Packing

Monday morning began with Mrs Brand standing in front of her bedroom wardrobe, holding a pair of shorts that appeared to have shrunk in the wash.

They had not shrunk in the wash.

They had shrunk in the cupboard, over the course of a summer so brutally hot that even the clothes had apparently given up on life.

Mrs Brand turned the shorts around, inspected the waistband, and tried them on.

They fitted.

Technically.

But only if she stood perfectly still, breathed shallowly and made no sudden movements that might alert the waistband to the fact that it was under considerable pressure.

She took them off.

“No,” she announced.

Mr Brand, who was sitting on the bed trying to locate his passport, glanced up.

“What’s wrong?”

“These shorts.”

“What about them?”

“They’re too small.”

“Have you tried not breathing?”

Mrs Brand looked at him.

Mr Brand returned to his passport search.

Marriage, he had discovered, was largely a matter of learning when to stop talking.

From downstairs came the sound of Barry shouting, “MARMADUKE! I’VE FOUND A SWIMMING COSTUME!”

Then Marmaduke shouted, “THAT’S NOT A SWIMMING COSTUME! THAT’S A NAPPY!”

There was a pause.

“Oh,” said Barry.

Mrs Brand closed her eyes.

They were going to Barbados in two weeks. Marjory and Marmaduke were leaving on Saturday to see family for a week before the Brand’s join them.

And nobody had packed anything.

Not one suitcase. Not one washbag. Not even a small, reassuring pile of clothes on the spare bed, suggesting that the family had at least begun to acknowledge the existence of international travel.

Instead, they had a mountain of washing, two children who appeared to believe packing was an exciting game involving every item in the house, and a husband who could not find his passport despite having put it somewhere “safe”.

The situation was not ideal.

It was, however, entirely predictable.

The holiday had been discussed for weeks.

There had been conversations about flights, passports, transfers, the weather, sunscreen, swimming, the cats, the family they would visit, the things Alfie wanted to see in Bridgetown, and the fact that Barry was still concerned about leaving Snowball behind.

The local vet nurse had agreed to house sit Snowball and check on Bubble while the family were away. Mrs Brand had prepared a list of instructions for the cats, which Mr Brand had described as “a small veterinary textbook with a section on emotional support”.

Snowball, naturally, had responded to all this preparation by sleeping on the instructions.

The family had organised almost every aspect of the holiday.

Except the packing.

Because packing was one of those jobs that seemed easy when you had several weeks to do it and became an existential crisis when you had six days.

Mrs Brand marched downstairs.

“Right. We need a plan.”

Alfie looked up from his breakfast.

“Excellent. I’ve made a list.”

“Of course you have.”

“It’s divided into categories.”

“Of course it is.”

“And I’ve worked out how many T-shirts each person needs.”

Mr Brand appeared behind her, holding a passport.

“Found it!”

“Where was it?” asked Mrs Brand.

“In the drawer where I keep important documents.”

“Which drawer?”

“The important documents drawer.”

“We have four drawers of important documents.”

Mr Brand looked down at the passport.

“Well, it was in one of them.”

Alfie handed his mother a sheet of paper.

“I’ve divided the packing into essential items, clothing, toiletries, entertainment, travel documents and things we might need in an emergency.”

Mrs Brand scanned the list.

“Why have you included a torch?”

“In case the power goes out.”

“We’re staying with family in Barbados.”

“Yes. Power cuts can happen.”

“Why have you included a spare pencil sharpener?”

“In case I need to do homework.”

“You are going on holiday.”

“Exactly. I don’t want to be unprepared.”

Mr Brand nodded.

“That’s my boy.”

Mrs Brand looked at him.

“Your son has packed a pencil sharpener before he has packed a pair of swimming trunks.”

“He’s thinking ahead.”

“He’s eight, not an expedition leader.”

Alfie looked offended.

“An expedition leader would definitely take a pencil sharpener.”

Mrs Brand handed the list back.

“Fine. Keep the pencil sharpener. We have a more pressing problem.”

She held up the shorts.

Mr Brand examined them.

“Those are nice shorts.”

“They don’t fit.”

“Then don’t take them.”

“Thank you. I hadn’t considered that revolutionary solution.”

“Always happy to help.”

At 8.15 a.m., Marjory arrived carrying a large reusable shopping bag, a coffee and the expression of a woman who had been forced to confront an inconvenient truth.

“I’ve just realised something,” she announced.

Mrs Brand, who was now examining a pile of summer dresses, looked up.

“What?”

“We should have started packing last week.”

The kitchen went silent.

Mr Brand slowly lowered his mug.

Alfie stopped writing.

Barry and Marmaduke, who were trying to make Snowball sit inside a small suitcase, turned to look at her.

“You mean,” said Barry, “we’ve forgotten to pack?”

“No,” said Marjory. “We haven’t forgotten. We just haven’t started.”

Barry considered this distinction.

“That’s worse.”

“Yes,” said Marjory. “It is.”

Marmaduke peered into the suitcase.

“Can Snowball come?”

“No,” said Mrs Brand.

“But she fits.”

“Snowball is not coming to Barbados.”

“She could sleep in here.”

“She would need food, water, a litter tray and a great deal of paperwork.”

Barry looked at Snowball.

“Do you want to come to Barbados?”

Snowball blinked.

“See?” said Barry. “She’s thinking about it.”

“She’s thinking about whether you’re going to stop bothering him,” said Alfie.

Snowball climbed out of the suitcase and walked away with the quiet dignity of a cat who had decided the entire family was a failed experiment.

Marjory put her coffee down.

“Right. We need to sort the washing, work out what fits, buy anything we need, and make sure we have enough clothes for two weeks.”

“Plus travel clothes,” said Alfie.

“Thank you, Alfie.”

“And swimming clothes.”

“Thank you.”

“And something smart for dinner.”

“Alfie.”

“And shoes.”

“ALFIE.”

He stopped.

Mrs Brand took a deep breath.

“Please write all of those things down, quietly, somewhere I cannot see them for at least five minutes.”

Alfie picked up his pencil.

“Shall I use a different colour for urgent items?”

Mrs Brand walked out of the kitchen.

Marjory followed her.

Mr Brand leaned towards Alfie.

“Use red.”

The first job was laundry.

This was because the Brands had reached that stage of the summer when clean clothes were less a household commodity and more a rumour.

The washing basket contained several T-shirts, three pairs of shorts, a towel, two socks that did not match, one football kit, a mysterious garment belonging to Marmaduke, and something that Mrs Brand refused to identify without protective gloves.

“How has all this accumulated?” she demanded.

Mr Brand examined the basket.

“Summer.”

“That is not an explanation.”

“It’s a season.”

“Mr Brand.”

“I’m trying to help.”

“You could help by putting the washing machine on.”

Mr Brand immediately began sorting the laundry.

Unfortunately, Barry and Marmaduke had decided to assist.

Barry was separating clothes by colour.

Marmaduke was separating them by owner.

This might have worked if either of them had known the difference between a red T-shirt and a red towel, or if Barry had not decided that all clothes belonging to Alfie should go into a separate pile marked BORING.

“Why are my clothes boring?” Alfie demanded.

“Because you wear sensible things.”

“I wear normal things.”

“Exactly.”

Marmaduke held up a pair of shorts.

“Are these yours, Barry?”

Barry examined them.

“No.”

“They’re in your pile.”

“That’s because they’re boring.”

“They’re Daddy’s.”

Mr Brand looked over.

They were, indeed, his shorts.

He had been looking for them for three days.

“Thank you, Marmaduke,” he said. “At least someone in this family can identify my clothes.”

Marmaduke beamed.

Then he put the shorts in the washing machine.

Along with the towels.

And a red football shirt.

And one of Mrs Brand’s white blouses.

Mrs Brand returned just in time to see the machine start.

“What have you done?”

“I’ve started the washing,” said Marmaduke proudly.

Mrs Brand stared at the machine.

The red football shirt was already visible through the glass.

So was the white blouse.

Mr Brand put a hand on her shoulder.

“On the positive side, we may have solved the problem of finding enough pink clothes for Barbados.”

Mrs Brand turned to him.

“Would you like to explain that to the children?”

“No.”

“Excellent. Then we agree.”

The washing machine continued to rotate, cheerfully mixing the family’s garments into what could only be described as an experiment in colour theory.

At 8.30 a.m., the kids were jogged to school by Mr Brand, who then ran for the underground and planned to hide in his chambers for the day. 

At 10.30 a.m., Mrs Brand and Marjory slipped out of work and went emergency shopping.

She bought shorts and T-shirts.

The summer had been relentless. The sort of summer that made people feel as though they were slowly being roasted in their own homes. The boys had grown, the adults had discovered that several of their clothes no longer fitted, (perhaps they had also grown, but in the wrong way?) and some of the T-shirts had become so faded that they looked as though they had been rescued from an archaeological dig.

At the first shop, Mrs Brand picked up a pair of boys shorts.

What colour did Barry request? She was sure he liked red or blue… no red… definitely red… or blue.

Mrs Brand put the shorts back on the rail.

She found some with a shark on them. Barry would love them. Marmaduke proposed would too. Alfie wouldn’t. I’m 

At the checkout, the basket contained new shorts, T-shirts, swimming trunks, sun hats, sunscreen, a lightweight shirt for Alfie, socks, and a pair of sandals that Barry would be told were “for walking on hot volcanoes”.

Marjory looked at the total.

“Good grief.”

Mrs Brand stared at the receipt.

“Apparently, children grow out of clothes and then charge their parents for the privilege.”

Mrs Brand folded the receipt and put it in her pocket.

“Think of it as an investment.”

“In what?”

“Future laundry.”

Mrs Brand sighed.

Back at home, the packing operation began in earnest.

The spare bed was covered with clothes. Suitcases were opened. Toiletries were gathered. Passports were placed in a folder. Alfie’s lists were spread across the bedside table, each one marked with a tick box.

Mrs Brand packed Barry’s new shark T-shirt, two pairs of shorts, his swimming trunks and a small plastic dinosaur.

Marjory had packed his pineapple T-shirt, his swimming trunks, a stuffed animal and three toy cars.

“Why three cars?” asked Mrs Brand. 

“In case one breaks.”

“What if two break?”

“Then he’ll have one.”

“And what if all three break?”

“Why would you say that?”

Marjory decided to leave the matter there.

Mr Brand had packed four pairs of shorts, three shirts and a book he had been meaning to read for six months.

Mrs Brand had packed enough clothes for herself, then unpacked half of them after discovering that the suitcase was already full.

“This is ridiculous,” she announced. “We’re only going for a week.”

“Exactly,” said Marjory. “We don’t need our entire wardrobes.”

Mrs Brand looked at the pile on the bed.

“Then why does it feel as though we do?”

“Because we’ve left it until Monday.”

There was no answer to that.

The boys could decide which toys should come.

Barry wanted to bring a dinosaur, a toy helicopter, two cars, a book about animals and a small plastic crocodile.

“You cannot bring all of those,” said Mrs Brand, later that night. 

“Why not?”

“Because you need room for clothes.”

“I can wear the crocodile.”

“No.”

“What if I wear it as a hat?”

“No.”

Marmaduke held up his stuffed animal.

“He needs to come because he gets frightened.”

“Of what?” asked Alfie.

“Planes.”

Barry looked at him.

“How can he be frightened of planes? He’s never been on one.”

“Exactly. He doesn’t know what to expect.”

Alfie opened his mouth, then closed it again.

It was difficult to argue with that level of emotional logic.

“Fine,” he said. “Bring him.”

Marmaduke hugged the toy.

“Thank you.”

Barry looked at his dinosaur.

“You’re coming too,” he whispered. “But you have to be brave.”

The dinosaur, being plastic, showed admirable composure.

By early evening, the house had become a combination of laundry room, department store and airport security queue.

The first wash was hanging to dry. The second wash was in the machine. The suitcases were half full. The cats were underfoot. Mr Brand had finally found his passport, only to discover that he had put it in the wrong folder.

Alfie had ticked off most of his list.

Mrs Brand was still trying to work out how to fit two weeks of clothing into one suitcase without violating the laws of physics.

Marjory was making a list of things still to buy.

“Aftersun,” she said. “Toothpaste. More insect repellent. A few snacks for the flight.”

“And biscuits,” said Barry.

“Why biscuits?” asked Mrs Brand.

“For the flight.”

“There will be food on the flight.”

“What if it’s boring?”

“Then you eat it anyway.”

Barry looked at Marmaduke.

“Adults always say that when they want you to eat something boring.”

Marmaduke nodded.

“It’s one of their rules.”

Mr Brand came downstairs carrying a small pile of clothes.

“Good news. I’ve found my swimming trunks.”

“Where were they?” asked Mrs Brand.

“In the laundry basket.”

“Of course they were.”

“And I’ve found the other passport folder.”

“Wonderful.”

“And I’ve packed my book.”

Mrs Brand stared at him.

“You have packed a book before you have packed your toiletries?”

“I know where my toiletries are.”

“Where?”

Mr Brand paused.

“In the bathroom.”

“Which bathroom?”

He looked towards the stairs.

Mrs Brand put her head in her hands.

Marjory began laughing.

It was not a gentle laugh. It was the laugh of a woman who had spent years working in a hospital where emergencies were generally accompanied by actual urgency, only to discover that the most stressful thing she had done all month was help a family pack for a holiday.

That evening, Mrs Brand finally sat down with a cup of tea.

The suitcases were open on the spare bed. The washing was drying. The new clothes had been folded. The passports were in a folder, which Mr Brand had placed somewhere so safe that he had immediately forgotten where it was.

Alfie was reading his Barbados guidebook.

Barry and Marmaduke were sitting on the floor, drawing pictures of the holiday.

Barry had drawn a beach, a helicopter, a dinosaur and a large white cat wearing sunglasses.

“Why is Snowball on the beach?” asked Mrs Brand.

“She’s coming in spirit,” said Barry.

“That’s lovely.”

“And she’s bringing the crocodile.”

“Of course she is.”

Marmaduke had drawn himself swimming beside a turtle, while Alfie had sketched a museum and a building in Bridgetown he wanted to visit.

For a moment, the room was peaceful.

Then Barry asked, “Mummy, have you packed my yellow socks?”

Mrs Brand looked at him.

“Why?”

“Because I might need them.”

“You have sandals.”

“What if my feet get cold?”

“In Barbados?”

“Yes.”

Mr Brand nodded gravely.

“An entirely reasonable concern.”

Mrs Brand looked at him.

“Do not start.”

Barry smiled and returned to his drawing.

Outside, the evening was warm. Inside, the family was surrounded by clothes, lists, suitcases and the faint smell of laundry detergent.

They had not finished packing.

They had not bought everything they needed.

And Mrs Brand had just remembered that she still needed to arrange the post.

But the passports were somewhere in the house, the children had clothes that fitted, and nobody had accidentally packed Snowball.

It was progress.

Not impressive progress, perhaps, but progress all the same.

As Mrs Brand switched off the light, she glanced at the suitcases.

“Tomorrow,” she announced, “we finish packing.”

Mr Brand nodded.

“Absolutely.”

Alfie added it to his list.

Marmaduke hugged his stuffed animal.

Barry tucked his plastic dinosaur under his pillow.

And Snowball, who had been watching the entire operation from the wardrobe, jumped onto the bed and settled herself neatly inside the largest open suitcase.

She curled up, closed her eyes and began to purr.

Mrs Brand stared at him.

“Snowball. Get out.”

The cat did not move.

Mr Brand sighed.

“Well, at least one member of this family is packed.”