The Fourth Estate

13 March 1956

MENZIES STAYS PUT

The first time Townsend noticed her was on a flight up to Sydney. He was reading the Gazette: the lead story should have been relegated to page three and the headline was weak. The Gazette now had a monopoly in Adelaide, but the paper was becoming increasingly slack. He should have removed Frank Bailey from the editor’s chair after the merger, but he had to satisfy himself with getting rid of Sir Colin first. He frowned.

“Would you like your coffee topped up, Mr. Townsend?” she asked. Townsend glanced up at the slim girl who was holding a coffee pot, and smiled. She must have been about twenty-five, with curly fair hair and blue eyes which made you go on staring at them.

“Yes,” he replied, despite not wanting any more. She returned his smile—an air hostess’s smile, a smile that didn’t vary for the fat or the thin, the rich or the poor.

Townsend put the Gazette to one side and tried to concentrate on the meeting that was about to take place. He had recently purchased, at a cost of half a million pounds, a small print group which specialized in giveaway papers distributed in the western suburbs of Sydney. The deal had done no more than give him a foothold in Australia’s largest city.

It had been at the Newspapers and Publishers Annual Dinner at the Cook Hotel that a man of about twenty-seven or twenty-eight, five foot eight, square-jawed with bright red hair and the shoulders of a prop forward, came up to his table after the speeches were over and whispered in his ear, “I’ll see you in the men’s room.” Townsend wasn’t sure whether to laugh or just to ignore the man. But curiosity got the better of him, and a few minutes later he rose from his place and made his way through the tables to the men’s room. The man with the red hair was washing his hands in the corner basin. Townsend walked across, stood at the basin next to him and turned on the tap.

“What hotel are you staying at?” he asked.

“The Town House,” Keith replied.

“And what’s your room number?”

“I have no idea.”

“I’ll find out. I’ll come to your room around midnight. That is, if you’re interested in getting your hands on the Sydney Chronicle.” The red-headed man turned off the tap, dried his hands and left.

Townsend learned in the early hours of the morning that the man who had accosted him at the dinner was Bruce Kelly, the Chronicle’s deputy editor. He wasted no time in telling Townsend that Sir Somerset Kenwright was considering selling the paper, as he felt it no longer fitted in with the rest of his group.

“Was there something wrong with your coffee?” she asked.

Townsend looked up at her, and then down at his untouched coffee. “No, it was fine, thank you,” he said. “I’m just a little preoccupied at the moment.” She gave him that smile again, before removing the cup and continuing on to the row behind. Once again he tried to concentrate.

When he had first discussed the idea with his mother, she had told him that it had been his father’s lifelong ambition to own the Chronicle, though her own feelings were ambivalent. The reason he was traveling to Sydney for the third time in as many weeks was for another meeting with Sir Somerset’s top management team, so he could go over the terms of a possible deal. And one of them still owed him a favor.

Over the past few months Townsend’s lawyers had been working in tandem with Sir Somerset’s, and both sides now felt they were at last coming close to an agreement. “The old man thinks you’re the lesser of two evils,” K

elly had warned him. “He’s faced the fact that his son isn’t up to the job, but he doesn’t want the paper to fall into the hands of Wally Hacker, who he’s never liked, and certainly doesn’t trust. He’s not sure about you, although he has fond memories of your father.” Since Kelly had given him that piece of invaluable information, Townsend had mentioned his father whenever he and Sir Somerset met.

When the plane taxied to a halt at Kingsford-Smith airport, Townsend unfastened his seatbelt, picked up his briefcase and began to walk toward the forward exit. “Have a good day, Mr. Townsend,” she said. “I do hope you’ll be flying Austair again.”

“I will,” he promised. “In fact I’m coming back tonight.” Only an impatient line of passengers who were pressing forward stopped him from asking if she would be on that flight.

When his taxi came to a halt in Pitt Street, Townsend checked his watch and found he still had a few minutes to spare. He paid the fare and darted through the traffic to the other side of the road. When he had reached the far pavement, he turned round and stared up at the building which housed the biggest-selling newspaper in Australia. He only wished his father was still alive to witness him closing the deal.

He walked back across the road, entered the building and paced around the reception area until a well-dressed middle-aged woman appeared out of one of the lifts, walked over to him and said, “Sir Somerset is expecting you, Mr. Townsend.”

When Townsend walked into the vast office overlooking the harbor, he was greeted by a man he had regarded with awe and admiration since his childhood. Sir Somerset shook him warmly by the hand. “Keith. Good to see you. I think you were at school with my chief executive, Duncan Alexander.” The two men shook hands, but said nothing. “But I don’t believe you’ve met the Chronicle’s editor, Nick Watson.”

“No, I haven’t had that pleasure,” said Townsend, shaking Watson by the hand. “But of course I know of your reputation.”

Sir Somerset waved them to seats around a large boardroom table, taking his place at the top. “You know, Keith,” began the old man, “I’m damn proud of this paper. Even Beaverbrook tried to buy it from me.”

“Understandably,” said Townsend.

“We’ve set a standard of journalism in this building that I like to think even your father would have been proud of.”

“He always spoke of your papers with the greatest respect. Indeed, when it came to the Chronicle, I think the word ‘envy’ would be more appropriate.”

Sir Somerset smiled. “It’s kind of you to say so, my boy.” He paused. “Well, it seems that during the past few weeks our teams have been able to agree most of the details. So, as long as you can match Wally Hacker’s offer of £1.9 million and—just as important to me—you agree to retain Nick as editor and Duncan as chief executive, I think we might have ourselves a deal.”

“It would be foolish of me not to rely on their vast knowledge and expertise,” said Townsend. “They are two highly respected professionals, and I shall naturally be delighted to work with them. Though I feel I should let you know that it’s not my policy to interfere in the internal working of my papers, especially when it comes to the editorial content. That’s just not my style.”