"You'll get struck off," I hissed.

“Not sure I was ever struck on, darling. And rather like Groucho Marx, not sure I'd want to belong to a club that would have me as a member. Anyway, I'm practically outside." She puffed away merrily.

As we clapped hard for Matt Featherstone, who'd come third in the Wayfarer class, together with Cindy Hawkins, another of my old hunting buddies, Iris shouted in my ear above the din: "Peter's done well in this class."

"I know," I yelled back. "Any idea where he came?"

“Second, I think."

"Oh, good." Suddenly my eye caught something. I tugged Iris's arm to alert her. "Is this being filmed? I thought they weren't coming?" Tucked away in the corner behind me, I'd spotted the bearded cameraman with a tripod. The sound man was beside him with headphones and a boom.

Iris looked, then turned back. "Yes, they're putting a voiceover on later, apparently. Shona had to dash off on a story. Shame, I'd have liked to have seen her."

“Not as much as your sister-in-law would," Babs commented. We followed her twinkling eyes to Belinda, who, every time she handed Roger a cup, a role she'd totally invented for herself as Roger was quite capable of picking up the cups himself, would flash a little smile at the cameraman. She was handing her husband the cups rather slowly, too, clearly wanting her moment. Babs found my ear.

"Rumor has it — via Yvonne, our spy in the camp that Belinda has taken to emailing Shona her movements. Wednesday: Church Roof Committee. Thursday: Ancient Building Trust. Wants to be her NBF. Who would have thought?"

"Yvonne reads her emails?"

"Only when she's cleaning the computer screen. Or polishing her phone, when it's left on the island in the kitchen.”

Iris's mouth twitched involuntarily. She wasn't immune to finding Babs amusing, but she declined to comment, never joining in the gossip.

Babs was now choking with mirth because Belinda had got Hugo to consult a list, pick up a trophy, then pass it to her, and Babs wondered if perhaps Peter could hold the list, read the name to Hugo, who'd pass the trophy to his mother, who'd pass it to her husband, and then the whole Bellingdon relay would be complete?

“Shut up, Babs," Iris told her, trying not to laugh. "Ah. Here is my great-nephew."

A cheer rang out, not least mine, as Peter went up to get his second-place trophy. Tommy, no doubt, would follow in his wake. Except it wasn't Tommy's name which was announced as crew, it was Janey's, and she was going up beside my son to collect her prize.

"I thought Tommy was crewing for him?" I turned to Iris.

"He had to work. Janey stepped in instead."