Baz arrived, Betty in tow, the very next day aboard a military GMC truck. They were accompanied by two obliging American soldiers.

Things move very quickly when there’s a war on, Grace thought, I suppose it’s only natural they should. She felt a sense of regret as she stood on the pavement, Betty beside her, watching the soldiers load the small upright into the vehicle’s open tray. The piano, with its pretty carved panels and moulded legs, symbolised the happiest of childhoods. It had belonged to her grandmother, upon whose death her own mother had passed it on to her. She and George had had it shipped up from Brisbane. The piano was very much ‘family’.

‘Don’t worry, Mum,’ Betty whispered comfortingly. ‘It’s only on loan. We’ll get it back when the war’s over.’

And how long will that be, Grace wondered.

The piano was an instant hit at The Brown’s, where it fitted perfectly into the corner of the bar. That night, when Betty sat down to play, they all knew it was destined to prove as great an attraction as the snake pen.

Baz stood nearby beaming, taking full credit and clapping along to the songs as if applauding himself, which of course he was. They’d never have got the thing here without his influence, would they?

Barry ‘Baz’ Taylor was a man who might be referred to by some as a ‘spiv’, while others might find him devastatingly attractive. He was to some a ‘flashy dresser’ – although never so flashy he couldn’t go unnoticed in a crowd if need be – while others might consider him ‘stylish’. Whatever the opinion, Baz certainly knew how to turn on the charm. A clever manipulator, he was quick to recognise the main chance and knew how to turn things not only to his own advantage, but also to the advantage of those who were useful to him. Which was why someone as canny as Val Callahan had found herself reliant upon a man she actually didn’t like, a situation she found at times irksome.

Baz, dark-haired and clean-shaven but for a neat Ronald Colman moustache – the fashion of the day – was good-looking, and popular with women. He appeared to have led a charmed life, but in fact he’d had a tough beginning. Born in Melbourne, the youngest of nine children, his father a waterside worker and opportunistic thief, his mother an obsessed Roman Catholic, who between giving birth spent every morning and evening at mass, young Barry Taylor’s childhood had not been a particularly happy one. His older siblings either bullied him or failed to notice him altogether, he was never sure which galled him the most.

So Baz had rebelled. Following his father’s example, he’d become a petty criminal, compiling a list of convictions in the Children’s Court before being institutionalised at the age of twelve. He’d escaped Melbourne when he was fifteen, slowly travelling north to Sydney and committing ever-bolder crimes along the way, only to be once more hauled before the juvenile court system on breaking-and-entering charges. After being put into the boys’ home, he’d managed again to escape, and at eighteen had been sentenced to three years in Long Bay Gaol for stealing and receiving stolen goods.