”
Mr Brand heard him.
“No, you won’t.”
Barry looked surprised.
“How did you hear that?”
Mr Brand pointed to his ears.
“Dad ears.”
Barry nodded solemnly.
“Very useful.”
Ted picked up his guitar.
“See you next week.”
“Bye, Ted!”
Ted left.
The lounge fell silent.
For about three seconds.
Then Barry started singing the Harvest Festival song again.
Marmaduke joined in.
Alfie picked up his guitar.
Mr Brand looked at Mrs Brand.
“Did we just turn the lounge into a rehearsal studio?”
Mrs Brand smiled.
“I think so.”
Barry shouted from the middle of the room:
“THE HARVEST FESTIVAL IS GOING TO BE AMAZING!”
Marmaduke cheered.
Alfie played a chord.
Snowball opened one eye.
She looked at the three boys.
Then she looked at Mr Brand.
Mr Brand looked back at her.
“I know.”
Snowball closed her eyes again.
She had survived guitar lessons.
She had survived Barry’s Snowball Rules.
She had survived being investigated for deafness.
And now she was apparently living with a children’s rock band.
Frankly, she was beginning to think that being an indoor cat had its disadvantages.
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