At 4.30am on Saturday morning, the Brand household was awake.
Not properly awake, obviously. Nobody in their right mind was properly awake at 4.30am on a Saturday unless they were a farmer, a baker, or somebody who had made a terrible mistake involving an early flight.
The Brands, however, were going to Barbados.
And when you are going to Barbados, apparently you must abandon every sensible principle of sleep, breakfast, personal hygiene and basic human functioning.
Mrs Brand had been awake since 3.47am, although she had not technically got out of bed until 4.05am.
She had spent the intervening eighteen minutes staring at the ceiling, mentally reviewing the passports, boarding passes, airport parking arrangements, luggage allowance, travel insurance, house keys, cat-care instructions and the precise location of the children’s swimming costumes.
She was an Insurance, Regulatory and Commercial lawyer for a global insurance company. She was accustomed to managing complicated situations involving multiple stakeholders, conflicting interests and people who had failed to read the instructions.
Unfortunately, she was married to Mr Brand and had two children.
There were limits to what even the law could achieve.
Mr Brand had been awake since 4.12am, when his alarm went off. He had immediately silenced it, sat upright and announced, to nobody in particular, that they needed to get moving.
Then he had sat on the edge of the bed for six minutes, looking like a man who had been personally betrayed by the concept of time.
Alfie, aged eight, was already dressed. He had been awake for nearly an hour, having prepared a mental itinerary for the journey, checked his hand luggage twice and confirmed that the family had not somehow booked a flight to the wrong Caribbean island.
He was taking the whole thing extremely seriously.
Barry, aged four, had been awake for approximately forty-seven hours, or so it felt.
He had slept terribly. Every time he closed his eyes, he imagined Barbados. Palm trees. Turquoise sea. Warm sand. Giant lizards. Perhaps a dinosaur, if the universe had finally decided to become reasonable.
And then he remembered Snowball.
Snowball was the Brands’ white cat, who had recently joined the family after being found injured. She was now settled, much loved and, according to Barry, the most beautiful creature ever to have existed.
This was a considerable achievement, given that Barry had previously described a large plastic dinosaur as “the best animal in the whole entire world, including the ones that are dead.”
Victoria, the veterinary nurse who was staying at the house to look after Snowball, had arrived the previous evening.
She had been introduced to the house, shown where the cat food was kept, given instructions about Snowball’s routine and handed a level of information about the cat’s personality that would normally be reserved for a new head of state. She’d also been pointed towards Brutus’ cage, food and cleaning supplies, with a gentle suggestion not to bother him too much.
Barry had personally conducted the tour.
“This is Snowball’s bowl,” he had explained.
“Yes, Barry.”
“And this is her other bowl.”
“Right.”
“And this is where she sits.”
Victoria had looked at the sofa.
“Yes, I can see that.”
“No, not there. On the other bit.”
Victoria had moved her eyes approximately twelve inches to the left.
“Ah. That bit.”
“And sometimes she sits on the bed. But not always. And if she looks at you, you have to look back because otherwise she thinks you don’t love her.”
Victoria had nodded solemnly.
“Very important.”
“And she has FIV, but she isn’t poorly right now, and she has two blue eyes, and you mustn’t let her outside, and if she goes missing—”
“She won’t go missing,” Victoria had assured him.
“But if she does—”
“Barry,” Mrs Brand had interrupted, “Victoria is a qualified veterinary nurse. She knows how to look after cats.”
Barry had considered this.
“Does she know Snowball, though?”
Victoria had wisely refrained from suggesting that Snowball’s entire personality might not be covered in her professional qualifications.
“I know quite a lot about her now,” she said.
Barry had looked at her suspiciously.
“What’s her favourite place?”
“The sofa?”
Barry’s expression had hardened.
“Wrong.”
Victoria had learned a great deal about Snowball that evening.
She had also learned that Barry was not going to make her job easy.
At 4.30am, the family assembled in the kitchen.
Victoria had come downstairs to say goodbye and was standing beside Snowball, who looked entirely untroubled by the international crisis unfolding around her.
She was a cat. Her breakfast was available, her sofa was available, and the humans were making an astonishing amount of noise. As far as Snowball was concerned, the morning was going very well.
Mrs Brand glanced at the clock.
“Right. We need to leave by five.”
“Five o’clock?” Barry gasped.
“Yes.”
“But it’s night-time.”
“Yes, Barry. That’s what happens when you book a flight that departs early.”
“Why didn’t we book one in the daytime?”
“Because the airline doesn’t consult four-year-olds when designing its flight schedule.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Life is full of disappointments, darling.”
Mrs Brand said this while checking the passports for the fourth time.
At 4.40am, she encouraged Barry to eat breakfast.
Barry sat at the kitchen table, wearing his travelling clothes and looking as if he were about to undertake a dangerous expedition into the Arctic.
“Eat your toast,” she said.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You need something in your tummy before the flight.”
“I’m too excited.”
“Excitement does not prevent hunger.”
“Does it prevent sleeping?”
“In your case, apparently.”
Barry took a small bite.
Mrs Brand, meanwhile, was not eating anything solid. The thought of food at this hour was enough to make her feel that she might need to lie down in a dark room. She settled for coffee, which was less breakfast and more a medical intervention.
Barry stared at his toast.
“Will there be breakfast on the plane?”
“Yes.”
“What will it be?”
“I don’t know.”
“Will there be toast?”
“Possibly.”
“With butter?”
“Barry, I have not personally negotiated the toast arrangements with the airline.”
“Can I have two breakfasts?”
“Eat the one in front of you.”
Barry took another bite.
He had already decided that he would stay awake for the entire flight.
He was going to watch the aeroplane take off, look at the clouds, watch a film, look at more clouds, eat breakfast, watch another film, look out of the window, and then announce to everybody that he had stayed awake for the entire journey.
He was four years old.
His confidence was boundless.
His understanding of sleep deprivation was non-existent.
By 4.55am, the luggage was in the car.
By 4.57am, Mr Brand had checked the front door.
By 4.58am, Mrs Brand had checked the front door.
By 4.59am, Mr Brand had checked the front door again because he was quite sure he had not checked it properly the first time.
Alfie stood beside the car with his backpack.
They were nearly ready.
Nearly.
Barry was still inside the house.
He stood in the sitting room, holding Snowball gently against his chest.
Snowball, who had not requested this emotional farewell ceremony, tolerated it with the patient dignity of a cat who had already accepted that humans were strange and that some of them were particularly strange before breakfast.
Victoria stood nearby.
“Barry,” Mrs Brand called softly from the doorway. “We need to go now.”
Barry looked at her.
Then at Snowball.
Then back at her.
“I can’t.”
Mrs Brand’s expression changed.
For the first time that morning, she stopped thinking about passports, security queues and luggage allowances.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
“I can’t leave him.”
Snowball blinked.
She was, at that moment, enjoying a cuddle. She had a warm little human wrapped around her, and there was no obvious reason to object.
Barry’s eyes filled with tears.
“What if she misses me?”
“She will be looked after,” Mrs Brand said gently. “Victoria is going to take very good care of cats.”
“What if she thinks we don’t love him any more?”
“Oh, darling. She won’t think that.”
“What if she gets lonely?”
Victoria crouched beside him.
“Barry, I promise you I’ll keep her company. I’ll play with her, I’ll feed her, I’ll make sure she’s comfortable, and I’ll let you know how she’s doing.”
Barry looked at her.
“Every day?”
“If that’s what your mum and dad arrange, absolutely.”
“And you won’t let her outside?”
“No.”
“And you won’t give her the wrong food?”
“No.”
“And you won’t forget which bit of the sofa she likes?”
Victoria paused.
“I’ll do my very best.”
Barry considered this response. It was not ideal. The sofa situation remained a concern.
He pressed his face into Snowball’s fur.
“I love you, Snowball.”
Snowball purred.
Which was unhelpful, frankly.
If Snowball had chosen that moment to leap down and go in search of breakfast, the departure would have been much easier. Instead, she purred warmly, making Barry’s heart break into approximately seven thousand tiny pieces.
Mr Brand stood in the doorway, looking uncharacteristically helpless.
Alfie had gone quiet.
Barry had spent weeks talking about how much he wanted to see his best friend in Barbados, but now the thought of leaving Snowball felt impossible.
Mrs Brand crouched beside him.
“You know what, Barry? You can love Snowball and still go to Barbados.”
“But I don’t want her to think I left her.”
“Sometimes we have to leave people and animals we love in the care of someone else. It doesn’t mean we love them any less.”
Barry sniffed.
“Will Snowball know I’m coming back?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Because you’ll come back.”
This was, Mrs Brand thought, a perfectly reasonable answer.
Barry was not convinced.
Then Alfie stepped forward.
“Barry, Marmaduke is waiting for you.”
Barry looked up.
“He is?”
“Of course he is. He’s probably been asking Marjory every five minutes when you’re arriving.”
“And he wants to see me?”
“Barry,” Alfie said patiently, “he has been talking about you for weeks.”
Barry looked down at Snowball.
Then he looked towards the front door.
The great conflict of his four-year-old life was now underway.
Snowball, a beautiful white cat with a comfortable sofa and a full-time veterinary nurse, versus Marmaduke Jackson, a four-year-old boy with the impulse control of a startled squirrel and a long-established record of following Barry into situations that sensible people would avoid.
It was a close contest.
“Marmaduke is really there?” Barry asked.
“In Barbados,” Alfie confirmed.
“With his mum?”
“Yes.”
“And he’s waiting for me?”
“Yes.”
Barry kissed Snowball on the head.
“I’ll come back.”
Snowball purred.
“I promise.”
He handed the cat to Victoria, who accepted her carefully.
Barry watched as Victoria settled Snowball on the sofa.
Then, with the air of a small soldier leaving for a very important war, he walked towards the door.
He stopped once.
Looked back.
Stopped again.
Looked back again.
“Barry,” Mr Brand said, “we really do need to go.”
“One last look.”
He looked.
“Right,” he said.
And then he ran to the car. The desire to see Marmaduke had won, by approximately half a centimetre.
The drive to Heathrow was a curious mixture of excitement and profound exhaustion.
Mum
Alfie watched the road signs and occasionally announced the number of miles remaining, as though he were the official navigator on an expedition to rescue stranded explorers.
Mr Brand drove.
Mrs Brand checked the travel documents.
Barry asked whether they were nearly there approximately every three minutes.
“Are we nearly at the airport?”
“We’ve been driving for six minutes,” Mr Brand replied.
“So?”
“So no.”
“Will it take a long time?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Longer if you keep asking.”
Barry considered this.
“Are we nearly there?”
Mr Brand sighed.
Mrs Brand looked out of the window and wondered whether employment law offered any protection to parents travelling with small children.
At some point, Barry fell silent.
This was unusual enough that Mrs Brand turned around to investigate.
He was staring out of the window, his face pressed against the glass.
“What’s wrong, darling?”
“I’m thinking about Snowball.”
“I know.”
“Do you think she’s having breakfast?”
“Probably.”
“Do you think Victoria has got her bowl right?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think she’s sitting on the sofa?”
“Almost certainly.”
“Do you think she misses me?”
Mrs Brand reached back and squeezed his knee.
“I’m sure she’ll notice you’re not there. But she’s safe, she’s comfortable, and she’ll be very happy to see you when you come home.”
Barry nodded.
Then he asked whether Barbados had sharks.
It was an impressive emotional recovery.
Heathrow Airport at six o’clock in the morning was full of people who appeared to have either been awake for days or were trying to pretend that they were not.
There were suitcases everywhere.
Children running in random directions. Adults staring at phones. People drinking coffee with the grim determination of soldiers preparing for battle.
The Brands joined the queue for check-in.
Barry was fascinated.
“Why are there so many people?”
“Because lots of people go on holiday,” said Alfie.
“Why?”
“To visit other places.”
“Why?”
“Because they want to.”
“Why?”
Alfie closed his eyes.
Mr Brand leaned towards Mrs Brand.
“Do you remember when we used to travel before we had children?”
“Yes,” she said. “We slept.”
They got through check-in, security and the various other stages of airport processing without anyone losing a passport, although Mr Brand did briefly believe he had lost his phone while holding it in his hand.
Barry was delighted by the airport.
He loved the moving walkways, the enormous windows, the aeroplanes, the luggage trolleys and the little vehicles that drove around the airport looking as if they were late for an appointment.
He wanted to know how the aeroplanes stayed up.
He wanted to know whether pilots had to go to school.
He wanted to know whether there were toilets on board.
He wanted to know whether the aeroplane had a kitchen.
And, most importantly, he wanted to know whether breakfast was ready.
“Not yet,” Mrs Brand told him.
“But I’m hungry.”
“You had breakfast.”
“That was at home.”
“Yes.”
“That was ages ago.”
“It was approximately two hours ago.”
“Exactly!”
Mrs Brand decided that arithmetic was not going to save her.
They boarded the aeroplane.
Barry climbed into his seat and immediately fastened his seat belt.
“Look!” he announced. “I’m ready!”
Mr Brand looked across at him.
“Excellent.”
“I’m going to stay awake the whole time.”
“Of course you are.”
“I’m going to watch films and eat breakfast and look out of the window.”
“Sounds wonderful.”
“And I won’t sleep at all.”
“I’m sure the airline will be devastated if you do.”
Barry frowned.
“Why?”
“Because they were hoping you’d be awake to inspect their service.”
Barry accepted this explanation.
He settled into his seat, clutching his little travelling toy, and looked out of the window as the aeroplane began to move.
The engines grew louder.
The aircraft rolled along the runway.
Barry’s eyes widened.
“We’re going!”
“Yes, we’re pushing back any second now,” Mrs Brand said.
“We’re actually going!”
“Yes.”
“Dad! We’re going!”
“I’ve noticed, Barry.”
The aeroplane lifted into the air.
London grew smaller beneath them.
The roads became thin grey lines. The houses turned into tiny squares. The clouds stretched out in great white banks around the aircraft.
Barry was ecstatic.
“This is AMAZING!”
Alfie smiled.
Even Mr Brand, who had spent most of the morning worrying about airport parking, passports and whether he had locked the front door, looked out of the window and felt the familiar thrill of flying.
Mrs Brand settled back in her seat.
For approximately four minutes, everybody was happy.
Then Barry announced, “I’m not tired.”
“No one said you were,” she replied.
“I’m not.”
“Excellent.”
“I’m going to stay awake.”
“Yes, darling.”
He started to watch a film.
He asked for a drink.
He looked out of the window.
He asked whether the clouds were made of water.
He asked whether birds could fly this high.
He asked whether a dinosaur could fly this high if it had wings.
He asked whether Snowball could fly.
“No,” said Alfie.
“Not even a little bit?”
“No.”
“What if she tried really hard?”
“Barry, cats cannot fly.”
“Some things can fly.”
“Cats are not one of those things.”
Barry looked unconvinced.
He then asked whether Victoria would send photographs of Snowball.
Mrs Brand promised that they would arrange updates.
Barry nodded, satisfied.
Then he leaned back in his seat.
His eyelids drooped.
He blinked several times.
He sat up straight.
“I’M NOT TIRED.”
Nobody had suggested otherwise.
He looked out of the window.
He yawned.
He tried to keep his eyes open by widening them until he looked like a startled owl.
He asked for another drink.
He took a sip.
He put the cup down.
And approximately one hour after take-off, Barry Brand, self-appointed guardian of the family holiday and sworn enemy of sleep, crumpled.
There was no gradual surrender.
No dignified announcement.
No final declaration that he would rest for just five minutes.
One moment he was sitting upright, determined to experience every second of the flight. The next, his head tipped sideways against Mrs Brand’s arm, his mouth fell open, and he was completely unconscious.
Mrs Brand looked down at him.
“Well,” she whispered. “That was a surprise.”
Mr Brand glanced over.
“Is he asleep?”
“No. He’s practising for a medical emergency.”
“Ah.”
Alfie smiled.
“He said he wasn’t going to sleep.”
“Yes,” said Mrs Brand. “He also said he was going to eat breakfast.”
At that precise moment, a member of the cabin crew began preparing the breakfast service.
Mrs Brand watched the trolley approach.
She looked at Barry.
She looked at the trolley.
She looked at Barry again.
“Oh, this is going to be magnificent.”
The breakfast trays arrived.
Alfie received his.
Mr Brand received his.
Mrs Brand accepted hers with the grateful expression of someone who had finally been offered food at a reasonable time.
Barry slept.
The cabin crew member looked at him.
“Would you like me to leave his tray?”
Mrs Brand glanced down at her son.
His cheek was pressed against her sleeve, and one hand was curled around his travelling toy.
“He’s been looking forward to breakfast all morning,” she said.
The crew member smiled.
“I’ll take it back to the galley and you can request it when he’s awake.”
By the time he woke up, the trolley had disappeared, the trays had been collected, and his family had eaten.
Barry opened his eyes.
He blinked.
He looked around.
“Have we taken off?”
Alfie stared at him.
“Barry, we’re nearly three hours into the flight.”
“What?”
“You fell asleep.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“I was resting my eyes.”
“You were snoring.”
“I was NOT.”
Mr Brand looked up from his film. “You were making a noise like a small lawn mower.”
Barry sat upright.
“Where’s my breakfast?”
“Darling, yours is in the galley. I will go and ask for it if you’re ready?”
Barry stared at her.
He looked at Alfie.
He looked at Dad.
He looked towards the aisle, as though the breakfast trolley might reappear if he stared hard enough.
“I missed it?”
“Yes.”
“But I was going to eat it!”
“I know.”
“I was going to eat ALL of it!”
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you wake me up?”
Mrs Brand considered telling him that she had spent the past several weeks longing for a moment in which he was asleep and not asking questions.
Instead, she settled for the truth.
“You looked very tired, darling.”
Barry’s face crumpled.
“This is the WORST HOLIDAY EVER.”
Mr Brand took a slow sip of coffee.
They had not yet reached Barbados.
The remainder of the flight passed in a haze of films, drinks, snacks, repeated questions about the time, and a rather heated discussion about whether a sleeping child should be allowed to miss breakfast.
Barry recovered from the injustice sufficiently to enjoy the in-flight entertainment, although he continued to mention the breakfast incident at regular intervals.
“I wouldn’t have missed it if I’d stayed awake.”
He paused.
“Will there be lunch?”
“Yes.”
“Will I be awake?”
Mrs Brand looked at him.
“I’m afraid that is a question for the gods.”
Eventually, the captain announced their descent into Barbados.
Barry pressed his face to the window.
The sea below was an astonishing blue. The coastline curved around beaches of pale sand, and the island spread out beneath them in shades of green.
“LOOK!” he shouted. “IT’S BARBADOS!”
Alfie leaned over to see.
Mr Brand smiled.
Mrs Brand felt the tiredness of the morning begin to lift.
They were here.
After weeks of planning, packing, worrying about Snowball, organising the house, checking passports and explaining to Barry that an aeroplane was not a flying bus, they had finally arrived.
The wheels touched down.
Barry cheered.
He had, of course, been asleep for the most important part of the journey, but there was no need to bring that up again. He was four. He would find another injustice before dinner.
They disembarked, made their way through the airport and eventually reached the arrivals area.
Barry was practically vibrating.
“Where’s Marmaduke?”
“Just through there,” Mr Brand said.
“Where?”
“Keep walking.”
“WHERE?”
“Barry, if you ask one more time, Marmaduke will have grown a beard by the time we get to him.”
They turned the corner.
And there he was.
Marmaduke Jackson stood beside Marjory, his little face lighting up as soon as he saw his best friend.
For one extraordinary second, both boys stopped.
They looked at one another.
They had been apart for days, which at four years old was approximately the same as surviving a lengthy polar expedition without adequate provisions.
Then Marmaduke shouted, “BARRY!”
And Barry shouted, “MARMADUKE!”
They ran.
Their parents moved instinctively to prevent a collision, but it was too late.
The boys met in the middle of the arrivals hall and flung their arms around one another with such force that Marmaduke staggered backwards.
“YOU’RE HERE!” Marmaduke yelled.
“I’M HERE!”
“YOU CAME!”
“I CAME!”
“YOU’RE IN BARBADOS!”
“I KNOW!”
“DID YOU SEE A SHARK?”
“NOT YET!”
“DID YOU SEE A DINOSAUR?”
“NOT YET!”
“DID YOU BRING YOUR TOYS?”
“YES!”
“CAN WE PLAY?”
“YES!”
They hugged again.
Marjory watched them with shining eyes.
Mrs Brand felt a lump rise in her throat.
Mr Brand put an arm around her shoulders.
Even Alfie, who considered excessive emotional displays unnecessary when a perfectly good handshake would suffice, was smiling.
For a moment, the noise of the airport faded into the background.
The weeks of anticipation, the early start, the long flight and the exhaustion were forgotten. The boys were together again, and their happiness was so enormous that it seemed to fill the entire arrivals hall.
Then Marmaduke asked, “Barry, did you have breakfast on the aeroplane?”
Barry’s face changed. “Not with everyone else.”
Marmaduke gasped.
“WHY NOT?”
“Because I FELL ASLEEP!”
Marmaduke stared at him in horror.
“You missed breakfast?”
“YES!” Then he added, “It was the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”
Mrs Brand raised an eyebrow. “Worse than leaving Snowball?”
Barry considered this.
The arrivals hall fell silent as the four-year-old weighed the two tragedies against one another.
“Nearly,” he said at last.
Mr Brand laughed so hard he had to put his suitcase down.
Within ten minutes, the boys were talking over one another at a rate that would have defeated most parliamentary interpreters.
Marmaduke wanted to know everything about the aeroplane.
Barry wanted to know everything about what Marmaduke had done in Barbados.
Alfie and Marjory began discussing the journey to where they were staying, while Mr Brand attempted to count the luggage and Mrs Brand checked that everyone had their passports.
“Did you see the clouds?” Marmaduke asked.
“Yes!”
“Were they fluffy?”
“Yes!”
“Could you touch them?”
“No!”
“Why not?”
“Because they were outside!”
Marmaduke nodded thoughtfully, as though this was a perfectly reasonable explanation.
“Did you see any sharks?
“No!”
“Any dinosaurs?”
“No!”
“Did you eat breakfast?”
Barry’s face darkened.
“STOP ASKING ME ABOUT BREAKFAST!”
Marmaduke immediately changed the subject.
“Do you want to play?”
Barry’s face lit up.
“Yes!”
They raced towards the exit, hand in hand, already planning adventures that would almost certainly involve sand, water, imaginary monsters and at least one adult being asked to carry something that weighed more than either child.
Mrs Brand watched them go.
“Worth it?” Mr Brand asked quietly.
She looked at the boys, who were now arguing enthusiastically about whether a shark could defeat a dinosaur in a swimming race.
“Absolutely.”
Alfie adjusted his backpack.
“I think we should visit the historical sites tomorrow,” he said. “Bridgetown has a fascinating history.”
“Wonderful,” said Mr Brand. “We can do that.”
Barry spun around.
“Can we see dangerous animals?”
“We’ll see what we can arrange,” Mrs Brand replied.
“AND DINOSAURS?”
“We’ll see.”
“AND CAN I HAVE A MEAL?”
Everyone stopped.
Barry looked around at their expressions.
“What?”
Mr Brand shook his head.
“Nothing, Barry. Absolutely nothing.”
They walked out into the warm Barbadian air, where the sun was shining, the palm trees swayed gently, and the holiday had finally begun.
Barry took Marmaduke’s hand.
“I’m glad I came,” he said.
“Me too,” Marmaduke replied.
“Even though I missed breakfast.”
“Even though you missed breakfast.”
“And I miss Snowball.”
“Of course you do.”
“But Victoria’s looking after him.”
“She is.”
“And we’re coming back.”
“Yes.”
Barry nodded. He had practiced having fun whilst missing Marm terribly this week. He’d know Marm all his life, so this was justification for him missing him a bit more than Snowball.
Then he grinned.
“Do you think they have breakfast on the beach?”
Marmaduke’s eyes widened.
“Probably!”
Barry turned towards his parents.
“CAN WE HAVE A BREAKFAST ON THE BEACH TOMORROW?”
Mrs Brand closed her eyes briefly.
They had been in Barbados for approximately eleven minutes.
She could already see the future.
There would be sand in the luggage, arguments about sunscreen, discussions about dangerous animals, at least one dispute over whether a lizard was a dinosaur, and a considerable amount of time spent trying to stop two four-year-olds from doing things that sounded exciting but were probably not covered by the travel insurance.
Somewhere in London, Snowball would be asleep on her favourite bit of sofa, completely unaware that she had nearly prevented an international departure.
Victoria would be feeding her, fussing over her and sending photographs to reassure Barry.
The Brands would settle into holiday life.
Alfie would research Barbados’s history.
Mr Brand would attempt to relax.
Mrs Brand would attempt not to check her emails.
Barry and Marmaduke would attempt to discover whether the island contained any dangerous animals that could be persuaded to race dinosaurs.
And breakfast would, from this point onwards, be treated as a matter of the utmost importance.
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