‘What’s the theme, Keith?’
‘I shall be telling our readers what a first class job Bob Menzies is doing as prime minister, and how foolish it would be to replace a statesman with some inexperienced, wet-behind-the-ears apparatchik.’
Townsend spent most of the next six months locked up in Canberra with Alan Rutledge as they prepared to launch the new paper. Everything ran late, from locating the offices to employing the best administrative staff and poaching the most experienced journalists. But Townsend’s biggest problem was making enough time to see Susan, because when he wasn’t in Canberra he was inevitably in Perth.
The Continent had been on the streets for just over a month, and his bank manager was beginning to remind him that its cash flow was only going one way — out. Susan told him that even at weekends, he was always going one way — back.
Townsend was in the newsroom talking to Alan Rutledge when the phone rang. The editor put his hand over the speaker and warned him that Susan was on the line.
‘Oh, Christ, I’d forgotten. It’s her birthday, and we’re meant to be having lunch at her sister’s place in Sydney. Tell her I’m at the airport. Whatever you do, don’t let her know I’m still here.’
‘Hi, Susan,’ said Alan. ‘I’ve just been told that Keith left for the airport some time ago, so I guess he’s already on his way to Sydney.’ He listened carefully to her reply. ‘Yes... Fine... OK... I will.’ He put the phone down. ‘She says if you leave right away, you might just get to the airport in time to catch the 8:25.’
Townsend left Alan’s office without even saying goodbye, jumped into a delivery van and drove himself to the airport, where he had already spent most of the previous night. One of the problems he hadn’t considered when choosing Canberra as the paper’s base was how many days a week planes would be unable to take off because of fog. During the past four weeks he felt he had spent half his life checking the advance weather forecasts, and the other half standing on the runway, liberally dishing out cash to reluctant pilots, who were fast becoming the most expensive newspaper delivery boys in the world.
He was pleased with the initial reception the Continent had received, and sales had quickly reached 200,000 copies. But the novelty of a national paper already seemed to be wearing off, and the figures were now dropping steadily. Alan Rutledge was delivering the paper Townsend had asked for, but the Continent wasn’t proving to be the paper the Australian people felt they needed.
For the second time that morning Townsend drove in to the airport carpark. But this time the sun was shining and the fog had lifted. The plane for Sydney took off on time, but it wasn’t the 8:25. The stewardess offered him a copy of the Continent, but only because every plane that left the capital was supplied with a free copy for every passenger. That way the circulation figures held above 200,000, and kept the advertisers happy.
He turned the pages of a paper he felt his father would have been proud of. It was the nearest thing Australia had to The Times. And it had something else in common with that distinguished broadsheet — it was losing money fast. Townsend already realized that if they were ever going to make a profit, he would have to take the paper downmarket. He wondered just how long Alan Rutledge would agree to remain as editor once he learned what he had in mind.
He continued to turn the pages until his eyes settled on a column headed ‘Forthcoming Events.’ His marriage to Susan in six days’ time was being billed as ‘the wedding of the year.’ Everyone who mattered would be attending, the paper predicted, other than the prime minister and Sir Somerset Kenwright. That was one day Keith would have to be in Sydney from morning to night, because he didn’t plan to be late for his own wedding.
He turned to the back page to check what was on the radio. Victoria were playing cricket against New South Wales, but none of the networks was covering the game, so he wouldn’t be able to follow it. After months of twisting arms, investing in causes he didn’t believe in and supporting politicians he despised, Townsend had failed to be awarded the franchise for the new network. He had sat in the visitors’ gallery of the House of Representatives to hear the postmaster general announce that the franchise had been awarded to a long-time supporter of the Liberal Party. Later that evening Senator Hadley had told Townsend that the prime minister had personally blocked his application. What with the drop in sales of the Continent, the money he had lost trying to secure the radio franchise, and his mother and Susan continually complaining about never seeing him, it wasn’t turning out to be a glorious year.
Once the plane had taxied to a halt at Kingsford-Smith airport, Townsend ran down the steps, across the tarmac, through the arrivals terminal and out on to the pavement to find Sam standing by the car, waiting for him. ‘What’s that?’ asked Townsend, pointing to a large, smartly wrapped parcel on the back seat.
‘It’s a birthday present for Susan. Heather thought you might not have been able to find anything suitable in Canberra.’
‘God bless her,’ said Townsend.
Although Heather had only been with him for four months, she was already proving a worthy successor to Bunty.
‘How much longer is it going to take before we get there?’ asked Townsend anxiously, looking at his watch.
‘If the traffic stays as light as this, boss, it should be no longer than twenty minutes.’ Townsend tried to relax, but he couldn’t help reflecting on how much work he had to get through before the wedding. He was already beginning to regret that he had committed himself to a two-week honeymoon.
When the car came to a halt outside a small terraced house in the southern suburbs, Sam leaned back and handed the present over to his boss. Townsend smiled, jumped out of the car and ran up the path. Susan had opened the door even before he had rung the bell. She was about to remonstrate with him when he gave her a long kiss and handed the parcel over to her. She smiled and quickly led him through to the dining room just as the birthday cake was being wheeled in. ‘What’s inside?’ she asked, rattling the parcel like a child.
Townsend just stopped himself saying ‘I haven’t a clue,’ and managed, ‘I’m not going to tell you, but I think you’ll be pleased with my choice.’ He nearly risked ‘color.’
He kissed her on the cheek and took the empty seat between Susan’s sister and her mother, and they all watched as she began to unwrap the large box. Keith waited with the same anticipation as everyone else. Susan lifted the lid to reveal a full-length eggshell-blue cashmere coat she had first seen in Farmers over a month before. She could have sworn Keith hadn’t been with her at the time.
‘How did you know that was my favorite color?’ she asked.
Keith had no idea, but he smiled knowingly, and turned his attention to the slice of birthday cake on the plate in front of him. The rest of the meal was spent going over the wedding plans, and Susan warned him yet again that Bruce Kelly’s speech at the reception was definitely not to be in the same vein as the paper’s editorials.
After lunch Susan helped her mother and sister clear the table, while the men settled down around the radio in the drawing room. Keith was surprised to find the cricket was on.
‘Which station are we listening to?’ he asked Susan’s father.
‘2WW, from Wollongong.’
‘But you can’t pick up 2WW in Sydney.’
‘You can in the southern suburbs,’ he replied.
‘Wollongong’s a one-horse town, isn’t it?’ said Keith.
‘One horse, two coalmines and a hotel when I was a boy. But the population has doubled in the last ten years.’