All was suddenly movement. Things began to fall from his pockets, they began to pour out of him, they rushed hither and thither on the floor, scurrying and hurtling, all manner of objects. These were not beetles and small creatures, they were things, objects, little pieces of this and that, rushing about Grandfather’s feet, walking hurriedly down his trouser legs, over his shoes. Whilst Grandfather sat so still, so upright, so many other things moved and hurried about him. Small cups, knives, forks, napkins, needles, pins, screws, nails, buttons, leapt into life, and at last lined themselves up on the floor either side of Grandfather’s large boots and waited there, peaceful once more.

From out of an inside coat pocket a large black slate began to appear, a tile from somebody’s roof. Grandfather’s thick fingers did not touch it, the slate moved of its own accord, turning over and over in its progress across the floor and up the bed frame, and laid itself down upon the foot of my bed.

‘But how,’ I said, ‘how did you …? What have you …?’

‘Things,’ said Grandfather, ‘are not what they seem.’

‘They move quite by themselves!’

‘This oblong,’ said Grandfather, ‘this same field of darkest slate, shall be our theatre, our stage, our scene. I shall show you a story of your family and its objects. Do you attend, boy?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Once upon an object,’ said Grandfather in his corner, ‘there was a folding pocket knife.’

An object matching that description now came forward, it hauled itself like an old man dragging a leg, pitching its blade first and heaving its handle afterwards. So doing it quickly achieved the slate and stood there a moment before marching back and forth, scratching upon the surface as if the penknife were a man deep in thought marching backwards and forwards.