Sunday morning arrived with absolutely no consideration for Barry Brand’s emotional wellbeing.
It was a grey, drizzly sort of morning, the kind that made the windows look miserable and the garden seem to have been personally insulted by the weather. Somewhere outside, a pigeon was making a noise like an elderly man complaining about parking. The washing machine was already on its second load, and Mrs Brand had spent twenty minutes looking for a pair of sunglasses she would not need for at least another week.
Mr Brand was in the kitchen attempting to establish whether the family had enough food in the house to survive until their departure for Barbados.
He had opened the fridge, stared into it, closed it, and opened it again.
This was not because the contents had changed.
It was because he was a father, and fathers have been doing this since the invention of refrigeration, presumably in the hope that a roast chicken might spontaneously appear if they looked sufficiently disappointed.
Alfie, meanwhile, had been up for nearly an hour. He had dressed, eaten breakfast, checked his school bag out of habit despite there being no school, and was now reading a book about ancient civilisations.
He had also written a list of things he wanted to do during the holiday.
It was a very good list.
It included reading, football practice, chess, organising his bedroom, and researching the history of Bridgetown before they flew to Barbados.
It did not include watching Barry lie on the sofa looking like a Victorian orphan in a particularly depressing novel.
Unfortunately, that was exactly what Barry was doing.
He was curled up at one end of the sofa, wearing his pyjamas and hugging Snowball, his cat. Snowball had positioned herself across his lap, with her head resting against his chest and her front paws tucked neatly beneath her body.
She was purring.
Barry was stroking her back.
Neither of them appeared to have any plans to move.
Snowball had, over recent weeks, become very good at identifying when Barry was upset. Whether this was the result of extraordinary feline empathy or simply the fact that Barry became unusually quiet when he was unhappy, nobody knew.
Either way, she had taken it upon herself to provide emotional support.
She did not offer advice, ask intrusive questions, or suggest that Barry should look on the bright side.
She simply sat with him.
Frankly, she was better at it than most adults.
“Are you sad too, Snowball?” Barry whispered.
Snowball purred.
“I miss Marmaduke.”
Snowball purred a little louder.
“He’s in Barbados.”
Snowball closed her eyes.
“It’s not fair. It’s sunny there.”
Snowball’s ears twitched.
“And it’s raining here.”
At this point, Snowball appeared to have reached the limit of her professional responsibilities. She tucked her nose beneath her paw and went to sleep.
Barry sighed.
Even his cat had decided that the weather was too depressing to discuss.
The previous day, Barry had thought that Sunday might be better.
Saturday had been difficult because Marmaduke had left for Barbados with his mum, Marjory, to spend a week with her family and the family of his late dad, Mark. Barry knew that it was important for Marmaduke to visit them. He understood that they loved him and wanted to spend time with him.
He was pleased for Marmaduke.
He really was.
But being pleased for somebody and enjoying the consequences of their absence were two entirely different things.
It was a bit like being pleased that someone had won a chocolate cake, while you sat in a room where all the biscuits had been confiscated.
Barry had woken on Sunday expecting Marmaduke to come round.
Then he remembered.
No Marmaduke.
No knocking at the door.
No rushing into the garden to organise an expedition involving dinosaurs, sticks and a frankly irresponsible amount of imagination.
No Marmaduke asking whether they could have a snack approximately eleven minutes after breakfast.
No Marmaduke agreeing that a cardboard box could be a submarine, a castle, a volcano or a very large shoe, depending on the demands of the moment.
Just Barry.
And the rain.
And a cat.
And, in the corner of the living room, Brutus.
Barry glanced towards the hamster’s enclosure.
Brutus was awake and moving about, sniffing the bedding and investigating the area around his food bowl.
Barry had topped up his food that morning, carefully following Mr Henley’s instructions. He had checked the water bottle and made sure the enclosure was secure.
He had not, however, attempted to pick Brutus up.
This was not because Barry lacked compassion.
It was because Brutus had a reputation.
According to school rumours, three children had been bitten by Brutus and had bled rather badly.
Barry had not witnessed any of these incidents himself. He had heard about them from children who had probably heard about them from other children, which meant the story might have become somewhat exaggerated somewhere between the classroom and the playground.
By Friday afternoon, Brutus had apparently developed a bite capable of removing an entire finger.
Alfie had pointed out that this was unlikely.
Barry had asked whether it was impossible.
Alfie had said that he was not going to discuss the precise capabilities of hamster dentistry before breakfast.
So Barry had decided that Brutus could remain in his enclosure until a parent was present.
This seemed sensible.
Barry was fond of animals, but he was not interested in sacrificing a finger before going to Barbados. He had been told that the sea was lovely there, and he was rather hoping to arrive with all his existing body parts.
Brutus scurried through his bedding.
Barry watched him.
“Do you miss Marmaduke too?” he asked.
Brutus began chewing something.
Barry narrowed his eyes.
“You don’t look sad.”
Brutus continued chewing.
“That’s because you’re a hamster.”
Brutus looked up briefly, then disappeared into his hide.
Barry turned back to Snowball.
“At least you understand me.”
Snowball did not open her eyes.
By lunchtime, things had not improved.
Mrs Brand had been attempting to work, although her laptop had been interrupted by a succession of domestic questions.
“Mummy, where’s my football?”
“Where you left it.”
“Where’s that?”
“If I knew, Barry, I would have put it somewhere more useful.”
“Can I have a biscuit?”
“After lunch.”
“Is it lunchtime?”
“Yes.”
“Can I have a biscuit now?”
“No.”
Barry had wandered off, apparently satisfied that the biscuit negotiations had at least begun.
Mr Brand had tried to interest him in a game of football in the garden.
Barry had agreed, but only after asking whether Marmaduke would be able to play when they got to Barbados.
“I’m sure he will,” said Mr Brand.
“Will he play with me?”
“Of course.”
“Will he play with other children?”
“Probably.”
Barry had gone quiet.
Mr Brand, recognising a potential diplomatic incident, had added, “And he can play with other children and you. People can have more than one friend, Barry.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
“But I’m his best friend.”
“Yes, mate.”
“And he’s mine.”
“Yes.”
Barry had looked at him for a moment.
“Then why is he in Barbados?”
Mr Brand had stared at the ceiling.
It was an excellent question, really. One that international travel, family history and the entire concept of October half-term had conspired to make considerably more complicated than it needed to be.
“Because his family live there,” he had said at last.
Barry had accepted this, although he did not appear particularly impressed by the geographical arrangement.
The football game lasted about seven minutes.
Barry scored a goal, but there was nobody to celebrate with in quite the same way. Mr Brand was perfectly capable of cheering, but he was not Marmaduke. He did not immediately suggest that the goal had been scored by a dinosaur who was also a professional goalkeeper and possibly a pirate.
After seven minutes, Barry announced that he was finished.
He returned to the sofa.
Snowball resumed her position.
Brutus was fast asleep.
The day dragged on.
At three o’clock, Mrs Brand appeared in the living room.
“Barry, darling, it’s nearly time for your FaceTime call with Marmaduke.”
Barry sat bolt upright.
“Now?”
“In a little while.”
“How long?”
“About twenty minutes.”
Barry looked stricken.
“Twenty minutes?”
“Yes.”
“That’s ages!”
Mrs Brand glanced at the clock.
“It’s actually quite a short time.”
“Not when you’re waiting!”
Mrs Brand paused.
She was a lawyer. She spent much of her working life explaining to people that the passage of time was not usually a valid legal argument.
But she also remembered being a child, when waiting for a birthday could feel like waiting for the next century.
“Fair point,” she said.
Barry looked at Snowball.
“Marmaduke’s going to call.”
Snowball opened one eye.
“I’m going to see him!”
Snowball stretched, climbed off his lap and wandered away.
Apparently, her shift was over.
Barry spent the next twenty minutes asking whether the call would be on Mummy’s phone or Daddy’s phone, whether Marmaduke would be able to see him properly, whether Barbados would be visible behind him, and whether he could show Marmaduke Brutus.
“Brutus is not coming on the call as a special guest,” Mrs Brand informed him.
“Why not?”
“Because this is a conversation between you and Marmaduke.”
“He can be in the background.”
“Fine. In the background.”
Barry nodded.
He was already planning the camera angles.
When the phone finally rang, Barry nearly launched himself off the sofa.
“MARM!”
On the screen appeared Marmaduke, sitting beside Marjory in what looked like a garden.
Behind them were palm trees, bright flowers and a sky so blue that Barry immediately suspected it had been edited.
“BARRY!” Marmaduke shouted.
For a moment, neither boy said anything else.
They simply stared at each other, grinning.
Then they both started talking at once.
“It’s sunny here!”
“It’s raining here!”
“Look at this!”
“Look at Brutus!”
“Look at the sea!”
Marmaduke turned the phone around.
Barry gasped.
The water was turquoise and sparkled in the sunlight. Palm trees moved gently in the breeze. There were flowers everywhere, and the garden looked as though someone had asked a painter to create a picture of the perfect holiday and then accidentally made it real.
“It’s beautiful!” Barry exclaimed.
“I know!” Marmaduke said. “Look!”
He showed Barry the garden, a brightly coloured flower, and a little path leading towards the house.
“That’s where my grandad sits,” Marmaduke explained. “He says the breeze is lovely there.”
“Can you see the sea?”
“Not from here. But we’re going to see it later.”
Barry’s face lit up.
“Can you see fish?”
“Maybe!”
“Can you see sharks?”
“Hopefully not close up!”
“Can you see dinosaurs?”
Marmaduke considered this.
“Not yet.”
“Keep looking.”
Marjory laughed in the background.
Then Marmaduke leaned closer to the phone.
“Barry?”
“Yes?”
“I haven’t done anything fun yet.”
Barry blinked.
“What?”
“I haven’t gone swimming or played on the beach or anything.”
“Why not?”
“Because I want to do it all when you’re here.”
Barry stared at the screen.
“But you’re there now.”
“I know.”
“So you can have fun.”
“I could,” Marmaduke admitted. “But I want you to be here too.”
Barry felt a strange, warm feeling in his chest. It was the sort of feeling that made him want to smile and cry at the same time, which was terribly inconvenient when he was trying to have a proper conversation.
“You don’t have to wait for me,” he said.
“I know. But I want to show you everything.”
Marmaduke turned the phone towards Marjory.
“Mummy says we’ll go to the beach again when Barry comes.”
Marjory smiled at the screen.
“We’re having a lovely time with the family, Barry. But we’ve saved plenty of adventures for next week.”
Barry nodded.
He could see that Marjory was happy. He could see that Marmaduke was excited. He could also see that Marmaduke was thinking about him, even while he was thousands of miles away.
It was enough to make the grey living room feel a little less grey.
“Can you show me the flowers again?” Barry asked.
Marmaduke did.
“Those are beautiful,” Barry said.
“There’s loads more.”
“Can you show me the sea when you get there?”
“Definitely.”
“And the beach?”
“Yes.”
“And the fish?”
“If I see any.”
“And if you see a shark?”
“I’ll show you from very far away.”
“Good.”
Alfie, who had wandered into the room, murmured, “Excellent risk management.”
Barry ignored him.
He was too busy looking at his best friend.
They talked for ages. Marmaduke showed Barry the garden again, introduced him to a cousin, and demonstrated how bright the sunlight made everything look. Barry told Marmaduke about Brutus, who was moving around in the background.
“Have you picked him up?” Marmaduke asked.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because he might bite me.”
Marmaduke nodded seriously.
“That’s sensible.”
“Three children at school bled.”
“Really?”
“That’s what people said.”
“Maybe they were annoying him.”
Barry considered this.
“Maybe.”
Brutus chose that moment to emerge from his hide and begin exploring his enclosure again.
“Look!” Barry said. “He’s out!”
Marmaduke waved at the screen.
“Hello, Brutus!”
Brutus continued walking, completely uninterested in international friendship.
“Brutus says hello,” Barry announced.
“He doesn’t look like he says hello.”
“He’s shy.”
“Or grumpy.”
“Both,” Barry agreed.
They laughed.
And for the first time all day, Barry forgot to be sad.
When the call ended, Barry sat quietly for a moment, still smiling.
Snowball jumped back onto the sofa and settled beside him.
“I’m happier now,” he told her.
Snowball purred.
“Marmaduke says he’s saving the adventures for me.”
Snowball purred again.
“And I tried to see the sea.”
She rested her head against his arm.
Barry looked out at the rain.
It was still raining. The garden was still grey. The house was still full of half-packed holiday things, and Brutus was still a hamster with a questionable reputation and no intention of becoming a cuddly toy.
But Barbados no longer seemed quite so far away.
Barry knew he still had several days to get through before he could join Marmaduke. There would be moments when he missed him, and moments when the day felt too quiet. He might even have to entertain himself without asking his parents to provide a full programme of activities, a task he regarded as an unreasonable burden for someone who had not yet learned to read fluently.
But now he had seen the sunshine.
He had heard Marmaduke’s voice.
And he knew that his best friend was waiting for him.
“Daddy?” Barry called.
Mr Brand appeared in the doorway.
“Yes, mate?”
“Can we get ready for Barbados now?”
Mr Brand looked at the clock.
“We have a few days yet.”
“Can we start packing?”
“Mummy is working towards that goal.”
“Can I pack Snowball?”
“No.”
“Brutus?”
“No.”
“Alfie?”
“Absolutely not,” said Alfie from the other room.
Barry sighed.
“Everyone is very difficult.”
Mr Brand sat down beside him.
“It’s a family trait.”
Barry leaned back against Snowball.
He was still missing Marmaduke.
But now he had something to look forward to: sunshine, beaches, family, adventures, and the moment when he would finally run towards his best friend and hug him again.
And perhaps, if they were very lucky, they would see a shark.
From the corner of the room came a rustle.
Brutus had begun rearranging his bedding.
Barry glanced at him.
“Don’t worry, Brutus,” he said. “You’ll have your own adventure too.”
Brutus disappeared into his hide.
Mr Brand looked at the hamster.
Then at Barry.
“I’m not sure he shares your optimism.”
Barry smiled.
“That’s because he hasn’t seen Barbados yet.”
And for the first time that Sunday, Barry was quite certain that everything was going to be all right.
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