Over dinner that night, Dick told Charlotte that one of the reasons he was going to Britain was to see if he could find a job once his demob paper had been processed. Although she forced a smile, lately she wasn’t always sure that he was telling her the whole story. If she ever pressed him, he invariably hid behind the words ‘top secret,’ and tapped his nose with his forefinger, just the way he had seen Colonel Oakshott do.
Private Benson dropped him at the airport the following morning. A voice came over the Tannoy in the departure lounge and announced: ‘Would Captain Armstrong please report to the nearest military phone before he boards the plane.’ Armstrong would have taken the call, if his plane hadn’t already been taxiing down the runway.
When he landed in London three hours later, Armstrong marched across the tarmac toward a corporal leaning against a shiny black Austin and holding a placard with the name ‘Captain Armstrong’ printed on it. The corporal sprang to attention and saluted the moment he spotted the officer advancing toward him.
‘I need to be driven to Bridgend immediately,’ he said, before the man had a chance to open his mouth. They headed down the A40, and Armstrong dozed off within minutes. He didn’t wake until the corporal said, ‘Only a couple more miles and we’ll be there, sir.’
When they drove up to the camp, memories flooded back of his own internment in Liverpool. But this time when the car passed through the gates, the guards sprang to attention and saluted. The corporal brought the Austin to a halt outside the commandant’s office.
As he walked in, a captain rose from behind a desk to greet him. ‘Roach,’ he said. ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance.’ He thrust out his hand and Armstrong shook it. Captain Roach displayed no medals on his uniform, and looked as if he’d never even crossed the Channel on a day trip, let alone come in contact with the enemy. ‘No one has actually explained to me how I can help you,’ he said as he ushered Armstrong toward a comfortable chair by the fire.
‘I need to see a list of all the prisoners detailed to this camp,’ said Armstrong, without wasting any time on banalities. ‘I intend to interview three of them for a report I’m preparing for the Control Commission in Berlin.’
‘That’s easy enough,’ said the captain. ‘But why did they choose Bridgend? Most of the Nazi generals are locked up in Yorkshire.’
‘I’m aware of that,’ said Armstrong, ‘but I wasn’t given a lot of choice.’
‘Fair enough. Now, do you have any idea what type of person you want to interview, or shall I just pick a few out at random?’ Captain Roach handed over a clipboard, and Armstrong quickly ran his finger down the list of typed names. He smiled. ‘I’ll see one corporal, one lieutenant and one major,’ he said, putting a cross by three names. He handed the clipboard back to the captain.
Roach studied his selection. ‘The first two will be easy enough,’ he said. ‘But I’m afraid you won’t be able to interview Major Lauber.’
‘I have the full authority of...’
‘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...’