Baz left the Parslow property a half-hour later. It had been as easy as he had known it would be. But there was hard work to follow. As soon as the family had departed, there was a farmhouse and outbuildings that needed to be cleared, if not gutted, and adjustments made.

Val came out and inspected the place, she and Baz discussing in detail its merits and shortcomings. The positioning was ideal, just five miles from town and less than ten miles from Kelso, and the conversion was not impossible.

It was a fine autumn morning and the two of them walked about the property, which was attractively situated near the banks of the Ross River, examining the buildings and the layout.

The farmhouse itself, a rambling affair that had been passed down through several generations of Parslows before ending up with Ned, would serve as the club, they decided. Its rooms would be cleared and converted into bars and lounges. The floor of the large barn nearby would be laid with decking and the building converted to a dance hall. And the stables … well, the purpose the stables would serve was fairly obvious to them both.

The stables consisted of six conjoined stalls, and had been built by Ned’s father in the days when horses had done all the work, but the Parslows hadn’t kept horses for years, so the stalls had been used purely for storage.

‘We clear out all the junk,’ Baz said as they wandered the stables, closely examining every one of the stalls, ‘give each a scrub-down, shove in some flooring and a bunk and … voilà,’ he said with a theatrical wave of his hand.

‘Not much privacy and hardly soundproof,’ Val remarked, eyeing the wooden partitions that separated each conjoined stall, only around six feet in height and stopping well short of the stable’s ceiling.

‘So?’ Baz grinned suggestively, ‘some sound effects from next door might add to the eroticism, wouldn’t you say?’

Val gave a mirthless snort. ‘Yes, you might be right. I don’t suppose soldiers after a quick fuck’ll be all that fussy about privacy.’

And yet, she could well remember those shy boys, some of them virgins, whom she’d serviced all those years ago. They wouldn’t have liked this set-up at all, she thought. God, they’d been sweet boys, those young ones. Several had even been brought along by their father, who considered it time they lost their cherry. She smiled at the memory; of course the dads had been clients of hers, too.

Ah well, she told herself, looking about at the stables, beggars can’t be choosers. ‘Yep, this’ll do,’ she said.

‘And there are the bedrooms in the farmhouse,’ Baz suggested, ‘we can …’

‘Nope,’ she cut him short, ‘they’ll be reserved for poker. We’ll get rid of the beds and set up a card table in each room. The brothel remains strictly out here, and we don’t publicise it.’