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carrot and chopped it smartly with her knife.

“Bertie,” shouted Stuart through the open door. “You can stop crying now. You’re going bowling, my boy. The party’s on!”

66. Tofu’s Party

Stuart dropped Bertie off at the bowling alley, delivering him into the care and control of Tofu’s father, Barnabas Miller.

“Well, well!” said Barnabas. “This is going to be fun, isn’t it, Bertie? Have you ever bowled before? I’m sure you’ll be good at it.”

“I hope so,” said Bertie. “Thank you for inviting me, Mr Miller.”

“Tofu’s suggestion,” said Barnabas. “And my goodness, we’re going to have fun, aren’t we, Tofu?”

“Yes, Daddy,” said Tofu.

“And I’ve brought some nice things for you to eat,” said Barnabas, patting a bag slung over his shoulder. A few minutes later, Hiawatha and Merlin arrived and then the four boys, together with Barnabas, made their way through the large glass-fronted building towards the bowling alley.

“Have you brought my presents?” Tofu asked his guests as they walked along.

Bertie’s hand shot to his mouth. “Oh, Tofu, I’m very sorry. I meant to, but I forgot. I’ll try and give it to you at school next week.”

“Me too,” said Hiawatha.

“And me as well,” said Merlin. “And I’ll only be able to give you three pounds, Tofu. I haven’t got any more than that.”

“You’d better not forget,” said Tofu crossly. “Or else . . .”

He left the threat unfinished. They were now at the bowling alley and Barnabas led them to the lane which had been booked for them.

“I’ll show you boys how it’s done,” he said, picking up one of the heavy balls. “You take a few paces to build up some impetus and then you let go.”

218 Tofu’s Party

The ball careered down the lane and collided with the skittles with a very creditable crash. The boys danced in their excitement. For Bertie, in particular, this was the most thrilling of moments. To send a ball off down a wooden lane like that to knock things over was the most splendid fulfilment of everything that a boy would wish to do. Noise. Action. Excitement. Destruction. As Melanie Klein would have pointed out . . . After a half hour or so of bowling, they took a short break. The boys sat down and Tofu’s father opened the bag that he had brought with him.

“Carrots,” he said. “And delicious bean sprouts! Here we are.”

The boys reluctantly took the proffered snacks and nibbled on them disconsolately.

“Have you got any money on you?” Tofu whispered to Bertie.

“Two pounds,” said Bertie. “I keep it in my pocket for emergencies.”

“This is an emergency,” said Tofu. “Look over there. See that? That’s where they sell hot-dogs. Can you smell them?”

“Yes,” said Bertie, sniffing the air.

“Well,” said Tofu, “if you buy me a hot-dog, I’ll give you something in return.”

“Such as?” asked Bertie.

Tofu looked at his friend. “You see those pink dungarees of yours . . .”

“Crushed strawberry,” corrected Bertie.

“Whatever,” said Tofu. “I know you don’t like them. I’ll swap you my jeans for your stupid dungarees if you buy me a hotdog. I’ve got plenty of other jeans at home.”

“Would you?” asked Bertie.

“Yes,” said Tofu. He glanced at his father and lowered his voice still further. “Here’s the plan. We say that we need to go to the bathroom. You go and get the hot-dog. Then you bring it to me in the bathroom and I give you my jeans in exchange for your stupid dungarees. How about that?”

Bertie thought for a moment. It seemed to him to be an unfair bargain – weighted in his favour – but it was irresistible. He had always wanted a pair of jeans and now here was an opportunity Tofu’s Party

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to acquire such a garment, at virtually no cost, and all within the next few minutes. It seemed to him to be a stroke of quite extraordinary good fortune.

“All right,” he said.

“Good,” said Tofu. “Now have you got everything straight?

Good. Then let’s synchronise our watches.” He looked down at his wristwatch. “The big hand’s on . . .”

Bertie interrupted him. “I haven’t got a watch,” he said. It was a further humiliation, but he was accustomed