The Fourth Estate

“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.”

12.

Melbourne Courier

12 September 1950

SIR GRAHAM TOWNSEND DIES

The cortège came to a halt outside the cathedral. Keith stepped out of the leading car, took his mother’s 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 arm 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 see the 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 Stranthedan. 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, has just made me an offer of £150,000 for the Gazette, and the board will be considering it at our next meeting.”

“But why would we want to sell the Gazette?” 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.”

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