Aliens!

by Alan MacDonald

  “Oh tomorrow?” he said. “I’m going birdwatching with Eugene tomorrow.”

  “Birdwatching?” said Mum. “Since when were you interested in birds?”

  “Birds are very interesting actually,” Bertie informed her. “If you’re quiet you can see a spotty wormpecker or something.”

  “You mean a woodpecker,” said Mum. “But can’t you go another day?”

  Bertie shook his head. “Sorry, it’s all arranged. Eugene’s dad’s taking us.”

  Mum sighed heavily. “Very well, I’ll have to put Angela off,” she said. “I’m sure she’ll be really disappointed.”

  Bertie breathed out. That was close. Even birdwatching was better than a whole day with awful Angela!

  Early the next morning, Eugene and his dad came to collect Bertie for the trip.

  “Now I want you to be on your best behaviour,” warned Mum. “Don’t go running off.”

  “I won’t,” said Bertie.

  “And no fighting or rolling in the mud,” said Mum.

  “I won’t,” said Bertie.

  “And remember your please and thankyous,” said Mum. “Be polite to Mr Clark.”

  “I won’t,” said Bertie, who wasn’t really listening. Honestly, the way his mum went on, you would think he was meeting the Prime Minister.

  He climbed into the back of the car beside Eugene and they set off.

  “Well?” said Mr Clark. “I hope you’re as excited as Eugene.”

  “Um … yes, I can’t wait,” replied Bertie.

  “Bertie’s never been birdwatching before,” explained Eugene.

  “Really?” said Mr Clark, as if this was astonishing news. “Well, you’re in for a treat. Last time we saw a chiffchaff and two nuthatches, didn’t we, Eugene?”

  “Yes,” said Eugene. “And don’t forget the woodpecker!”

  “Show Bertie the book I got you,” said Mr Clark.

  Eugene pulled out a book from his rucksack. It was called The Little Bird Spotter’s Guide.

  Bertie turned the pages. He never knew there were so many birds! There were millions of them – big, small, speckled, long-legged, beaky and beady-eyed.

  Bertie pointed to the picture of a bird with a sharp, hooked beak.

  “Wow! This one looks mean!” he said.

  “That’s a hawk, they’re birds of prey,” said Eugene. “They swoop down and catch mice and stuff. Sometimes they even carry off other birds.”

  Bertie’s eyes widened. This sounded more like it. He wouldn’t mind spotting a mean killer hawk!

  “Will we see one today?” he asked.

  “I doubt it!” laughed Mr Clark. “You don’t get many hawks in Fernley Woods. Anyway, we’re looking for something else.”

  “The marsh warbler,” said Eugene, nodding.

  “They’re pretty rare, but one was sighted recently,” said his dad. “If we’re very quiet and really patient we might just get lucky.”

  Eugene showed Bertie a picture of the marsh warbler. It was a fat little greeny-brown bird with a white chest. Bertie hardly glanced at it. He’d much rather see a killer hawk swooping down from the sky. One day he was going to get a pet hawk and train it to attack his enemies. Imagine Miss Boot’s face when she was suddenly carried off in the middle of assembly.

  PLOP, PLOP, PLOP!

  The rain pitter-pattered on the roof of the bird hide. Bertie passed the binoculars back to Eugene. They’d been watching the woods for HOURS, but all they’d seen was trees, bushes and pouring rain.

  The hide was a bit like a garden shed only bigger and colder. There were hard benches to sit on and long narrow windows to look out of. Eugene’s dad said that the idea was to stay hidden so they wouldn’t frighten the birds away. Not that there were any birds. Bertie was beginning to think they’d all gone on holiday.

  “See anything?” asked Mr Clark.

  Eugene shook his head.

  “Wait, there is something!” he whispered. “Look – under the tree!”

  His dad peered through the binoculars.

  “Ah yes, it’s a sparrow,” he said. “Never mind.”

  Even Bertie knew that sparrows were not rare birds.

  “How much longer?” he groaned.

  Mr Clark shot him a look.

  “You must learn to be patient, Bertie,” he said. “It’s all about keeping your eyes open.”

  “Can’t we have lunch?” moaned Bertie.

  “We just got here! It’s only eleven o’clock,” said Mr Clark.

  “But I’m STARVING!” cried Bertie.

  Mr Clark shook his head. It was nice for Eugene to bring a friend, but he was starting to wish it wasn’t Bertie. The boy had no interest in nature at all. Worse still, he never stopped talking, fidgeting or picking his nose.

  Mr Clark dug into his bag and brought out a strange-looking whistle.

  “I thought I might try this – it’s a bird-caller,” he explained. “It attracts birds because they think they hear another bird calling.”

  He raised the bird-caller to his lips and blew gently.

  “Throop-oo! Throop-oo!”

  “Amazing!” said Eugene. “It sounds just like a bird!”

  “Can I have a go?” asked Bertie.

  “Er … maybe it’s better if I do it,” said Eugene’s dad.

  “Pleeeeease! Just one little go,” begged Bertie. “I’m not going to break it!”

  Mr Clark smiled weakly and handed him the bird-caller. Bertie thought it might attract a passing hawk, looking for mice or weasels. He stood on the bench and blew a deafening blast.

  “THROOP-OOO! THROOPOOO-OO!”

  “Okay, that’s enough now,” said Mr Clark hastily. But Bertie didn’t stop.

  “THROOP-OO! THROOP-OO! THROOP— URGH!”

  Mr Clark snatched the bird-caller from his mouth.

  “I said that’s enough!” he snapped. “You’ll scare every bird in the wood. Now please sit still and keep quiet!”

  Bertie slumped on to the bench. He was only trying to help – you’d think that Eugene’s dad would be grateful! He picked up an empty plastic cup and put it between his teeth.

  “What am I?” he asked Eugene.

  “Dunno,” laughed Eugene. “A nutcase.”

  “A HAWK!” cried Bertie.

  He flapped his arms and swooped down upon Eugene. They both fell off the bench and rolled on the floor, giggling.

  “For the last time, STOP IT!” yelled Mr Clark, losing patience. “Eugene, I’m surprised at you. Do you want to see a marsh warbler or not?”

  Eugene got up. “Sorry, Dad,” he mumbled.

  Bertie sighed heavily. He wished the stupid bird would turn up soon, then they could all go home!

  Bertie jiggled his legs. He’d drunk all his lemonade and now he was desperate for the loo, but Eugene’s dad wanted them to keep watch in silence.

  “ ’Scuse me!” whispered Bertie.

  “SHHH!” hissed Mr Clark.

  “I can’t shhh!” moaned Bertie. “I need the toilet!”

  “There isn’t one,” said Mr Clark.

  “Go in the woods, that’s what I always do,” suggested Eugene.

  “Fine,” said his dad. “But don’t go far and DON’T make any noise!”

  Bertie hurried to the door. It was no wonder that not many children went birdwatching, he thought. If they added a café, toilets and maybe a zip wire then more people might come.

  He ducked out of the hide and looked around for somewhere to go. There was a rough path leading off into the woods. Bertie followed it, half walking and half running. It wasn’t easy to hurry quietly.

  At last he reached a muddy bank by a pool of water. There were plenty of trees around and no one about.

  Bertie closed his eyes and let out a long sigh of relief. Then he heard something – singing.

  A fat little bird with a white front sat on a branch twittering away. Bertie watched it hop down to the water’s edge. He dug in his pocket and found a few crisps that he’d
been saving for later. He scattered them on the ground.

  “Here, birdy birdy!” he called softly. “Look – crisps!”

  The fat little bird hopped closer until it was only a few steps away. Bertie kept as still as a statue. Finally the bird pecked at a crisp.

  Bertie watched it for a minute or two. It was quite a nice bird, even if it wasn’t a killer hawk. Finally it flew away, vanishing into the treetops.

  “Bye-bye, birdy!” called Bertie, with a wave.

  Back at the hide, Bertie crept in the door. Eugene and his dad hadn’t moved from their posts.

  “Better?” whispered Eugene.

  “Yes thanks,” said Bertie. “There’s loads of trees we could climb, and guess what – I saw a bird!”

  “What kind of bird?” asked Eugene.

  “Dunno, just a small one,” replied Bertie.

  “Probably a sparrow,” said Eugene.

  “No, this was fatter,” said Bertie. “Sort of a greeny-brown colour.”

  Mr Clark looked at him, gripping his binoculars.

  “What colour chest did it have?” he demanded.

  “White, I think,” said Bertie. “It was singing.”

  Mr Clark turned pale. He grabbed The Little Bird Spotter’s Guide and turned the pages.

  “Think! Was it anything like this?” he asked, pointing to a picture.

  “YES!” cried Bertie. “That’s the one! That’s it exactly!”

  Mr Clark closed his eyes. “A marsh warbler!” he moaned. “You saw a marsh warbler. YOU!”

  “That’s good then,” said Bertie. “It ate my crisps.”

  Bertie thought Mr Clark would have been pleased, but he didn’t look it. He paced up and down, waving his hands in the air.

  “UNBELIEVABLE!” he fumed. “You talk, you fidget, you blunder off into the woods and what happens? You see a marsh warbler. You, of all people!”

  “Anyway,” said Bertie. “Now I’ve seen it, can we go home?”

  Mr Clark insisted they return to the spot where Bertie had seen the rare bird. They waited for another hour, but the marsh warbler didn’t come back.

  Mr Clark drove them home in silence. He seemed to be sulking. Bertie couldn’t see what he was so cross about. After all, it wasn’t his fault that no one else saw the marsh warbler! Besides, it was only a bird! If he’d seen a crocodile, that would have been something to get excited about.

  Back home, Mum let him in and made him take off his muddy boots in the hall.

  “So how was birdwatching?” she asked.

  Bertie shrugged. “Okay,” he sighed. “But it’d be better if they had slides or a zip wire.”

  “I hope you behaved yourself,” said Mum.

  “Of course,” said Bertie. “I hardly said a word all day!”

  In any case, he didn’t think he’d be invited to go again, which was probably just as well.

  Better still, he had avoided a whole day of Angela Nicely. That would have been torture! And there was still an hour to watch TV before suppertime. He opened the lounge door.

  “HI, BERTIE!” sang a voice that made his heart sink. “Your mum said I could come for supper! Isn’t that nice?”

  Bertie groaned. NOT ANGELA! Life was so unfair!

  Bertie was on his way home from school with Darren and Eugene. He took out a large brown envelope from his bag and stared at it for the hundredth time. Inside was the thing he dreaded every year – his school report. He hadn’t read it yet because mean old Miss Boot had sealed the envelope. Why do teachers have to write reports anyway? thought Bertie. Why don’t children write reports on their teachers? That would be much fairer! He knew exactly what he’d say…

  Eugene shook his head. “There’s no point staring at it,” he said.

  “I just want to know,” grumbled Bertie. “It’s my report so why can’t I see it?”

  “Because you’re not allowed,” replied Eugene. “Miss Boot said we have to give it to our parents.”

  Darren raised an eyebrow. “But Miss Boot’s not here, is she?” he said.

  Bertie looked round to check their teacher wasn’t hiding behind a lamp post. You could never be too sure. He fingered the envelope.

  “Shall I?” he asked.

  “Go on,” said Darren. “Let’s all open them together!”

  “We can’t!” moaned Eugene. “We’ll get in trouble!”

  “Not if we’re careful,” said Bertie. “If we stick the envelope back down, who’s going to know?”

  Eugene looked worried, but he was dying to see his report just like the others.

  Very carefully, Bertie unsealed his envelope, taking care not to tear it. He took a deep breath and pulled out his report. Miss Boot’s spidery handwriting filled the page…

  The others opened their reports.

  “Phew!” said Eugene. “Mine’s pretty good! It says ‘Eugene is very hard-working’.”

  “And mine’s not so bad,” said Darren. “What about you, Bertie?”

  Bertie looked up. “Terrible!” he groaned. “Listen to this: ‘Bertie is messy, idle and never listens. If anything, his work has gone backwards this year, which is quite an achievement!’”

  Darren laughed. “You always get a bad report,” he said.

  “It’s not funny!” said Bertie. “The last one was so terrible I had to promise my mum that I’d improve this year. Otherwise she’s going to find me a tutor!”

  “A tutor?” repeated Darren.

  “You mean, like your own teacher?” said Eugene.

  “Exactly!” said Bertie.

  It was bad enough seeing teachers at school without one turning up at your house. There’d be no more TV, going to the park or having fun. His life would just be work, work, work from morning till night.

  No, thought Bertie, it was too horrible to imagine. He had to make sure his parents never set eyes on the report. But how? As soon as he got home, his mum would want to read it.

  Bertie frowned. Wait a moment – what if his report never reached home? What if he accidentally lost it? He looked around and spotted a red postbox up ahead. Perfect! If he posted the report he’d never see it again – it would be gone forever!

  He slipped the report back in the envelope and marched up to the postbox.

  “What are you doing?” asked Eugene.

  “I’m posting it,” replied Bertie.

  “YOU CAN’T DO THAT!” cried Eugene.

  “Why can’t I?” said Bertie.

  Before they could stop him, he pushed the envelope into the slot…

  FLUMP!

  It disappeared.

  “Bye-bye, report!” said Bertie, patting the postbox on the head.

  Darren shook his head. “You nutter!” he laughed. “What did you do that for?”

  “Miss Boot’s going to kill you!” said Eugene.

  “She’ll never find out,” said Bertie. “My address isn’t even on the envelope.”

  “But what about your mum and dad?” asked Eugene. “They’ll be expecting it.”

  “No they won’t,” argued Bertie. “They don’t even know we’ve got our reports.”

  “They’ll find out when they go to Parents’ Evening,” said Darren.

  Bertie stared. “To… What?”

  “Parents’ Evening,” repeated Darren. “It’s this Friday, remember?”

  Bertie’s legs turned to jelly. How could he have forgotten Parents’ Evening? Miss Boot had gone on and on about it when she was handing out their reports. It was on Friday – the day after tomorrow!

  “Miss Boot always talks about our reports with our parents,” said Eugene. “That’s what Parents’ Evening is for.”

  “Yeah, so how are you going to explain that yours has disappeared?” asked Darren.

  Bertie looked at the postbox in horror. ARGH! What had he done? He had to get his report back or he was in serious trouble!

  He peered into the mouth of the postbox.

  “It’s too late now,” said Darren. “You’ll never ge
t it back.”

  Bertie wasn’t listening. He squeezed his hand through the hole and felt around.

  “I can’t reach it!” he wailed.

  “You’ve got no chance,” said Eugene. “Just leave it!”

  But Bertie wasn’t giving up that easily. He wriggled his arm in up to the elbow and fished around inside. It was no use.

  “Well, don’t just stand there!” he grumbled. “Help me!”

  “HEY YOU! GET AWAY FROM THERE!”

  Bertie looked round. Yikes! It was the postman! He was getting out of his van and coming towards them. Bertie yanked his arm free so quickly that he almost fell flat on his back.

  The postman set down his sack and glared.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

  “Sorry,” mumbled Bertie. “I lost my report.”

  “Your what?”

  “My report, from school,” explained Bertie. “I sort of, um … accidentally posted it.”

  The postman stared.

  “You accidentally posted it?”

  Bertie nodded. “Yes, it was a mistake, but now I need it back.”

  The postman shook his head and took out a bunch of keys to unlock the postbox.

  “Well, it’s too late now,” he said, opening his sack.

  “But can’t you look for it?” pleaded Bertie. “It’s in a big brown envelope.”

  “There are hundreds of envelopes, and once they’re in the box I’ve got to collect them,” said the postman. “I can’t go rummaging around.”

  Bertie watched helplessly as the pile of letters disappeared into the sack.

  “Please!” he begged. “If I don’t get it back, Miss Boot will kill me.”

  “You should have thought of that before,” said the postman. “Now I’ve got to get on. And in future, keep your hands out of the postbox.”