‘I’m not just doing errands anymore, Mum, I can tell you,’ he’d continued in all earnestness. ‘I’m a real runner these days,’ he’d said with pride. ‘I’m serving my country, that’s what I’m doing.’

Oh God, Grace thought, I might as well be listening to George.

The subject of Brisbane was not mentioned again.

Tom’s commitment to duty actually set Grace thinking. There must surely be some purpose she too could serve, apart from the fundraising activities for the Red Cross with which she was currently involved. Her daughter’s comment about women working all sorts of jobs now had also hit home.

They are, aren’t they, Grace told herself; women are embracing all kinds of activities they would never have contemplated had it not been for the war. Working on the land and in munition factories, driving trucks, doing all sorts of men’s jobs, even joining the army. There are the WAAAFs, and of course there are the nurses …

Well, she couldn’t take on a career like that, could she, she reasoned, she did have a teenage son to look after, much as he believed he didn’t need looking after. And then there was the house. She must take care of the house. The house was of tantamount importance to Grace. George must have a home to return to – a home and a wife and a family. This was her principal duty.

It was in thinking of the family home that Grace hit upon a possible answer. Of course, here was something she could do. She could offer half her house as billet quarters for officers. George would certainly approve. The military were crying out for accommodation and there was ample space. She had a spare bedroom, George’s study sat vacant, and she could clear out the music room, which was rarely used these days with Betty so constantly working at the hotel. In bygone times when they’d gathered together with friends in the smaller of the house’s two sitting rooms, which had been designated ‘the music room’, it had always been Betty at the piano leading the singalong. Betty was a born musician.

‘You’re getting rid of the piano!’ Far from being aghast at the suggestion as Grace had expected she would be, Betty was overjoyed. ‘That’s wonderful! I’ll get Baz to collect it and bring it to The Brown’s. We’ll have music in the bar on weekends!’ She swept a theatrical arc with her arm as if envisaging the famous neon signs of Broadway. ‘We’ll call it Saturday Singalong.’

‘Oh.’ Grace was taken aback. ‘Very well, dear.’ She hadn’t mentioned ‘getting rid’ of the piano as such, she’d only suggested they might store it away somewhere, but the idea had been embraced with such gusto she now supposed she must resign herself to its loss.

Tom had been equally enthusiastic. ‘Clearing the decks for an officer’s billet, eh? Good on you, Mum, you’re doing your bit!’