Ron was sweating heavily in fear of what Peggy and Cordelia would have to say on their return, but forced himself to remain calm as he tried to coax Flora into staying put.

Flora had no intention of staying anywhere she could be so easily caught, and quickly sought refuge beneath Cordelia’s pillows before burrowing deep beneath the bedding.

It was a tactical error and one that Ron could now exploit. He lifted Daisy off the bed, threw the pillows on the floor, and signalled to the men to trap Flora in her hideaway while he carefully began to lift away the eiderdown and blankets until only a sheet covered the quivering, hissing mound.

Ron signalled again and they untucked both sheets, until the wriggling, frantic Flora was wrapped up like a parcel and safely back in Ron’s arms. She urinated and defecated in protest, splattering Ron’s tatty jumper and shirt. But he grimly held on to her as he coaxed and crooned to her to calm her down.

Flora finally relaxed, and Ron unwrapped her from the filthy sheets, stroking her all the while and talking softly to her until she lay supine in his arms. Then Ron eased her into his pocket with Dora, heard her soft mewls of pleasure and knew the drama was over.

‘Strewth, Ron,’ breathed Peter, regarding the devastation. ‘It’s going to take all flaming night to get this lot cleaned up.’

‘Aye, it will that,’ he rumbled before grimacing at the mess all down his front. ‘But I’m thinking a strong drink wouldn’t go amiss after all the shenanigans.’ He pulled a quarter bottle of Irish whiskey from an inside pocket. ‘Let’s have this downstairs while I put these sheets to soak and clean meself up.’

‘You told Mummy you wouldn’t drink, Grandpa,’ said Daisy with a righteous glare, her small arms folded.

‘Grandpa’s thirsty,’ he replied. ‘Mummy won’t mind.’

Daisy wrinkled her nose. ‘You smell.’

‘Aye, that I do, wee girl,’ he said solemnly. ‘Isn’t it time you went to bed?’

Daisy shook her head, and in no mood for an argument, Ron headed down the stairs to the kitchen.

He stripped off his shirt and jumper, dumped them in the sink with a good dose of washing powder and proceeded to wash them through along with the sheets. Wiping down the stains from his old corduroy trousers, he then wrung out the sweater and put it back on, shivering at the unpleasant feel of wet wool against his skin.

Once the sheets and shirt were pegged on the line, he returned to the dining room to find Daisy curled up on Frank’s lap, her thumb in her mouth. ‘Where’s Martin?’ he asked.

‘Putting his girls to bed,’ said Jack, handing him a generous tot of whiskey.

The bottle didn’t last very long, but luckily Peter had brought some rum, so they got stuck into that. Martin eventually came down and gratefully accepted a drink before offering to put Daisy to bed. But although she was fighting sleep, Daisy refused to leave, and showed signs of being as temperamental as the ferrets, so they let her stay.