Stuart, who had been staring out of the window, now turned round. “In my day, cubs and scouts were for boys,” he said. “Girls had brownies and guides.”

“Yes,” said Bertie eagerly. “Girls can join brownies and guides. I read about that in the book. It said that brownies and guides were for girls. That’s where girls should go.”

“I believe that brownies and guides still exist,” said Irene. “But girls can join the cubs and scouts if they wish. And quite right too.”

Bertie thought about this. “And can boys join the brownies?” he asked. He could not imagine that any boy would wish to do that, but he was interested to find out.

Both Bertie and Stuart were now looking at Irene, waiting for her answer. “An interesting question,” said Stuart. “Very interesting.”

Irene shrugged. “I believe that they cannot,” she said. “I think that brownies are just for girls.”

Bertie frowned. “But, Mummy, if girls can join the cubs, then why can’t boys join the brownies? Surely that’s not fair.”

Irene smiled; a tolerant, patient smile of the sort needed when one was explaining things to men and boys. “There has been a lot of research,” she said, “which reveals that girls wish to associate with one another. I think that they’re happier at that age when they just mix among themselves.”

“Oh yes?” said Stuart. “And boys? Might they not be happier mixing just by themselves?”

Irene cast a withering look in Stuart’s direction. “That’s not the point, Stuart, as well you know. Girls and women have been historically disadvantaged. That must be corrected. That’s exactly why male-only institutions need to reform. If you exclude girls from things like the cubs, then these exclusive, patriarchal tendencies will persist.”

Bertie listened intently. “But why should there be one rule for girls and another for boys?” he asked.

Stuart smirked. “Good question,” he said. “It seems to me that Bertie might just be right there. Why should women be allowed to have single-sex set-ups while men are not? Look at all those women’s clubs – book-groups and so on. And yet if men try to have such things they’re frowned upon, to say the least. Or made illegal, courtesy of Brussels.”

Irene looked at her watch. “There isn’t time to go into all that,” she said. “And besides, you’re wrong, Stuart. Women-only organisations are purely defensive. They’re a refuge from the oppression of men.”

Bertie watched closely. If anybody was oppressed, he thought, it was his father. And for a few moments, he experienced a feeling of utter bleakness. He had been looking forward to the cubs, to the excitement that it promised, and now it seemed to him that the cubs would be just like everything else; there would be no freedom there, particularly if Olive were to be there, as she had threatened.

“I know that you and Tofu have got something planned,” she had said a few days previously. “I can tell, Bertie. You’re planning something, aren’t you? And you think I don’t know what it is!”

“We’re not,” said Bertie.

“Oh yes you are!” Olive had said, wagging her finger under Bertie’s nose. “You should tell me, Bertie! You mustn’t keep secrets from your girlfriend.”

Bertie had looked about him, anxious lest anybody should have overheard. “I’m not your boyfriend, Olive,” he said. “Thank you very much, anyway. But I haven’t got a girlfriend.”

“Yes, you have,” said Olive. “Me. I’m your girlfriend. Everybody knows that.”

Bertie took a deep breath. “But what if I don’t want you to be?” he asked. “Surely you have to ask somebody to be your girlfriend.”

Olive’s response was quick. “Not any more,” she said. “You’re living in the past, Bertie Pollock. It’s nothing to do with boys these days – whether or not they have a girlfriend is nothing to do with them.” She paused. “Now, let me see. What are you and Tofu planning, I wonder? Is it something to do with… Yes, that’s it, I think. Is it something to do with… cubs?”

Bertie struggled to keep his composure, but failed.

“Ah-hah!” crowed Olive. “So I’m right! Well, that’s very interesting, Bertie! Because I’ve been thinking of joining too. Isn’t that nice, Bertie? We can all be cubs together.”

It was indeed the 23 bus that eventually took Stuart and the two boys up the Mound and in the direction of Holy Corner. Stuart had tried to locate the car, but had failed, and had been unwilling to seek Irene’s help just yet. It was possible that she had been the last to use it, and knew where it was parked, but it was more likely, he admitted to himself, that he had been its most recent driver.

“I’m sorry, Bertie,” he said. “I have no idea where the car is. We shall have to use the 23 bus after all.”

Bertie had accepted the situation gracefully. “That’s all right, Daddy. I know the 23 bus. The important thing is to get there. It doesn’t matter how you do it.”

He felt disappointed, though. Tofu, who had come back with him from school in order that they might go off to cubs together, was usually rather disparaging about everything that Bertie possessed, but their car, Bertie knew, although somewhat old, was considerably more impressive than Tofu’s own family car. Tofu’s father had converted his car to run on olive oil, and this meant that it was considerably slower than the Pollocks’ Volvo, which still ran on petrol. But Bertie’s pride was saved – to an extent – when Tofu revealed that he had only a few scraps of uniform. In that respect, at least, Bertie was in a much stronger position.

“You don’t really need a uniform,” Tofu said carelessly, eyeing Bertie’s attire. “Uniforms are silly.”

“Then why are you wearing that cap?” Bertie asked. “It says cubs across the front, doesn’t it? That’s a uniform.”

“Who cares?” said Tofu. “And what’s that thing round your neck?”

“That’s the scarf,” said Bertie. “And this thing here is a toggle.”

“Woggles are stupid,” said Tofu, peering at the small leather ring through which Bertie’s cub scarf had been threaded.

“I don’t think so,” said Bertie, adding, “I’ve got another one, you know. My dad bought me two, just in case I should lose one.” He paused. “Would you like to borrow the other one, Tofu? Then we can make you a scarf out of a handkerchief.”

“Yes,” said Tofu immediately. “Go and get it, Bertie.”

Shortly afterwards, Stuart shepherded the two boys along Scotland Street to catch the 23 bus as it lumbered up Dundas Street. The boys’ pride in their uniforms was very evident, even if in Tofu’s case the uniform was eccentric and incomplete. And Stuart himself felt a certain flush of pride to be taking two boys off on such an expedition. When you are six, he thought, the world must be a grand place; and when you are thirty-six, as he was, it has shrunk so much; has become a place of worries and limitations and dismaying statistics. What was the point? What was the point of serving out the years, going to the office every morning and returning in the evening, and then going back into the office in the morning? Where was the enjoyment, the excitement in that?

These thoughts passed through his mind as they waited for the bus to stop, and continued as it began to make its way up Dundas Street. By the time they reached Princes Street, though, Stuart’s chain of thought had moved on to broader topics: It was all very well to wonder where one was going personally, but where was the whole country going? He looked up at the Castle as the bus began its journey up the Mound. The Castle was a work of man, but it seemed to grow out of the very rock, to be an extension of this exposed part of Scotland’s spine. Above it the Union flag fluttered in the breeze; there were those who would change that, would hoist a different flag in its place, just as there were those who would defend the place of the current flag. How strange, thought Stuart, that we invest these symbols with such potency; how strange that people should be prepared to die for their flags, for territory that they might sometimes never even see. What really counts, he thought, is how we live – and yet that, perhaps, is why we care about flags.