‘It’s just something . . .’ I had thought through how to describe it to Simon, but anything I’d planned is no longer in my head. ‘It’s from Ellen, the person I told you about. The one with the online business selling historical things. In frames.’ My index fingers make a rectangle in the air, half each. ‘I mentioned your interest in old toys – antique toys – and she gave me . . . the thing I’m about to get. I think I know what it is but she gave it to me wrapped, so it didn’t seem in the spirit of that to rip it open and check . . .’

‘Intriguing,’ Simon says.

If it’s the figurine I expect it to be, there’s an expert in the room.

Simon raises his eyebrows, points to the stairs. ‘Don’t leave us in suspense.’

‘No suspense,’ I tell him. ‘It might be junk. Prepare yourself for junk.’

‘Five-star expectation management,’ I hear Brian say as I go up the stairs. ‘Respect.’

When I pick it up, the box is heavy in my hand for its size. I’m sure the object inside is metal, the battered toy soldier in the cocked hat. There’s a rip in the paper at the edge of the tape, just a small one. Acoustic-guitar chords from the floor below signal that Tom Petty is on the turntable. LP one, side A, track one, ‘Free Fallin’’.

Simon is standing in front of a speaker when I come back down the stairs.

‘Remastered,’ he says, and nods. ‘In a good way.’ He feels the weight of the box when I give it to him, says, ‘Hmmm,’ and takes it back to the table to open it.

He tears the tissue paper when he tries to remove the tape, then opens the lid carefully. It’s the figurine I thought it would be, nestled in more tissue paper. He lifts it out, and examines it front and back. It has more paint on it than I remember, but much of it is bare metal. It’s been months since I’ve seen it, since Ellen boxed it and gave it to me for Simon.

‘She said it probably has no commercial value.’ That was one of the things I’d planned to tell him before he saw it.

Simon hands it to Brian, whose forehead creases deeply as he holds it close to his face and scrunches up his eyes, searching for detail. He pulls a pair of reading glasses from his shirt pocket and puts them on.

‘No, readers aren’t enough. We’ll have to find a magnifying glass,’ he says. ‘Any idea who or what it is?’ He looks at me over the glasses with one eye, closing the other.

‘Well, Napoleon. That’s what the family thought.’