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ducked back to my bedroom before the thin ice broke and she decided to make more of it.
    â€˜And go and get your good Sunday clothes,’ she shouted after me as I closed the door. ‘You’re coming to the dance as well.’

The Dance at the Barracks
    The non-commissioned officers’ mess at Kingstown Barracks would normally have been in pitch darkness because of the blackout, but that night it shone like a lighthouse. They obviously knew something about the invasion threat that I didn’t. Had the Japs called off the war and no-one had told me?
    Brightly coloured Chinese lanterns hung in a line from the gate to the edge of the parade ground, and the hall had lights blazing from open windows. On the long, wide verandah, trestle tables were almost bent under the weight of the beer kegs and rows of glasses. One table, off to the end of the verandah, had a large glass punchbowl filled with red punch. At the door a lance corporal in a white mess jacket announced our arrival after Dad whispered in his ear.
    â€˜Mr and Mrs Rob Jones, Master Jack Jones and Miss Patricia Jones.’
    Dad looked around the room and towards the stage and groaned quietly. ‘Not again. Mrs Mills and the Goodtime Charlies over from Perth again.’ He sighed. ‘Mrs Mills and her right Charlies more like.’
    Mrs Mills, the bandleader, was a big, jolly woman in a bright floral dress. She was old—even older than my grandmother probably. The Charlies—her husband Charles, her brother-in-law Charles, and her son Charlie Junior—sat up on the stage tuning their instruments. They weren’t Glenn Miller and his big band, that’s for sure. Mrs Mills played the piano, and her husband played the drums with wire brushes attached to his drumsticks. The other Charles played a fiddle, and Charlie Junior squeezed away on a shiny red piano accordion.
    They were finally ready. Mrs Mills plonked herself down at the old piano, her ample bum hanging over each side of the stool. She banged the keys with gusto and gradually everyone realised she was playing ‘God Save the King’. We all stood to attention until she’d finished.
    â€˜Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,’ she announced through the crackly microphone, ‘and welcome to the Noncommissioned Officers’ Annual Ball.’ When several people applauded she smiled widely and continued. ‘Will you please take your partners for the first dance of the evening, the Grand March?’
    Regimental Sergeant Major McGregor, the senior NCO on the island, stood, pulled back his shoulders, adjusted the hem of his jacket, and walked the length of the hall to where the officers sat with their wives and guests. He was older than most of the officers and other NCOs and his chest glistened with medals. He’d served in the Great War and everyone on the island respected him.
    The officers sat around a circular table, each wearing a short red dinner jacket. Their wives had on silk evening gowns and long gloves. I noticed several of the workers’ wives glancing enviously in their direction.
    The noise gradually stopped. When the sergeant major reached the table he said in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear, ‘With your permission, Colonel Hurley.’ He turned slightly to face Mrs Hurley, who looked good in her dark green satin dress. ‘Ma’am, it would give me the greatest honour if you would accompany me in leading the Grand March.’
    Mrs Hurley smiled warmly, held up her gloved hand and said, also quite loudly, ‘Sergeant Major McGregor, nothing would give me greater pleasure.’
    The Charlies’ music started, and McGregor and Mrs Hurley linked arms and marched in time to the end of the hall. Colonel Hurley and Mrs McGregor followed them and soon nearly everyone had joined in the line behind them, marching the length of the hall in time to the music, then peeling off to link arms in fours and then into lines of