"Easy, boys! Decorum, decorum!" Roger boomed as Belinda ran across and grabbed her son by the arm.

"Hugo. Come and take over at once. Your father's hopeless, as usual."

Hugo shrugged and wandered up.

"But I was doing so well!" Roger protested as he surrendered the foghorn to his son. In reality, though, there was an element of complicity about the abdication, and possibly, one or two tactical forced errors. He'd already officiated over the running race, the sack race and the three-legged race for all age groups. Enormous fun though it was to see the little imps scurrying about, if truth be told, he was keen to join his cronies on the balcony of the Sailing Club, the sun being close to the yard arm, and even if it was a mite short, somewhere in the world it would be over, and a sharpener therefore called for.

I watched from the rocks with some of the parents as Hugo took the foghorn, flushing slightly at the responsibility. He was prompted all the time by Belinda, standing right beside him, telling him exactly when to announce each race, when to start it, and who the runners were. The constant corrections and bad jokes had departed with Roger, and now Hugo's lovely calm tones ensured the races went smoothly again. Everyone visibly relaxed. He had that effect on people, I thought as I watched. Reliable, reassuring, kind. Bothering to bend down and congratulate each child on their achievements as they came through the finish line, shake their hands, and encourage those who were not necessarily destined for sporting prowess: the bespectacled, the overweight, and the downright dreamy in the case of one boy who, during the obstacle race, sat down on the fishing net he was supposed to crawl under, to inspect a crab he'd found caught in it.

"A David Attenborough in the making?" said a familiar voice in my ear. Iris materialized, still in jodhpurs, with Babs beside her, gorgeous in pink jeans and a stripy Breton top.

“Not that that sort of star potential will stop Lady Bountiful," commented Babs, as Belinda hurried to chivvy the child down to the finish line, causing him to drop his crab and wail miserably. She took him firmly by the wrist and ran the rest of the race with him, beaming, as if he was enjoying every second of it, holding his wrist aloft as he crossed the line as though he were an Olympic athlete. Hugo, meanwhile, walked down the course and retrieved the precious sea creature, searching the sand to find it. He handed it to the boy, who gulped and pushed his glasses up his nose, sniffing loudly, equilibrium restored.

"Bully," muttered Babs. "Can't think how she managed to have such a lovely son. Must be the Bellingdon genes, Iris."

"Oh, she means well," said Iris, never one to be drawn. "Just gets it entirely wrong. Oh look!” Babs puffed gleefully on her cigarette. "It's her big moment."