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.
‘Is there some problem, Bunty?’
‘Only that your father used to go down and see the editor in his office.’
‘Did he really?’ said Townsend, remaining seated.
‘I’ll ask him to come up straight away.’
Townsend turned to the back page, and studied the Flats for Rent column while he waited. He had already decided that the journey to Melbourne every weekend stole too many precious hours of his time. He wondered how long he’d be able to hold off telling his mother.
Frank Bailey stormed into his office a few minutes later, but Townsend couldn’t see the expression on his face; his head remained down as he pretended to be absorbed in the back page. He circled a box, looked up at the editor and passed him a piece of paper. ‘I want you to print this letter from Jervis, Smith & Thomas on the front page tomorrow, Frank, and I’ll have three hundred words ready for the leader within the hour.’
‘But...’ said Frank.
‘And dig out the worst picture you can find of Sir Colin Grant and put it alongside the letter.’
‘But I’d planned to lead on the Taylor trial tomorrow,’ said the editor. ‘He’s innocent, and we’re known as a campaigning paper.’
‘We’re also known as a paper that’s losing money,’ said Townsend. ‘In any case, the Taylor trial was yesterday’s news. You can devote as much space to him as you like, but tomorrow it won’t be on the front page.’
‘Anything else?’ asked Frank sarcastically.
‘Yes,’ said Townsend calmly. ‘I expect to see the page-one layout on my desk before I leave this evening.’
Frank strode angrily out of the office, without uttering another word.
‘Next I want to see the advertising manager,’ Townsend told Bunty when she reappeared. He opened the file Harris had delivered a day late, and stared down at the carelessly compiled figures. That meeting turned out to be even shorter than Frank’s, and while Harris was clearing his desk, Townsend called for the deputy circulation manager, Mel Carter.
When the young man entered the room, the look on his face indicated that he too was expecting to be told that his desk should be cleared by the end of the morning.
‘Have a seat, Mel,’ said Townsend. He looked down at his file. ‘I see you’ve recently joined us on a three-month trial. Let me make it clear from the outset that I’m only interested in results: you’ve got ninety days, starting today, to prove yourself as advertising manager.’
The young man looked surprised but relieved.
‘So tell me,’ said Townsend, ‘if you could change one thing about the Gazette, what would it be?’
‘The back page,’ said Mel without hesitation. ‘I’d move the small ads to an inside page.’
‘Why?’ asked Townsend. ‘It’s the page which generates our largest income: a little over £3,000 a day, if I remember correctly.’
‘I realize that,’ said Mel. ‘But the Messenger has recently put sport on the back page and taken another 10,000 readers away from us. They’ve worked out that you can put the small ads on any page, because people are far more interested in circulation figures than they are in positioning when they decide where to place an advertisement. I could give you a more detailed breakdown of the figures by six o’clock tonight if that would help convince you.’
‘It certainly would,’ said Townsend. ‘And if you have any other bright ideas, Mel, don’t hesitate to share them with me. You’ll find my door is always open.’
It was a change for Townsend to see someone leaving his office with a smile on their face. He checked his watch as Bunty walked in.
‘Time for you to be leaving for your lunch with the circulation manager of the Messenger.’
‘I wonder if I can afford it,’ said Townsend, checking his watch.
‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘Your father always thought the Caxton Grill very reasonable. It’s Pilligrini’s he considered extravagant, and he only ever took your mother there.’
‘It’s not the price of the meal I’m worried about, Bunty. It’s how much he’ll demand if he agrees to leave the Messenger and join us.’
Townsend waited for a week before he called for Frank Bailey and told him that the small ads would no longer be appearing on the back page.