Stuart looked at Bertie in astonishment. ‘That’s not the way that rugby’s normally played, Bertie. If you share the ball in rugby then … well, it doesn’t work, Bertie.’

‘But we have to share, don’t we, Daddy?’

‘Not in rugby, Bertie. You’re meant to try and get the ball away from other people.’

‘But isn’t that selfish, Daddy?’

‘I’m afraid it is, Bertie. But some of these games are a bit selfish. It’s in the rules, so to speak.’

‘So we lost because we shared the ball,’ said Bertie, reflectively. ‘And maybe also because they were mostly girls in our team.’

Stuart bit his lip. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Oh well, Bertie. There we are. At least everybody had fun. That’s the important thing.’

Now they had reached the reservoir – a long, L-shaped loch that stretched back into the fold of a glen. There was a small island not far from the shore – an island covered with pines on the edge of which various water birds were poised. On a small stony beach beside the road, three green-painted rowing boats had been drawn up; it was one of these that Stuart had hired for the afternoon.

Soon they were out in the middle of the loch. Stuart shipped the oars and picked up the rods. He had a fly on the end of his line, but at the end of Bertie’s he now fixed a float and a hook. Then, reaching into the pocket of his Barbour jacket, he took out a small plastic bag. Several large, succulent worms twisted about in a handful of damp soil. One of these was threaded onto the hook and the rod was passed to Bertie.

‘There you are, Bertie,’ said Stuart. ‘Tight lines!’

Bertie tossed the float and line into the water. The hook, weighted by its worm, sank down into the peaty water below, down into brown depths. Then, almost immediately, the float bobbed up and down before sinking sharply beneath the surface of the water. Bertie saw what was happening, and shouted out in excitement. Then he began to reel in, just as his father had taught him before they left Scotland Street.

Up through the water came a large trout; a flash of silver; a dart of light; the fulfilment of a small boy’s dream. Soon it was on the surface, or just beneath it, and its tail twisted and hit the water with a splash. Bertie jerked the rod up, bringing the fish up into the air.

‘Careful,’ shouted Stuart as Bertie lowered the rod again. But it was too late; the sudden movement relieved the line of its strain and the fish was off the hook.

‘I really caught it, Daddy,’ he said, his voice faltering. ‘I really caught a fish, didn’t I?’

Stuart put an arm round his son. ‘Yes, you caught it, Bertie.’

‘It was big, wasn’t it, Daddy?’