‘Aye, well, most folk like a bird for Christmas if they can afford it,’ the man said, producing a bunch of rather mangled papers and beginning to sort them out on the countertop. ‘Have you ever thought of selling piglets?’

Tess groaned. ‘Imagine cleaning the cage out at the end of the day,’ she said. ‘Puppies are bad enough, not like kittens, who seem to be born with lavatory habits and always use the sand tray.’ As she spoke she had been opening the till and extracting the money for the chicks, and now she handed it to Mr Haslett, watching as he scrawled Paid on the bottom of the invoice and added his signature. How wonderful it was to be solvent, she told herself. Four years ago, when the shop had first opened, even paying for a box of chicks would have been a headache. Then, she had juggled bills and invoices and the tiny amount of money in the account she had opened for Tess’s Pets, grateful for every customer, and appreciating more than ever the generosity of those friends who had lent money to keep her head above water. Now, Tess’s Pets was a viable business, paying everyone’s wages and enabling her to repay loans and buy in stock knowing that it would be sold soon after it arrived. Mitch, who was now fourteen, was employed full time, and though Gran still did the books and cashed up she was no longer needed on a regular basis.

‘There you are, miss, there’s your copy,’ Mr Haslett said, shoving the remaining papers back into his pocket. ‘How old’s the lad now? I see’d him a couple of weeks ago; it’s astonishin’ how he’s shot up.’

‘You’re right there; he’s a proper beanpole,’ Tess agreed. ‘He’s only fourteen, but he’s taller than I am, not that that’s saying much.’ She swung the door open. ‘Ah, here he comes, with Elsie in tow. See you soon, Mr Haslett.’

Mitch entered the shop, closely followed by his small sister. She had started school the previous September and was making the most of the holidays, though since Mrs Roberts was now working full time at Tate and Lyle’s this chiefly meant accompanying her brother to his place of work. Fortunately, Elsie was happy enough to help clean, feed and water the animals and birds, and speedily became fond of her charges; in fact she was forced to go into the stockroom when one of them was sold, in order to shed bitter tears.

There had been a never-to-be-forgotten occasion when Elsie had asked a customer, leaving the shop with a large buck rabbit, what he intended to call his new pet. ‘I call him Fatty Arbuckle. What’ll you call him?’ she had asked.

The man had stared down at her for an uncomprehending moment before his face cleared. ‘I’m gonna call him Sunday dinner,’ he said airily, and was gone before the true horror of this statement had sunk in. Mitch had pretended it was just a joke, but with meat on ration and hard to come by they all knew that the man had spoken the simple truth.