Nick Watson stepped forward and put his arm round Townsend’s shoulder as he turned to leave. ‘I must say, as editor of the Chronicle, how much I’m looking forward to working with you. I hope we’ll be seeing you back in Sydney before too long.’
‘I’m looking forward to working with you as well,’ said Townsend, ‘and I’m sure we’ll bump into each other from time to time.’ He turned to shake hands with Duncan Alexander. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘We’re all square.’ Duncan thrust out his hand, but Townsend was already rushing out of the door. He saw the lift doors close seconds before he could stab the down arrow on the wall. When he finally flagged a taxi, the driver refused to break the speed limit despite coaxing, bribing and finally shouting. As he was being driven into the terminal, Townsend was able to watch the Douglas DC4 rise into the air above him, oblivious of its final passenger stranded in a taxi below.
‘It must have left on time for a change,’ said the taxi driver with a shrug of the shoulders. That was more than could be said for the next flight, which was scheduled to take off an hour later, but ended up being delayed by forty minutes.
Townsend checked his watch, walked slowly over to the phone booth, and looked up Susan’s number in the Adelaide directory. The operator told him that the number was engaged. When he rang again a few minutes later, there was no reply. Perhaps she was taking a shower. He tried to imagine the scene as the Tannoy announced, ‘This is a final call for all passengers traveling to Adelaide.’
He asked the operator to try once more, only to find the number was engaged again. He cursed, replaced the phone and ran all the way to the aircraft, boarding just before they closed the door. He continually thumped his armrest throughout the flight, but it didn’t make the plane go any faster.
Sam was standing by the car looking anxious when his master came charging out of the terminal. He drove into Adelaide, ignoring every known speed limit, but by the time he dropped his boss outside L’Étoile, the head waiter had already taken the last orders.
Townsend tried to explain what had happened, but Susan seemed to understand even before he had opened his mouth. ‘I phoned you from the airport, but it was either engaged or just went on ringing.’ He looked at the untouched cutlery on the table in front of her. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t eaten.’
‘No, I didn’t feel that hungry,’ she said, and took his hand. ‘But you must be famished, and I’ll bet you still want to celebrate your triumph. So, if you had a choice, what would you like to do most?’
When Townsend walked into his office the following morning, he found Bunty hovering by his desk clutching a sheet of paper. She looked as if she had been standing there for some time.
‘Problem?’ Townsend asked as he closed the door.
‘No. It’s just that you seem to have forgotten that I’m due to retire at the end of this month.’
‘I hadn’t forgotten,’ said Townsend, as he took the seat behind his desk. ‘I just didn’t think...’
‘The rules of the company are quite clear on this matter,’ said Bunty. ‘When a female employee reaches the age of sixty...’
‘You’re never sixty, Bunty!’
‘...she qualifies for retirement on the last Friday of that calendar month.’
‘Rules are there to be broken.’
‘Your father said that there should be no exceptions to that particular rule, and I agree with him.’
‘But I haven’t got the time to look for anyone else at the moment, Bunty. What with the takeover of the Chronicle and...’
‘I had anticipated that problem,’ she said, not flinching, ‘and I have found the ideal replacement.’
‘But what are her qualifications?’ demanded Townsend, ready to dismiss them immediately as inadequate.
‘She’s my niece,’ came back the reply, ‘and more importantly, she comes from the Edinburgh side of the family.’
Townsend couldn’t think of a suitable reply. ‘Well, you’d better make an appointment for her to see me.’ He paused. ‘Some time next month.’
‘She is at this moment sitting in my office, and can see you right now,’ said Bunty.
‘You know how busy I am,’ said Townsend, looking down at the blank page in his diary. Bunty had obviously made certain he had no appointments that morning. She handed over the piece of paper she had been holding.
He began studying Miss Younger’s curriculum vitae, searching for any excuse not to have to see her. When he reached the bottom of the page, he said reluctantly, ‘I’ll see her now.’
When Heather Younger entered the room, Townsend stood and waited until she had taken the seat on the opposite side of the desk. Miss Younger was about five foot nine, and Townsend knew from her curriculum vitae that she was twenty-eight, though she looked considerably older. She was dressed in a green pullover and tweed skirt. Her brown stockings brought back memories for Townsend of ration books, and she wore a pair of shoes that his mother would have described as sensible.
Her auburn hair was done up in a bun, with not a hair out of place. Townsend’s first impression was of being revisited by Miss Steadman, an illusion that was reinforced when Miss Younger began to answer his questions crisply and efficiently.
The interview lasted for eleven minutes, and Miss Younger began work the following Monday.
Townsend had to wait another six weeks before the Chronicle was legally his. During that time he saw Susan almost every day. Whenever she asked him why he remained in Adelaide when he felt the Chronicle needed so much of his time and attention, he told her simply, ‘Until I own the paper I can’t do anything about it. And if they had any idea what I have in mind for them, they would tear up the contract long before the six weeks was up.’
If it hadn’t been for Susan, those six weeks would have seemed interminable, even though she still regularly teased him about how rarely he was on time for a date. He finally solved the problem by suggesting, ‘Perhaps it would be easier if you moved in with me.’
On the Sunday evening before Townsend was officially due to take over the Chronicle, he and Susan flew up to Sydney together. Townsend asked the taxi driver to stop outside the paper’s offices before going on to the hotel. He took Susan by the elbow and guided her across the road. Once they had reached the pavement on the far side, he turned to look up at the Chronicle building. ‘At midnight it belongs to me,’ he said, with a passion she had never heard before.
‘I was rather hoping you’d belong to me at midnight,’ she teased.
When they arrived at the hotel, Susan was surprised to find Bruce Kelly waiting for them in the foyer. She was even more surprised when Keith asked him to join them for dinner.
She found her attention drifting while Keith went over his plans for the future of the newspaper as if she wasn’t there. She was puzzled as to why the Chronicle’s editor hadn’t also been invited to join them. When Bruce eventually left, she and Keith took the lift to the top floor and disappeared into their separate rooms. Keith was sitting at the desk, going over some figures, when she slipped through the connecting door to join him.
The proprietor of the Chronicle rose at a few minutes before six the following morning, and had left the hotel long before Susan was awake. He walked to Pitt Street, stopping to check every news stand on the way. Not as bad as his first experience with the Gazette, he thought, as he arrived outside the Chronicle building, but it could still be a lot better.