‘My oath it has,’ Val agreed. ‘Most Aussies drown it with ginger ale and ice, but to me that’s a bloody crime. It’s far better neat.’

‘I’d have to go along with you there, Val,’ he said, savouring the effect, then taking another swig. He genuinely liked both the taste and the kick.

‘Yeah, I knew you would, Lyndon, I can always tell a man who appreciates good-quality, strong liquor.’

Another complicit smile was exchanged, another secret shared, then Val stopped playing the game and got down to business, determined to voice her views.

‘Now, about the boys at Kelso,’ she said, topping up his glass, ‘I know a bit of trouble went on out there, I don’t know what it was, nobody does, but whatever happened I can tell you those boys wouldn’t have been to blame.’

‘What makes you so sure of that?’ Johnson’s manner changed in an instant, and as acutely as Val’s had. The flirtation now over, she had his full attention.

‘Those poor young bastards were sadly done by, Lyndon. I knew a lot of them, they used to drink right here at The Brown’s, never any trouble, nice kids every one of them. But they were made scapegoats right from the start, blamed for any brawl that happened between blacks and whites, and there was quite a bit of brawling going on, I can tell you. It was all pinned on those kids and they were banned from town. Bloody shameful that.’

Johnson nodded as if he’d not heard all this before, which of course he had. Throughout the morning, he’d heard all the versions, views and arguments; the political-necessity version from Hank Henry, the sheer racist view of John Carter, the humanitarian argument of Samuel Robinson … He wasn’t hearing anything new, but this time he was hearing it from a civilian, an Australian civilian, and a smart one at that.

‘I even got roped into starting up a Negro Servicemen’s Club for the boys,’ she said, ‘well out of town so they wouldn’t get into trouble.’

‘Yeah, I was told about that,’ Lyndon said, ‘it’s actually one of the reasons why I wanted to talk to you, Val.’

‘I didn’t set the club up just as a business venture either,’ she went on with a passion. ‘Although there’s always that aspect, of course,’ she was forced to admit. ‘I mean, if you’re a businesswoman you’re not going to throw good money after bad just because you feel sorry for blokes, are you?’

‘Of course you’re not.’

‘It would have solved a lot of problems, that club,’ she said. ‘But there you go,’ a shrug of resignation, ‘it got knocked on the head after just one night. And all because of a couple of stitched-up farmers’ wives who didn’t like blacks, or so I’m led to believe. They put in a complaint, I was told.’

‘Yes, they most certainly did.’ He’d heard all this from Hank Henry, but he was enjoying hearing her version as well.