The Fourth Estate

“Does he?” said Townsend. “And which is his office?” The young woman pointed across the floor to the far corner of the room.

Mr. Harris appeared in his office at 9:47, by which time Townsend had been through most of his files. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” were Harris’s first words when he found Townsend sitting behind his desk, studying a sheaf of papers.

“Waiting for you,” said Townsend. “I don’t expect my advertising manager to be strolling in just before ten o’clock.”

“Nobody who works for a newspaper starts work much before ten. Even the tea boy knows that,” said Harris.

“When I was the tea boy on the Daily Express, Lord Beaverbrook was sitting at his desk by eight o’clock every morning.”

“But I rarely get away before six in the evening,” Harris protested.

“A decent journalist rarely gets home before eight, and the back-bench staff should consider themselves lucky if they’re away much before midnight. Starting tomorrow, you and I will meet in my office every morning at eight-thirty, and the rest of your staff will be at their desks by nine. If anyone can’t manage that, they can start studying the Situations Vacant column on the back page of the paper. Do I make myself clear?”

Harris pursed his lips and nodded.

“Good. The first thing I want from you is a budget for the next three months, with a clear breakdown of how our line prices compare with the Messenger. I want it on my desk by the time I come in tomorrow.” He rose from Harris’s chair.

“It may not be possible to have all those figures ready for you by this time tomorrow,” protested Harris.

“In that case, you can start studying the Situations Vacant column as well,” said Townsend. “But not in my time.”

He strode out, leaving Harris shaking, and took the lift up one floor to the circulation department, where he wasn’t surprised to encounter exactly the same laissez-faire attitude. An hour later he left that department with more than one of them shaking, though he had to admit that a young man from Brisbane called Mel Carter, who had recently been appointed as the department’s deputy manager, had impressed him.

Frank Bailey was surprised to see “young Keith” back in the office so soon, and even more surprised when he returned to his place on the window ledge for the morning conference. Bailey was relieved that Townsend didn’t offer any opinions, but couldn’t help noticing that he was continuously taking notes.

By the time Townsend reached his own office, it was eleven o’clock. He immediately set about going through his mail with Miss Bunting. She had laid it all out on his desk in separate files with different-colored markers, the purpose of which, she explained, was to make sure that he dealt with the real priorities when he was running short of time.

Two hours later, Townsend realized why his father had held “Bunty” in such high regard, and was wondering not when he would replace her, but just how long she would be willing to stay on.

“I’ve left the most important matter until last,” said Bunty. “The latest offer from the Messenger. Sir Colin Grant called earlier this morning to welcome you home and to make sure that you had received his letter.”

“Did he?” said Townsend with a smile, as he flicked open the file marked “Confidential” and skimmed through a letter from Jervis, Smith & Thomas, the lawyers who had represented the Messenger for as long as he could remember. He stopped when he came across the figure £150,000, and frowned. He then read the minutes of the previous month’s board meeting, which clearly showed the directors’ complacent attitude to the bid. But that meeting had taken place before his mother had given him a ninety-day stay of execution.

“Dear Sir,” dictated Townsend, as Bunty flicked over the next page of her shorthand pad. “I have received your letter of the twelfth inst. New paragraph. In order not to waste any more of your time, let me make it clear that the Gazette is not for sale, and never will be. Yours faithfully…”

Townsend leaned back in his chair and recalled the last time he had met the chairman of the Messenger. Like many failed politicians, Sir Colin was pompous and opinionated, particularly with the young. “The seen-and-not-heard brigade,” was how he described children, if Townsend remembered correctly. He wondered how long it would be before he heard or saw him again.

* * *

Two days later, Townsend was studying Harris’s advertising report when Bunty popped her head round the door to say that Sir Colin Grant was on the line. Townsend nodded and picked up the phone.

“Keith, my boy. Welcome home,” the old man began. “I’ve just read your letter, and wondered if you were aware that I had a verbal agreement with your mother concerning the sale of the Gazette?”

“My mother told you, Sir Colin, that she would be giving your offer her serious consideration. She made no verbal commitment, and anyone who suggests otherwise is…”

“Now hold on, young fellow,” interrupted Sir Colin. “I’m only acting in good faith. As you well know, your father and I were close friends.”

“But my father is no longer with us, Sir Colin, so in future you will have to deal with me. And we are not close friends.”

“Well, if that’s your attitude, there seems no point in mentioning that I was going to increase my offer to £170,000.”

“No point at all, Sir Colin, because I still wouldn’t consider it.”

“You will in time,” barked the older man, “because within six months I’ll run you off the streets, and then you’ll be only too happy to take £50,000 for whatever remains of the bits and pieces.” Sir Colin paused. “Feel free to call me when you change your mind.”

Townsend put the phone down and asked Bunty to tell the editor that he wanted to see him immediately.

Miss Bunting hesitated.