She regarded the result of her repairs with a jaundiced eye and knew she could do no more. Ready or not emotionally, it was time to plaster on a smile and join the fray.

The Anchor was an ancient building squashed between the shops and houses in Camden Road, which ran parallel to the seafront. It had been a hostelry for over two hundred years, its cellars and underground tunnels a perfect escape route and hiding place for the smuggling gangs that used to roam these southern shores. The peg-tiled roof dipped low over the tiny, diamond-paned windows of the upstairs accommodation, and the wattle and daub walls which had slowly begun to lean towards its neighbour were veined with black oak beams. The painted sign hanging over the door was inclined to creak against its iron moorings in the wind, the anchor and lettering now barely discernible from decades of salty air and rain.

Rosie Braithwaite had rather shocked the more staid residents of Cliffehaven when she’d bought the run-down Anchor some twenty years ago, for it was most unusual for a single woman to take on a pub licence – especially a glamorous platinum blonde, who wore clothes that enhanced her hourglass figure. But she’d persevered despite the prejudice, and had run it almost single-handedly and to great effect until it was now a popular watering hole. Romance had blossomed between her and Ron Reilly, and after a long courtship, they’d finally tied the knot just before VE Day.

Rosie had reserved the large table by the inglenook for the Beach View party, and had provided plates of sandwiches and packets of crisps to help soak up the alcohol. The pub was open for her usual customers, so she’d persuaded her barmaid, Brenda, to come in to work that evening, giving Rosie a chance to join in the fun.

However, word must have got out about the party and within an hour the bar was crammed with customers, some of whom were spilling out through the door and onto the pavement. Rosie immediately realised she couldn’t have the evening off after all and, with a shrug of stoic acceptance to Peggy, went to lend a hand to the beleaguered Brenda.

The party was almost immediately in full swing, for Ron had somehow found a new upright piano to replace the wreckage of the one that had been committed to a bonfire during the VE Day celebrations and, resplendent in a tight red dress and matching high-heeled shoes, Gloria, the blowsy landlady from the Crown, was hammering out a series of favourite music-hall tunes so everyone could sing along. Earrings swinging and bracelets jangling, her raucous contralto rose above the other voices, urging them to greater effort, and making it difficult to conduct a proper conversation.

Peggy determinedly joined in while keeping a close eye on the elderly Cordelia who was inclined to go overboard on the sherry during such events. But she needn’t have worried, for like all of them, Cordelia seemed to be aware that she needed to pace herself tonight in preparation for tomorrow’s wedding, and was sipping slowly from her glass.