The Fourth Estate

“Hard to tell, sir. Lately she’s stopped talking to me altogether.”

“How long have you been married?”

“Eleven years.”

He decided against asking Sam any further questions about matrimony. As the car sped toward the city, he tried to dismiss Susan from his thoughts and to concentrate on the meeting he was about to have with Alan Rutledge. He had never met the man before, but everyone in the newspaper world knew of Rutledge’s reputation as an award-winning journalist and a man who could drink anyone under the table. If Townsend’s latest idea was to have any chance of succeeding, he needed someone of Rutledge’s ability to get it off the ground.

Sam turned off Elizabeth Street and swept up to the entrance of the Town House Hotel. Townsend smiled when he saw the Sunday Chronicle on top of the news stand, and remembered its leader that morning. Once again the paper had told its readers that the time had come for Mr. Menzies to step down and make way for a younger man more in tune with the aspirations of modern Australians.

As the car drew in to the curb Townsend said, “I should be about an hour, two at the most.” Sam smiled to himself as his boss jumped out of the car, pushed his way through the swing doors and disappeared.

Townsend walked quickly through the foyer and on into the breakfast room. He glanced around and spotted Alan Rutledge sitting on his own in a wi

ndow seat, smoking a cigarette and reading the Sunday Chronicle.

He rose as Townsend headed toward the table, and they shook hands rather formally. Rutledge tossed the paper to one side and said, smiling, “I see you’ve taken the Chronicle even further downmarket.” Townsend glanced at the headline: “Shrunken Head Found on Top of Sydney Bus.” “Hardly a headline in the tradition of Sir Somerset Kenwright, I would have thought.”

“No,” said Townsend, “but then neither is the bottom line. We’re selling 100,000 more copies a day than they did when he was the proprietor, and the profits are up by 17 per cent.” He glanced up at the hovering waitress. “Just a black coffee for me, and perhaps some toast.”

“I hope you weren’t thinking of asking me to be the next editor of the Chronicle,” said Rutledge, lighting another Turf. Townsend glanced at the ashtray on the table, and saw that this was Rutledge’s fourth since he had arrived at the breakfast table.

“No,” said Townsend. “Bruce Kelly’s the right man for the Chronicle. What I have in mind for you is far more appropriate.”

“And what might that be?” asked Rutledge.

“A paper that doesn’t even exist yet,” said Townsend, “other than in my imagination. But one I need you to help me create.”

“And which city have you got in your sights?” asked Rutledge. “Most of them already have too many papers, and those that don’t have created a virtual monopoly for themselves. No better example than Adelaide.”

“I can’t disagree with that,” said Townsend, as the waitress poured him a cup of steaming black coffee. “But what this country doesn’t have at the moment is a national paper for all Australians. I want to create a paper called the Continent, which will sell from Sydney to Perth, and everywhere in between. I want it to be the Times of Australia, and regarded by everyone as the nation’s number-one quality newspaper. More importantly, I want you to be its first editor.”

Alan inhaled deeply, and didn’t speak for some time. “Where would it be based?”

“Canberra. It has to come out of the political capital, where the nation’s decisions are made. Our biggest task will be to sign up the best journalists available. That’s where you come in, because they’re more likely to come on board if they know you’re going to be the editor.”

“How long do you imagine the run-in time will be?” asked Rutledge, stubbing out his fifth cigarette.

“I hope to have it on the streets in six months,” Townsend replied.

“And what circulation are you hoping for?” Rutledge asked, as he lit another cigarette.

“Two hundred to 250,000 in the first year, building up to 400,000.”

“How long will you stay with it if you don’t manage those numbers?”

“Two years, perhaps three. But as long as it breaks even, I’ll stay with it forever.”

“And what sort of package do you have in mind for me?” asked Alan.

“Ten thousand a year, with all the usual extras.” A smile appeared on Rutledge’s face, but then, Townsend knew it was almost double what he was getting in his present job.

By the time Townsend had answered all his questions and Rutledge had opened another packet of cigarettes, they could have ordered an early lunch. When Townsend finally rose to shake hands again, Rutledge said he would consider his proposition and get back to him by the end of the week.

As Sam drove him back to Darling Point, Townsend wondered how he could make the idea of traveling between Sydney, Canberra, Adelaide and Perth every seven days sound exciting to Susan. He wasn’t in much doubt what her reaction would be.

When Sam pulled in to the drive a few minutes before one, the first thing Keith saw was Susan coming down the path, carrying a large hamper in one hand and a bag full of beachwear in the other.

“Close the front door,” was all she said as she passed Keith and continued walking toward the car. Keith’s fingers had just touched the door handle when the phone began to ring. He hesitated for a moment, and decided to tell whoever it was that they would have to call back that evening.