He recalled the New York gigs where his dad used to play, the fancy supper clubs, the upmarket bars and late-night jazz venues. The band was always black and the audience white. Furthermore, the band always came in through the back door, usually via the kitchen, never through the main front door like the white folks. He remembered those back doors and kitchens vividly from the nights, when as a boy he’d accompanied his dad to sit and listen in the dressing rooms, or to watch so proudly from backstage.

How different is this, Rupe thought, marvelling at the scene before him. As far as he knew things hadn’t changed at all back home. Black bands still played to white audiences and black musos still came and went via back doors. Only in Australia, he thought. Or perhaps only in Queensland. Or perhaps only in Townsville …

‘Hey, Rupe.’ It was Kasey who interrupted his musings. ‘Want to come inside and play piano?’ he asked with his most winning smile. ‘I think Betty might be getting a little bit weary.’

‘Sure, Kase, sure,’ Rupe said, returning the smile. Then he added with a cod southern accent, ‘I’ll bet she’s just plain tuckered out.’

They laughed and walked from the barn to the clubhouse, where the sound of the singalong vied in volume with the sound of the band. The whole night was alive with music and song. Finally liberated, the men were enjoying themselves.

Fifteen minutes later, to the strains of ‘Blue Moon’ with Rupe at the piano and the men giving voice, Betty and Kasey were making love in the small ‘rest room’. With the door safely locked and the entire house a raucous cacophony of song, there was no need for them to practise their normal restraint, no need to whisper their endearments or stifle their moans.

Others too were satisfying their carnal lusts as business in the stables started getting underway. Baz had positioned himself by the door and was taking the money. He had staff at the clubhouse looking after the bar and alcohol trade; the brothel he entrusted to no-one other than himself.

There were three professional hookers and they were happy to perform ‘quickies’, with men queuing up for their favours. But Baz was pleased to note that, as he’d expected would be the case, several other of the Palm Island girls were already succumbing to the charms of the Americans. Perhaps it was the heat of the moment and the big handsome soldiers, perhaps it was the excitement of the dance floor and the heady pleasure of the music, or perhaps it was a mixture of all these elements that aroused them. Or perhaps, like the pros, the money was the attraction. The new girls took longer on the job, clearly proving they weren’t as efficient as their more sophisticated sisters, but that didn’t bother Baz. They’d learn soon enough that time was money.