Out in the barn, the band struck up ‘One O’clock Jump’. No messing around with these boys; they leaped straight into big-band-style swing.

‘You’re right,’ Samuel said to Baz, raising his voice in order to be heard. ‘I might as well be listening to Glenn Miller’s Big Band.’

Baz nodded smugly. ‘Told you.’

Samuel had actually been joking. In fact, the band wasn’t really good at all. But by golly, he thought, they sure as hell make a big noise, and that’s just what the men want.

Inside the clubhouse, Betty was at the piano and Kasey was singing ‘Smoke Gets in Your Eyes’, a quieter start to the night, but one equally appreciated as men watched and listened in silent admiration. As always, the two were making love through their music, eyes locked, piano and tenor caressing each other, a precursor to the physical union that was destined to follow.

But the quiet appreciation of true musical talent didn’t last long; it wasn’t meant to. Betty quickly segued to more upbeat popular numbers and men joined each other in song, glasses raised and boots tapping to the rhythm.

As Betty played, she kept an eye out for Rupe. In half an hour or so, she planned it would be his turn at the piano. He wouldn’t mind. Rupe loved every opportunity to ‘tickle the ivories’, and she had the key to the smallest of the four bedrooms, the one Val had agreed could remain a ‘rest room’ for staff.

Val hadn’t gone into any further detail, but she had issued a brief warning to Betty. ‘Be discreet, lovey.’

Val herself didn’t intend to go out to the club. Being a busy Friday, she’d stayed back at The Brown’s, so she’d felt it necessary to issue a further warning to Betty, or rather an instruction.

‘And under no circumstances is Baz to hire out that room,’ she’d said sharply. ‘If the prick tries to, you tell him I’ll have his balls.’

Betty and Kasey couldn’t wait. Soon they’d be alone together. Soon. But where the hell was Rupe?

Rupe was out in the barn, enjoying the band. They weren’t particularly good, but they were vibrant and the place was pulsating with the sound of swing jazz.

The dance floor had become a sea of energy, of vigorously executed jitterbug and jive; even those who couldn’t dance were jigging about to the tempo infected by the syncopated rhythm and the 4/4 beat. The girls in particular were indefatigable, dancing from one man to the next, sharing their favours.

To Rupe, the image was extraordinary. All the people on the dance floor were black, or brown. And all those in the band, including the singer, were white. To him this was a phenomenon, something he’d not witnessed before.