Ian disappears round the back of the house as I edge-walk Hercules to the back of the van, to stand among the others: Pan, resting his pipes on shaggy concrete knees; Apollo, looking smug (and where were his oracles when you needed them?); Achilles; Narcissus; the wolf suckling Romulus and Remus; a unicorn with a delicate weathered horn; the many gryphons, gargoyles and sphinxes. All of them marking the passage of another year — my mother’s birthday gifts to me. There’s not much else — a few boxes of books and black plastic bin-bags of clothes, my tool-boxes, routers, drills and workbench.

Ian reappears, carrying the plinth under one arm, as easily as a roll of carpet, and slides it along the van floor. ‘That it?’ he asks.

I find myself tugging hard at the tip of my beard, a sure sign of something. ‘I’m just going to check I’ve got everything.’ I walk down the path and through the gate out on to the deck. I wouldn’t say it’s my favourite (the wooden half-boat deck with its bowsprit maiden has a special place in my heart) but it is possibly the best-crafted. It was, after all, a labour of love — odd to think of that now. I touch the knobbled scar buried under my hair, carved by a falling lemonade bottle, as my other hand plays with the worrystone in my pocket. The green malachite stone has been worried for nearly thirty years, worried paper-thin, and as I stand in my garden, memorising every plant, every tree, it finally snaps in two.

I walk back to the van, out into weak May sunlight, and before I pull down the rolling door I look again at the statues, boxes and bags. Is that all there is?

The night before my thirteenth birthday I couldn’t sleep, kept awake by the excitement of the thought of going to London for the weekend. Although she was in her bedroom, I could hear my mother murmuring on the telephone; the cottage was so small any sound filled it. I switched on the bedside lamp and opened my book, only to read the words ‘His heart broke’. I threw down the book, turned off the light and pulled my heart-warmed blankets tighter around me, thinking, His heart broke? His heart broke? How did it break? Did it shatter into a thousand pieces? Or did it snap into two bloody halves, without a sound? Through my open bedroom window I could hear the sea slapping round the pilings in the creek as I burrowed deeper into my bed. I could see my breath on the cold air as I listened to salt-water turning pebbles and rocks. Looking into the darkness of my childhood room I decided I would never break my heart. I imagined holding it close, warm and silent as a well-kept secret. Gathering myself against the cold, I scooted from the bed, snatched Tub the Ted from the chair and jumped back into my warm nest. Hugging Tub, I prodded the hard bump of his growling mechanism and heard the comforting, thin roar. Suddenly I was embarrassed. I was nearly thirteen and I was cuddling a teddy bear. I dumped Tub on the floor. Childish thoughts.