The Fourth Estate (26 page)

I need to be
driven to Bridgend immediately,” he said, before the man had a chance to open
his mouth. They headed down the A40, and Armstrong dozed off within minutes. He
didn’t wake until the corporal said, “Only a couple more miles and we’ll be
there, sir.”

When they drove
up to the camp, memories flooded back of his own internment in Liverpool. But
this time when the car passed through the gates, the guards sprang to attention
and saluted. The corporal brought the Austin to a halt outside the commandant’s
office.

As he walked in,
a captain rose from behind a desk to greet him. “Roach,” he said. “Delighted to
make your acquaintance.” He thrust out his hand and Armstrong shook it. Captain
Roach displayed no medals on his uniform, and looked as if he’d never even
crossed the Channel on a day trip, let alone come in contact with the enemy.
“No one has actually explained to me how I can help you,” he said as he ushered
Armstrong toward a comfortable chair by the fire.

“‘ need to see a
list of all the prisoners detailed to this camp,” said Armstrong, without
wasting any time on banalities. “I intend to interview three of them for a
report I’m preparing for the Control Commission in Berlin.”

“That’s easy
enough,” said the captain. “But why did they choose Bridgend?

Most of the Nazi
generals are locked up in Yorkshire.”

“I’m aware of
that,” said Armstrong, “but I wasn’t given a lot of choice.”

“Fair enough. Now,
do you have any idea what type of person you want to interview, or shall I just
pick a few out at random?” Captain Roach handed over a clipboard, and Armstrong
quickly ran his finger down the list of typed names. He smiled. “I’ll see one
corporal, one lieutenant and one major,” he said, putting a cross by three
names. He handed the clipboard back to the captain.

Roach studied
his selection. “The first two will be easy enough,” he said.

“But I’m afraid
you won’t be able to interview Major Lauber.”

“I have the full
authority of . .

“It wouldn’t
matter if you had the full authority of Mr. Attlee himself,” interrupted Roach.
“When it comes to Lauber, there’s nothing I can do for you.”

“Why not?”
snapped Armstrong.

“Because he died
two weeks ago. I sent him back to Berlin in a coffin last Monday.”

MELBOURNE
COURIER

12 SEPTIEMBER
1950

S
ir Graham
Townsend Dies THE CORTECE CAME to a halt outside the cathedral. Keith stepped
out of the leading car, took his mothees arm and guided her up the steps, followed
by his sisters. As they entered the building, the congregation rose from their
seats. A sidesman led them down the aisle to the empty front pew.

Keith could feel
several pairs of eyes boring into him, all asking the same question: “Are you
up to it?” A moment later the coffin was borne past them and placed on a
catafalque in front of the altar.

The service was
conducted by the Bishop of Melbourne, and the prayers read by the Reverend
Charles Davidson. The hymns Lady Townsend had selected would have made the old
man chuckle:’To be a Pilgrim,” “Rock of Ages” and “Fight the Good Fight.” David
jakeman, a former editor of the Courier, gave the address. He talked of Sir
Graham’s energy, his enthusiasm for life, his lack of cant, his love of his
family, and of how much he would be missed by all those who had known him. He
ended his homily by reminding the congregation that Sir Graham had been
succeeded by a son and heir.

After the
blessing, Lady Townsend took her son’s ann once more and followed the pallbearers
as they carried the coffin back out of the cathedral and toward the burial
plot.

“Ashes to ashes,
dust to dust,” intoned the bishop as the oak casket was lowered into the
ground, and the gravediggers began to shovel sods of earth on top of it. Keith
raised his head and glanced around at those who circled the grave. Friends,
relations, colleagues, politicians, rivals, bookies-even the odd vulture who,
Keith suspected, had come simply to pick over the bones-looked down into the
gaping hole.

After the bishop
had made the sign of the cross, Keith led his mother slowly back to the waiting
limousine. just before they reached it, she stopped and turned to face those
who silently followed behind her. For the next hour she shook hands with every
mourner, until the last one had finally departed.

Neither Keith
nor his mother spoke on the journey back to Toorak, and as soon as they arrived
at the house Lady Townsend climbed the great marble staircase and retired to
her bedroom. Keith went off to the kitchen, where Florrie was preparing a light
lunch. He laid a tray and carried it up to his mother’s room. When he reached
her door he knocked quietly before going in. She was sitting in her favorite
chair by the window. His mother didn’t move as he placed the tray on the table
in front of her. He kissed her on the forehead, turned and left her. He then
took a long walk around the grounds, retracing the steps he had so often taken
with his father. Now that the funeral was over, he knew he would have to broach
the one subject she had been avoiding.

Lady Townsend
reappeared just before eight that evening, and together they went through to
the dining room. Again she spoke only of his father, often repeating the same
sentiments she had voiced the previous night. She only picked at her food, and
after the main course had been cleared away she rose without warning and walked
through to the drawing room.

When she took
her usual place by the fire, Keith remained standing for a moment before
sitting in his father’s chair. Once the maid had served them with coffee, his
mother leaned forward, warmed her hands and asked him the question he had
waited so patiently to hear.

“What do you
intend to do now you’re back in Australia?”

“First thing
tomorrow I’ll go in and seethe editor of the Courier. There are several changes
that need to be made quickly if we’re ever going to challenge the Age.” He
waited for her response.

“Keith,” she
said eventually, “I’m sorry to have to tell you that we no longer own the
Courier “

Keith was so
stunned by this piece of information that he didn’t respond.

His mother
continued to warm her hands. “As you know, your father left everything to me in
his will, and I have always had an abhorrence of debt in any form. Perhaps if
he had left the newspapers to you...”

“But Mother, I ~
.” began Keith.

“Try not to
forget, Keith, that you’ve been away for nearly five years.

When I last saw
you, you were a schoolboy, reluctantly boarding the SS

Strantbedan. I
had no way of knowing if. . .”

“But Father wouldn’t
have wanted you to sell the Courier. It was the first paper he was ever
associated with.”

“And it was
losing money every week. When the Kenwright Corporation offered me the chance
to get out, leaving us without any liabilities, the board recommended I accept
their offer.”

“But you didn’t
even give me the chance to see if I could turn it round.

I’m well aware
that both papers have been losing circulation for years.

That’s why I’ve
been working on a plan to do something about it, a plan which Father seemed to
be coming round to.”

“I’m afraid that
won’t be possible,” said his mother. “Sir Colin Grant, the chairman of the
Adelaide Messenger, hasjust made me an offer of C

150,000 for the
Gazette, and the board will be considering it at our next meeting.”

“But why would
we want to sell the Gazetto” said Keith in disbelief.

“Because we’ve
been fighting a losing battle with the Messenger for several years, and their
offer appears to be extremely generous in the circumstances.”

“Mother” said
Keith, standing up to face her. “I didn’t return home to sell the Gazette, in
fact exactly the reverse. It’s my long-term aim to take over the Messenger. 11

“Keith, that’s
just not realistic in our current financial situation. In any case, the board
would never go along with it.”

“Not at the
moment, perhaps, but it will once we’re selling more copies than they are.”

“You’re so like
your father, Keith,” said his mother, looking up at him.

“Just give me an
opportunity to prove myself,” said Keith. “You’ll find that I’ve learned a
great deal during my time in Fleet Street. I’ve come home to put that knowledge
to good use.”

Lady Townsend
stared into the fire for some time before she replied. “Sir Colin has given me
ninety days to consider his offer.” She paused again.

“I will give you
exactly the same time to convince me that I should turn him down.”

When Townsend
stepped off the plane at Adelaide the following morning, the first thing he
noticed as he entered the arrivals hall was that the Messenger was placed above
the Gazette in the newspaper rack. He dropped his bags and switched the papers
round, so that the Gazette was on top, then purchased a copy of both.

While he stood
in line waiting for a taxi, he noted that of the seventy-three people who
walked out of the airport, twelve were carrying the Messenger while only seven
had the Gazette. As the taxi drove him into the city, he wrote down these
findings on the back of his ticket, with the intention of briefing Frank
Bailey, the editor of the Gazette, as soon as he reached the office. He spent
the rest of the journey flicking through both papers, and had to admit that the
Messenger was a more interesting read. However, he didn’t feel that was an
opinion he could express on his first day in town.

Townsend was
dropped outside the offices of the (;azette. Fie left his bags in reception and
took the lift to the third floor. No one gave him a second look as he headed
through the rows of journalists seated at their desks, tapping away on their
typewriters. Without knocking on the editoes door, he walked straight into the
morning conference.

A surprised
Frank Bailey rose from behind his desk, held out his hand and said, “Keith,
it’s great to see you after all this time.”

“And it’s good
to see you,” said Townsend.

“We weren’t
expecting you until tomorrow.” Bailey turned to face the horseshoe
ofjournalists seated round his desk.”This is Sir Graham’s son, Keith, who will
be taking over from his father as publisher. Those of you who have been around
a few years will remember when he was last here as . . .” Frank hesitated.

“As my father’s
son,” said Townsend.

The comment was
greeted with a ripple of laughter.

“Please carry on
as if I weren’t here,” said Townsend. I don’t intend to be tile sort of
publisher who interferes with editorial decisions.” He walked over to the
corner of the room, sat on the window ledge and watched as Bailey continued to
conduct the morning conference. He hadn’t lost any of his skills, or, it
seemed, his desire to use the paper to campaign on behalf of any underdog he
felt was getting a rough deal.

“Right, what’s
looking like the lead story tomorrow?” he asked. Three hands shot up.

“Dave,” said the
editor, pointing a pencil at the chief crime reporter.

“Let’s hear your
bid.”

“it looks as if we
might get a verdict on the Sammy Taylor trial today. The judge is expected to
finish his summingup later this afternoon.”

“Well, if the
way he’s conducted the trial so far is anything to go by, the poor bastard
hasn’t a hope in hell. That man would string Taylor up given the slightest
excuse.”

1 know,” said
Dave.

“if it’s a
guilty verdict, I’ll give the front page over to it and write a leader on the
travesty of justice any Aboriginal can expect in our courts.

Is the
courthouse still being picketed by Abo protesters?”

“Sure is- It’s
become a night-and-day vigil. They’ve taken to sleeping on the pavement since
we published those pictures of their leaders being dragged off by the police.”

“Right, if we
get a verdict today, and it’s guilty, you get the front page.

Jane,” he said,
turning to the features editor, “I’ll need a thousand words on Abos’rights and
how disgracefully this trial has been conducted.

Travesty of
justice, racial prejudice, you know the sort of thing I want.”

“What if the
jury decides he’s not guilty?” asked Dave.

“In that
unlikely event, you get the right-hand column on the front page and Jane can
give me five hundred words for page seven on the strength of the jury system,
Australia at last coming out of the dark ages, etc., etc.”

Bailey turned
his attention to the other side of the room, and pointed his pencil at a woman
whose hand had remained up. “Maureen,” he said.

“We may have a
mystery illness at the Royal Adelaide Hospital. Three young children have died
in the last ten days and the hospital’s chief administrator, Gyles Dunn, is
refusing to make a statement of any kind, however hard I push him.”