‘Olive’s a terrible gossip, so I wouldn’t be at all surprised if half of Cliffehaven knows by now,’ Gracie said. ‘Poor Ron. I don’t fancy his chances when Rosie gets hold of him.’

‘It’ll serve him right if she gives him an earful,’ said Peggy firmly. ‘Rosie has enough to put up with, without his shenanigans.’ She gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Brendon’s due to go back on duty tomorrow, so they were no doubt drowning their sorrows, but why in the Crown when they could have done it at home? I wouldn’t have minded.’

Gracie shrugged. ‘Your guess is as good as mine, Peggy. Who knows what goes on in men’s minds?’

‘Well, they’ll get a piece of mine when they come rolling in tonight, I’ll tell you that for nothing,’ Peggy said before once again breaking into giggles. ‘I do wish I’d seen the ferrets running amok and Gloria threatening Ron like that – it would have brightened my day considerably.’

Rosie Braithwaite had been rushed off her feet over the last two hours and she was ready for a stiff drink, a sit-down and something to eat before she had to prepare for the evening session, which would probably prove just as hectic. With both her middle-aged barmaids off sick, she could have done with Ron’s help this lunchtime, but knowing it was his grandson’s last day of leave, she’d accepted he had more important things to do, and had knuckled down to running the Anchor’s bar single-handedly.

The one bright spark in her day had been Major Radwell, who, despite having lost most of one arm during the battle for Tunis, had collected dirty glasses, brought a crate of brown ale up from the cellar and changed the barrel when the bitter had run out.

Rosie smiled at him as he stood at the bar quietly drinking his gin and tonic, once more noting how handsome he was with those startling grey eyes and dark hair which held only a hint of silver. He was in his late forties, she guessed, and had lovely manners, and as he’d become a regular over the past few weeks and was probably feeling at rather a loose end, she’d made a point of chatting to him during the infrequent lulls between serving, and found him to be most pleasant company.

She glanced up at the clock and was about to ring the bell to call time when Olive Grayson shoved her way up to the bar and asked for another glass of beer. Rosie didn’t like Olive, well aware that she was a malicious gossip, and none too wholesome into the bargain. ‘Sorry, Olive. I’m calling time,’ she said briskly.

‘But you haven’t yet, and I’m still thirsty,’ said Olive, purposefully shoving the glass across the bar.