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Bertie nodded. It would be best to leave his mother behind, he thought, as he could not imagine her in a jazz club in Arbroath. He hoped that she would agree.

As they walked down Scotland Street, Stuart fell silent.

‘Are you all right, Daddy?’ asked Bertie. ‘You didn’t eat too much, did you?’

Stuart looked down at Bertie and laughed. But there was a nervous edge to his laugh. ‘No, I didn’t,’ he said. ‘I’m just thinking. That’s all.’

‘About statistics?’ asked Bertie.

It would have been easy for Stuart to answer yes to that, as he had been thinking about his chances, which appeared to be diminishing the nearer they approached the front door of 44 Scotland Street. To begin with, before any other charges were considered, he and Bertie were late. They had spent rather longer than he had intended at Big Lou’s, and the meal which Irene would have prepared for them would have been ready a good twenty minutes earlier. That would undoubtedly be an issue. But then there was the question of the trip to Arbroath. He was reluctant to ask Bertie not to mention it, as that would suggest that something was being kept from Irene; but if Bertie mentioned it before he, Stuart, had the chance to do so, then the whole outing might not be presented in quite the right light. Irene could hardly be expected to agree to Bertie’s going to a club of any sort; there had been that unseemly row over his attending Tofu’s birthday party at the bowling alley in Fountainbridge, and a jazz club was surely even one step beyond that. It would be far better, Stuart thought, if they could present the occasion as a concert. To say that one was going to Arbroath for a concert sounded much better than saying that one was going to a jazz club in Arbroath – that was clear.

He broached the subject with Bertie as they climbed the stairs to their front door. ‘Bertie,’ he began, ‘let me tell Mummy about that concert we’re going to. I think that might be best.’

‘What concert?’ asked Bertie. ‘Do you mean the jazz club?’

‘Well, yes, I suppose I do. It’s just that there are ways of explaining things to other people. Mummy is not a great aficionado of jazz, is she? She doesn’t know about jazz clubs, but she does know about concerts. I think it might be better for us to say that we’re going to a concert – which is true, of course. It will be a sort of a concert, won’t it?’

Bertie nodded. He was relieved that his father seemed willing to take on the task of persuading Irene. ‘Of course, Daddy,’ he said. ‘And Mummy is your wife, isn’t she? You know her better than I do, even if Ulysses might not be your baby.’

Stuart stopped. He stood quite still. They were halfway up the stairs, and he stopped there, one foot on one stair and one on another, as if caught mid-motion by some calamity, as at Pompeii. Bertie stood beside him, holding his hand, looking rather surprised that his father had come to this abrupt halt.

‘Now, Bertie,’ said Stuart, his voice barely above a whisper. ‘That’s a very odd thing to say. Why do you think Ulysses might not be my baby? Whatever gave you that idea?’

‘He doesn’t look like you, Daddy,’ said Bertie. ‘At least, I don’t think he does.’

Stuart’s relief was palpable. ‘Oh, I see. Is that all it is?’ He laughed, and patted Bertie on the shoulder. ‘Babies often don’t look like anybody in particular, Bertie. Except Winston Churchill, of course. All babies look like Winston Churchill. But you can’t draw any conclusions from that!’

‘But Ulysses does look like somebody, Daddy,’ said Bertie. ‘He looks like Dr Fairbairn. You should look at Dr Fairbairn’s ears, and his forehead too. Ulysses has this little bump, you see . . .’

Bertie became aware that something was amiss. Stuart was leaning back against the banister, staring at him.

‘Are you feeling all right, Daddy?’ asked Bertie, the concern rising in his voice. ‘Are you sure that you didn’t have too much shortbread?’

‘No, I’m all right, Bertie,’ Stuart stuttered. He leaned forward so that his face was close to Bertie’s. On