By Peter Cameron
Not a speck of dust stirred in the still air.
Nothing moved inside the little shop, although the shelves were piled high with muddled things.
Solid gold dishes balanced on glass paperweights, carved doves brooded in nests of shells, old coins and painted pots jostled faded pictures in dingy frames.
Or, rather, half dozed. He didn't move, didn't flicker an eyelid, scarcely even breathed, but his eyes were open.
The sunlight streamed in at the small dusty window and spilt over the eight-day clocks and military medals, and every detail was reflected in Tyrannosaurus' eyes.
If you went in and asked for a ring with blue stones to fit an Iguanadon's thumb, or a picture of sunrise over the Tethys Sea, or an old-fashioned toy soldier Antrodemus, he would reach up to the top shelf, or under the counter, or in a drawer, and take out exactly what you wanted.
When it was ready, it boomed out seven strokes of its deep bell.
Before the sound of the last strike had faded, a smaller clock's musical tinkle had begun. But this clock disagreed with the crusty grandfather, and insisted that it was eleven o'clock.
His father had been a butcher, and his grandfather, and his great-grandfather, and all his ancestors for many generations had been butchers. But he had left the family business. Now he spent his days sitting in the silent shop.
He didn't have many customers in the shop.
It was no storm, however, that swept into the shop.
Picking up her tail daintily, in came Heterodontosaurus.
The shop was so small and crowded that Hetty could scarcely move without knocking down a china vase or an umbrella stand. And Hetty was the sort of dinosaur who couldn't keep still for a moment.
Tyrannosaurus didn't really have any friends; he kept himself to himself. But his acquaintances all called him Tyro, since his real name was so long. The younger dinosaurs treated him with more respect, and always addressed him as Mr Tyro.
Sometimes he was a bit fierce with his customers, though he had never actually eaten any of them. He wanted to be kind, but he didn't know how to make friends. And most animals were scared of him, anyway.
She waved her tail around without thinking, and knocked over an oil painting of Mr Tyro's famous ancestor Tyrannosaurus Rex the Second. It was all Mr Tyro could do to stop himself snapping at her.
Fortunately, nothing was broken.
She was picking up the picture as she spoke. That girl was never happy unless she was doing two things at once. Mr Tyro was afraid that, if he didn't come, she'd start dusting the shelves, or tidying the shop, just for something to do.
"Oh, all right, I'm coming", he growled.
His feet kicked up clouds of dust from the street. Most of it settled back on the street signs, but Hetty didn't notice.
And then he saw a crowd of dinosaurs, all staring at something. Mr Tyro stopped and stared too, at the most amazing sight.
And there, with his horns firmly stuck into the giant white thing, was Three-Horn, the Triceratops. He was stuck fast.
A young Hypsilophodon was climbing up the white thing, looking for a way in. A huge Brontosaurus was bumping it with his back, trying to knock it over, until he knocked Hypsilophodon off.
Corythosaurus stood and scratched his crest.
"One at a time, please," he said. His voice sounded like the creaking door of his shop.
She had already told the story to every new arrival.
And that was that.
"It's a kind of mushroom," said Flit.
But none of the others liked raw mushroom.
When Mr Tyro had given up the life of a butcher, he found that he didn't really like eating meat any more. Nowdays, he ate a lot of mushrooms. But always fried.
But Mr Tyro was hungry. From his days in the butcher's shop, he remembered cutting up huge carcases into small pieces of meat that could easily be cooked and eaten.
And that reminded him of something else . . .
"I have an idea," he said to Grandmother Spikey.
Soon, almost everyone was bustling about doing something, except of course poor Three-Horn, who was still stuck fast, and Mr Tyro, who was too sleepy.
"And don't break anything," said Mr Tyro, not too hopefully.
All the others went into the forest to collect firewood, which they piled up between two large boulders.
First, he pulled out a blue-and-white striped apron. He put it on, and Grandmother Spikey tied the strings behind his back.
"My great-grandfather's front tooth," said Mr Tyro to himself. The other dinosaurs shivered, especially Brontosaurus, who would have made a lot of rump steaks for Mr Tyro's ancestor.
Willing hands carried the steaks away to Mrs Brachiosaurus, who had lit the fire and was now sizzling them in her enormous frying-pans.
A cheer went up from all the dinosaurs. It echoed around the hills and forests and over the swamp.
But Mr Tyro went on cutting, until there was enough mushroom steak for everyone.
Sam sat in a corner and tucked into a piece he had taken from the pan while his mother wasn't looking.
Everyone ate and ate. Mr Tyro had the biggest piece of all, as he was the hungriest.
"On behalf of my cousin Three-Horn, and of everybody here, and of course myself too, I would like to propose that we give three cheers for our dear friend Mr Tyrannosaurus."
The cheers were loud and long.
Even though he loved his antique shop better than anything else in the world, he could see now that the butcher's trade has its uses; and he knew that he had friends.
Copyright Peter Cameron, sometime in the 1980s