Saturday morning began with the sort of organised chaos that makes you wonder how the human race ever managed to leave the cave.
At 5.17am, Mrs Brand was standing in the kitchen wearing slippers, pyjamas and the expression of a woman who had already mentally drafted three emails, disputed a legal point with someone who was almost certainly wrong, and discovered that her family had somehow managed to lose an item that had been packed, unpacked, repacked and then placed somewhere “safe”.
“Has anyone seen my phone?” she asked.
Mr Brand, who was coming downstairs, looked at her.
“You’re holding it.”
Mrs Brand glanced at her hand.
“Right.”
She stared at the phone as though it had betrayed her.
“I’m tired.”
“That’s understandable,” said Mr Brand. “You were working until nearly midnight.”
“And then I woke up at four because I remembered the travel insurance documents.”
“Which are in the folder.”
“Yes, but are they the right documents?”
“I’m sure the insurance company will be delighted to discover that we have insured the holiday against our own incompetence.”
Mrs Brand gave him a look.
Mr Brand smiled. He had learned, over the years, that the best way to survive family holidays was to make jokes early, before anyone had the opportunity to become genuinely cross.
Today was a particularly important day.
Marjory Jackson and her son, Marmaduke, were flying to Barbados. They would spend a week with Marjory’s family, including relatives of her late husband, Mark. The Brand family would fly out the following week, and everyone would spend the second week together before returning to Britain.
It was a lovely plan.
A thoughtful plan.
A plan involving family, sunshine, old memories, new adventures and the opportunity for Marmaduke to spend time with people who had known his father.
It was also a plan that had required the adults to pack for two separate departures, arrange care for the cats, locate passports, buy clothes that fitted, and explain to a four-year-old that a hamster called Brutus would not be accompanying them to the Caribbean.
Brutus, for his part, had appeared entirely indifferent to the whole affair.
He had spent Friday evening chewing something in his enclosure with the air of a creature who considered international travel a ridiculous human invention.
Snowball had inspected the suitcases, sat in one briefly and then departed, apparently satisfied that nobody had packed her by mistake.
Alfie had checked his own holiday list three times.
Barry had asked whether Barbados had dinosaurs.
Marmaduke had asked whether it had dinosaurs that could play football.
Mr Brand had said that, if it did, he was not taking responsibility for the resulting insurance claim.
And now, at six o’clock on Saturday morning, they were all heading to Heathrow.
Well, most of them.
Mrs Brand and Alfie were staying behind. The Brand family would travel the following week, and Mrs Brand had decided that there was no reason for all four Brands to spend an entire Saturday morning watching two people go through airport security.
She had kissed Marjory goodbye the previous evening and promised to speak to her later.
Alfie had given Marmaduke a detailed explanation of the flight, including the importance of drinking water, listening to adults and not putting anything unusual in his mouth.
“Why would I put something unusual in my mouth?” Marmaduke had asked.
Alfie had looked at Barry.
Barry had looked at the ceiling.
“Exactly,” Alfie had said.
The drive to Heathrow was unusually quiet.
Marjory sat in the front passenger seat, checking her documents and occasionally looking out of the window. Marmaduke was in the back beside Barry, clutching a small rucksack containing his favourite dinosaur, a colouring book and a packet of biscuits.
Barry had brought a dinosaur too.
It was a purple one with a slightly bent tail, and he had insisted that it needed to accompany Marmaduke because “they might get lonely on the plane”.
Mr Brand had not asked which of the dinosaurs was going to be responsible for the passport.
He had decided that some questions were best left unanswered.
For the first twenty minutes, Barry and Marmaduke discussed the holiday.
Marmaduke would see his grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. He would visit places that Mark had loved. Marjory had told him stories about Barbados, about her childhood visits, and about the family members who had helped keep Mark’s memory alive through photographs, anecdotes and the occasional argument over who made the best food.
Barry was particularly interested in the food.
“Will they have chicken?”
“Almost certainly,” said Marjory.
“And fish?”
“Yes.”
“And ice cream?”
“I expect so.”
Barry considered this.
“Barbados sounds very good.”
“It is,” said Marjory, smiling.
“Can I come?”
Mr Brand glanced at him in the rear-view mirror.
“You’re going next week, remember?”
“Oh, yes.”
Barry looked relieved.
Then he turned to Marmaduke.
“Will you save me some ice cream?”
“I’ll try.”
“Don’t eat all of it.”
“I won’t.”
“And don’t have all the chicken.”
“I won’t.”
“And don’t make a new best friend.”
Marmaduke frowned.
“I already have a best friend.”
Barry nodded, apparently satisfied.
Mr Brand watched them in the mirror.
He had heard Barry say that before, in various forms, usually when Marmaduke had played with another child at the park or spoken to someone else at school. At four, Barry understood friendship as something solid and permanent, but also something that required a surprising amount of supervision.
He had not yet fully grasped that you could love someone enormously without needing to be beside them every minute.
That was about to become rather important.
Heathrow Airport was, as usual, an enormous building designed to make people feel that they had forgotten something.
There were suitcases everywhere, children asleep on luggage trolleys, adults staring at departure boards as though the letters might rearrange themselves into something more helpful, and a man who was already eating a sandwich at seven in the morning with the determined expression of someone preparing for a siege.
Mr Brand parked, unloaded the bags and shepherded the Jacksons towards the terminal.
Marjory was composed, but Barry noticed that she kept touching Marmaduke’s shoulder.
She was excited to see her family. She was also aware that this holiday mattered in a way that went beyond sunshine and sightseeing.
Mark had been gone for a little over three years. His family in Barbados were part of Marmaduke’s story, part of the life he had known before he was old enough to understand what he had lost. Marjory wanted him to feel connected to them, to hear stories about his father from people who had loved him, and to understand that although his dad was no longer there, the people who remembered him were.
Marmaduke had been looking forward to the trip for weeks.
Now that they were actually there, however, he was becoming rather quieter.
The two adults and two boys found the check-in desks, deposited the luggage and moved towards security.
Mr Brand gave Marjory a big hug.
“Have a wonderful time,” he said.
“We will.”
“Don’t let him eat nothing but ice cream.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Send photographs.”
“Of course.”
“And if the plane develops any unusual noises, remember that I’m not a pilot, so don’t call me.”
Marjory laughed.
“Thank you for that exceptionally useful advice.”
Then she crouched down to Marmaduke.
“Ready, darling?”
Marmaduke nodded.
Barry grabbed his hand.
“No.”
Everyone paused.
“Barry,” said Mr Brand gently.
“No,” Barry repeated. “They can’t go yet.”
Marjory looked up at Mr Brand.
He gave a small, helpless shrug.
This was the moment they had all known might happen. They had talked about it, explained the arrangements and reassured the boys that they would see each other again in a week.
A week.
Seven nights.
Seven bedtimes.
Seven mornings without running next door to find out whether Marmaduke wanted to play dinosaurs.
To an adult, a week was a manageable interval. It was a few emails, some work, a supermarket trip, a washing machine cycle and the inevitable argument about what to have for dinner.
To Barry, a week was practically geological time.
“I’m going with you,” he said.
“You’re coming next week,” Marmaduke reminded him.
“I don’t want next week. I want now.”
Marmaduke’s lower lip began to wobble.
“I want you to come too.”
Marjory drew her son into a hug.
“Oh, darling.”
Barry wrapped both arms around Marmaduke’s waist.
“No. You can’t go through there.”
“I have to,” Marmaduke whispered.
“Why?”
“Because the plane is there.”
“Then tell it to wait.”
Mr Brand looked towards the ceiling.
It was an excellent idea, really. Someone ought to have told the aviation industry that its timetable was upsetting four-year-olds.
Marjory gently rubbed Marmaduke’s back.
“Barry, sweetheart, we’re going to have a lovely time. And then you’ll come and join us.”
“But I won’t see him.”
“Not for a few days.”
“That’s too long.”
“I know it feels that way.”
Barry shook his head.
He was crying now, properly crying, with tears running down his face and his little shoulders trembling. Marmaduke was crying too, and the two boys clung to each other with the wholehearted desperation of people who had never experienced a friendship gap longer than the time it took one of them to go to the toilet.
They hugged each other again.
And again.
Marjory let them take their time.
Mr Brand stood quietly beside them, feeling the familiar ache that comes from watching children encounter something difficult for the first time. He wanted to make it better. He wanted to explain that they would be fine, that friendship survived distance, that a week would pass.
But Barry was four.
He did not need a lecture on the durability of human relationships.
He needed to be allowed to be sad.
Eventually, Marjory stood.
“We really must go, darling.”
Barry tightened his grip.
“Please don’t.”
Marmaduke looked at him, tears on his cheeks.
“I’ll see you next week, Barry.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“And you’ll think about me?”
“Every day.”
“And you’ll save me some ice cream?”
Marmaduke sniffed.
“Yes.”
“And you won’t get a new best friend?”
Marmaduke gave a watery smile.
“No. You’re my best friend.”
Barry hugged him once more, so tightly that Mr Brand briefly wondered whether the airport might need to provide a small hydraulic release system.
Then Marjory gently took Marmaduke’s hand.
They walked towards security.
Barry stood perfectly still, watching them go.
Marmaduke looked back twice.
The second time, he lifted his free hand and waved.
Barry waved back.
Then Marjory and Marmaduke disappeared into the crowd.
And just like that, Barry’s world had become a considerably less interesting place.
For a few seconds, nobody moved.
Mr Brand rested a hand on Barry’s shoulder.
“Come on, mate.”
Barry didn’t answer.
“Let’s go home.”
Barry nodded, but his face crumpled again.
“I want Marm.”
“I know.”
“He’s gone.”
“Yes.”
“On a plane.”
“Yes.”
“To Barbados.”
“That’s right.”
Mr Brand considered offering a joke about the airline’s appalling habit of taking best friends overseas without adequate consultation. But he decided against it.
Some moments deserved fewer words.
He picked Barry up and carried him back through the terminal.
Barry rested his head against his father’s shoulder, his purple dinosaur trapped between them.
On the way to the car, he saw a family with two children chasing each other around a pillar. He watched them for a moment, then turned away.
At the car, Mr Brand buckled him into his seat and climbed behind the wheel.
For the first few minutes, Barry said nothing.
He looked out of the window as the airport buildings slid past. His eyes were red, and every so often he sniffed and rubbed his nose on his sleeve.
Mr Brand passed him a tissue.
“Here you go.”
Barry took it.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
They drove in silence for a little longer.
Then Barry said, “Daddy?”
“Yes, mate?”
“I’m pleased Marmaduke is going to see his family.”
Mr Brand glanced at him in the mirror.
“I know you are.”
“Because they love him.”
“They certainly do.”
“And they knew his daddy.”
“Yes.”
Barry was quiet for a moment.
“That’s important, isn’t it?”
Mr Brand swallowed.
“Yes, Barry. It is.”
Barry rubbed the tissue between his fingers.
“Marmaduke told me his grandad might tell him stories about his daddy when he was little.”
“He might.”
“And his cousins will know things about him that Marmaduke doesn’t know.”
“That’s right.”
Barry looked out of the window again.
“That’s good.”
There was a long pause.
Then he added, in a smaller voice, “But my best family are the people I see every day.”
Mr Brand felt something tighten in his chest.
“Your best family?”
Barry nodded.
“You and Mummy and Alfie. And Snowball. And Marmaduke and Marjory. I see them all the time.”
He sniffed.
“And now I can’t see Marmaduke.”
Mr Brand kept his eyes on the road.
“No. Not for a little while.”
“I know it’s good he’s going. But I don’t like it.”
“That’s perfectly all right.”
“Can both things be true?”
Mr Brand looked at him in the mirror again.
“Absolutely.”
Barry considered this.
“So I can be pleased for Marmaduke and sad for me?”
“Exactly. You can be happy that he’s doing something lovely, and miss him at the same time.”
Barry nodded slowly.
“That’s a lot of feelings.”
“It is.”
“Do grown-ups have that many?”
Mr Brand laughed softly.
“Constantly.”
“Even Mummy?”
“Especially Mummy. Although she tends to put hers in an email and mark it urgent.”
Barry gave a small, reluctant smile.
It was not a proper laugh, but it was something.
They passed a sign for the M25.
“Daddy?”
“Yes?”
“What will I do without Marmaduke?”
Mr Brand thought about it.
“Well, you’ll still have Alfie. You’ll have Mummy and me. You’ll have your toys, your books, your garden and Brutus.”
Barry looked alarmed.
“Brutus isn’t my best friend.”
“No, I imagine he would be horrified by the suggestion.”
Barry looked down at his purple dinosaur.
“I can play with Alfie.”
“You can.”
“But he doesn’t always want to play dinosaurs.”
“True.”
“And he says the rules have to make sense.”
“An unreasonable burden to place on a four-year-old.”
“And he doesn’t let the dinosaurs have explosions.”
“Your brother is a tyrant.”
Barry smiled a little more.
“But I can still play with him.”
“Yes. And you might find other things to do this week, too.”
“Like what?”
“Well, we could go to the park. We could bake something. We could visit the library. You could help me get ready for Barbados.”
Barry thought about this.
“Can I help pack?”
Mr Brand was careful not to react too quickly.
“We can find a few things for you to help with.”
“Can I pack Snowball?”
“No.”
“Can I pack Brutus?”
“No.”
“Can I pack Alfie?”
“Only if you can find a suitcase large enough, and I suspect your mother would object.”
Barry sighed.
“Packing is difficult.”
“It certainly is.”
For the first time since the airport, Barry’s expression began to soften.
He was still sad. He still missed Marmaduke. But he was beginning to imagine the days ahead, and the idea that they might contain something other than waiting for his best friend to return.
Mr Brand knew the week would not be easy.
There would be moments when Barry would instinctively look for Marmaduke, moments when he would want to tell him something funny, moments when a game would feel incomplete without the person who usually played the other half.
There might even be a few spectacular meltdowns, because Barry was four and emotions did not always arrive in convenient, neatly labelled packages.
But there would also be opportunities.
He might discover that he could entertain himself for longer than he thought. He might find that Alfie was a surprisingly good companion when he wasn’t busy being eight. He might enjoy time with his parents without Marmaduke beside him, and learn that missing someone did not mean that the day had to stop.
It would be a tough week.
It might also be a good one.
When they got home, Alfie was waiting in the kitchen.
“How was the airport?”
Barry climbed out of the car and walked straight over to him.
“Marmaduke’s gone.”
Alfie’s expression softened.
“I know, mate.”
“To Barbados.”
“I know.”
“For a whole week.”
“Yes.”
Barry looked at his brother.
Then, without warning, he wrapped his arms around Alfie’s middle.
Alfie looked surprised.
He was not generally a fan of sudden emotional contact, especially before breakfast, but he put his arms around Barry and gave him a squeeze.
“It’s all right,” he said.
“I miss him.”
“I know.”
“Can we play?”
Alfie blinked.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“What do you want to play?”
Barry thought carefully.
“Dinosaurs.”
Alfie sighed, but it was a fond sort of sigh.
“Fine. But we’re going to need a proper storyline.”
Barry nodded.
“The dinosaurs are going to Barbados.”
“Of course they are.”
“They’re going to see their family.”
Alfie looked at him for a moment.
Then he smiled.
“All right. Let’s do it.”
And so, on the first morning of a week without Marmaduke, Barry and Alfie assembled an expedition of plastic dinosaurs, two toy aeroplanes and a rather unfortunate stuffed crocodile who was apparently in charge of airport security.
Mr Brand watched from the kitchen doorway.
Barry still looked sad every so often. He asked whether Marmaduke’s plane had taken off, whether he would be asleep yet, and whether the family in Barbados would let him have ice cream for breakfast.
But he also played.
He laughed when Alfie made the crocodile demand to see a dinosaur’s passport. He helped arrange the dinosaurs into a queue. And when Alfie announced that the plane was delayed because a triceratops had packed seventeen rocks in its hand luggage, Barry laughed so hard he fell backwards onto the carpet.
It was not the same as playing with Marmaduke.
Nothing was going to be the same as playing with Marmaduke.
But it was still fun.
Later, Mr Brand found Barry sitting quietly on the sofa with his purple dinosaur.
“Missing him?” he asked.
Barry nodded.
“Very much.”
Mr Brand sat beside him.
“That’s what happens when you love someone.”
Barry leaned against him.
“I hope the week goes quickly.”
“So do I, mate.”
“And I hope Marmaduke has a lovely time.”
“I hope so too.”
Barry was silent for a moment.
“Daddy?”
“Yes?”
“When we go to Barbados next week, can I hug him again?”
Mr Brand smiled.
“I suspect he’ll be expecting it.”
Barry thought about that, then settled against his father.
Outside, the Saturday morning carried on. Cars passed. Neighbours walked their dogs. Somewhere down the road, a family was probably arguing about whether they had packed enough sun cream.
And in the sky, Marjory and Marmaduke were beginning a week of family stories, sunshine and memories.
Back in London, Barry was learning something rather important.
You could miss someone terribly and still have a good day.
You could be sad for yourself and happy for someone else.
And best friends did not stop being best friends just because an enormous aeroplane had carried one of them several thousand miles away.
Although, Barry thought, as he picked up his dinosaur and carried it to the kitchen, it would have been much more sensible if Barbados had been just around the corner.
Preferably within walking distance.
And definitely somewhere with a decent playground.
After all, friendship was important.
But so were logistics.
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