He was now a master in his own right and one for his own age. Freed from Gibbons's riotous acanthus, he let other influence scrowd boldly in: the peonies, roses and lilies of Dutch Old Masters, the vegetable heads of Arcimboldo and a touch of modern cynicism in insect-blighted leaves. Letter-rack trompe-l'oeils became a favourite theme, as they were for 17th-century painters, but his racks contained cameras, car keys, film spools and iPhones, as well as delicate hibiscus, holly or sprays of oak.

He became Gibbons's confident ambassador, curating an exhibition and writing books. Strolling into his workshop for a day of meditative carving, still in his bathrobe and carrying his tea, he would go straight to Adobe Illustrator to map out his designs in many overlapping layers. As well as daylight, halogen spotlights illuminated his bench. Between defining the edges of his peony leaves and excavating tiny florets of lilac, he would check his emails. The portraits of Gibbons were still on the walls, but the voice no longer bothered him. He might have sensed, from time to time, an approving nod.

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