‘Sure.’ She smiled at the man’s cheeky arrogance. Given his size and the depth of his voice, he was bound to be a baritone rather than a tenor, and ‘Amazing Grace’ was more suited to a tenor, in Betty’s opinion anyway. The bar was busy, too, and there was even a couple dancing over in the corner they’d lately reserved as a pocket-sized dance floor, hardly the time for a solo performance, and a hymn of all things. But what the heck, she thought, everyone’s bound to join in. They all like a good singalong.

She played the introduction, not adjusting the key to suit a baritone, but sticking to the way she always played it. She didn’t need sheet music for this hymn, which was a popular choice among all Americans, both white and black.

‘Amazing grace, how sweet the sound …’

But it wasn’t the big Negro who sang. He’d stepped aside to reveal one of the most beautiful human beings Betty thought she had ever seen. And the perfection of his voice equalled his physical beauty.

The Brown’s Bar came to a breathless standstill. No-one joined in, not a murmur was heard; people even stopped drinking. The moment seemed frozen in time as the young man’s voice soared effortlessly about a room that only minutes earlier had been loud and chaotic.

Rising to the occasion, Betty played as she’d never played before, her eyes occasionally meeting those of the young black man, both aware of the loveliness they were creating.

There was a moment’s silence when the song came to an end. Then followed a deafening round of applause.

‘See?’ The big man leaned down and flashed her the broadest grin. ‘What did I tell you?’

‘Yep,’ Betty agreed, ‘that’s the way it should be sung all right.’

‘You play a mean piano, too,’ Rupe said, ‘that’s a great touch you have there, little lady.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Name’s Rupert,’ he held out his hand, ‘Rupe for short.’

‘Betty. G’day, Rupe.’ They shook.

‘Mind if I have a quick tickle of the ivories?’ he asked.

Betty stood. ‘Be my guest.’

The big man seated himself on the piano stool. ‘A taste of New Orleans for you, Betty,’ he said, ‘from the greatest of the great, Jelly Roll Morton,’ and he leaped straight into ‘Jelly Roll Blues’.

Betty found herself standing beside the beautiful young man. ‘He’s good isn’t he, your mate Rupe,’ she said, watching the big man’s fingers fly about the keyboard.

‘Yep.’ Kasey nodded. ‘You’re pretty good yourself. Can I buy you a drink?’