I walked with Lucy from the lobby to the Great Hall.

‘I’m always uneasy about Pool reunions,’ she said. ‘On the whole the experience was good, but I didn’t like everyone.’

‘Rough with the smooth,’ I said.

‘Shits with the saints.’

We mingled in the crowd and shook hands, hugged or nodded to the other poolers, strictly according to a sliding scale of respect and affection. Williams, Walter, Keilly, Neal, other Walter, other Williams and McMullen were all there and I greeted them warmly. I thought I should say something to Gary Findlay but he turned away on the pretext of more beer from the cooler as soon as he saw me. He and I hadn’t exchanged a word since we were twelve, the day his bullying stopped, the day I bit off his ear.

Older ex-residents whom I didn’t recognise were mingling freely with the rest of us, as the current residents did with us. Anyone who spent time at the Pool shared a bond, kind of like family. Actually, given the circumstances at the Sisterhood, many of us actually were family.

Lucy walked over to pay her respects to the Senior Sisters, who were all sitting on the stage like seven duchesses, holding court. They were giggling foolishly at some small joke, their usual austerity tempered by the triple jollities of occasion, food and, for those not with child, the cheapest sherry that money can buy.

‘Our very own Lucy Knapp,’ said Sister Placentia as we approached, embracing Lucy but ignoring me as one would a stick of familiar furniture. ‘Tell me your news.’

Lucy politely explained to them about her induction into HiberTech’s Fast Track Management Scheme whilst I stood to one side. Despite the often erratic levels of care, most of the sisters were generally okay. Without them, I’d have been nothing – infants with lesser conditions than mine were routinely left underweight heading into their first Winter. There were worse Pools than this one.

‘Fascinating, dear,’ said Sister Placentia once Lucy had concluded a potted history of what she’d been up to, ‘and what chance you could wangle us an Edward to assist in the kitchens?’

‘Next year’s model might be an improvement,’ said Lucy in a guarded tone. ‘I’ll see what I can do then.’

Edward or Jane were the default names given to redeployed nightwalkers. With their cannibalistic tendencies reduced by timely snacks and the tattered remnants of their minds ingeniously rewired, they could do simple chores. Too simple, some said, to be useful domestically. The St Granata’s over in Port Talbot had an Edward that could wash up, but mostly they were used for strictly repetitive tasks like opening doors, pumping water and digging fields.