How much of life is just this? Moving things around, assessing their weight, their demeanour, what they will yield today. The kettle, will she bring back water, and how much? Enough for a cup, a kettle, a basin, a tin bath? A house.

Pond Man reflects. Ten years, twelve, fourteen, nothing sticks. Only salt to the window. Charcoal to his fingers. Pond Man crosses the room to his cherished stove; bends down and blows over the grate. Ash still warm; he’ll empty her later. Time. She used to say that, the lady of the manor. Time and then pointed at the sundial with her slender finger. So he called her Lady Time. Where did she go? He thinks of her beneath the topiary sunning herself, shading herself, moving in and out of the leafy shadows, her blanched skin gently browning, the days passing, her slender head turning this way and that in search of —

The window is open and the sun still up. Pond Man leans out — there she goes — just behind the oyster pond a burnt orange circle slipping down. Still time. Half an hour, an hour. Time enough to fix the hazel fence behind the house — the wind has torn at her — never leaves her alone, and Pond Man shakes his head and pushes open his daubed door. Finish her later. So much to finish. So much started.