Upon his release, Baz had headed north and finally settled in Townsville, where nobody knew him. He’d lived in the same boarding house in Walker Street for the past nine years, always paying his rent up front and doing regular favours for his widowed landlady, old Mrs Cheetham, who considered him the nicest young man she had ever encountered.

Since arriving in Townsville, he’d given up petty crime as a career choice, although he’d continued to operate just a little outside the law, running a two-up school on a semi-regular basis and an occasional poker game. Oddly enough, despite the uncertainty of gambling, he’d miraculously managed to always stay in front. Lucky.

Then he’d met Val. Even luckier.

Then the war had engulfed Townsville. The Yanks had arrived, and the black market thrived. Luckier still. Baz was now in his element.

The mob in the bar was lapping up the music. It wasn’t even a Saturday, but there was quite a crowd. People had flocked in off the street upon hearing the piano.

Betty had finished thumping out ‘When the Saints Go Marching In’, accompanied by a chorus of voices from those who knew the lyrics and hand-clapping from those who didn’t, and now at a cry of ‘Little Brown Jug’ from one of the Yanks, she segued straight into the next number. She knew all the popular songs and could play them without sheet music. Who needed sheet music? Betty had an excellent ear and was a natural on the piano. She could play a song after hearing it only twice.

‘Hey there, Doll Face, fancy a dance?’ Baz had strolled over to the bar, where Jill was about to wash the glasses she’d collected. He gave her an enticing wink. ‘Let’s show ’em how we strut our stuff, shall we?’

He was referring to several days previously when, after the bar had closed, he’d taken twenty-year-old Jill to the Olympia just over the road, where they’d danced until midnight, much to Jill’s delight. She absolutely adored Baz.

‘Can’t, silly, I’m working.’ Jill flushed and cast a self-conscious glance at Val, who was also behind the bar serving some customers.

Val caught the girl’s look, a mixture of pleasure and guilt, and she cursed Baz. She wished he’d stop flirting with Jill, who was vulnerable and highly susceptible to his charm. She tried to signal her feelings to him, but Baz was having none of it. Simply because Baz didn’t care. Baz just wanted to dance.

‘Oh, the boss won’t mind if we take a bit of a whirl, will you, Boss?’ he said in jocular fashion, flashing his most winning grin. ‘You’ll cut us some slack, won’t you, Val? We need to celebrate the arrival of the piano after all.’

His tone unmistakeably implied ‘you owe me’, but that wasn’t why Val gave in. Val couldn’t give a shit about Baz. She knew full well that Baz Taylor needed her as much as she needed him. But she’d noticed how young Jill’s foot had been tapping away to the music. The girl was just itching to dance. What a pity it had to be with Baz.