Then Ian suddenly said, ‘I know who they are. That’s Travis Guest and Andrew Grono – they’re dentists.’

We threw them a rope.

After we’d seen the thirst-crazed dentists safely to their jetty we returned ourselves to the Royal Perth Yacht Club. Here, by means of a few words in the right quarters, Jock secured special dispensation to show us the actual Americas Cup. To my surprise it was not on general public view. It was locked away in a sort of secured vault in the Yacht Club, protected by video cameras and highly sensitive alarms. But such was the esteem in which Jock was held in the R.P.Y.C. that we were allowed not just to see it but to hold it. The consensus of opinion was in favour of the cup: we found it bigger, grander, more precious, and more worth the winning as a prize in itself than we’d expected it to be. So I kept my own counsel. To my eyes it bore a remarkable resemblance to a gift I’d been given by my poorest and least discriminating relations on the occasion of my barmitzvah.

As we left I thanked Jock for the terrific day he’d given us. I liked Jock even though I hadn’t had much to do with him on the boat, keeping my distance just in case he changed his mind about putting up the sails and expected me to pull the strings. He was quiet and gently humorous, and didn’t eat or drink or envy. He was also, in so far as I am a judge of these things, a good skipper. At any rate we never hit anything. I thanked him for that, too. And told him how lucky I thought he was, having so beautiful a place as Perth to mess about with boats in. Even as we talked and strolled, the water lapped around the jetties, and the masts of innumerable yachts dipped and clinked.

He gave me a long, serious stare. ‘You’re the lucky ones,’ he said. ‘Having London.’

I told him how cold it had been when we left, how much it cost to make a phone call, and what it was like living under a government of sneering boy-accountants.

He shrugged. ‘I’d be happy just walking along the Strand,’ he said. ‘And going to the galleries.’ He looked quite heartbroken, remembering the last time he’d been in London.

I pointed to the river, rocking gently in the late afternoon, and the lovely Perth skyline, dotted with sand-coloured moorish monastery towers, and of course the prestigious riverside homes. ‘You live in Paradise,’ I reminded him.

He shook his head. He wasn’t denying the attractions. In his imagination he was simply back in London, pushing through the crowds. Excited.