‘It’s exhausting,’ Becca admitted. ‘But I just keep thinking back to how he was the first time we saw him in the orphanage – so quiet and still, almost like he was afraid to make a sound.’

‘The poor little lamb,’ Abi remarked.

‘It just makes me grateful every time I see him whizzing about the place.’

Mark poured glasses of white wine for the ladies, uncapping beers for the men, and when Ross expressed an interest in seeing the studio, Mark was happy to oblige.

It wasn’t a large room, but it was well appointed with a little wood-burning stove in one corner, skylights in the pitched roof and French doors opening on to the patio. He’d lit a fire in the stove earlier in anticipation of this moment, and now he sat in one of the armchairs, sipping his beer, while Ross Campbell peered at some of the models that were displayed along the shelving unit – miniature stage sets made from balsa wood, Ross’s thick fingers occasionally picking up some delicate piece.

‘Did you make these yourself?’ he asked, making an appreciative noise when Mark admitted he had.

Mark felt that perhaps he’d been too hasty in writing off a possibility of friendship with Ross. So what if the man liked tinkering with engines? It didn’t necessarily follow that he had no soul.

‘I can’t imagine it,’ Ross said, ‘spending your time making these things. It’s like Lilliput, yeah?’

Mark gave a brief explanation of his working method and Ross listened politely, the bottle of Heineken held casually by his hip, but it was obvious he was baffled by it all. And when he said: ‘Would you not be tempted to clear out all this stuff and put in a pool table? Get yourself a flat-screen TV and a decent sound system, a little fridge in the corner?’ Mark tried to hide his disappointment.

‘Yeah, it’s tempting. But how would I get any work done with all that distraction?’

‘Looks like you’re already distracted.’ Ross nodded towards the table where several translucent bags full of matchsticks lay next to a half-hearted attempt at construction.

Approaching the table for a closer look, Ross wrinkled his nose and said: ‘What is all this? Are you building something? Or is it like a really complicated Jenga?’

‘It’s an old hobby of mine. Something my sister and I used to do as kids,’ Mark explained, fondness creeping into his voice. ‘We’d build miniature models of well-known buildings, recreate them from matchsticks. We used to spend hours working on them.’

‘Did you not just watch television like the rest of us?’

‘We didn’t have a television.’

‘What?’ Ross laughed, straightening. ‘Jesus, talk about a deprived childhood!’