“How long have you been with the company?” he asked as she extracted a shorthand pad and a pencil from her bag.
She crossed her legs and said, “Only for a few months, Mr. Townsend. I joined the Chronicle as a trainee after leaving college. You’re my first big assignment.”
Keith felt old for the first time in his life, although he had only recently celebrated his thirty-third birthday.
“What’s the accent?” he asked. “I can’t quite place it.”
“I was born in Budapest, but my parents fled from Hungary at the time of the revolution. The only ship we could get on was going to Australia.”
“My grandfather also fled to Australia,” Keith said.
“Because of a revolution?” she asked.
“No. He was Scottish, and just wanted to get as far away from the English as possible.” Kate laughed. “You recently won a young writers’ award, didn’t you?” he asked, trying to recall the briefing note Heather had prepared for him.
“Yes. Bruce presented the awards last year, which is how I ended up on the Chronicle.”
“So what does your father do?”
“Back in Hungary he was an architect, but over here he’s only been able to pick up odd laboring jobs. The government refuses to recognize his qualifications, and the unions haven’t been all that sympathetic.”
“They don’t like me either,” said Keith. “And what about your mother?”
“I’m sorry to appear rude, Mr. Townsend, but I think I’m meant to be interviewing you.”
“Yes, of course,” said Keith, “do go ahead.” He stared at the girl, unaware of how nervous he was making her. He had never seen anyone more captivating. She had long, dark hair which fell onto her shoulders, and a perfectly oval face that hadn’t yet been savaged by the Australian sun. He suspected that the simple, well-tailored navy-blue suit she wore was more formal than she might normally have chosen. But that was probably because she was interviewing her boss. She crossed her legs again and her skirt rose slightly. He tried not to lower his eyes.
“Shall I repeat the question, Mr. Townsend?”
“Err … I’m so sorry.”
Heather walked in, and was surprised to find them seated in the directors’ corner of the room.
“There’s a call for you on line one from New York,” she said. “Mr. Lazar. He needs to have a word about a counterbid he’s just received from Channel 7 for one of next season’s sitcoms.”
“Tell him I’ll call back later,” said Keith, without looking up. “By the way, Kate,” he said, leaning forward, “would you like a coffee?”
“Yes, thank you Mr. Townsend.”
“Black or white?”
“White, but no sugar. Thank you,” she repeated, looking toward Heather.
Heather turned and left the room without asking Keith if he wanted another coffee.
“Sorry, what was the question?” Keith asked.
“Did you write or publish anything when you were at school?”
“Yes, I was editor of the school magazine in my last year,” he said. Kate began writing furiously. “As my father was before me.” By the time Heather reappeared with the coffee, he was still telling Kate about his triumph with the pavilion appeal.
“And when you went to Oxford, why didn’t you edit the student newspaper, or take over Isis, the university magazine?”
“In those days I was far more interested in politics—and in any case, I knew I’d be spending the rest of my life in the newspaper world.”
“Is it true that when you returned to Australia, you were devastated to find that your mother had sold the Melbourne Courier?”
“Yes, it is,” admitted Keith, as Heather walked back into the room. “And I’ll get it back one day,” he added under his breath.
“A problem, Heather?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. She was standing only a foot away from him.
“Yes. I’m sorry to interrupt you again, Mr. Townsend, but Sir Kenneth Stirling has been trying to get in touch with you all morning. He wants to discuss your proposed trip to the UK.”
“Then I’ll have to call him back as well, won’t I?”
“He did warn me that he’ll be out most of the afternoon.”
“Then tell him I’ll call him at home this evening.”
“I can see you’re busy,” said Kate. “I can wait or come back at some other time.”
Keith shook his head, despite Heather remaining fixed on the spot for several seconds. He even began to wonder if Ken really was on the line.
Kate tried once more. “There are several stories among the clippings about how you took control of the Adelaide Messenger, and your coup with the late Sir Colin Grant.”
“Sir Colin was a close friend of my father,” said Keith, “and a merger was always going to be in the best interests of both papers.” Kate didn’t look convinced. “I’m sure you’ll have read in the clippings that Sir Colin was the first chairman of the merged group.”
“But he only chaired one board meeting.”
“I think you’ll find it was two.”
“Didn’t Sir Somerset Kenwright suffer roughly the same fate when you took over the Chronicle?”
“No, that’s not quite accurate. I can assure you that no one admired Sir Somerset more than I did.”
“But Sir Somerset once described you,” said Kate, glancing down at her notes, “as ‘a man who is happy to lie in the gutter and watch while others climb mountains’.”
“I think you’ll find that Sir Somerset, like Shakespeare, is often misquoted.”
“It would be hard to prove either way,” said Kate, “as he’s also dead.”
“True,” said Keith, a little defensively. “But the words of Sir Somerset that I will always recall are: ‘I couldn’t be more delighted that the Chronicle will be passing into the hands of Sir Graham Townsend’s son.’”
“But didn’t Sir Somerset say that,” suggested Kate, once again referring to her notes, “six weeks before you actually took over?”
“What difference does that make?” asked Keith, trying to fight back.
“Simply that on the first day you arrived at the Chronicle as its proprietor, you sacked the editor and the chief executive. A week later they issued a joint statement, saying—and this time I quote verbatim…”
“Your next appointment has arrived, Mr. Townsend,” said Heather, standing by the door as if she was about to show someone in.
“Who is it?” asked Keith.
“Andrew Blacker.”
“Rearrange it.”
“No, no, please,” said Kate. “I have more than enough.”
“Rearrange it,” repeated Keith firmly.
“As you wish,” said Heather, equally firmly. She walked back out, leaving the door wide open.
“I’m sorry to have taken up so much of your time, Mr. Townsend,” said Kate. “I’ll try to speed things up,” she added, before returning to her long list of questions. “Can I now turn to the launching of the Continent?”
“But I haven’t finished telling you about Sir Somerset Kenwright, and the state the Chronicle was in when I took it over.”
“I’m sorry,” said Kate, “it’s just that I’m concerned about the calls you have to make, and I’m feeling a little guilty about Mr. Blacker.”
There was a long silence before Keith admitted, “There is no Mr. Blacker.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” said Kate.
“He’s a code name. Heather uses them to let me know how long a meeting has overrun: New York is fifteen minutes, Mr. Andrew Blacker is thirty minutes. In a quarter of an hour she’ll reappear and tell me I have a conference call with London and Los Angeles. And if she’s really cross with me, she throws in Tokyo for good measure.”
Kate began to laugh.
“Let’s hope you last the full hour. You’ll never believe what she comes up with after an hour.”
“To be honest, Mr. Townsend, I wasn’t expecting to be given more than fifteen minutes of
your time,” Kate said, as she looked back down at her questions.
“You’d begun to ask me about the Continent,” prompted Keith.
“Oh, yes,” said Kate. “It’s often reported that you were devastated when Alan Rutledge resigned as editor.”
“Yes, I was,” admitted Keith. “He was a fine journalist, and had become a close friend. But the paper had fallen below 50,000 copies a day, and we were losing nearly £100,000 a week. Now, under the new editor, we have returned to sales of 200,000 copies a day, and will be launching a Sunday Continent early in the new year.”
“But surely you accept that the paper can no longer be described as ‘the Times of Australia’?”
“Yes, and I regret that,” said Keith, admitting the fact for the first time to anyone other than his mother.
“Will the Sunday Continent follow the same pattern as the daily, or are you going to produce the quality national newspaper Australia so desperately needs?”
Keith was beginning to realize why Miss Tulloh had won her award, and why Bruce thought so highly of her. This time he chose his words more carefully. “I will endeavor to produce a paper that the majority of Australians would like to see on their breakfast tables every Sunday morning. Does that answer your question, Kate?”
“I fear it does, Mr. Townsend,” she said with a smile.
Keith returned the smile. It quickly disappeared when he heard her next question.
“May I now turn to an incident in your life that has been widely covered by the gossip columns?” Keith reddened slightly as she waited for his response. His instinct was to end the interview there and then, but he just nodded.
“Is it true that on your wedding day you ordered your chauffeur to drive straight past the church only moments before the bride was due to arrive?”
Keith was relieved when Heather marched into the room and said firmly, “Your conference call is due in a couple of minutes, Mr. Townsend.”
“My conference call?” he asked, brightening up.
“Yes, sir,” said Heather. “Sir” was a word she resorted to only when she was very cross.
“London and Los Angeles,” she said. She paused before adding, “and Tokyo.” Very cross, thought Keith. But at least she had given him the chance to escape. Kate had even closed her shorthand pad.
“Rearrange it for this afternoon,” he said quietly. He wasn’t sure which of the women looked more surprised. Heather left them without another word, and this time she closed the door behind her.
Neither of them spoke again until Keith said, “Yes, it’s true. But I’d be obliged if you didn’t refer to it in your article.”
Kate put her pencil down on the table, as Keith turned and looked out of the window. “I’m sorry, Mr. Townsend,” she said, “that was insensitive of me.”
“‘Just doing my job’ is what reporters usually say,” said Keith quietly.
“Perhaps we could move on to your somewhat unusual, if not to say bizarre, takeover of 2WW.”
Keith sat up in his chair and relaxed a little for the first time.
“When the story first broke in the Chronicle—on the morning of your wedding, incidentally—Sir Somerset described you as ‘a pirate’.”
“I’m sure he intended it as a compliment.”
“A compliment?”
“Yes. I assume he meant that I was acting in the great tradition of pirates.”
“Who did you have in mind?” asked Kate innocently.
“Walter Raleigh and Francis Drake,” replied Keith.
“I suspect it’s more likely to have been Bluebeard or Captain Morgan that Sir Somerset had in mind,” said Kate, returning his smile.
“Perhaps. But I think you’ll find that both sides ended up satisfied with that particular deal.”
Kate looked back down at her notes. “Mr. Townsend, you now own, or have the majority shareholding in, seventeen newspapers, eleven radio stations, an aircraft company, a hotel and two coalmines.” She looked back up at him. “What do you plan to do next?”
“I’d like to sell the hotel and the coalmines, so if you happen to come across anyone who might be interested…”
Kate laughed. “No, seriously,” she said, as Heather marched back into the room.
“The prime minister is on his way up in the lift, Mr. Townsend,” she said, her Scottish accent even more pronounced than usual. “You are, as you will remember, entertaining him for lunch in the boardroom.”
Keith winked at Kate, who burst out laughing. Heather held open the door and stood back to allow a distinguished-looking gentleman with a head of silver hair to enter the room.
“Good morning, Prime Minister,” Keith said, as he rose from his place and stepped forward to greet Robert Menzies. The two men shook hands before Keith turned round to introduce Kate, who was trying to hide in the corner of the room. “I don’t think you’ve met Kate Tulloh, Prime Minister. She’s one of the Chronicle’s most promising young reporters. I know she was hoping to get an interview with you at some point.”
“I should be delighted,” said Menzies. “Why don’t you give my office a call, Miss Tulloh, and we can fix a time?”
* * *
For the next two days Keith was unable to get Kate out of his mind. One thing was certain: she didn’t fit into any of his well-ordered plans.
When they had sat down to lunch, the prime minister had wondered why his host was so preoccupied. Townsend showed little interest in his innovative proposals for curbing the power of the trades unions, despite the fact that his papers had been pressing the government on the subject for several years.
Townsend wasn’t a great deal more articulate the following morning, when he chaired the monthly board meeting. In fact, for a man who controlled the largest communications empire in Australia, he was amazingly uncommunicative. One or two of his fellow-directors wondered if he was going down with something. When he addressed the board on item seven, his proposed trip to the UK for the purpose of taking over a small newspaper group in the north of England, few of them could see much point in his making the journey. He totally failed to convince them that anything worthwhile could possibly come out of it.
Once the board meeting was over and the directors had dispersed, Townsend returned to his office and remained at his desk going over papers until Heather finally left for the evening. He checked his watch as the door closed behind her. It was a few minutes past seven, which reminded him how late she normally worked. He didn’t pick up the phone until he was sure she wasn’t going to return, then he dialed the three digits that would put him straight through to the editor’s desk.
“Bruce, this trip I’m about to take to London. I ought to have a journalist along with me to make sure that if the story breaks, you’ll be the first to hear about it.”
“What are you hoping to buy this time?” asked Bruce. “The Times?”
“No, not on this trip,” replied Townsend. “I’m looking for something that just might make a profit.”
“Why don’t I call Ned Brewer at the London bureau? He’s the obvious man to follow up any story.”
“I’m not sure it’s a job for the bureau chief,” said Townsend. “I’m going to be traipsing round the north of England for several days, looking at print works, meeting journalists, trying to decide which editors to retain. I wouldn’t want Ned to be away from his desk for that length of time.”
“I suppose I could spare Ed Makins for a week. But I’d need him back for the opening of Parliament—especially if your hunch turns out to be right and Menzies does announce a bill to curb the powers of the trades unions.”
“No, no, I don’t need someone that high-powered. In any case, I can’t be sure how long I’ll be away. A good junior could do the job.” He paused, but Bruce made no helpful suggestions. “I was impressed by that girl you sent up to interview me the other day,” he said. “What was her name?”
“Kate Tulloh,” said Bruce. “But she’s far too young and inexperienced for somethi
ng as big as this.”
“So were you when we first met, Bruce. It didn’t stop me from offering you the job as editor.”
There was a moment’s silence before Bruce said, “I’ll see if she’s available.”
Townsend smiled as he put the phone down. He couldn’t pretend that he’d been looking forward to the trip to England, although he knew the time had come to expand his horizons beyond Australia.
He looked back down at the pile of notes that littered his desk. Despite a team of management consultants trawling through the details of every newspaper group in the United Kingdom, they had only come up with one good prospect.
A file had been prepared for him to consider over the weekend. He turned the first page and began to read a profile of the West Riding Group. Its head office was in Leeds. He smiled. The nearest he’d ever been to Leeds was a visit to the Doncaster racecourse when he was at Oxford. On that occasion—if he remembered correctly—he’d backed a winner.
19.
News Chronicle
25 October 1951
FINAL POLL GIVES CHURCHILL THE LEAD
“And how will you be paying, Mr. Armstrong?” asked the estate agent.
“It’s Captain Armstrong, actually.”
“I’m sorry, Captain Armstrong.”
“I’ll pay by check.”
It had taken Armstrong ten days to find suitable accommodation, and he only signed the short lease on a flat in Stanhope Gardens when the agent mentioned that a retired brigadier was living on the floor above.
The search for an appropriate office took even longer, because it needed to have an address that would convince Julius Hahn that Armstrong had been in publishing all his life.
When John D. Wood asked what price range he had in mind, a very junior agent was handed the assignment.
Two weeks later, Armstrong settled on an office that was even smaller than his flat in Stanhope Gardens. Although he couldn’t altogether accept the agent’s description of the 308-square-foot room with a lavatory on the floor above as ideal, perfect and unique, it did have two advantages. The Fleet Street address, and a rent he could afford to pay—for the first three months.
“If you’ll be kind enough to sign on the bottom line, Captain Armstrong.”
The Fourth Estate Page 30