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Into this cacophony walked Crystal. She stood, hands on hips, at the end of the corridor. Her voice sliced through the air. ‘What on earth is going on down here?’

It was if someone had flicked a switch. The barking died away immediately. The Westie gave two additional, hesitant woofs and then he, too, fell silent with a nervous gulp.

Crystal clipped down the corridor until level with me. ‘Well, Paul? Perhaps you can explain.’ She stared at me intently.

Oh, those eyes of hers. Those cornflower-blue eyes … such beautiful eyes … such … well, actually, they now looked rather thunderous. The sort of blue seen in clouds about to hit you between the eyes with a heavy burst of hail.

‘Er … well … it was the squirrel,’ I responded in a hoarse whisper, pointing down at Cyril who’d come hopping up to Crystal’s ankles.

Oh, what lovely ankles … so finely turned … such delicate feet. Pink-lacquered toes peeping from sandals like blushing maids all in a row. More like a string of nuts to judge from the keen interest Cyril was taking in them. And nuts were for eating. Oh no … those razor-sharp teeth of his.

Crystal looked down and took a genteel step to the side. Phew.

‘Oh, yes. This squirrel. Time it was found a home, don’t you think? We don’t want it taking up unnecessary space. Or too much of our staff’s time.’

So there we had it – Crystal clear.

Time for Cyril to move on. I had to admit there was no excuse for him staying as he was now eating and drinking of his own accord. But where was he to go?

I had a sneaking feeling a decision had already been made. That ‘look’ on Lucy’s face said it all. When I hesitantly suggested one or two rescue centres based in West Sussex or Westcott’s Wildlife Park, the ‘look’ intensified.

‘But we’re stuffed to overflowing,’ I said as the words ‘Willow Wren’ were finally voiced by Lucy. ‘Where could we put him?’

‘He could go in with the two pheasants and the one-legged crow.’

‘The mesh isn’t rodent-proof.’

‘You could soon fix that.’

‘Me?’

‘You.’ She gave me her Lucy Look.

I fixed the mesh the next day and Cyril moved in the day after. He was greeted with a few squawks from the pheasants; and the crow gave him a funny, Beryl-like stare. But ruffled feathers were soon smoothed and the quartet settled down to a summer together.

Cyril became quite addicted to the pelleted chicken feed on offer. And he certainly became very tame. ‘Sweet, isn’t he?’ said Lucy, standing in the aviary with Cyril on her shoulder.

In his paws, he was turning over his favourite titbit – a custard cream – busily gnawing away at it, his cheeks rapidly filling with biscuit. And he was soon able to fend for himself. The skill with which he demonstrated his ability to construct a drey was proof of that. Another of Lucy’s looks made sure I knocked up a nest box for him. She provided the straw.

Now Cyril was in his element, racing down to yank up a pile of stems in his mouth, scuttling back up to the box where he’d sit chewing them up, weaving them into a nest. He’d bury himself in it, just his head poking out of the matted straw, his teeth clacking like a sewing machine should you go too near.

‘So, are you going to let him go?’ asked Beryl.

‘You’re not going to keep him, surely?’ asked Mandy.

Even Eric tossed in a question in passing, although Crystal’s pink, cupid-bow lips remained sealed.

Here was a dilemma: Cyril was self-sufficient and I felt sure he’d like a mate. Yet grey squirrels are very destructive and it hardly seemed fair to release him in nearby woods where he could do enormous damage to young trees and possibly be shot in the process. It was Cyril himself who provided the answer.

Lucy came running indoors to where I was stretched out on the sofa trying to tackle the crossword in the paper.

With a gulp, she said, ‘It’s Cyril. Can’t find him anywhere. He must have escaped. Come on. We must go and look for him.’

Well, yes. I suppose we should, I thought. On the other hand … perhaps it was a blessing