It was a Beefeater, a toy soldier with black pants and a red jacket and the impossibly large, furry black hat of a real Tower of London guard. The toy jerked into life and began to march, high-stepping it along the floor while holding its ceremonial rifle over one shoulder, swinging the other arm along to the marching rhythm. After a dozen steps it swiveled in a perfect U-turn and marched all the way back again. Barbara burst into delighted laughter.