The Fourth Estate (32 page)

“but I’m afraid
it’s against company policy.”

“is it against
company policy to know your name?”

“No, Sir,” she
said. “It’s Susan,” She gave him that same smile, and moved on to the next row.

The first thing
he did when he got back to his flat was to make himself a sardine sandwich. He
had only taken one bite when the phone rang. It was Clive Jervis, the senior
partner at Jervis, Smith & Thomas. Clive was still anxious about some of
the finer details of the contract, including compensation agreements and stock
write-offs.

No sooner had
Townsend put the phone down than it rang again, and he took an even longer call
from Trevor Meacham, his accountant, who still felt that C1.9 million was too
high a price.

“I don’t have a
lot of choice,” Townsend told him. “Wally Hacker has already offered the same
amount.”

“Hacker is also
capable of paying too much,” came back the reply. 1 think we should still
demand staged payments, based on this year’s circulation figures, and not
aggregated over the past ten years.”

“Why)” asked
Townsend.

“Because the
Cbronicle has been losing 2 to 3 percent of its readers year on year.
Everything ought to be based on the latest figures available.”

“I agree with
you on that, but I don’t want it to be the reason I lose this deal.”

“Neither do I,”
said his accountant. “But I also don’t want you to end up bankrupt simply
because you paid far too much for sentimental reasons.

Every deal must
stack up in its own right, and not be closed just to prove you’re as good as
your father.”

Neither man
spoke for several moments.

“You needn’t
worry about that,” said Townsend eventually. “I already have plans to double
the circulation of the Cbronicle. In a year’s time E 1.9 million will look
cheap. And what’s more, my father would have backed me on this one.” He put the
phone down before Trevor could say another word.

The final call
came from Bruce Kelly just after eleven, by which time Townsend was in his
dressing-gown, and the half-eaten sardine sandwich was stale.

“Sir Somerset is
still nervous,” he warned him.

“Why?” asked
Townsend. “I felt today’s meeting couldn’t have gone better.”

“The meeting
wasn’t the problem. After you left, he had a call from Sir Colin Grant which
lasted nearly an hour. And Duncan Alexander isn’t exactly your closest mate.”

Townsend thumped
his fist on the table. “Damn the man,” he said. “Now listen carefully, Bruce,
and I’ll tell you exactly what line you should take. Whenever Sir Colin’s name
comes up, remind Sir Somerset that as soon as he became chairman of the
Messenger, it began losing sales every week.

As for
Alexander, you can leave him to me.”

Townsend was
disappointed to find that on his next flight up to Sydney, Susan was nowhere to
be seen. When a steward served him with coffee, he asked if she was working on
another flight.

“No, sir,” he
replied. “Susan left the company at the end of last month.”

“Do you know
where she’s working now?”

“I’ve no idea,
sir,” he replied, before moving on to the next passenger.

Townsend spent
the morning being shown round the Cbronicle’s offices by Duncan Alexander, who
kept the conversation businesslike, making no attempt to be friendly. Townsend
waited until they were alone in the lift before he turned to him and said, “You
once told me many years ago, ‘We Alexanders have long memories. Call on me when
you need me.’”

“Yes, I did,”
Duncan admitted.

“Good, because
the time has come for me to call in my marker.”

“What do you expect
from me?”

“I want Sir
Somerset to be told what a good man I am.”

The lift came to
a halt, and the doors opened.

“if I do that,
will you guarantee I’ll keep my job?”

“You have my
word on it,” said Townsend as he stepped out into the corridor.

After lunch, Sir
Somerset-who seemed a little more restrained than when they had first
met-accompanied Townsend around the editorial floor, where he was introduced to
the journalists. All of them were relieved to find that the new proprietor just
nodded and smiled at them, making himself agreeable to even the most junior
staff. Everyone who came in contact with Townsend that day was pleasantly
surprised, especially after what they had been told by reporters who had worked
for him on the Gazette. Even Sir Somerset began to wonder if Sir Colin hadn’t
exaggerated about Townsend’s behavior in the past.

“Don’t forget
what happened to the sales of the Messenger when Sir Colin took over as
chairman,” Bruce Kelly whispered into several ears, including his editor’s, soon
after Townsend had left.

The staff on the
Cbronicle would not have given Townsend the benefit of the doubt if they had
seen the notes he was compiling on the flight back to Adelaide. It was clear to
him that if he hoped to double the paper’s profits, there was going to have to
be some drastic surgery, with cuts from top to bottom.

Townsend found
himself looking up from time to time and thinking about Susan. When another
steward offered him a copy of the evening paper, he asked if he had any idea where
she was now working.

“Do you mean
Susan Glover?” he asked.

“Blonde, curly
hair, early twenties,” said Townsend.

“Yes, that’s
Susan. She left us when she was offered a job at Moore’s. Said she couldn’t
take the irregular hours any longer, not to mention being treated like a bus
conductor. I know just how she feels.”

Townsend smiled.
Moore’s had always been his mothees favorite store in Adelaide. He was sure it
wouldn’t take him long to discover which department Susan worked in.

The following
morning, after he had finished going through the mail with Bunty, he dialed
Moore’s number the moment she had closed the door behind her.

“Can you put me
through to Miss Glover, please?”

“Which
department does she work in?”

“I don’t know,”
said Townsend.

“Is it an emergency?”

“No, it’s a
personal call.”

“Are you a
relative?”

“No, I’m not,”
he said, puzzled by the question.

‘Then I’m sorry,
but I can’t help. It’s against company policy for staff to take private calls
during office hours.” The line went dead.

Townsend replaced
the phone, rose from his chair and walked into Bunty’s office. “I’ll be away
for about an hour, maybe a little longer, Bunty. I’ve got to pick up a birthday
present for my mother.”

Miss Bunting was
surprised, as she knew his mothees birthday was four months away. But at least
he was an improvement on his father, she thought.

She’d always had
to remind Sir Graham the day before.

When Townsend
stepped out of the building it was such a warm day that he told his driver,
Sam, he would walk the dozen or so blocks to Moore’s, which would give him a
chance to check all the paper stands on the way. He was not pleased to find
that the first one he came across, on the corner of King William Street, had
already sold out of the Gazette, and it was only a few minutes past ten. He
made a note to speak to the distribution manager as soon as he returned to the
office.

As he approached
the massive department store on Rundle Street, he wondered just how long it
would take him to find Susan. He pushed his way through the revolving door and
walked up and down between the counters on the ground floor: jewelry, gloves,
perfume. But he could see no sign of her.

He took the
escalator to the second floor, where he repeated the process: crockery,
bedding, kitchenware. Still no success. The third floor turned out to be
menswear, which reminded him that he needed a new suit. If she worked there he
could order one immediately, but there wasn’t a woman in sight.

As he stepped
onto the escalator to take him up to the fourth floor, Townsend thought he
recognized the smartly dressed man standing on the step above him.

When he turned
round and saw Townsend, he said, “How are you?”

“I’m fine,”
replied Townsend, trying desperately to place him.

“Ed Scott,” the
man said, solving the problem. “I was a couple of years below you at St.
Andrew’s, and still remember your editorials in the school magazine.”

“I’m flattered,”
said Townsend. “So, what are you up to now?”

“I’m the
assistant manager.”

“You’ve done well
then,” said Townsend, looking round at the huge store.

“Hardly,” said
Ed. “My fathees the managing director. But then, that’s something I don’t have
to explain to you.”

Townsend
scowled.

“Were you
looking for anything in particular?” asked Ed as they stepped off the
escalator.

“Yes,” replied
Townsend. “A present for my mother. She’s already chosen something, and I’ve
just come to pick it up. I can’t remember which floor it’s on, but I do have
the name of the assistant who served her.”

“Fell me the
name, and I’ll find out the department.”

“Susan Glover,”
said Townsend, trying not to blush.

Ed stood to one
side, dialed a number on his intercom and repeated the name. A few moments
later a look of surprise crossed his face. “it seems she’s in the toy department,”
he said. “Are you certain you’ve been given the right name?”

“Oh yes,” said
Townsend. “Puzzles.”

“Puzzles?”

“Yes, my mother
can’t resist jigsaw puzzles. But none of the family is allowed to choose them
for her, because whenever we do, it always turns out to be one she already
has.”

“Oh, I see,”
said Ed. “Well, take the escalator back down to the basement.

You’ll find the
toy department on your right-hand side.” Townsend thanked him, and the
assistant manager disappeared off in the direction of luggage and travel.

Townsend took
the escalator all the way down to “Me World of Toys.” He looked round the
counters, but there was no sign of Susan, and he started to wonder if it might
be her day off. He wandered slowly around the department, and decided against
asking a rather officious-looking woman, who wore a badge on her ample chest
declaring she was the “Senior Sales Assistant,” if a Susan Glover worked there.

He thought he
would have to come back the following day, and was about to leave when a door
behind one of the counters opened and Susan came through it, carrying a large
Meccano set. She went over to a customer who was leaning on the counter.

Townsend stood
transfixed on the spot. She was even more captivating than he had remembered.

“Can I help you,
sir?”

Townsendjumped,
turned round and came face to face with the officious-looking woman.

“No, thank you,”
he said nervously. “I’m just looking for a present for... for my... nephew.”
The woman glared at him, and Townsend moved away and selected a spot where he
could be hidden from her view but still keep Susan in his sights.

The customer she
was serving took an inordinate amount of time making up her mind if she wanted
the Meccano set. Susan was made to open up the box to prove that the contents
fulfilled the promise on the lid. She picked up some of the red and yellow
pieces and tried to put them together, but the customer left a few minutes
later, empty-handed.

Townsend waited
until the officious woman began to serve another customer before he strolled
over to the counter. Susan looked up and smiled. This time it was a smile of
recognition.

“How may I help
you, Mr. Townsend?” she asked.

“Will you have
dinner with me tonight?” he replied. “Or is it still against company policy?”

She smiled and
said, “Yes, it is Mr. Townsend, but .

The senior sales
assistant reappeared at Susan’s side, looking more suspicious than ever.

“it must be over
a thousand pieces,” said Townsend. “My mother needs the sort of puzzle that
will keep her going for at least a week.”

“Of course,
sir,” said Susan, and led him over to a table which displayed several different
jigsaw puzzles.

He began picking
them up and studying them closely, without looking at her.

“How about
Pilligrini’s at eight o’clock?” he whispered, just as the officious woman was
approaching.

“That’s perfect.
I’ve never been there, but I’ve always wanted to,” she said, taking the Puzzle
of Sydney Harbor from his hands. She walked back to the counter, rang Lip the
bill and dropped the large box into a Moore’s bag. “That will be £2 I Os.
please, sir.”

Townsend paid
for his purchase, and would have confirmed their date if the officious lady
hadn’t stuck close to Susan and said, “I do hope your nephew enjoys the
puzzle.”