But as he pondered his own inadequacy it occurred to him that perhaps he was not powerless to rectify just one of these failures. He must at least try. He would go into town tonight, he decided, and he would ask Amelia Sanderson’s forgiveness.

He didn’t stay for the evening meal, which was always served early in order to accommodate hungry working men, but left the camp while it was still light, just as dusk was starting to fall.

After their meal, in the rank-and-file general mess tent, men set about the serious business of hard drinking. This was a Friday and under normal conditions they might have headed into town for a social night on the drink, or a night at a brothel, or a night simply of dancing and music. But as conditions were not normal, tonight was to be a night when they would get thoroughly drunk on the booze provided by Baz Taylor instead. Nobody cared who the middle man might be, nor did they query, they’d simply forked out their money, grateful for the opportunity to get their hands on hard liquor. And Baz’s booze certainly packed a punch.

‘Worth every cent,’ Amos Cole said after swigging back half a mugful of cheap, rough whisky that tore at the throat.

‘Just as well,’ replied Bernie, one of his tent buddies, a nuggetty twenty-two-year-old from Chicago, smaller than most of the men, but streetwise and tough. ‘The guy’s sure slugging us enough for the stuff. We’re paying twice what we did at the club that night.’

‘So?’ The big man gave a careless shrug. ‘What else we goin’ to spend our money on?’

The others agreed, Amos was right, of course, and disgruntlement set in as they drank not for pleasure, but simply in the knowledge there was nothing else to do.

Willie was into the rum, or at least they’d been told it was rum; the bottle was unlabelled. Thick, dark-brown, treacly stuff that had nearly caused him to gag when he’d taken his first mouthful. Willie wasn’t used to heavy liquor. But Kasey was urging him on and Willie was rapidly coming to the conclusion that it wasn’t really that bad after all.

No-one knew exactly where Baz Taylor got his liquor supply, but it certainly had the desired effect. Men were becoming drunker by the minute.

Amelia was busying herself getting the tea, bustling about the kitchen, filling the kettle, putting it on the stove, lifting the teapot from the cupboard together with its cosy, and the cups and their saucers, the teaspoons, the sugar, the milk, setting things out on the table, focusing upon anything that might prevent her eyes meeting his.

She hadn’t been able to believe it when he’d arrived at the front door. He hadn’t used his key, he’d rung the bell instead.

‘May I come in?’ he’d said.