Then Shane reaches down and tugs the hem of my skirt. He tugs so hard that the waistband digs into my hips and a blast of cold hits my midriff. I stop plucking. Shane keeps holding on to my skirt, pulling my arse towards his groin. The freezing rivets of the denim mini press into my flesh.

‘I’m not coming,’ I say. But my voice is barely a squeak.

We stand together, Shane’s fists tight on the hem of my denim mini, his knees hard in the backs of mine. My turkey sways in front of me. For the first time this evening,

I feel warm. I become aware of my heart beating.

‘She’s not coming, Shane,’ says Rob.

‘Get back to work, you lot!’ Sheepskin Coat hollers over from his table at the other end of the shed. ‘I won’t bloody tell you again.’

Shane’s still holding on to me, and for a second I wonder what it would be like if he didn’t let me go.

‘Shane. She’s not coming with you.’

His hands drop then. Whether he glares at Rob, or tries to answer him, I don’t know. But he lets me go. I keep my eyes on my turkey’s wing, and I don’t move. I stand and listen to his heavy steps, feeling the cold air on my legs. I hear the creak and slam of the corrugated iron door.

It’s quarter to seven and my fingers are raw from plucking. Turkey feathers look soft but they pierce your skin if you pull them the wrong way. A dribble of turkey shit has leaked into my coat cuff and dried there. Every time I lift my arm to pluck another feather I get a big raw whiff of it.

Sheepskin Coat calls time. Luke and Rob rush off, shoulders touching as they squeeze out the door. Rob looks over his shoulder and lifts one hand. Gives me a half-wave. His earring winks in the electric light.

I go to follow him but Sheepskin Coat calls me over. He leans back on his table and waits till everyone’s gone and we’re alone in the shed. Behind him, naked turkeys are slumped in a pile.

‘What did I tell you about trousers?’ he says, looking at my legs, his eyes going up, up, up.

His worn corduroys sag at the knees. Down the front of his coat there’s a stain the shape of the map of Britain.

‘You’re distracting the others.’

‘It’s not my fault. They’re easily distracted.’

He raises his bushy eyebrows. ‘Look. I don’t usually take girls on here. Not young ones, anyway. So I’m doing you a big favour. Don’t bugger it up.’

‘I’ll try my best to be good.’ I look up at him and flick my hair back.

Eventually, he smiles. ‘Yeah. OK. Next time, come covered up, that’s all.’