‘I’m sure that’s very nice,’ said the woman. ‘Muckle Buggie is a sheep farm over near Symington. They’ve been there for a long time. Always Pollocks.’

‘Ah,’ said Stuart.

They went through to the kitchen. There, seated at the table, drawing on a piece of paper, was a boy of about Bertie’s size. The boy stood up when the visitors came in and smiled broadly.

‘Andy, this is …’

‘Stuart, and my son, Bertie.’

The boy nodded to Bertie, and gave him an encouraging smile. Bertie smiled back.

‘Andy,’ said the woman, ‘while I put the kettle on, you take Bertie up to your room and show him your things.’

Andy walked round the table and indicated to Bertie that he should follow him out of the kitchen. Bertie did so, and the boy led him along a narrow corridor to a staircase at the end.

‘My room’s in the attic,’ he said. ‘Nobody goes up there, just me and my brither, who’s in the room beside me. He’s twelve. He goes to Merchiston. That’s a school in Edinburgh – just for boys.’

Bertie nodded. ‘I’ve heard of it.’ Olive couldn’t go there, he thought.

‘I’m going there next year,’ said the boy. ‘I’m going to get my brither’s old uniform. And his rugby boots. You play rugby, Bertie?’

Bertie swallowed hard. ‘Not yet.’

‘I think you’ll be good at it,’ said Andy.

Bertie beamed with pleasure. It was such a kind thing for anybody to say. He liked this boy.

They went into Andy’s room and Bertie drew in his breath. There, on the wall above Andy’s bed, was a stag’s head, the antlers reaching out almost into the centre of the room – or so it seemed.

‘That fella comes from Morvern,’ said Andy. ‘My Uncle Jimmy got him. He says he’ll take me stalking when I’m bigger. When I’m eight, he says.’

Bertie looked around the room. There was a display case with a stuffed grouse, a small woodwork bench and a large box of Meccano.

‘Would you like to see my penknives?’ asked Andy.

Bertie’s eye widened. Penknives, in the plural. He nodded wordlessly.

77. Bertie’s Dream

‘This penknife,’ said Andy proudly, ‘is specially set up for catching mushrooms.’

‘I don’t think you catch mushrooms,’ said Bertie. ‘You find them.’

‘That’s true,’ said Andy. ‘Same difference, though. You see this bit here? That’s the brush for brushing the dirt off the mushroom once you’ve caught … found it. And this blade here is for cutting the mushroom in half. See?’

Bertie took the proffered penknife and examined it. ‘It’s made in Italy,’ he said, pointing to the inscription. ‘See? It says Italia.’

Andy nodded. ‘You speak Italian?’ he asked.

‘A bit,’ said Bertie.

‘You must be jolly clever, Bertie,’ said Andy. ‘I only speak English.’