Espresso Tales by Alexander McCall Smith Page A

she said.
    A forest of hands shot up. “It’s the
Guardian,
” the innocents cried out.
    â€œWell done,” she said. “And can anybody name another newspaper for me?”
    There was complete silence. The children looked at one another in puzzlement. Then Bertie spoke. There were plenty of other newspapers, and he had read a number of them. There was the
Scotsman
and the
Herald
and a newspaper called the
Daily Telegraph.
    â€œThe
Daily Telegraph
,” he said.
    The teacher looked at him. “Perhaps,” she said. Then, turning to the class in general she gave them their instructions. They were to fold the
Guardian
up, she said, and then they were to try to cut out the shape of a man. Then, when they unfolded it, they would have lots of little men, all joined together in a chain.
    Picking up a copy herself, she demonstrated the folding and the cutting. “There,” she said, holding up the result. “Look at that long line of little men, all holding hands.”
    â€œGays,” said Tofu.
    The teacher put down her paper cut-out. “Tofu, dear, if you wouldn’t mind just going and standing outside the door for five minutes. And while you’re there, you can think about the things that you say.”
    â€œShall I hit him for you?” asked Larch, a burly boy with a very short hair-cut.
    â€œNo,” said the teacher quickly, and then, under her breath so that nobody might hear, she muttered: “Not just yet.”
    When the time came for the morning interval, Bertie went out into the playground by himself. He was aware of the fact that he alone was wearing dungarees and he smarted with embarrassment. Tofu, for example, had electric sneakers that sent out small pulses of light each time he took a step, and even Merlin, who was wearing obviously home-made sandals and a rainbow-coloured jacket, at least had normal trousers. Bertie felt miserable: everybody else seemed to have made a friend already, or even more than one friend. Tofu had a knot of four or five others around him, even including somebody from one of the classes above. Bertie had nobody, so when Tofu came up to him a few minutes later, he had nobody to defend him.
    â€œDungarees!” the other boy said contemptuously. “Or are they pyjamas?”
    â€œIt’s not my fault,” said Bertie. “It’s my mother.”
    Tofu looked at him and sneered. “Dungarees are good for falling over in,” he said suddenly. “Like this.” And with that he gave Bertie a push, causing him to fall to the ground. There was laughter, and Tofu walked off.
    Bertie picked himself up off the ground and dusted his dungarees. There was a large brown patch on one of the knees. As he attended to this, he became aware of the fact that a girl was standing beside him. It was Olive.
    â€œPoor Bertie,” she said. “It’s not your fault that you look so silly. It really isn’t. And that Tofu is a horrid boy. Everybody knows he’s horrid.” She paused. “But I suppose we should feel sorry for him.”
    â€œWhy?” asked Bertie. “Why should we feel sorry for him?”
    â€œBecause he doesn’t have a mummy,” explained Olive. “She was a vegan and she starved to death. My dad told me all about it.”
    Bertie was horrified. “And what about his daddy?” he asked. “Has he got a daddy?”
    â€œYes,” said Olive. “But he’s a vegan too, so he won’t last long either.”
    â€œAnd Tofu himself?” whispered Bertie.
    â€œHe’s very hungry,” Olive replied. “We were at nursery together, and I saw him stealing ham sandwiches from the others’ lunch boxes. Yes, he’s very hungry. In fact, he’s not going to last too long himself. So cheer up, Bertie! Cheer up!”

18. On the Way Home
    For the first few days, they went home early. Irene was there at the school gate, in good time, along with