Yep, same outcome as always, Val thought. Of course it would be, wouldn’t it – human nature, that simple – we’re all the same really. Black, white or bloody brindle, we’re all the same. She glanced about at a number of the white American soldiers. Some people just don’t seem to get that though, do they?

Ever observant, Val had been aware of tensions riding high, particularly when Ben and his mates had walked in. There’d been tension before the arrival of the black Americans certainly, but it had emanated from a bunch of Aussies in the corner. You could sense their animosity towards the white Yankees, who outnumbered them. But that’s only normal, she thought. They’re jealous. The Yanks in their spruced-up uniforms with money to burn have got a hell of a lot more to offer the girls. Crikey, she’d seen it before often enough, hadn’t she? There’s always a problem when men are competing for women and the stakes aren’t even, she thought. She glanced at the group of several white Yankee soldiers who were propped at the far end of the bar. But this? This was something altogether different.

Her steel-grey eyes, which could be disconcerting at times, remained focused on the group, watching for the first sign of trouble. Their outrage at the presence of the black GIs was palpable, and had been from the moment Ben and his mates had shown up. They certainly hadn’t been among those applauding the snake’s triumph and the entertainment in general.

Ben thumped his mate on the back. ‘Better luck next time, Sam,’ he said, and Sam gave a nod and a smile in a tremulous attempt at bravado, his brow beaded with sweat, the ordeal having been far more taxing than he’d anticipated.

The others joined in a toast and the four downed their beers, after which Ben collected their glasses and crossed to the bar to buy the next round.

‘Hello, soldier, what’ll it be, same again?’

It was young Betty who served him, and with the brightest of smiles. Twenty-year-old Betty, fair-haired, blue-eyed, was exceptionally pretty.

‘Yep, thanks, ma’am.’ Ben grinned flirtatiously in return, wondering if there’d be any chance of asking her out. ‘What time do you knock off?’

‘Don’t push your luck, boy,’ a voice snarled. It was an American voice and the accent was clearly that of a southerner. ‘Don’t you get above your station.’

One of the group from the end of the bar sauntered towards Ben. ‘You’re allowed in this place, I gather that,’ the soldier, a sergeant, said, ‘but don’t you turn your charm on a white gal, you hear me? You want to play black stud then you get served by that other gal.’ He pointed to Jill, who was working a little further down the bar.

Jill was also young, and also very pretty. But Jill, whose father had been English, or so it was supposed, had blackfella blood in her. Jill was Aunty Edie’s daughter.