He winced, then nodded. She lowered him gingerly onto the damp canvas seat. Crouching beside him as she alerted the medical team, she was aware that a panting figure had drawn up alongside them.

‘Can I help?’ asked a breathless male voice.

She looked up, pushing back her hood and her damp, unruly curls to see who had spoken. The eyes she met were brown and kind and she held his gaze for a second before replying. ‘Thanks, but I think we’re OK. They’re sending someone.’

‘Morning, Finch.’ The older runner’s face was set in a pained grimace.

The man called Finch laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Not really the weather for sitting about in your vest, Terry, my friend,’ he said affectionately. ‘What have you gone and done to yourself?’ He looked at Romy again. ‘I can take him down, if you like. Better than waiting in the freezing rain for help to arrive.’

Romy hesitated. ‘I’d come with you, but I’m not supposed to leave my post.’

He grinned, his eyes lighting in amusement. ‘Best not, or they’ll all go the wrong way and end up in Hull. He’s not heavy … are you, Terence? I can manage.’

And Romy thought that he probably could. He was broad-shouldered, muscled and clearly fit. Terry seemed to think so too. He seemed reassured by Finch’s suggestion and grasped the outstretched hand, which dragged him gently to his feet.

‘Robert Fincham, by the way – although I prefer Finch,’ the runner said, nodding to her as he practically lifted Terry off the ground, his arm clamped firmly round the older man’s skinny waist.

‘Romy,’ she replied, reluctant, for some reason, to tell him her surname.

‘See you in the Bell?’ Finch threw out, as he turned down the lane to the village hall.

He was gone before Romy could reply. She knew who Robert Fincham was by reputation. A few years back the retired soldier – her neighbour had proudly told her this fact as if Finch were her own son – had taken on almost saintly status with the older women in the village as he cared for his wife while she died a painful and untimely death from recurring breast cancer. Since then, Romy had seen him about occasionally, running around the harbour or striding through the village. She had wondered about him; he cut a lonely figure.

Maybe I will go to the pub after the race, she thought later, as she packed up the drinks station, her feet and hands numb with cold. She felt a tiny flutter of anticipation at the prospect.

The low-ceilinged pub was rammed and booming with the hyped-up chatter of people coming down from a successful physical challenge. Romy gazed over the heads of the crowd.

‘What are you having?’ The chief marshal suddenly had his arm around her shoulders, his deep voice rumbling in her ear above the hubbub.