‘You’re not doing too badly now,’ teased Brendon, whose cheeks were getting flushed. ‘You’ve got a fine woman in Rosie Braithwaite.’

Ron chuckled. ‘Aye, I do that, and I count myself lucky that she puts up with me.’ He felt the ferrets begin to stir and hoisted them out of his pocket to drape them over his shoulders and stroke their soft fur. ‘But if she catches me in here, she’ll have my guts for garters.’

The ferrets lay slumped over his broad shoulders, hypnotised by Ron’s gentle hands and snuffling with pleasure.

‘D’you think it’s wise bringing them in here?’ asked Frank. ‘Rosie wouldn’t like it, and I doubt Gloria will either.’

‘Ach,’ he murmured, ‘they’re fine, so they are. They’re tired and it’s peaceful enough in here.’

As if on cue, the door slammed back, making them all jump. The ferrets stirred, raising their inquisitive noses and digging their claws into Ron’s shoulders as Gloria bustled in with a large plate of sandwiches.

Catching sight of the ferrets she dropped the plate and let out a screech. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing bringing them in ’ere?’ she yelled.

The ferrets took objection to the loud interruption and before Ron could grab them, they’d shot off his shoulders and scampered at lightning speed across the floor towards the open door.

Ron raced after them in an attempt to bar their escape – but Gloria was yelling fit to bust, the ferrets were too quick, and Harvey was barging about, trying to snaffle the sandwiches from the floor.

‘Get them things outta my pub,’ yelled Gloria, holding up the hem of her skirt as the ferrets darted between her feet and disappeared into the main saloon bar.

Frank and Brendon were quickly in pursuit and Ron dived after Flora, who was about to disappear up the chimney, managing to grab hold of her back leg. A firm tug, a grasp of her sooty scruff, and she was quickly shoved back into the deepest pocket of his coat.

But pandemonium had broken out amongst the crowd of drinkers as Dora shot between their legs, darting back and forth in search of an escape route through the tangle of screaming women and shouting men.

Brendon made a grab for her, but she twisted away, clawed up the sturdy oak bar and leapt for safety onto the mirror-backed shelves on the wall behind it. Glasses smashed and bottles teetered dangerously as she arched her back, dropped a stinking pile of poo, and let out an ear-piercing screech.

To the accompanying cries of horror at the stench, shouts of encouragement from the servicemen and over-excited barking from Harvey, Brendon and Frank closed in on her, wary of her sharp claws and even sharper teeth.

‘Look what it’s done all over me shelves,’ wailed Gloria. ‘You’re gonna pay for this, Ronan Reilly, you can be sure of that!’