Albert wondered whether he would do any good by remaining open, since only two people had come in all afternoon and neither of them had actually bought anything. He could change the Open sign to Sorry, we’re closed, lock the door and go up to his flat, a cold and cheerless place since he had not yet put a match to the fire, nor turned on the gas beneath the kettle. But if he did this it would seem as though he were giving up, admitting that no last-minute customer would come hopefully in to buy the polished meerschaum pipe, or even better the beautiful leather tobacco pouch which any smoker of good sense must long to possess.

Albert sighed and told himself that when he closed at six o’clock he would go round to the landlord of the empty shop and find out what rent was being asked. Then he remembered that Mrs Clarke, who was married to his occasional assistant, and came in a couple of times a week to clean the flat and do some cooking, had made a batch of scones the previous day. Albert licked his lips; Mrs Clarke’s scones were delicious, even if you only had margarine to spread on them, but as it happened he had some strawberry jam . . .

He turned towards the door, intending to put up the Sorry, we’re closed sign, but before he could do so it burst open and a small person hurtled in, nearly knocking him over and ignoring his faint protest. Swerving round the counter, she sat down behind it, saying urgently as she did so: ‘Don’t tell ’em I’m here! Oh, please shut the door; and if they come asking, say you’ve not seen me!’

Albert stared at his uninvited guest. She was a small girl, shabbily dressed, with mousy hair straggling to her shoulders and large brown eyes, which were now fixed appealingly on his face. ‘Don’t let ‘em get me!’ she hissed. ‘Oh, please, close the perishing door.’

Albert found himself obeying, but scarcely had his hand touched the latch when the door was thrust open from the outside and two boys, red-faced and panting, tried to push past him until the second of them, the taller of the two, grabbed his companion’s arm. ‘She ain’t here, Fred,’ he said, staring round the empty shop. ‘She must ha’ gone next door.’ He turned to Albert. ‘Sorry, mister; it were a mistake. We’re tryin’ to catch a young thief what stole fruit off me uncle’s stall.’

Albert opened his mouth to say that the girl who had shot into his shop hadn’t been carrying anything, then realised that to do so would give the game away. Instead he scowled at the lads. ‘I don’t believe a word of it; I reckon you hoped to nick a few fags off my display,’ he said coldly. ‘Gerrout, the pair of you, and don’t come back.’

The elder of the two boys began to protest but Albert pushed them both out, shut and locked the door and hung up his Sorry, we’re closed sign. Then he walked over to the counter and looked down at the girl still crouching on the floor. ‘What’s up?’ he said bluntly. ‘Don’t try telling me you’re playing Relievio, because it won’t wash. Those young fellers meant business.’