He gently pushed the over-eager lurcher away and sat up, only to realise that he must have passed out on the scullery floor, and the snoring leviathan beside him was his son Frank – of Brendon there was no sign. He concluded that his grandson had been sober enough to be allowed to spend the night in a proper bed. Someone had brought blankets and pillows, but he and Frank were both fully clothed, still with their boots on – which meant they must have been comatose, and were now in deep trouble with their women.

Ron wrinkled his nose, recognising the smell of his compost heap emanating from Frank, and memory slowly returned in all its awful clarity. He glanced down at his chest, saw the remains of vegetable sludge glued to his sweater and trousers and grunted in disgust. Rosie had certainly made her feelings plain about his behaviour, and although he hadn’t thought he’d been that bad at serenading her, he’d clearly been deluded in thinking she’d appreciate it.

He struggled to his feet and stood there unsteadily for a moment to get his bearings and will his reluctant muscles to work again. He was getting too old to be sleeping on a concrete floor, and should have known better than to drink so much, even though the rare luxury of good whiskey had been impossible to resist.

‘Never again,’ he muttered – a promise he’d made to himself too many times before, and subsequently broken.

With trembling fingers he drew back his sleeve and looked at his watch. It was five in the morning and much too early to go visiting Rosie to apologise about his attempts to serenade her – besides, he had the ferrets to sort out before he could wash and find clean clothes, and then there was the small matter of appeasing Peggy and Pauline, and of course escorting Brendon to the railway station. It was going to be a busy day.

He dipped his hand into the deepest pocket of his coat and realised with horror that his ferrets were no longer there. He searched each pocket in turn with growing alarm, for he was unable to remember whether he’d put them in their cage before passing out. He stumbled over Frank and staggered into his bedroom – only to come to an abrupt halt. The ferret cage was empty.

He searched his room, his panic rising by the second, but there was no sign of them. Returning to the scullery, he noted that the door to the kitchen had been firmly closed; there had been no kerfuffle to stir him in the night, so it was unlikely they’d got into the rooms upstairs. With deepening dread he dug Frank in the ribs.

‘Wake up, Frank. Wake up and tell me what I did with Flora and Dora.’

Frank mumbled something unintelligible and pulled the blanket over his head.