The Fourth Estate (38 page)

He was pleased
with the initial reception the Continent had received, and sales had quickly
reached 200,000 copies. But the novelty of a national paper already seemed to
be wearing off, and the figures were now dropping steadily. Alan Rutledge was
delivering the paper Townsend had asked for, but the Continent wasn’t proving
to be the paper the Australian people felt they needed.

For the second
time that morning Townsend drove in to the airport carpark.

But this time
the sun was shining and the fog had lifted. The plane for Sydney took off on
time, but it wasn’t the 8.25. The stewardess offered him a copy of the
Continent, but only because every plane that left the capital was supplied with
a free copy for every passenger. That way the circulation figures held above
200,000, and kept the advertisers happy.

He turned the
pages of a paper he felt his father would have been proud of.

It was the
nearest thing Australia had to The Times. And it had something else in common
with that distinguished broadsheet-it was losing money fast.

Townsend already
realized that if they were ever going to make a profit, he would have to take
the paper downmarket. He wonderedjust how long Alan Rutledge would agree to
remain as editor once he learned what he had in mind.

He continued to
turn the pages until his eyes settled on a column headed “Forthcoming Events.”
His marriage to Susan in six days’ time was being billed as “the wedding of the
year.” Everyone who mattered would be attending, the paper predicted, other
than the prime minister and Sir Somerset Kenwright. That was one day Keith
would have to be in Sydney from morning to night, because he didn’t plan to be
late for his own wedding.

He turned to the
back page to check what was on the radio. Victoria were playing cricket against
New South Wales, but none of the networks was covering the game, so he wouldn’t
be able to follow it. After months of twisting arms, investing in causes he
didn’t believe in and supporting politicians he despised, Townsend bad failed
to be awarded the franchise for the new network. He had sat in the
visitors’gallery of the House of Representatives to hear the postmaster general
announce that the franchise had been awarded to a long-time supporter of the
Liberal Party. Later that evening Senator Hadley had told Townsend that the
prime minister had personally blocked his application. What with the drop in
sales of the Continent, the money he had lost trying to secure the radio
franchise, and his mother and Susan continually complaining about never seeing
him, it wasn’t turning out to be a glorious year.

Once the plane
had taxied to a halt at Kingsford-Smith airport, Townsend ran down the steps,
across the tarmac, through the arrivals terminal and out on to the pavement to
find Sam standing by the car, waiting for him.

“What’s that?”
asked Townsend, pointing to a large, smartly wrapped parcel on the back seat.

“It’s a birthday
present for Susan. Heather thought you might not have been able to find
anything suitable in Canberra.”

“God bless her,”
said Townsend.

Although Heather
had only been with him for four months, she was already proving a worthy
successor to Bunty.

“How much longer
is it going to take before we get there?” asked Townsend anxiously, looking at
his watch.

“if the traffic
stays as light as this, boss, it should be no longer than twenty minutes.”
Townsend tried to relax, but he couldn’t help reflecting on how much work he
had to get through before the wedding. He was already beginning to regret that
he had committed himself to a twoweek honeymoon.

When the car
came to a halt outside a small terraced house in the southern suburbs, Sam
leaned back and handed the present over to his boss. Townsend smiled, jumped
out of the car and ran up the path. Susan had opened the door even before he
had rung the bell. She was about to remonstrate with him when he gave her a
long kiss and handed the parcel over to her. She smiled and quickly led him through
to the dining room just as the birthday cake was being wheeled in. “What’s
inside?” she asked, rattling the parcel like a child ...

Townsend just
stopped himself saying”I haven’ta clue,” and managed, “I’m not going to tell
you, but I think you’ll be pleased with my choice.” He nearly risked “color.”

He kissed her on
the cheek and took the empty seat between Susan’s sister and her mother, and
they all watched as she began to unwrap the large box.

Keith waited
with the same anticipation as everyone else. Susan lifted the lid to reveal a
full -length eggshell-blue cashmere coat she had first seen in Farmers over a
month before. She could have sworn Keith hadn’t been with her at the time.

“How did you
know that was my favorite color?” she asked.

Keith had no
idea, but he smiled knowingly, and turned his attention to the slice of
birthday cake on the plate in front of him. The rest of the meal was spent
going over the wedding plans, and Susan warned him yet again that Bruce Kelly’s
speech at the reception was definitely not to be in the same vein as the
paper’s editorials.

After lunch
Susan helped her mother and sister clear the table, while the men settled down
around the radio in the drawing room. Keith was surprised to find the cricket
was on.

“Which station
are we listening to?” he asked Susan’s father.

“2WW, from
Wollongong.”

“But you can’t
pick up 2WW in Sydney.”

“You can in the
southern suburbs,” he replied.

“Wollongong’s a
one-horse town, isn’t it?” said Keith.

“One horse, two
coalmines and a hotel when I was a boy. But the population has doubled in the
last ten years.”

Keith continued
to listen to the ball-by-ball commentary, but his mind was already in
Wollongong. As soon as he thought he could get away with it, he strolled into
the kitchen to find the women sitting round the table, still discussing the
wedding.

“Susan, did you
come in your own car?” Keith asked.

“Yes, I drove
over yesterday and stayed the night.”

“Fine. I’ll get
Sam to take me home now. I’m feeling a bit guilty about having him hang about
for so long. See you in about an hour?” He kissed her on the cheek and turned
to leave. He was halfway down the path before Susan realized that he could have
sent Sam off hours ago, because they could have gone home in her car.

“Back to Darting
Point, boss?”

“No,” said
Keith. “Wollongong.”

Sam swung the
car round in a circle, turning left at the end of the road so that he could
join the afternoon traffic leaving Sydney on the Princes Highway. Keith
suspected that if he had said “Wagga Wagga” or “Broken Hill,” Sam still
wouldn’t have raised an eyebrow.

Within moments
Keith had fallen asleep, suspecting the trip was likely to prove a waste of
time. When they passed a sign saying “Welcome to Wollongong,” Sam took the next
corner sharply, which always woke the boss. “Anywhere in particular?” he asked.
“Or were you just hoping to buy a coalmine?”

“No, a radio
station actually,” said Keith.

“Then my guess,”
said Sam, “is that it has to be pretty near that great aerial sticking out of
the ground over there.”

“Bet you got an
observation badge when you were in the Cubs.”

A few minutes
later Sam dropped him outside a building which had “2WW” written in faded white
letters across its corrugated-iron roof.

Townsend got out
of the car, ran up the steps, pushed through the door and walked up to a small
desk. The young receptionist stopped knitting and looked up.

“Can I help
you?” she asked.

“Yes,” said
Townsend. “Do you know who owns this station?”

“Yes, I do,” she
replied.

“And who’s
that?” asked Townsend.

“My uncle.”

“And who is your
uncle?”

“Ben Ampthill.”
She looked up at him. “You’re not local, are you?”

“No, Fm not,”
admitted Townsend.

“I thought I
hadn’t seen you before.”

“Do you know
where he lives?”

“Who?”

“Your uncle.”

“Yes, of course
I do ...”

“Would it be possible
for you to tell me where that is?” said Townsend, trying not to sound too
exasperated.

“Sure can. It’s
the big house on the hill in Woonona, just outside town.

Hard to miss
it.”

Townsend ran
back out of the building, jumped into the car and passed on the directions to
Sam.

The young
receptionist turned out to be right about one thing: the large white house
nestling in the hills was hard to miss. Sam swung off the main road, slowing
down as he passed through the wrought-iron gates and up a long drive toward the
house. They pulled up outside a smart portico.

Townsend banged
on the large black doorknocker and waited patiently, his speech already
prepared: I’m sorry to bother you on a Sunday afternoon, but I was rather
hoping I might be able to have a word with Mr. Ampthill.

The door was
opened by a middle-aged woman in a smart floral dress, who looked as if she had
been expecting him.

“Mrs. Ampthill?”

“Yes. How can I
help you?”

“My name is
Keith Townsend. I’m sorry to bother you on a Sunday afternoon, but I was rather
hoping I might be able to have a word with your husband.”

“My niece was
right,” said Mrs. Ampthill. “You’re not local, otherwise you would have known
that Ben can always be found at the mine office from Monday to Friday, takes
the day off on Saturday to play golf, goes to church on Sunday morning and
spends the afternoon at the radio station, listening to the cricket. I think
that’s the only reason he bought the station in the first place.”

Townsend smiled
at this piece of information and said, “Fhank you for your help, Mrs. Ampthill.
I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

“No bother,” she
replied, as she watched him run back toward the car.

“Back to the
radio station,” Townsend said, unwilling to admit his mistake to Sam.

When Townsend
walked up to the reception desk for a second time, he immediately asked, “Why
didn’t you tell me that your uncle was here all the time?”

“Because you
didn’t ask,” the young woman said, not bothering to look up from her knitting, “So
where is he, exactly?” asked Townsend slowly.

“in his office.”

“And where is
his office?”

“On the third
floor.”

“Of this
building?”

“Of course,” she
said, looking at him as if she were dealing with a moron.

As there was no
sign of a lift, Townsend ran up the stairs to the third floor. He looked up and
down the corridor, but there was no clue as to where Mr. Ampthill’s office
might be. He had knocked on several doors before someone eventually hollered,
“Come in.”

Townsend pushed open
the door to find an overweight, balding man in a sweatshirt with his feet up on
the desk. He was listening to the closing overs of the match Townsend had been
following earlier in the afternoon.

He swung round,
took one look at Townsend and said, “Have yourself a seat, Mr. Townsend. But
don’t say anything just yet, because we only need another eleven runs to win.”

“I support New
South Wales too,” said Townsend.

Ben Ampthill
smiled as the next ball was hit to the boundary. Still without looking at Townsend,
he leaned back and passed him a bottle of Resch’s and an opener.

“A couple more
balls should do it, and then I’ll be with you,” he said.

Neither spoke
until the last seven runs had been scored. Then Mr, Ampthill leaned forward,
punched his fist in the air and said, “Fhat should wrap up the Sheffield Shield
for us.” He removed his feet from the desk, swung round, thrust out his hand
and said, “I’m Ben Ampthill.”

“Keith
Townsend.”

Ampthill nodded.
“Yes, I know who you are. My wife rang to tell me you’d been up to the house.
She thought you might be a salesman of some sort, in that flashy suit and
wearing a tie on a Sunday afternoon.”

Townsend tried
not to laugh. “No, Mr. Ampthill, I’m not. . .”

“Call me Ben,
everybody else does.”

“No, Ben, I’m
not a seller, I’m a buyer.”

“And what are
you hoping to buy, young man?”

“Your radio
station.”

“It’s not for
sale, Keith. Not unless you also want the local newspaper, a no-star hotel, and
a couple of coalmines thrown in. Because they’re all part of the same company.”

“Who owns the
company?” asked Townsend. “It’s just possible that the shareholders might
consider...”

‘There are only
two shareholders,” Ben explained. “Pearl and me. So even if I wanted to sell,
I’d still have to convince her.”