The Importance of Being Seven by Alexander McCall Smith Page A

enough,’ said Matthew cautiously.
    Kirsty looked up at him and smiled. ‘To make money you have to spend money,’ she said.
    Matthew said nothing. The catalogue was open at a Vuillard picture of a woman sitting on a sofa.
    ‘That’s a lovely painting,’ Matthew said. ‘So peaceful. I love Vuillard.’
    Kirsty seemed pleased with this response. ‘We could buy it, you know. It’s coming up next week in London. We could buy it and then resell it here.’

     
    Matthew frowned. ‘I don’t go in for those really expensive paintings,’ he said.
    Kirsty smiled again. ‘That could change, you know. Come on, Matthew, let’s get things going round here.’
    Matthew looked at the estimate: eighty to one hundred thousand pounds. He felt flushed, as if he had been given some sort of challenge; or it could have been the effect of Kirsty’s jeans. They are so tight, he thought.

22. More About Baden-Powell
     
    For reasons which he could not quite understand, Bertie had been allowed by his mother to remain a member of the First Morningside Cub Scout Pack. His original assumption had been that his father, who had supported his membership, would be defeated by his mother, who was vigorously opposed to what she described as a ‘junior paramilitary organisation of dubious pedigree’. His father was usually defeated – on everything – but on this issue his view had somehow prevailed, with the result that Bertie was allowed to continue his Friday night trips to the Episcopal Church Hall at Holy Corner. There the pack met under the encouraging but watchful eye of Rosemary Gold, cub mistress and Akela.
    There were numerous grounds upon which Irene objected to the cub scouts, but at the root of her position was a strong antipathy towards the founder of the movement, Robert Baden-Powell. ‘What a ridiculous man,’ she said, when she found Bertie reading an account of the original scout’s life. ‘Look at his stupid shorts. One has to be deeply suspicious of a man who feels the need to dress up like that. How absurd.’
    Bertie studied the picture of Baden-Powell in his Chief Scout uniform. He thought that the uniform looked rather nice; in fact,Bertie rather liked uniforms and unusual outfits of any sort and would have loved to have had one himself. Uniforms were frowned upon at the Steiner school that he attended, but Bertie would have willingly worn one, particularly if it was anything like the Watson’s uniform, with its plum-coloured blazer. And then there was the uniform worn by the pupils of Daniel Stewart’s, who sported bright red socks; or the kilts worn by boys at some of the other schools. Bertie would have liked to have worn a kilt, even if he were to be denied everything else, but again he discovered that his mother did not approve.
    ‘Kilts are reactionary,’ said Irene. ‘I don’t expect you to understand completely, as I do know that there are lots of people who wear them. But you must never assume that something is right just because lots of people do it. You do understand that, don’t you, Bertie?’
    Bertie pursed his lips. ‘But some very important people wear kilts, Mummy,’ he protested. ‘Look at the First Minister. He wears a kilt. I saw a picture of him in the
Scotsman
. I saw it with my own eyes.’
    ‘One would hardly see with any other eyes,’ said Irene drily. ‘And as for the
Scotsman
, that newspaper is rather inclined to encourage that sort of thing, if you ask me.’
    Bertie looked puzzled. ‘What sort of thing, Mummy?’
    ‘Oh, all this business of kilts and the like,’ said Irene. ‘It’s sentimental nonsense. If you go to the real heart of Scotland, Bertie, to the factories where people make things, then you don’t see kilts, I assure you.’
    Bertie was intrigued. He was conscious of the fact that he was Scottish, but he was not quite sure what that meant. Did it merely mean that he had been born in Scotland – did that make you Scottish? Or was it something else? And as