Unbearable Lightness of Scones

9. Scout’s Honour

“You just sit there in the waiting room for a few minutes, Bertie,” said Irene Pollock, adding, “like a good boy.” Bertie said nothing, but sat down on the chair that he normally sat on during their weekly visits to Dr. Fairbairn. He was not sure why his mother had asked him to sit like a good boy; how exactly did a good boy sit, he wondered, and, perhaps more puzzlingly, how did a bad boy sit?

Bertie was not sure if he was a good boy. He tried to do his best, but he was not sure if that was enough. Did good boys go out of their way to do kind things for other people, as cubs and scouts were meant to do? Bertie was always picking up odd books and he had found one in the school library that dealt with the life of somebody called Baden-Powell. There was a picture of this Baden-Powell in the front of the book, and Bertie had studied it with interest. Mr. Baden-Powell was dressed in extraordinary shorts and a khaki shirt with a loop of thin rope tied round his shoulder and tucked into his top pocket. It was a very nice uniform, in Bertie’s view, and he wondered what one had to do to deserve it. Mr. Baden-Powell, the book explained, had written a book called Scouting for Boys and had invented an exciting movement called the boy scout movement. Now there were branches of this movement all over the world, with cubs for small boys and scouts for older boys. Girls had their own branches called brownies and guides, but now, Bertie read, that had all been mixed up. That was a pity, Bertie thought, as it meant that Olive could join as well, which would spoil everything. Why could they not have something that was just for boys?

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.