He decided that if he drove to Dresden the following morning he might be able to complete his assignment early, and then perhaps he could spend a couple of days in Deauville replenishing his dwindling finances. He began to whistle as he jumped on a tram that would drop him outside the garage.
The MG was waiting on the forecourt, and he had to admit that it looked quite magnificent. Someone had even cleaned it, so its red bonnet gleamed in the evening light.
The mechanic passed him the key. Keith jumped behind the wheel and switched on the engine. It started immediately. “Great,” he said.
The mechanic nodded his agreement. When Keith stepped out of the car, another garage worker leaned over and removed the key from the ignition.
“So, how much will that be?” asked Keith, opening his wallet.
“Twenty pounds,” said the mechanic.
Keith swung round and stared at him. “Twenty pounds?” he spluttered. “But I don’t have twenty pounds. You’ve already pocketed thirty bob, and the damn car only cost me thirty pounds in the first place.”
This piece of information didn’t seem to impress the mechanic. “We had to replace the crankshaft and rebuild the carburetor,” he explained. “And the spare parts weren’t easy to get hold of. Not to mention the bodywork. There’s not much call for such luxuries in Berlin. Twenty pounds,” he repeated.
Keith opened his wallet and began to count his notes. “What’s that in Deutschemarks?”
“We don’t take Deutschemarks,” said the mechanic.
“Why not?”
“The British have warned us to beware of forgeries.”
Keith decided that the time had come to try some different tactics. “This is nothing less than extortion!” he bellowed. “I’ll damn well have you closed down!”
The German was unmoved. “You may have won the war, sir,” he said drily, “but that doesn’t mean you don’t have to pay your bills.”
“Do you think you can get away with this?” shouted Keith. “I’m going to report you to my friend Captain Armstrong of the PRISC. Then you’ll find who’s in charge.”
“Perhaps it would be better if we called in the police, and we can let them decide who’s in charge.”
This silenced Keith, who paced up and down the forecourt for some time before admitting, “I don’t have twenty pounds.”
“Then perhaps you’ll have to sell the car.”
“Never,” said Keith.
“In which case we’ll just have to garage it for you—at the usual daily rate—until you’re able to pay the bill.”
Keith turned redder and redder while the two men stood hovering over his MG. They looked remarkably unperturbed. “How much would you offer me for it?” he asked eventually.
“Well, there’s not much call for secondhand right-hand drive sports cars in Berlin,” he said. “But I suppose I could manage 100,000 Deutschemarks.”
“But you told me earlier that you didn’t deal in Deutschemarks.”
“That’s only when we’re selling. It’s different when we’re buying.”
“Is that 100,000 over and above my bill?”
“No,” said the mechanic. He paused, smiled and added, “but we’ll see that you get a good exchange rate.”
“Bloody Nazis,” muttered Keith.
* * *
When Keith began his second year at Oxford, he was pressed by his friends in the Labor Club to stand for the committee. He had quickly worked out that although the club had over six hundred members, it was the committee who met Cabinet ministers whenever they visited the university, and who held the power to pass resolutions. They even selected those who attended the party conference and so had a chance to influence party policy.
When the result of the ballot for the committee was announced, Keith was surprised by how large a margin he had been elected. The following Monday he attended his first committee meeting at the Bricklayers’ Arms. He sat at the back in silence, scarcely believing what was taking place in front of his eyes. All the things he despised most about Britain were being re-enacted by that committee. They were reactionary, prejudiced and, whenever it came to making any real decisions, ultra-conservative. If anyone came up with an original idea, it was discussed at great length and then quickly forgotten once the meeting had adjourned to the bar downstairs. Keith concluded that becoming a committee member wasn’t going to be enough if he wanted to see some of his more radical ideas become reality. In his final year he would have to become chairman of the Labor Club. When he mentioned this ambition in a letter to his father, Sir Graham wrote back that he was more interested in Keith’s prospects of getting a degree, as becoming chairman of the Labor Club was not of paramount importance for someone who hoped to succeed him as proprietor of a newspaper group.
Keith’s only rival for the post appeared to be the vice chairman, Gareth Williams, who as a miner’s son with a scholarship from Neath Grammar School certainly had all the right qualifications.
The election of officers was scheduled for the second week of Michaelmas term. Keith realized that every hour of the first week would be crucial if he hoped to become chairman. As Gareth Williams was more popular with the committee than with the rank and file members, Keith knew exactly where he had to concentrate his energies. During the first ten days of term he invited several paid-up members of the club, including freshmen, back to his room for a drink. Night after night they consumed crates of college beer and tart, non-vintage wine, all at Keith’s expense.
With twenty-four hours to go, Keith thought he had it sewn up. He checked over the list of club members, putting a tick next to those he had already approached, and who he was confident would vote for him, and a cross by those he knew were supporters of Williams.
The weekly committee meeting held on the night before the vote dragged on, but Keith derived considerable pleasure from the thought that this would be the last time he had to sit through resolution after pointless resolution that would only end up in the nearest wastepaper basket. He sat at the back of the room, making no contribution to the countless amendments to subclauses so beloved of Gareth Williams and his cronies. The committee discussed for nearly an hour the disgrace of the latest unemployment figures, which had just topped 300,000. Keith would have liked to have pointed out to the brothers that there were at least 300,000 people in Britain who were, in his opinion, simply unemployable, but he reflected that that might be unwise the day before he was seeking their support at the ballot box.
He had leaned back in his chair and was nodding off when the bombshell fell. It was during “Any Other Business” that Hugh Jenkins (St. Peter’s), someone Keith rarely spoke to—not simply because he made Lenin look like a Liberal, but also because he was Gareth Williams’s closest ally—rose ponderously from his seat in the front row. “Brother Chairman,” he began, “it has been brought to my attention that there has been a violation of Standing Order Number Nine, Subsection c, concerning the election of officers to this committee.”
“Get on with it,” said Keith, who already had plans for Brother Jenkins once he was elected that were not to be found under Subsection c in any rule book.
“I intend to, Brother Townsend,” Jenkins said, turning round to face him, “especially as the matter directly concerns you.”
Keith rocked forward and began to pay close attention for the first time that evening. “It appears, Brother Chairman, that Brother Townsend has, during the past ten days, been canvassing support for the post of chairman of this club.”
“Of course I have,” said Keith. “How else could I expect to get elected?”
“Well, I am delighted that Brother Townsend is so open about it, Brother Chairman, because that will make it unnecessary for you to set up an internal inquiry.”
Keith looked puzzled until Jenkins explained.
“It is,” he continued, “abundantly clear that Brother Townsend has not bothered to consult the party rule book, which states quite unambiguously that any form of canvassi
ng for office is strictly prohibited. Standing Order Number Nine, Subsection c.”
Keith had to admit that he was not in possession of a rule book, and he had certainly never consulted any part of it, let alone Standing Order Number Nine and its subsections.
“I regret that it is nothing less than my duty to propose a resolution,” continued Jenkins: “That Brother Townsend be disqualified from taking part in tomorrow’s election, and at the same time be removed from this committee.”
“On a point of order, Brother Chairman,” said another member of the committee, leaping up from the second row, “I think you will find that that is two resolutions.”
The committee then proceeded to discuss for a further forty minutes whether it was one or two resolutions that they would be required to take a vote on. This was eventually settled by an amendment to the motion: by a vote of eleven to seven it was decided that it should be two resolutions. There followed several more speeches and points of order on the question of whether Brother Townsend should be allowed to take part in the vote. Keith said he was quite content not to vote on the first resolution.
“Most magnanimous,” said Williams, with a smirk.
The committee then passed a resolution by a vote of ten to seven, with one abstention, that Brother Townsend should be disqualified from being a candidate for chairman.
Williams insisted that the result of the vote should be recorded in the minutes of the meeting, in case at some time in the future anyone might register an appeal. Keith made it quite clear that he had no intention of appealing. Williams was unable to remove the smirk from his face.
Keith didn’t stay to hear the outcome of the second resolution, and had returned to his room in college long before it had been voted on. He missed a long discussion on whether they should print new ballot papers now that there was only one candidate for chairman.
Several students made it clear the following day that they were sorry to learn of Keith’s disqualification. But he had already decided that the Labor Party was unlikely to enter the real world much before the end of the century, and that there was little or nothing he could do about it—even if he had become chairman of the club.
The Provost of the college concurred with his judgment over a glass of sherry that evening in the Lodgings. He went on to say, “I am not altogether disappointed by the outcome, because I have to warn you, Townsend, that your tutor is of the opinion that should you continue to work in the same desultory fashion as you have for the past two years, it is most unlikely that you will obtain any qualification from this university.”
Before Keith could speak up in his own defense, the Provost continued, “I am of course aware that an Oxford degree is unlikely to be of great importance in your chosen career, but I beg to suggest to you that it might prove a grave disappointment to your parents were you to leave us after three years with absolutely nothing to show for it.”
When Keith returned to his rooms that night he lay on his bed thinking carefully about the Provost’s admonition. But it was a letter that arrived a few days later that finally spurred him into action. His mother wrote to inform him that his father had suffered a minor heart attack, and she could only hope that it would not be too long before he was willing to shoulder some responsibility.
Keith immediately booked a call to his mother in Toorak. When he was eventually put through, the first thing he asked her was if she wanted him to return home.
“No,” she replied firmly. “But your father hopes that you will now spend some more time concentrating on your degree, otherwise he feels Oxford will have served no purpose.”
Once again Keith resolved to confound the examiners. For the next eight months he attended every lecture and never missed a tutorial. With the help of Dr. Howard, he continued to cram right through the two vacations, which only made him aware of how little work he had done in the past two years. He began to wish he had taken Miss Steadman to Oxford with him, instead of an MG.
On the Monday of the seventh week of his final term, dressed in subfusc—a dark suit, collar and white tie—and his undergraduate gown, he reported to the Examination Schools in the High. For the next five days he sat at his allotted desk, head down, and answered as many of the questions in the eleven papers as he could. When he emerged into the sunlight on the afternoon of the fifth day, he joined his friends as they sat on the steps of Schools devouring champagne with any passer-by who cared to join them.
Six weeks later Keith was relieved to find his name among those posted in the examination school as having been awarded a Bachelor of Arts (Honors) degree. From that day on, he never revealed the class of degree he had obtained, although he had to agree with Dr. Howard’s judgment that it was of little relevance to the career on which he was about to embark.
* * *
Keith wanted to return to Australia on the day after he learned his exam results, but his father wouldn’t hear of it. “I expect you to go and work for my old friend Max Beaverbrook at the Express,” he said over a crackling telephone line. “The Beaver will teach you more in six months than you picked up at Oxford in three years.”
Keith resisted telling him that that would hardly be a great achievement. “The only thing that worries me, Father, is your state of health. I don’t want to stay in England if coming home means I can take some of the pressure off you.”
“I’ve never felt better, my boy,” Sir Graham replied. “The doctor tells me I’m almost back to normal, and as long as I don’t overdo things, I should be around for a long time yet. You’ll be a lot more useful to me in the long run if you learn your trade in Fleet Street than if you come home now and get under my feet. My next call is going to be to the Beaver. So make sure you drop him a line—today.”
Keith wrote to Lord Beaverbrook that afternoon, and three weeks later the proprietor of the Express granted the son of Sir Graham Townsend a fifteen-minute interview.
Keith arrived at Arlington House fifteen minutes early, and walked up and down St. James’s for several minutes before he entered the impressive block of flats. He was kept waiting another twenty minutes before a secretary took him through to Lord Beaverbrook’s large office overlooking St. James’s Park.
“How is your father keeping?” were the Beaver’s opening words.
“He’s well, sir,” Keith replied, standing in front of his desk, as he hadn’t been offered a seat.
“And you want to follow in his footsteps?” said the old man, looking up at him.
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“Good, then you’ll report to Frank Butterfield’s office at the Express by ten tomorrow morning. He’s the best deputy editor in Fleet Street. Any questions?”
“No, sir,” said Keith.
“Good,” replied Beaverbrook. “Please remember me to your father.” He lowered his head, which appeared to be a sign that the interview was over. Thirty seconds later Keith was back out on St. James’s, not sure if the meeting had ever taken place.
The next morning he reported to Frank Butterfield in Fleet Street. The deputy editor never seemed to stop running from one journalist to another. Keith tried to keep up with him, and it wasn’t long before he fully understood why Butterfield had been divorced three times. Few sane women would have tolerated such a lifestyle. Butterfield put the paper to bed every night, except Saturday, and it was an unforgiving mistress.
As the weeks went by, Keith became bored with just following Frank around, and grew impatient to get a broader view of how a newspaper was produced and managed. Frank, who was aware of the young man’s restlessness, devised a program that would keep him fully occupied. He spent three months in circulation, the next three in advertising, and a further three on the shop floor. There he found countless examples of union members playing cards while they should have been working on the presses, or taking the occasional work break between drinking coffee and placing bets at the nearest bookmaker. Some even clocked in under two or three names, drawing a pay packet for each.
; By the time Keith had been at the Express for six months, he had begun to question whether the editorial content was all that mattered in producing a successful newspaper. Shouldn’t he and his father have spent those Sunday mornings looking just as closely at the advertising space in the Courier as they did at the front pages? And when they had sat in the old man’s study criticizing the headlines in the Gazette, shouldn’t they instead have been looking to see if the paper was overstaffed, or if the expenses of the journalists were getting out of control? Surely in the end, however massive a paper’s circulation was, the principal aim should be to make as large a return on your investment as possible. He often discussed the problem with Frank Butterfield, who felt that the well-established practices on the shop floor were now probably irreversible.
Keith wrote home regularly and at great length, advancing his theories. Now that he was experiencing many of his father’s problems at first hand, he began to fear that the trade union practices which were commonplace on the shop floors of Fleet Street would soon find their way to Australia.
At the end of his first year, Keith sent a long memo to Beaverbrook at Arlington House, despite advice to the contrary from Frank Butterfield. In it he expressed the view that the shop floor at the Express was overmanned by a ratio of three to one, and that, while wages made up its largest outgoings, there could be no hope of a modern newspaper group being able to make a profit. In the future someone was going to have to take on the unions. Beaverbrook didn’t acknowledge the report.
Undaunted, Keith began his second year at the Express by putting in hours he hadn’t realized existed when he was at Oxford. This served to reinforce his view that sooner or later there would have to be massive changes in the newspaper industry, and he prepared a long memorandum for his father, which he intended to discuss with him the moment he arrived back in Australia. It set out exactly what changes he believed needed to be made at the Courier and the Gazette if they were to remain solvent during the second half of the twentieth century.
The Fourth Estate Page 16