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“I only heard the keeper shout when it was too late, and by then the bird, which I noticed was quite black, had gone down into the heather. I realised then that I had shot a blackbird and I felt very apologetic about it.
“ ‘I’m awfully sorry,’ I shouted. ‘I seem to have shot a blackbird.’
“The keeper came storming over. ‘That’s no blackbird, sir,’
he hissed. ‘That was a black grouse.’ Then he added: ‘And you gentlemen were very specifically told that you were not to shoot any black game. Perhaps you forgot yourself, sir.’
“In the meantime, Johnny Auchtermuchty had wandered over. He had a word with the keeper and I overheard what he said. He told him to bite his tongue as he wouldn’t have him being rude to any of his guests. Then he said something about how Mr Dunbarton was from Edinburgh and one shouldn’t expect something or other. I didn’t really hear the rest of it.
“I must say that I was very embarrassed about all this, although I very much enjoyed Johnny Auchtermuchty’s company and the
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rest of the shoot were very decent to me and said nothing about what had happened. I left the next morning after breakfast, although my departure didn’t go all that well. The Rolls would not start for some reason and they had to push me down the drive to start it that way.
“Poor Johnny Auchtermuchty – I miss him very much. He was the life and soul of the party and the most exciting friend I am ever likely to have in this life. I think that it’s an awful pity what happened and I wish they had found at least some bit of him that we could have given a decent send-off to. But they didn’t. Not even his moustache.”
The invitation from Tofu was solemnly handed to Bertie in the grounds of the Steiner School. “Don’t flash it around,” said Tofu, glancing over his shoulder. “I can’t invite everybody. So I’ve just invited you, Merlin and Hiawatha. And don’t show it to Olive.
I really hate her.”
Bertie looked briefly at the invitation before tucking it into the pocket of his dungarees. It was the first invitation that he had ever received – from anybody – and he was understandably excited. Tofu, the card announced, was about to turn seven and would be celebrating this event with a trip to the bowling alley in Fountainbridge. Bertie was invited.
“Can you come?” asked Tofu, as they went back into the classroom.
“Of course,” said Bertie. “And thanks, Tofu.”
Tofu shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t forget to bring a present,” he said.
“Of course I won’t,” said Bertie. “What would you like, Tofu?”
“Money,” said Tofu. “Ten quid, if you can manage it.”
“I’ll do my best,” said Bertie.
“Better had,” Tofu muttered.
Back in the classroom, while Miss Harmony read the class 208
a story, Bertie fingered the invitation concealed in his pocket.
He felt warm with pleasure: he, Bertie, had been invited to a party, and in his own right too! He was not being taken there by his mother; it was not a party of her choosing; this was something to which he had been invited in friendship! And bowling too – Bertie had never been near a bowling alley, but had seen pictures of people bowling and thought that it looked tremendous fun. It would certainly be more fun than his yoga class in Stockbridge.
Seated beside him, Olive watched Bertie’s fingers go to the shape in his pocket and move delicately over the folded card.
“What’s that you’ve got?” she whispered.
“What?” asked Bertie, guiltily moving his hand away.
“That thing in there?” insisted Olive. “It’s something important, isn’t it?”
“No,” said Bertie quickly. “It’s nothing.”
“Yes it is,” said Olive. “You should tell me, you know. You shouldn’t keep secrets from your girlfriend.”
Bertie turned to look at her in horror. “Girlfriend? Who says you’re my girlfriend?”
“I do, for one,” said Olive, with the air of explaining something obvious to one who has been slow to realise it. “And ask any of the other girls. Ask Pansy. Ask Skye. They’ll tell you. All the girls know it. I’ve told them.”
Bertie opened his mouth to speak, but no words came.
“So,” said Olive. “Tell me. What’s that in your pocket?”
“I’m not your boyfriend,” Bertie muttered. “I like you, but I never asked you to be my girlfriend.”
“It’s an invitation, isn’t it?” Olive whispered. “It’s an invitation to Tofu’s party. I bet that’s what it is.”
Bertie decided that he might as well admit it. It was no business of Olive’s that he was going to Tofu’s party. In fact, it was no business of hers how he spent his time. Why did girls – and mothers – think that they could order
