Keith continued to listen to the ball-by-ball commentary, but his mind was already in Wollongong. As soon as he thought he could get away with it, he strolled into the kitchen to find the women sitting round the table, still discussing the wedding.
‘Susan, did you come in your own car?’ Keith asked.
‘Yes, I drove over yesterday and stayed the night.’
‘Fine. I’ll get Sam to take me home now. I’m feeling a bit guilty about having him hang about for so long. See you in about an hour?’ He kissed her on the cheek and turned to leave. He was halfway down the path before Susan realized that he could have sent Sam off hours ago, because they could have gone home in her car.
‘Back to Darling Point, boss?’
‘No,’ said Keith. ‘Wollongong.’
Sam swung the car round in a circle, turning left at the end of the road so that he could join the afternoon traffic leaving Sydney on the Princes Highway. Keith suspected that if he had said ‘Wagga Wagga’ or ‘Broken Hill,’ Sam still wouldn’t have raised an eyebrow.
Within moments Keith had fallen asleep, suspecting the trip was likely to prove a waste of time. When they passed a sign saying ‘Welcome to Wollongong,’ Sam took the next corner sharply, which always woke the boss. ‘Anywhere in particular?’ he asked. ‘Or were you just hoping to buy a coalmine?’
‘No, a radio station actually,’ said Keith.
‘Then my guess,’ said Sam, ‘is that it has to be pretty near that great aerial sticking out of the ground over there.’
‘Bet you got an observation badge when you were in the Cubs.’
A few minutes later Sam dropped him outside a building which had ‘2WW’ written in faded white letters across its corrugated-iron roof.
Townsend got out of the car, ran up the steps, pushed through the door and walked up to a small desk. The young receptionist stopped knitting and looked up.
‘Can I help you?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ said Townsend. ‘Do you know who owns this station?’
‘Yes, I do,’ she replied.
‘And who’s that?’ asked Townsend.
‘My uncle.’
‘And who is your uncle?’
‘Ben Ampthill.’ She looked up at him. ‘You’re not local, are you?’
‘No, I’m not,’ admitted Townsend.
‘I thought I hadn’t seen you before.’
‘Do you know where he lives?’
‘Who?’
‘Your uncle.’
‘Yes, of course I do.’
‘Would it be possible for you to tell me where that is?’ said Townsend, trying not to sound too exasperated.
‘Sure can. It’s the big house on the hill in Woonona, just outside town. Hard to miss it.’
Townsend ran back out of the building, jumped into the car and passed on the directions to Sam.
The young receptionist turned out to be right about one thing: the large white house nestling in the hills was hard to miss. Sam swung off the main road, slowing down as he passed through the wrought-iron gates and up a long drive toward the house. They pulled up outside a smart portico.
Townsend banged on the large black doorknocker and waited patiently, his speech already prepared: I’m sorry to bother you on a Sunday afternoon, but I was rather hoping I might be able to have a word with Mr. Ampthill.
The door was opened by a middle-aged woman in a smart floral dress, who looked as if she had been expecting him.
‘Mrs. Ampthill?’
‘Yes. How can I help you?’
‘My name is Keith Townsend. I’m sorry to bother you on a Sunday afternoon, but I was rather hoping I might be able to have a word with your husband.’
‘My niece was right,’ said Mrs. Ampthill. ‘You’re not local, otherwise you would have known that Ben can always be found at the mine office from Monday to Friday, takes the day off on Saturday to play golf, goes to church on Sunday morning and spends the afternoon at the radio station, listening to the cricket. I think that’s the only reason he bought the station in the first place.’
Townsend smiled at this piece of information and said, ‘Thank you for your help, Mrs. Ampthill. I’m sorry to have bothered you.’
‘No bother,’ she replied, as she watched him run back toward the car.
‘Back to the radio station,’ Townsend said, unwilling to admit his mistake to Sam.
When Townsend walked up to the reception desk for a second time, he immediately asked, ‘Why didn’t you tell me that your uncle was here all the time?’
‘Because you didn’t ask,’ the young woman said, not bothering to look up from her knitting.
‘So where is he, exactly?’ asked Townsend slowly.
‘In his office.’
‘And where is his office?’
‘On the third floor.’
‘Of this building?’
‘Of course,’ she said, looking at him as if she were dealing with a moron.
As there was no sign of a lift, Townsend ran up the stairs to the third floor. He looked up and down the corridor, but there was no clue as to where Mr. Ampthill’s office might be. He had knocked on several doors before someone eventually hollered, ‘Come in.’
Townsend pushed open the door to find an overweight, balding man in a sweatshirt with his feet up on the desk. He was listening to the closing overs of the match Townsend had been following earlier in the afternoon. He swung round, took one look at Townsend and said, ‘Have yourself a seat, Mr. Townsend. But don’t say anything just yet, because we only need another eleven runs to win.’
‘I support New South Wales too,’ said Townsend.
Ben Ampthill smiled as the next ball was hit to the boundary. Still without looking at Townsend, he leaned back and passed him a bottle of Resch’s and an opener.
‘A couple more balls should do it, and then I’ll be with you,’ he said.
Neither spoke until the last seven runs had been scored. Then Mr. Ampthill leaned forward, punched his fist in the air and said, ‘That should wrap up the Sheffield Shield for us.’ He removed his feet from the desk, swung round, thrust out his hand and said, ‘I’m Ben Ampthill.’
‘Keith Townsend.’
Ampthill nodded. ‘Yes, I know who you are. My wife rang to tell me you’d been up to the house. She thought you might be a salesman of some sort, in that flashy suit and wearing a tie on a Sunday afternoon.’
Townsend tried not to laugh. ‘No, Mr. Ampthill, I’m not...’
‘Call me Ben, everybody else does.’
‘No, Ben, I’m not a seller, I’m a buyer.’
‘And what are you hoping to buy, young man?’
‘Your radio station.’
‘It’s not for sale, Keith. Not unless you also want the local newspaper, a no-star hotel, and a couple of coalmines thrown in. Because they’re all part of the same company.’
‘Who owns the company?’ asked Townsend. ‘It’s just possible that the shareholders might consider...’
‘There are only two shareholders,’ Ben explained. ‘Pearl and me. So even if I wanted to sell, I’d still have to convince her.’
‘But if you own the company—’ Townsend hesitated ‘—along with your wife, you have it in your power to sell me the station.’
‘Sure do,’ said Ben. ‘But I’m not going to. If you want the station, you’re just going to have to buy everything else that goes with it.’
After several more Resch’s and another hour of haggling, Townsend came to realize that Ben’s niece had failed to inherit any genes from his side of the family.
When Townsend finally emerged from Ben’s office it was pitch dark, and the receptionist had left. He fell into the car, and told Sam to take him back to the Ampthills’ house. ‘And by the way,’ he said, as the car swung round yet again, ‘you were right about the coalmines. I’m now the proud owner of two of them, as well as the local paper and a hotel, but most important of all, a radio station. But the deal can’t be finally ratified until I’ve had dinner with the other shareholder, just to be sure she approves of me.’