He had borrowed this book from the school library and had taken it home to Scotland Street.

“What’s that you’re reading, Bertie?” his mother had asked when she had come into his room – without knocking, as usual – and had found her son stretched out on his bed, absorbed in a book.

“It’s about Mr. Baden-Powell, Mummy,” said Bertie. “I’ve just got to the place where he’s fighting in the Matabele War and he’s thought it would be fun to make a club for boys who wanted to do that sort of thing.”

Irene walked over to Bertie’s bed and took the book from him. “Let me see this,” she said. “Now, Bertie…”

She broke off as she read the offending text. “Baden-Powell was a very brave man. While taking part in the action to suppress the uprising in Matabeleland, he developed a series of skills suited to fighting in the bush. He learned a great deal from the trackers that the British Expeditionary Force used to hunt down the last of Mzilikazi’s warriors as they hid in the valleys and caves of the Matopos hills…”

Really! She would have to speak to the school about allowing such literature in the library. Scouting for Boys indeed!

“Now, Bertie,” Irene began. “I’m going to have to take this book away. I’m sorry because, as you know, Mummy doesn’t believe in censorship, but there are limits. This is awful nonsense, Bertie, and I don’t think you should fill your mind with it.”

“But, Mummy,” protested Bertie. “The book says that Mr. Baden-Powell was a good man. He was brave and he liked to help boys have fun.”

Irene closed her eyes, a sign that Bertie knew well meant that her mind was resolutely made up. He had noticed it when she read something in The Guardian that she agreed with – which was the whole newspaper, he thought. She closed her eyes after reading the article.

“Bertie,” she began, “you must realise that this book is very much out-of-date. Nobody today thinks that this Baden-Powell was a good man. Au contraire. He was an imperialist, Bertie, somebody who went and took other people’s countries. Poor Mzilikazi had every right to rise up against people like Baden-Powell.” She paused. “Of course these things are very complicated when you’re only six, I know that. But an intelligent boy like you should be able to see them, Bertie. Scouting is a thoroughly bad thing. It’s very old-fashioned.”

“But why, Mummy?” Bertie protested. “All this happened a long time ago. And cubs and scouts have lots of fun – the book says so. Look, let me show you the bit.”

“Certainly not,” snapped Irene, and then, more gently, “You see, Bertie, the problem is that these organisations appeal to a very primitive urge in boys. They make them want to pretend to be little hunters. They make them want to join together and exclude other people. They make them want to get dressed up in ridiculous uniforms, like Fascisti. That’s why Mummy thinks they’re a bad idea.”

Bertie said nothing. The more his mother denigrated the activities of the boy scouts, the more desirable they seemed to him. Hunters! Uniforms! It would be such fun, he thought, to dress up and make one of those circles that he had seen pictured in the book. And they went camping too, which must be the most wonderful fun. There were photographs of boys standing about their tent while others made a camp fire. And then there was a picture of boys, all in their uniforms, sitting about their fire singing a song. The book gave some of the words of the song, “One man and his dog, went to mow a meadow…” That sounded like a very exciting song, thought Bertie; so rich in meaning; and for a moment he imagined the man and his dog setting off to cut the grass in Drummond Place Gardens. And the man was Angus Lordie and the dog was Cyril, whom Bertie had always liked.

But he knew that he would never be able to be a cub or a scout. There would not be time for it, for one thing, what with his Italian lessons, his yoga and his psychotherapy. Which was why he was now sitting in Dr. Fairbairn’s waiting room while his mother went through for her private chat with the therapist before Bertie was called in. He knew that they were discussing him, and he had once tried to listen through the keyhole while his mother and Dr. Fairbairn had talked. He had not been able to make out what they were saying, although he did hear mention of Melanie Klein’s name once or twice and something about avoidance, whatever that was. Then his mother muttered something about Bertie’s little brother, Ulysses. This was followed by silence.

In the consulting room of Dr. Hugo Fairbairn, the distinguished psychotherapist and author of Shattered to Pieces: Ego Dissolution in a Three-Year-Old Tyrant, Irene sat on the opposite side of the desk, staring at Dr. Fairbairn uncomprehendingly.

“A chair?” she said, eventually. “A chair?”

Dr. Fairbairn beamed back at her. “I wanted you to be one of the first to know,” he said. “I shall, of course, be writing to all my patients, and there may even be something in the press about it…” He broke off, smiling in a self-deprecatory way. “Not that I’m newsworthy, of course, but the fact of the matter is that Aberdeen has decided to create the first chair of child psychotherapy at a Scottish university and, well, they’ve very kindly chosen me.”

Irene struggled to pull herself together. “But why can’t you do this here in Edinburgh? What’s wrong with Edinburgh University or any of the other universities we’ve got here? Queen Margaret University – they go in for that sort of thing, don’t they? Health sciences and so on. Why don’t you be a professor there? Or Napier University? What about them? They’ve got that film school or whatever – they’re forward-looking.”

Dr. Fairbairn smiled. He appreciated such praise from Irene, but he wondered if she knew much about the mechanisms of getting a university chair. “It’s not that simple,” he explained. “There’s nothing available in Edinburgh at the moment. Maybe some time in the future, but now… well, it’s Aberdeen who have taken the step. And I must say I do feel somewhat flattered.”

Irene decided to change tack. “Flattered by being offered a chair? Come now, Hugo, somebody of your eminence… A chair is not even a sideways move; you have far bigger fish to fry…”

Dr. Fairbairn frowned. Was it possible that Irene did not know what a singular honour it was to be asked to become a chair? What did she think chairs were for? Sitting in?

“There will be a great deal for me to do in Aberdeen,” he said slowly. “They would specifically like to raise their profile in psychotherapeutic studies. They know about…” He paused, as if modesty prevented the mention of his book, but decided to continue. “Shattered to Pieces. It has, I believe, been used as a textbook in Aberdeen.”

Irene snorted. “Aberdeen! What do they know in Aberdeen?”

Dr. Fairbairn’s expression now began to show signs of irritation. “A great deal, I would have thought,” he said. “It is one of our most distinguished pre-Reformation universities. It is a very prestigious institution.”

“Oh, I know all that,” said Irene quickly. “It’s the place I was thinking of.”

“And the city too,” said Dr. Fairbairn. “As a city, Aberdeen has an illustrious history. It’s a very significant place.”

“And very cold too,” Irene interjected.

For a few moments nothing was said. Irene reached out and picked up a pencil that was lying on Dr. Fairbairn’s desk. “Of course there are other considerations,” she said, almost casually.

Dr. Fairbairn watched her. He said nothing.

“I would have thought that you would have rather too many commitments in Edinburgh to leave,” she said.

He waited. Then, in a hesitant voice, “Such as?”

“Oh, your practice?” said Irene airily. “Your patients. Wee Fraser…” She was not going to mention Bertie… yet.