The Dog Share. Fiona Gibson

shirt man jumps up to shout, and is swiftly joined by almost everyone else until there’s a cacophony of yelling and tears are flooding my eyes, I’m picturing that beautiful day – the morning of Frieda’s tenth birthday. When I was just a normal mum, responsible for my own little family and not the inhabitants of an entire island whose lives were about to be wrecked.

      ‘I love this icing!’ Isaac, who was eight, had said as he lurched towards the cake I’d made the night before. I loved to bake and tend to our little suburban garden. How simple life was back then.

      ‘Hands off, Isaac,’ I said. Too late, he was already licking a swirl of chocolate frosting off a finger.

      I turned towards Frieda, who’d wandered into the kitchen to see what was going on. ‘There’s a surprise for you two in the garden,’ I said.

      ‘What is it?’ she asked.

      ‘Go out and see.’ Frieda grinned, then ran out through the back door. Isaac and I hurried after her.

      ‘Mum!’ she cried. ‘Oh, Mum. Are they ours?’ I nodded, too choked to speak for a moment. She and Isaac bobbed down to gaze at the two bundles of beige and white fluff inside the new hutch.

      ‘Can we hold them?’ he asked.

      ‘Of course you can,’ I said, feeling as if my heart might burst, ‘as long as you’re careful …’ Frieda opened the hutch door and they scooped up the animals into their arms.

      That’s what I’m picturing now, as the shouting goes on and my gaze lands upon the only person in this room who has remained seated: Harry in the grey sweater. In his late seventies, he is by far the oldest team member – but he’s not even employed by us anymore. He resigned a few months ago, apparently disgusted with how things were developing here.

      I look at him and he gazes back at me, and I’m on the verge of rushing over to hug him. I don’t, of course, because I can imagine how that would go down around here.

       Who the hell does she think she is, coming out here, trying to hug people?

      He’s up on his feet now and wiping at his eyes with his hands. Oh God, I think he is crying.

      The shouts seem to fade as I watch him striding towards the door. I’m seized by an urge to follow him, even though I know that’s the last thing he’d want. So I just stand there, feeling helpless as he leaves; this dignified elderly man, whom I have broken.

      It seems incredible that, once upon a time, everything could be made right with a couple of guinea pigs.