Billy Greene had brought his fiancée, Siobhan, a dark-eyed beauty who was one of the civilian staff at West End Central, and they hung back a little from the rest of us, sharing smiles and whispers and a sausage roll the way young lovers do.

But we were all a little uncertain of the mood, and despite the snacks and small talk, there was an air of anxiety for reasons I could not identify.

We were waiting for a dog. And not just any dog.

‘Dasher,’ Scout said, her voice hushed with wonder. ‘A two-year-old Labrador-Retriever mix.’ She threw a tennis ball studded with teeth marks towards the end of the garden and Stan flew after it. ‘It’s the best breed for a guide dog,’ she told Edie’s grandmother.

Lil lightly touched Scout’s solemn face.

‘Such a clever little girl,’ the old lady said. ‘How do you know all this, darling?’

‘It’s all online,’ Scout said, slightly bewildered. ‘Dasher loves his toys and treats. I can show you.’ Scout held out her hand to me. ‘Give me your phone, Daddy.’

I handed her my iPhone and her tiny fingers flew across it like a concert pianist banging out some Beethoven. She stared intently at the screen as she absent-mindedly snuggled into Lil’s arms and I saw the old lady melt, shyly holding Scout as she scrolled through the images of Dasher’s life.

‘Look here,’ Scout said. ‘Dasher going down the slide … Dasher playing in the garden … Dasher with his puppy walker … Dasher and his trainer … Dasher training in harness … Dasher smiling.’

‘Good old Dasher,’ said Lil, hugging Scout.

‘There’s a film I could show you later,’ Scout said ‘It’s called, Dasher is off to a flying start. It’s very informative.’

‘That would be lovely,’ Lil confirmed.

Stan returned with the ball, reluctant to relinquish it, growling when Scout pulled it from his teeth.

She tossed it to the end of the garden and this time the pair of them raced after it, looking like a warm-up act for the man and the dog we were all waiting for.

Pat Whitestone appeared in the open doorway to the kitchen with her son, Justin’s face immobile behind dark glasses yet at the same time conveying the message that he would prefer to be anywhere else on the planet.

I understood why Whitestone wanted this day to be a time of celebration and hope, and why she wanted to mark it with this modest party. But I was far from sure that it was what her son wanted.

Edie sat in an old garden chair, a blanket wrapped around her legs and a mug of hot chocolate in her hand. I wondered where Mr Big was today, and assumed he was home with his family. All the regular excuses – a meeting, stuck in the office, darling, working late – must be harder to pull off on a Sunday.