Friday had finally arrived.
For Barry and Marmaduke, this was excellent news.
They had survived another week of Reception.
They had survived maths.
They had survived the fire drill.
They had survived Animal Club.
They had learned about stick insects, fish, guinea pigs, numbers, shapes, harvest songs and approximately seventeen thousand other things that four-year-olds were apparently expected to know.
They were exhausted.
Properly exhausted.
The sort of exhausted where you don’t even have the energy to argue about something you normally argue about.
Which was how, at just after four o’clock, Barry and Marmaduke came through the Brand front door, took off their shoes, dropped their school bags and walked directly into the lounge.
Neither spoke.
They climbed onto the sofa.
Snowball was already there.
Barry sat beside her.
Marmaduke sat on the other side.
Snowball looked from one boy to the other.
She appeared slightly surprised.
Usually Barry arrived home and immediately wanted to tell her everything that had happened to him.
Usually this involved a detailed explanation of something that had happened at school, followed by an investigation into whether Snowball had been lonely, hungry, bored, cold, tired or secretly planning to leave the house.
Today?
Nothing.
Barry simply put his head against the back of the sofa.
Marmaduke leaned sideways.
Snowball remained where she was.
For perhaps thirty seconds, there was complete silence.
Mrs Brand walked into the room.
She stopped.
She looked at them.
“Are you two all right?”
Barry nodded.
Marmaduke nodded.
“Did something happen?”
“No,” said Barry.
“We’re tired,” said Marmaduke.
Mrs Brand smiled.
“That explains it.”
Marjory arrived a few minutes later.
She took one look at the boys.
“Oh dear.”
“They’re exhausted,” said Mrs Brand.
Marjory sat down.
Marmaduke barely moved.
Barry gently stroked Snowball.
Snowball purred.
Marjory smiled.
“They’ve had a long week.”
“They have.”
Mrs Brand glanced at the school bags.
“Reading books.”
Marjory looked at her.
Mrs Brand looked at Marjory.
They both knew what they were supposed to do.
The boys had reading books.
The boys were supposed to read.
There was a system.
There was a routine.
There were probably expectations somewhere.
Mrs Brand sighed.
“Do we do them?”
Marjory looked at Barry.
Barry was staring at absolutely nothing.
She looked at Marmaduke.
Marmaduke’s eyes were half closed.
Then she looked at Snowball.
Snowball was purring.
“I don’t think so,” said Marjory.
Mrs Brand nodded.
“Neither do I.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Definitely tomorrow.”
“Or Sunday.”
Mrs Brand smiled.
“Let’s not get carried away.”
From upstairs came the sound of Alfie’s voice.
“I’m doing homework!”
Mrs Brand called up.
“Okay!”
Alfie was eight.
Alfie did homework.
Alfie liked homework.
Alfie considered completing homework to be a perfectly normal way to spend a Friday afternoon.
Barry considered completing homework to be a punishment for crimes he hadn’t committed.
The contrast was remarkable.
Mrs Brand sat down.
“What should we do?”
Marjory shrugged.
“Something quiet.”
Mrs Brand looked at the television.
Then she had an idea.
She opened the school website.
“I’m going to see if the school has anything online.”
She found the boys’ school YouTube channel.
There were videos of school events.
Assemblies.
Class activities.
Music.
And there, amongst them, were the Harvest Festival songs.
Mrs Brand smiled.
“Oh.”
Marjory leaned over.
“What?”
“They’ve got the songs.”
“Do they?”
“Yes.”
She logged in.
A video started.
The music teacher appeared on screen.
And then Mr Bloom began singing.
Quietly.
Precisely.
With every word perfectly pronounced.
Every action perfectly performed.
Every expression carefully timed.
Mrs Brand turned the volume down.
“Let’s just leave it on.”
The boys didn’t notice.
They were still sitting with Snowball.
The song continued.
Mr Bloom sang.
He mouthed the words.
He made the actions.
He smiled.
He pointed.
He gestured.
He somehow managed to look extraordinarily enthusiastic about harvest.
Barry’s foot moved.
Just once.
Mrs Brand noticed.
She said nothing.
Marmaduke’s foot moved too.
Once.
Then twice.
Mrs Brand glanced at Marjory.
Marjory smiled.
Neither said anything.
The music continued.
Barry’s fingers started tapping gently against his knee.
Marmaduke began tapping his toes.
Snowball opened one eye.
She looked at Barry’s foot.
Then at Marmaduke’s.
She appeared mildly concerned that this might become another musical incident.
The next song started.
Mr Bloom launched into it with even more enthusiasm.
Barry sat up slightly.
Marmaduke looked at the screen.
Neither had said anything.
Then Marmaduke noticed something.
He looked at Barry.
Barry was doing the actions.
Sitting down.
Quietly.
His arms moved.
His hands moved.
His face became increasingly animated.
Marmaduke stared.
Then he whispered:
“Barry.”
Barry stopped.
“What?”
“You’re doing the actions.”
Barry looked down at his hands.
He was.
He hadn’t even realised.
He shrugged.
“I like the song.”
Marmaduke grinned.
Then he joined in.
Both boys began doing the actions.
Very quietly at first.
Mr Bloom on the screen did exactly the same movements they had learned at school.
Marmaduke copied him.
Barry copied him.
Then Barry noticed Mr Bloom doing an especially enthusiastic movement.
Barry copied it.
Marmaduke copied Barry.
Then both boys started giggling.
Mrs Brand looked over.
“What?”
Barry pointed at the television.
“Look at him!”
Mr Bloom was singing with enormous commitment.
He was mouthing the words precisely.
He was doing the actions precisely.
He appeared to be having the most exciting afternoon of his entire life.
Marmaduke laughed.
“He’s doing it!”
Barry giggled.
“He’s doing EVERYTHING!”
Mr Bloom continued.
He had no idea that two exhausted Reception children were sitting on a sofa analysing his every movement.
Then came Big Red Combine Harvester.
Barry immediately sat upright.
“Oh!”
Marmaduke grinned.
“I like this one.”
The music began.
Mr Bloom started singing.
“Big red combine harvester…”
Barry’s hands moved.
Marmaduke’s hands moved.
They both did the actions.
Mr Bloom performed them perfectly.
Barry tried to match him.
Marmaduke tried to match Barry.
Within thirty seconds, the two exhausted boys who had looked barely capable of sitting upright were now performing a full harvest-themed routine on the sofa.
Mrs Brand looked at Marjory.
“Five minutes ago they could barely move.”
Marjory laughed.
“Apparently music has restored them.”
Barry was now completely committed.
He was mouthing the words.
He was singing.
He was doing the actions.
He was copying Mr Bloom’s facial expressions.
Marmaduke was doing exactly the same.
At one point, Mr Bloom made a particularly dramatic gesture.
Barry copied it.
Marmaduke copied Barry.
They both burst into laughter.
Snowball jumped down from the sofa.
Barry looked at her.
“Don’t go!”
Snowball walked to the other side of the room.
She had clearly decided that the harvest festival had become too agricultural.
The song continued.
Barry and Marmaduke sang louder.
Mrs Brand turned the volume up slightly.
They sang even louder.
Marjory laughed.
“That’s going to be stuck in my head all evening.”
Mrs Brand smiled.
“I’m afraid so.”
From upstairs came Alfie’s voice.
“What are you doing?”
Barry shouted:
“BIG RED COMBINE HARVESTER!”
Alfie appeared on the stairs.
He looked at the television.
Then at Barry.
Then at Marmaduke.
Then at Snowball hiding under a chair.
“What happened to being tired?”
Barry continued doing the actions.
“We’re not tired anymore.”
Alfie smiled.
“Clearly.”
He came downstairs.
“What are you watching?”
“The school music videos,” said Marmaduke.
Alfie watched for a moment.
Mr Bloom was still singing.
Barry and Marmaduke were still copying every movement.
Alfie laughed.
“He’s very enthusiastic.”
“Very,” said Mrs Brand.
Mr Bloom sang another line.
Barry mouthed every word.
Marmaduke did too.
Alfie looked impressed.
“You know all the actions?”
“Yes,” said Barry.
“Obviously.”
Barry looked at him.
“Do you know them?”
Alfie paused.
“No.”
Barry looked delighted.
“I do.”
Marmaduke grinned.
“We’re in the Harvest Festival.”
Alfie nodded.
“I know.”
Barry pointed at the television.
“And he’s going to be there.”
“Mr Bloom?”
“Yes.”
“Is he actually coming?”
Barry nodded.
“He’s on the screen.”
Alfie laughed.
“No, I mean is he coming to school?”
“I don’t know.”
Barry thought.
“He should.”
“Why?”
“Because he knows all the actions.”
Alfie smiled.
“Fair point.”
The next song started.
Marmaduke immediately recognised it.
“Oh!”
He stood up.
Barry stood too.
They moved into the middle of the lounge.
Mrs Brand raised an eyebrow.
“Careful.”
“We’re performing,” said Barry.
“For Snowball.”
Snowball looked deeply unimpressed.
Barry pointed towards the television.
“Mr Bloom!”
Then he pointed at Marmaduke.
“Marmaduke!”
Then himself.
“Barry!”
Marmaduke joined in.
“We’re the Harvest Festival!”
Alfie laughed.
“That isn’t how introductions work.”
Barry ignored him.
The boys performed the whole song.
They sang.
They did the actions.
They copied Mr Bloom’s expressions.
They even managed to stay roughly in time.
Mrs Brand clapped at the end.
Marjory clapped.
Alfie clapped.
Snowball remained under the chair.
Barry bowed.
Marmaduke bowed.
Then Barry immediately collapsed back onto the sofa.
Marmaduke sat beside him.
Both boys were suddenly exhausted again.
Mrs Brand looked at them.
“That was a lot of energy.”
Barry nodded.
“Yes.”
“Are you tired now?”
“Yes.”
Marmaduke nodded.
“Very.”
Mrs Brand smiled.
“Reading books?”
Both boys looked horrified.
“No.”
Marjory laughed.
Mrs Brand nodded.
“That’s what I thought.”
Alfie went back upstairs to finish his homework.
Barry curled up beside Snowball.
Marmaduke leaned back.
The school video continued quietly.
Mr Bloom was still enthusiastically singing about harvest.
Barry’s foot tapped.
Marmaduke’s foot tapped.
Mrs Brand looked at Marjory.
“They’re going to sleep well tonight.”
Marjory smiled.
“After singing about combine harvesters for twenty minutes?”
“Hopefully.”
Barry’s eyes were closing.
Marmaduke was already half asleep.
Snowball had returned to the sofa.
For once, Barry wasn’t asking questions.
He wasn’t exploring.
He wasn’t trying to start a band.
He wasn’t investigating anything.
He was simply sitting quietly with Snowball, listening to a school music teacher sing harvest songs.
Then, with his eyes closed, Barry quietly said:
“Big red combine harvester…”
Marmaduke murmured:
“Big red combine harvester…”
Mrs Brand smiled.
Marjory laughed softly.
Snowball sighed.
And from upstairs, Alfie shouted:
“PLEASE STOP SINGING IT!”
Barry opened one eye.
He grinned.
Then he whispered to Marmaduke:
“Tomorrow we’ll watch it again.”
Marmaduke smiled sleepily.
“Definitely.”
Snowball closed both eyes.
She had finally realised that the only way to survive life with Barry was to accept one simple fact.
The harvest wasn’t going anywhere.
And apparently, neither was the combine harvester.
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