Tuesday morning began with a warning.
“Today,” said Mrs Brand, standing in the kitchen with a school tie in one hand and a hairbrush in the other, “you are having your school photographs taken.”
Alfie looked up from his breakfast.
“I know.”
“Individual photographs and sibling photographs,” she continued. “So I want everyone looking smart.”
Alfie nodded. He had already polished his shoes the previous evening, checked his uniform and put his school jumper neatly over the back of his chair. He was eight years old and took school photographs extremely seriously. They were, after all, permanent records of one’s appearance at a particular age. There was no reason not to look one’s best.
Barry looked down at his shirt.
“Do I have to wear my jumper?”
“Yes.”
“Even if I’m hot?”
“Yes.”
“Even if it’s sunny?”
“Yes.”
“Even if I’m sweating?”
“Barry, it is November.”
Barry considered this.
“Could I wear shorts?”
“No.”
“Could I wear my Barbados shorts?”
“No.”
“Could I wear my pirate shirt?”
“No.”
“Could I wear my dinosaur socks?”
Mrs Brand paused.
“Are they clean?”
Barry nodded.
“Then yes.”
This was the first victory of the day.
Marmaduke arrived a few minutes later with Marjory. He was wearing his full uniform, including his school jumper, and had a slightly sleepy expression.
“Morning,” said Mr Brand.
“Morning.”
“Are you looking forward to your photograph?”
Marmaduke shrugged.
“Not really.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t like sitting still.”
Mr Brand nodded.
“An understandable concern. You have the attention span of a particularly excitable puppy.”
Barry grinned.
“I’m going to smile.”
“Good,” said Mrs Brand. “A nice, natural smile.”
Barry demonstrated.
It was an extraordinary expression. His eyes were wide, his mouth was open, and he appeared to be announcing the arrival of an alien invasion.
Mrs Brand looked at him.
“Perhaps a little less enthusiastic.”
Barry tried again.
This time he looked as though he had just been told that Christmas was cancelled.
“Somewhere between those two,” she suggested.
The school had sent a reminder the previous week.
All children were to arrive in full, smart school uniform. Hair should be neat and tidy. Parents were asked to ensure that children were ready for their photographs.
There had also been a second, rather more unusual instruction.
Children were not to have their hair brushed or combed at school.
This was due to the contagious risk of headlice.
The school had recently experienced a particularly enthusiastic outbreak of nits, and the last thing anyone wanted was a communal hairbrush making its way around the Reception classroom like a tiny travelling infection service.
The guidance had been clear.
No shared brushes. No combing. No borrowing hair accessories.
The school was taking no chances.
Alfie had been allowed to bring his own brush, because he was old enough to manage his own hair and had been specifically told that he must not share it.
He was delighted.
Barry was not.
“Why can Alfie brush his hair?” he asked in the car.
“Because he’s eight,” said Mrs Brand.
“I’m four.”
“Yes.”
“I’m nearly five.”
“Still four.”
“I’m nearly five and a half.”
“You’re not.”
Barry frowned.
“Can I have my own brush?”
“You have your own brush at home.”
“I want one at school.”
“Why?”
“So I can brush my hair.”
Mrs Brand looked at him.
“Barry, you have approximately four hairs that need brushing.”
Barry was offended.
“I have loads!”
Mr Brand glanced at him in the rear-view mirror.
“It’s a very low-maintenance arrangement.”
Marmaduke was sitting beside him, quietly watching the conversation.
He had a full head of beautiful, thick Afro-Caribbean hair, which had been carefully looked after that morning by Marjory. It had its own texture, shape and personality, and did not respond to brushes in quite the same way as Alfie’s straight hair.
This was something Alfie was about to discover.
At school, the playground was full of children looking unusually smart.
Some were wearing polished shoes. Some had freshly ironed shirts. Some had hair that looked as though it had been prepared by a professional stylist.
And some had clearly been informed about the photographs approximately thirty seconds before leaving the house.
One boy was wearing trainers.
A girl had forgotten her school jumper.
Another child was wearing a cardigan that was clearly from a different school, although she insisted it was hers.
Mrs Abraham was standing near the classroom door, greeting everyone.
“Good morning, Barry. Good morning, Marmaduke.”
“Good morning,” they said.
“Lovely to see you both looking so smart.”
Barry pulled down the front of his jumper.
“I’m wearing my dinosaur socks.”
“Are you? Very nice.”
Marmaduke smiled.
“I’m wearing my best shoes.”
“Excellent.”
Alfie was already heading towards his classroom.
He had spotted two friends and was discussing whether the school photographer would use a plain background or a more elaborate one.
He was hoping for a plain background.
He did not want to be photographed in front of a fake tropical waterfall.
He had seen enough of those in Barbados.
The school photographer arrived shortly after registration.
He was a cheerful man called Peter, who had a large camera, several lights, a folding backdrop and an assistant who seemed to spend most of her time carrying equipment.
The hall had been transformed into a photography studio.
There was a stool, a screen, a camera on a tripod and a large soft light.
A sign had been put up:
SCHOOL PHOTOGRAPHS TODAY
Underneath, someone had added:
PLEASE SMILE.
Barry looked at it, and realised what it must read.
“Why?”
Mrs Abraham smiled.
“Because photographs are nicer when people look happy.”
Barry thought about this.
“What if they’re sad?”
“Then they can look sad.”
“What if they’re angry?”
“Then they can look angry.”
“What if they’re pretending to be a dinosaur?”
Mrs Abraham paused.
“Perhaps not today.”
The first children went through.
They sat on the stool, looked at the camera and smiled.
Some were excellent.
Some looked terrified.
One little boy refused to sit down because he thought the stool might be a toilet.
Another smiled so hard that his eyes disappeared.
A girl asked whether she could have her photograph taken with her favourite toy.
Peter politely explained that this was not usually part of the school photograph package.
She asked whether he could make an exception.
He declined.
She took this badly.
Of the Brands, Alfie was photographed first.
He sat down neatly, adjusted his jumper, straightened his collar and looked directly at the camera.
“Lovely,” said Peter. “Just a little smile.”
Alfie smiled.
“Excellent.”
The photograph was taken.
Then another.
Then a third, just in case.
Alfie stood up, satisfied.
He had been photographed properly.
He had looked smart.
He had smiled.
There was nothing more to discuss.
Then he noticed Barry and Marmaduke waiting nearby.
Barry’s hair was sticking up slightly at the back.
Marmaduke’s hair was looking particularly magnificent, but Alfie had decided that it could be improved.
“Come here,” he said.
Barry looked at him.
“Why?”
“Your hair’s messy.”
“It isn’t.”
“It is.”
“No.”
Alfie took out his brush.
Barry immediately became interested.
“Can I use that?”
“No. It’s my brush.”
“Can you brush mine?”
Alfie sighed.
“Fine. Sit down.”
Barry sat on a chair.
Alfie brushed his hair backwards.
Then forwards.
Then to the side.
Then backwards again.
Barry’s hair was not particularly cooperative. It had a tendency to spring up in whatever direction it preferred, regardless of the intentions of the person holding the brush.
“Stop moving,” Alfie said.
“It’s hurting.”
“It’s not.”
“It is.”
“Your hair’s just difficult.”
Barry looked at him.
“My hair is not difficult.”
Alfie brushed it once more.
Barry’s fringe fell across his forehead.
“That’s better.”
Barry looked in a mirror.
He looked like a small Victorian schoolboy who had been caught stealing apples.
“I don’t like it.”
“You look smart.”
“I look like a mushroom.”
Alfie considered this.
“Perhaps a little.”
Marmaduke was next.
Alfie looked at him.
“Your hair needs doing.”
Marmaduke shook his head.
“No.”
“Come on. I’ll brush it.”
“No.”
“Just a little.”
“No.”
Barry looked at Marmaduke.
“Let him.”
Marmaduke looked at Barry.
“Why?”
“Because he did mine.”
“That doesn’t mean I have to.”
Alfie sighed.
“Honestly. You two are impossible.”
He approached Marmaduke with the brush.
Marmaduke leaned away.
“Don’t.”
“I’m just going to tidy it.”
“It’s already tidy.”
Alfie looked at his hair.
It was, in fact, very tidy.
But Alfie was eight, and eight-year-olds sometimes believe that because they have a brush, they should use it.
He gently attempted to brush the top.
The brush moved through the hair, but the effect was not what he expected.
Instead of lying flat, Marmaduke’s hair lifted and expanded slightly.
Alfie tried again.
It expanded further.
Barry watched with interest.
“It’s getting bigger.”
“It’s not,” said Alfie.
“It is.”
Marmaduke looked in the mirror.
“Stop!”
Alfie tried to smooth it down with his hand.
This made the shape more unusual.
The top was now slightly flattened in one area, raised in another, and had a curious rounded shape towards the back.
It looked rather like a small architectural feature.
Barry stared.
“You look like a volcano.”
Marmaduke frowned.
“I do not.”
“You do. A volcano with a hat.”
Alfie stepped back.
He was not entirely sure what had happened.
“I think it looks fine.”
Marmaduke looked at him.
“Your hair is easy.”
Alfie nodded.
“Yes.”
“Mine isn’t like yours.”
“No,” said Alfie, now sounding slightly less confident.
Marmaduke folded his arms.
“It’s different.”
“Yes,” said Alfie.
“And you made it weird.”
Alfie looked at the hairbrush.
“I was trying to help.”
Marmaduke sighed.
“Next time, don’t.”
Barry nodded.
“Next time, don’t.”
Unfortunately, the next time was approximately four minutes later.
The photographer had finished the individual photographs and was preparing to take sibling pictures.
Alfie, Barry and Marmaduke were called together.
The three boys stood in front of the backdrop.
Peter looked at them.
“Lovely. Now, let’s get you all standing together.”
Alfie stood straight.
Barry stood slightly in front.
Marmaduke stood beside him, still sporting the unusual hairstyle.
Peter smiled.
“Wonderful. Now, just a little smile.”
Barry smiled.
Marmaduke smiled.
Alfie smiled.
Click.
“Excellent. One more.”
Click.
“Lovely. Now, Barry, could you stand a little closer to Alfie?”
Barry moved.
“Good. Marmaduke, could you look at the camera?”
Marmaduke looked.
Click.
Peter glanced at the screen.
“Perfect.”
He was being polite.
The photographs were not perfect.
In one, Barry was smiling with his mouth open, Marmaduke was looking slightly confused and Alfie had an expression of quiet disappointment.
In another, Barry was looking directly at the camera, Alfie was smiling beautifully and Marmaduke’s hair looked like a small volcanic island.
In a third, Barry had turned towards Marmaduke just as the shutter went, and Marmaduke was looking at him with the expression of someone who had just discovered that his best friend had eaten the last biscuit.
The photographer took several more.
He was a professional.
He had seen everything.
He had photographed children who cried, children who refused to sit down, children who tried to eat the backdrop and children who had arrived wearing swimming goggles.
But he had never seen a sibling photograph quite like this one.
At lunchtime, the children were shown a few photographs on the camera screen.
Alfie was pleased with his individual picture.
He looked smart, neat and sensible.
Barry looked at his.
“Why is my hair like that?”
Alfie shrugged.
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not.”
Marmaduke looked at his photograph.
His hair was unmistakable.
It appeared to be pointing in several directions at once, with a particularly impressive ridge on one side.
“What’s happened to my head?”
Barry laughed.
“You look like a volcano.”
Marmaduke glared at him.
“It’s your fault.”
“It’s Alfie’s fault.”
Alfie looked offended.
“I was helping.”
“You made it worse,” said Marmaduke.
“I didn’t know it would do that.”
“Then why did you do it?”
Alfie had no answer.
Mrs Abraham, who had been watching the conversation, stepped in.
“Remember, the photographs are just a record of today. They don’t have to be perfect.”
Barry looked at her.
“Can we have another one?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Why?”
“Because the photographer has finished.”
Barry thought about this.
“Can we make him come back?”
“No, Barry.”
“Can we ask?”
“No.”
Barry sighed.
It was a terrible day for photography.
That evening, the three adults sat in the Brand kitchen.
Mr Brand had opened a bottle of wine.
Mrs Brand had made dinner.
Marjory had come over after work and was sitting at the table, looking at the day’s messages.
The boys had gone upstairs.
Alfie had been unusually quiet.
Mr Brand noticed.
“What’s happened?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s usually a sign that something has happened.”
Alfie sighed.
“We had school photographs today.”
Mrs Brand smiled.
“Oh yes. How did they go?”
“Fine.”
“Did you have your individual one?”
“Yes.”
“And the sibling one?”
“Yes.”
“Lovely.”
Alfie hesitated.
Then he said, “I brushed Barry and Marmaduke’s hair.”
Mr Brand put down his glass.
“You did what?”
“I brushed their hair.”
Mrs Brand looked at him.
“Why?”
“Because Barry’s was messy and Marmaduke’s needed doing.”
Marjory slowly put down her phone.
“Did it?”
Alfie nodded.
“I think I made Marmaduke’s a bit strange.”
Mr Brand looked at Mrs Brand.
Mrs Brand looked at Marjory.
Marjory raised an eyebrow.
“How strange?”
Alfie considered this.
“Like a volcano.”
There was a pause.
Then Mr Brand began laughing.
Mrs Brand tried to stop herself.
She failed.
Marjory covered her mouth.
Alfie looked at them.
“It’s not funny.”
“I’m sorry,” said Mr Brand, wiping his eyes. “It’s just that I know Marmaduke’s hair. I can imagine exactly what you’ve done.”
“I was trying to help!”
“We know,” said Mrs Brand.
Marjory was still laughing.
“Did you use a brush?”
“Yes.”
“On his hair?”
“Yes.”
Marjory shook her head.
“Alfie, you cannot treat his hair like yours.”
“I know that now.”
Mr Brand laughed again.
“An educational experience.”
The following week, the school sent a message to parents.
The photographs would be uploaded to an online portal in a few weeks. Parents would be able to log in, view the images and choose which ones they wanted to purchase.
All photographs taken would be made available.
This was part of the school’s transparency and safeguarding arrangements. Parents could see the full range of images, not just a selection chosen by the photographer.
There would be individual photographs, sibling photographs, class photographs and several alternatives.
Mrs Brand read the message aloud.
“Apparently, all the photographs will be available to view.”
Mr Brand nodded.
“Excellent.”
Marjory smiled.
“I’m looking forward to that.”
Alfie looked concerned.
“Why?”
Mr Brand smiled.
“Because I suspect there will be some interesting ones.”
“They’re just photographs.”
“Of course they are.”
Marjory looked at him.
“I’m particularly interested in the volcano.”
Alfie groaned.
“Please don’t call it that.”
Mrs Brand smiled.
“I’m sure Marmaduke will look lovely.”
Mr Brand took a sip of wine.
“I’m sure he will. I’m also sure there will be at least one photograph in which he looks as though he’s about to erupt.”
Marjory laughed.
Alfie folded his arms.
“I was trying to help.”
Mrs Brand reached over and squeezed his hand.
“We know, darling.”
Then she looked at Mr Brand.
“Do you think we should buy the sibling photograph?”
“Absolutely.”
“Even if it’s terrible?”
“Especially if it’s terrible.”
Marjory nodded.
“I’m having a copy.”
Alfie looked horrified.
“You can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s embarrassing.”
Mr Brand smiled.
“Alfie, I think you’ll find that’s precisely why we’re buying it.”
Upstairs, Barry and Marmaduke were sitting on Barry’s bedroom floor.
They had been told about the photographs and were discussing the possibility of seeing them.
“Do you think my hair will look normal?” asked Barry.
Marmaduke shook his head.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because Alfie brushed it.”
Barry nodded.
“That’s true.”
Marmaduke touched the top of his head.
“My hair is still funny.”
“It’s not funny.”
“It is.”
Barry thought about this.
“Maybe we should ask Alfie to brush it again.”
Marmaduke stared at him.
“Why?”
“So it gets even bigger.”
Marmaduke considered this.
Then he smiled.
“Like a volcano?”
“Exactly.”
The two boys collapsed into giggles.
Downstairs, the adults were still laughing.
And somewhere in the school’s photography studio, a digital file was being saved.
It contained three brothers, two best friends, one unusually shaped hairstyle and a photographer who had done his very best to make everyone look presentable.
In a few weeks, the parents would log in.
They would see every photograph.
They would have to choose.
And Mr Brand, Mrs Brand and Marjory would discover that the best school photograph was not necessarily the one where everyone looked smart.
Sometimes, it was the one where a four-year-old looked like a small volcanic eruption, another looked as though he had just been told off by a headteacher, and the eight-year-old responsible for the whole thing looked perfectly pleased with himself.
It was, after all, a family photograph.
And the Brands had never been particularly good at looking normal.
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