Friday had arrived.
The last day of term.
For most children, this meant a day of excitement, a school assembly, perhaps a slightly sticky ice lolly, and the glorious prospect of at least a week without anyone asking them to practise their handwriting.
For Alfie Brand, aged eight, it meant the successful completion of another half term, a neatly organised school bag, a homework diary that had been filled in correctly, and the deeply satisfying knowledge that he had remembered to bring home his reading book.
For Barry Brand, aged four, it meant that school was closing for the holidays and therefore something extraordinary was bound to happen.
For Marmaduke Jackson, also four, it meant that whatever Barry thought was going to happen would probably happen to him too.
And for Mrs Brand, who had spent much of the week attempting to prepare her family for a weeks holiday to Barbados while simultaneously keeping a global insurance company’s legal department from bursting into flames, it meant that she had one final day to get through before she could begin worrying about everything she had forgotten to do.
She was standing in the kitchen at 7.18am, drinking coffee that had already gone cold, when Barry appeared wearing his school uniform, one sock, and an expression of tremendous importance.
“Mummy?”
“Yes, Barry?”
“Today is the last day of school.”
“I know, darling.”
“So the animals have to go home.”
Mrs Brand paused.
“What animals?”
Barry stared at her.
“Mummy. The animals.”
There was a silence.
Mrs Brand put her coffee down.
“Ah.”
It was the sort of ah that people make when they suddenly remember an appointment they have been avoiding for six months.
“Mr Henley’s animals,” Barry explained patiently. “The guinea pigs. The fish. The stick insects. Hammy. And Brutus.”
“Brutus?”
“Brutus the hamster.”
“I know who Brutus is.”
“Then why did you ask?”
Mrs Brand looked at the ceiling.
Somewhere above her, she hoped, there was a benevolent administrative department responsible for dealing with four-year-olds who had discovered logic.
“Because,” she said carefully, “I was trying to remember why you were telling me this.”
“Because Brutus needs a home.”
“No, he doesn’t. Brutus has a home. It’s the school.”
“Not in the holidays.”
“Brutus will be looked after.”
“By who?”
“Mr Henley, presumably.”
“Mr Henley can’t look after him if he’s at home with the guinea pigs.”
Mrs Brand opened her mouth.
Then she closed it again.
This was not how she wanted to spend the final morning of half term.
It was not, however, the first time Barry had identified a potential weakness in an adult’s argument and begun worrying it like a terrier with a slipper.
“Get your other sock on,” she said.
“Can Brutus come home with us?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because we are going to Barbados.”
“Brutus can come to Barbados.”
“No, Barry.”
“He’s small.”
“That is not the relevant consideration.”
“He could go in my suitcase.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Snowball went in the suitcase.”
“Snowball climbed into the suitcase. We did not pack him.”
Barry considered this distinction.
“Brutus could climb in.”
“Barry.”
“Only if he wanted to.”
Mrs Brand shut her eyes.
It was going to be a long Friday.
At school, the atmosphere was positively electric.
Children were dashing about with the particular enthusiasm that comes from knowing that lessons are unlikely to involve anything more demanding than colouring, tidying, or watching a film while a teacher quietly questions every career decision that led them to this moment.
Mrs Abraham had sensibly decided that Reception would spend part of the morning saying goodbye to the classroom animals.
Mr Henley, who ran Animal Club, had arrived carrying a large travel cage and wearing the expression of a man who had recently made an unexpected discovery.
“The guinea pigs are going home with me,” he announced.
Barry and Marmaduke hurried over.
“Both of them?” asked Marmaduke.
“Yes, both of them.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m concerned that one of them might be pregnant.”
Barry’s eyes widened.
“She’s going to have babies?”
“Possibly,” said Mr Henley. “I’m not certain yet. She’s looking rather rounder than she was a few weeks ago, and I want to keep an eye on her.”
Barry crouched beside the guinea-pig enclosure.
The rounder guinea pig was sitting in a pile of hay, chewing with the unhurried concentration of someone who had no mortgage, no emails and no obligation to attend a meeting that could easily have been an email.
“She’s fat,” Barry observed.
“Barry,” said Mrs Abraham.
“She’s round,” he amended.
“That’s better.”
“Will she have lots of little guinea pigs?”
“If she is pregnant, she may have several.”
“Will they all be round?”
“Barry, all baby guinea pigs start off rather small.”
“Then they get round?”
“Usually they grow.”
Barry looked deeply impressed by this revelation.
“It’s like school.”
Mrs Abraham frowned.
“What is?”
“Reception children are small. Then they go to Year One and get bigger. Then Year Two. Then they’re enormous like Alfie.”
“I’m not sure enormous is the word I’d use for Alfie,” said Marmaduke.
“His feet are enormous,” Barry replied.
Across the classroom, Alfie looked up from the book he was reading.
“My feet are entirely normal.”
“They’re bigger than mine.”
“You are four.”
“Exactly.”
Alfie returned to his book, having decided that some arguments were not worth pursuing, even when he was objectively correct.
Mr Henley explained that the guinea pigs would be staying with him until he could establish whether any babies were on the way. He would make sure they had appropriate food, space and supervision.
Barry nodded gravely.
“Can Brutus come home with me?”
Mr Henley blinked.
“Brutus?”
“The hamster.”
“Ah. Brutus.”
Mr Henley’s expression changed slightly.
Brutus was not, it was fair to say, the most sociable member of the school community.
Hammy, the other hamster, was a delightful little creature who tolerated gentle handling, accepted food from small hands and generally behaved as though he had been trained by a team of diplomatic negotiators.
Brutus had a different approach to life.
He preferred solitude, regarded fingers with deep suspicion and appeared to believe that the human race was a regrettable experiment that had gone on far too long.
He was not vicious, exactly. He simply had firm boundaries and a rather uncompromising way of communicating them.
“Hammy is going home with Jonathan from Reception,” Mr Henley explained. “Jonathan’s family have agreed to look after him for the holidays.”
“What about Brutus?”
“Brutus will be staying with me.”
Barry’s face fell.
“But you have the guinea pigs.”
“Yes.”
“And their babies.”
“Potentially.”
“And the fish.”
“The fish are staying here. The automatic feeder is set up, and the school site team will check the tank.”
“And the stick insects?”
“They’re going home with a Year One child.”
“A blonde one?” asked Marmaduke.
Mr Henley stared at him.
“Yes. A blonde child.”
“Why?”
“Because her family have agreed to look after them.”
Marmaduke nodded as though this explained everything.
Barry looked back at Brutus.
The hamster sat in his enclosure, nose twitching.
Barry pressed his hands together.
“Brutus needs a family.”
“Brutus needs a quiet environment and someone who understands that he doesn’t always want to be handled,” Mr Henley said.
“I understand that.”
Alfie glanced up.
“You tried to put him in a doll’s pram last month.”
“That was a long time ago.”
Barry turned back to Mr Henley.
“Can Brutus come home with me?”
Mr Henley smiled sympathetically.
“That’s something your mummy would have to decide.”
Barry’s expression changed.
He had been given a route to appeal.
And in Barry’s world, a route to appeal was practically a royal invitation.
By pick-up time, the entire school seemed to have descended into a state of cheerful disorder.
Paper crowns had appeared. Someone had spilt glitter. A child was crying because the last day of term had ended and another child was crying because it had not ended quickly enough.
Mrs Brand arrived carrying her handbag, her phone and the faintly haunted expression of someone who had answered forty-seven emails before lunch.
Mr Brand had come too, partly because he wanted to help with the final school collection and partly because Mrs Brand had texted him:
If Barry asks you about a hamster, say no.
Mr Brand had replied:
What hamster?
Mrs Brand had responded:
Exactly.
He had not asked any further questions.
This had been one of the better decisions of his week.
As the parents gathered outside the classroom, a small crowd formed around Jonathan, who was proudly telling everyone that he was taking Hammy home.
“Will you feed him?” asked Barry.
“Yes,” said Jonathan.
“Will you clean him out?”
“Yes.”
“Will you let him run around?”
“Mummy says only in his ball, and only when we’re watching.”
Barry nodded.
“Good. Hammy is nice.”
“Yes,” said Jonathan.
“Brutus isn’t nice.”
Jonathan looked uncertain.
“Is he mean?”
“No,” Barry said. “He’s just cross.”
“Why?”
“Because nobody takes him home.”
Mrs Brand, who had been listening, felt an unwelcome tug at her heart.
She knew exactly what Barry was doing. He had noticed the one animal nobody was excited about, the one that didn’t get the enthusiastic farewell or the promise of a holiday adventure.
And he was four, so he was going to turn this observation into a major domestic crisis.
“Mummy,” Barry said, approaching her with Marmaduke in tow. “Brutus is the only animal who hasn’t got a holiday home.”
“He has Mr Henley.”
“Mr Henley has the guinea pigs.”
“Yes.”
“And the guinea pigs might have babies.”
“Yes.”
“And the fish are staying at school.”
“Yes.”
“And the stick insects are going with the blonde girl.”
“Yes.”
“And Hammy is going with Jonathan.”
“Yes.”
Barry paused for dramatic effect.
“So Brutus is left.”
Mrs Brand took a slow breath.
“Barry, Brutus is being looked after. He is not abandoned.”
“But he could come home with us.”
“We are going to Barbados.”
“He could stay here for the week before we go.”
“Then who would look after him?”
“You.”
“I’m going to Barbados too.”
“Daddy.”
Mr Brand looked up from his phone.
“No.”
“You don’t even know what I’m asking.”
“Your mother sent me a message.”
Barry frowned at his father.
“That’s cheating.”
“It’s called communication, Barry. Adults occasionally use it to prevent disasters.”
“Brutus isn’t a disaster.”
“No,” said Mr Brand. “He’s a hamster.”
“Exactly.”
Alfie joined them, having spent the last ten minutes helping Mrs Abraham stack chairs because apparently he was constitutionally incapable of leaving a task unfinished.
“What’s happening?”
“Barry wants to take Brutus home,” said Mrs Brand.
Alfie looked at Barry.
“Brutus doesn’t like being handled.”
“I won’t handle him.”
“You say that now.”
“I won’t.”
Alfie stared at him.
Mr Brand turned away to conceal a smile.
Mrs Brand did not smile. She was considering the logistics.
The Brand family were due to travel to Barbados in 8 days. Their suitcases were not fully packed. One passport had been found in a drawer labelled IMPORTANT DOCUMENTS, which was promising in theory but did not inspire confidence in practice. Snowball had a vet nurse arranged to visit, and Bubble would also be checked.
Marjory and Marmaduke were leaving tomorrow, to see family on the island before the Brands join them.
There was a plan.
A carefully assembled, fragile, increasingly theoretical plan.
Adding a hamster to it was not an appealing prospect.
But then she looked at Barry. She knew tomorrow would be a shock to him, dropping Marjory and Marmaduke at the airport so early, and them being separated for a full week.
He was standing very still, watching Brutus through the classroom enclosure.
“He doesn’t have to like me,” Barry said quietly. “I just don’t want him to be on his own.”
Mrs Brand felt her resistance wobble.
It was deeply inconvenient when your child said something lovely just as you were preparing to be sensible.
Mr Brand noticed the wobble.
“Oh, don’t do it,” he murmured.
“Do what?” asked Mrs Brand.
“That face.”
“What face?”
“The face you make when you’re about to agree to something that will become my problem.”
“It’s not always your problem.”
“I’m merely pointing out that the family is rapidly becoming a small wildlife sanctuary.”
Barry turned.
“Please, Mummy.”
Marmaduke joined in.
“Please, Mrs Brand.”
Mr Brand sighed.
“Ah, excellent. A two-pronged negotiation strategy. Very sophisticated.”
Alfie folded his arms.
“I think we need to establish the actual care arrangements before anyone agrees to anything.”
Everyone looked at him.
“Thank you, Alfie,” said Mrs Brand. “That is sensible.”
“I can write a list,” he offered.
“Of course you can.”
Alfie produced a small notebook from his school bag.
Mrs Brand briefly wondered whether he had been born with it.
“First,” Alfie said, “Brutus needs somewhere secure to stay, away from Snowball. Second, he needs the right food and water. Third, we need to know whether he’s suitable to be looked after by Barry.”
“I’m suitable,” Barry said.
“Fourth,” Alfie continued, “we need to ask Mr Henley what to do if Brutus becomes stressed or tries to bite.”
“He won’t bite me,” Barry said confidently.
“Brutus has attempted to bite a wooden spoon.”
“Maybe the spoon was rude.”
Mr Brand made a strangled noise, leaned over and whispered to his wife, “I bet the vet nurse house sitter would look after him for the second week too… just saying.”
Mrs Brand pinched the bridge of her nose.
“Right. We are not making a decision until we have spoken to Mr Henley.”
Barry’s face brightened.
“That’s not a no.”
“No,” said Mrs Brand reluctantly. “It isn’t.”
Barry immediately ran back into the classroom.
“MR HENLEY! MUMMY SAYS IT’S NOT A NO!”
Mr Henley, who was trying to secure the guinea pigs’ travel cage, looked up in alarm.
“I’m delighted to hear that,” he said, in the tone of a man who suspected he was about to be dragged into a family negotiation.
Ten minutes later, the adults were gathered around the classroom table.
Mr Henley explained Brutus’s routine, his food, his bedding, how to keep his enclosure secure and how important it was not to force handling. Brutus would need to be allowed to settle and approached calmly. If he seemed stressed, the children should leave him alone and ask an adult for help.
“Would you be happy for him to stay with us for the half term break?” Mrs Brand asked.
Mr Henley considered this.
“If you can give him a quiet space and supervise the children carefully, it could be possible. But I want to be clear: Brutus isn’t a cuddly toy. If he doesn’t want interaction, he must be left alone.”
“We understand,” said Mrs Brand.
Mr Brand nodded.
Alfie wrote down the key points.
Barry stood on tiptoe, peering at Brutus.
“I will respect his boundaries,” he announced.
Everyone turned to look at him.
“That’s a very good phrase,” said Mr Henley.
“Alfie taught me it.”
“I did not,” said Alfie.
“You said Brutus has boundaries.”
“I said he has firm boundaries.”
“Same thing.”
Mr Brand looked at his wife.
Mrs Brand looked at the hamster.
Brutus was sleeping in his enclosure.
“Fine,” Mrs Brand said at last. “Brutus can come home with us, provided we follow Mr Henley’s instructions.”
Barry froze.
For one extraordinary second, he seemed unable to process the words.
Then his entire face lit up.
“BRUTUS IS COMING HOME!”
“Quietly,” Mrs Brand said.
“BRUTUS IS COMING HOME QUIETLY!”
“Barry.”
“Sorry.”
Marmaduke began jumping up and down.
“Can we make him a welcome sign?”
“No,” said Alfie. “He is a hamster. He cannot read.”
“We can still make one,” Barry argued.
Alfie thought about this.
“Fine. But it needs to be spelled correctly.”
“Welcome, Brutus,” said Marmaduke.
“That’s easy,” said Barry.
“It’s two words,” Alfie reminded him.
“It’s still easy.”
Mr Brand leaned towards Mrs Brand.
“You do realise that if this works, they’ll ask for another animal next term.”
“I know.”
“Perhaps a rabbit.”
“Don’t.”
“A tortoise.”
“Stop.”
“A small, emotionally complicated badger.”
Mrs Brand gave him a look.
He smiled.
“Worth asking.”
That evening, Brutus settled into a quiet corner of the Brand house, in a secure enclosure with fresh bedding, food and water. The children were permitted to watch him from a respectful distance.
Barry sat on the floor nearby.
He did not poke the bars. He did not bang on the enclosure. He did not attempt to offer Brutus a biscuit, a toy dinosaur or one of his socks.
He simply watched.
After a while, Brutus emerged from his hide, sniffed the air and began investigating his new surroundings.
Barry beamed.
“He’s coming out!”
“Yes,” said Alfie. “Because he’s curious. Not because he wants you to pick him up.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
Mrs Brand, passing the doorway with her laptop, paused.
The sight of Barry sitting quietly, making no demands of an animal he desperately wanted to love, was unexpectedly moving.
Then Barry whispered, “I think he likes me.”
“He doesn’t know you yet,” Alfie said.
“He will.”
“Possibly.”
“I’m going to be his friend.”
Alfie considered Brutus, who was now enthusiastically rearranging a piece of bedding.
“Just remember,” he said, “being someone’s friend doesn’t mean making them do what you want.”
Barry nodded solemnly.
“Like when Marmaduke doesn’t want to play dinosaurs.”
“Exactly.”
Marmaduke, who was coming back from the loo, looked horrified.
“I always want to play dinosaurs.”
“Not when you wanted to play football the other day,” Alfie pointed out.
“That was because Barry said the dinosaurs could play football.”
“They were playing against the volcano,” Barry explained.
Mr Brand appeared behind them.
“Of course they were. A perfectly normal Friday.”
Mrs Brand’s laptop pinged.
She looked down at the screen, then at the children, then at Brutus.
For one brief moment, she considered opening the email.
Then she shut the laptop.
It was the last day of term. The family were going to Barbados in a few days. There were still suitcases to pack, clothes to find, passports to check and approximately seven thousand small jobs waiting to be done.
But for tonight, there was a hamster in the house who needed peace and quiet, a little boy who had discovered that caring for someone sometimes meant keeping your hands to yourself, and an eight-year-old who was already drafting a hamster-care schedule.
Mrs Brand suspected the schedule would include colour coding.
She also suspected Brutus would hate it.
From his enclosure came a small rustle.
Barry leaned forward, then stopped himself.
“Goodnight, Brutus,” he whispered.
Brutus disappeared into his hide.
“See?” Barry said softly. “He’s tired.”
“Or he’s hiding from you,” Alfie replied.
“Alfie!”
“What? It’s a possibility.”
Mr Brand put an arm around Mrs Brand’s shoulders.
“On the bright side,” he said, “at least we haven’t agreed to take the guinea pigs as well.”
Mrs Brand looked at him.
There was a pause.
Then, from the kitchen, Barry shouted, “MUMMY! IF THE GUINEA PIGS HAVE BABIES, CAN WE HAVE ONE?”
Mrs Brand closed her eyes.
Mr Brand patted her shoulder.
“Welcome to the holidays,” he said.
And somewhere in the quiet of the living room, Brutus the hamster began the first night of his temporary family stay.
He had not asked for a holiday home.
He had not asked for a family.
And he certainly had not asked for a colour-coded care rota.
But he had been given all three.
Life, Brutus was beginning to suspect, was deeply unfair
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