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.”
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.
&nb
sp; 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.”
* * *
When Keith crept into the house at one o’clock the following morning, he wasn’t surprised to find Susan was fast asleep. He quietly closed the bedroom door and went down to his study on the ground floor, where he sat at his desk and began writing some notes. It wasn’t long before he started wondering what was the earliest moment that he could possibly call his lawyer. He settled on six thirty-five, and filled in the time by having a shower, putting on a fresh set of clothes, packing a suitcase, making himself some breakfast and reading the first editions of the Sydney papers, which were always delivered to him by five every morning.
At twenty-five to seven he left the kitchen, returned to his study and dialed his lawyer’s home number. A sleepy voice answered the phone.
“Good morning, Clive. I thought I ought to let you know I’ve just bought a coalmine. Two, in fact.”
“And why in heaven’s name did you do that, Keith?” a more awake voice asked. It took another forty minutes for Townsend to explain how he had spent the previous afternoon, and the price agreed on. Clive’s pen never stopped moving across the pad by the side of his bed, which was always there just in case Townsend phoned.
“My first reaction is that Mr. Ampthill looks as if he’s got himself a good deal,” said Clive when his client finally stopped talking.
“He sure did,” said Townsend. “And had he wanted to prove it, he could also have drunk me under the table.”
“Well, I’ll call you later this morning to fix an appointment so we can flesh this deal out.”
“Can’t do that,” said Townsend. “I have to catch the first flight to New York if I’m going to make this deal worthwhile. You’ll need to sort out the details with Ben Ampthill. He’s not the sort of man who’ll go back on his word.”
“But I’m still going to need your input.”
“You’ve just had it,” said Townsend. “So be sure you have the contract ready for signing the moment I get back.”
“How long will you be away?” asked Clive.
“Four days, five at the most.”
“Can you pick up what you need in five days?”
“If I can’t, I’ll have to take up coalmining.”
Once he had put the phone down, Townsend returned to the bedroom and picked up his suitcase. He decided not to wake Susan: flying off to New York at such short notice would take a lot of explaining. He scribbled her a note and left it on the hall table.
When he saw Sam standing at the end of the drive, Townsend couldn’t help thinking that he looked as if he hadn’t had much sleep either. At the airport, he told him that he’d be back some time on Friday.
“Don’t forget you’re getting married on Saturday, boss.”
“Even I couldn’t forget that,” said Townsend. “No need to worry, I’ll be back with at least twenty-four hours to spare.”
In the plane, he fell asleep moments after he had fastened his seatbelt. When he woke several hours later, he couldn’t remember where he was going or why. Then it all came back to him. He and his radio team had spent several days in New York during their preparations for the earlier network bid, and he had made three subsequent visits to the city that year, setting up deals with American networks and agencies that would have been immediately turned into a program schedule had he been awarded the new franchise. Now he intended to take advantage of all that hard work.
A Yellow Cab drove him from the airport to the Pierre. Despite all four windows being down, Townsend had removed his tie and undone his shirt collar long before he was dropped outside the hotel.
The concierge welcomed him as if he had made fifty trips to New York that year, and instructed a bellboy to show Mr. Townsend up to “his usual room.” Another shower, a further change of clothes, a late breakfast and several more phone calls were made before Townsend began shuttling round the city from agent to agent, network to network, studio to studio, in an attempt to close deals at breakfast, lunch, dinner and sometimes in the small hours of the morning.
Four days later he had purchased the Australian rights for most of the top American radio programs for the coming season, with options on them for a further four years. He signed the final agreement only a couple of hours before his flight was due to leave for Sydney. He packed a suitcase full of dirty clothes—he disapproved of paying unnecessary bills—and took a cab to the airport.
Once the plane had taken off he started drafting a 500-word article, revising paragraphs and changing phrases, until he was satisfied it was good enough for the front page. When they landed in Los Angeles, Townsend went in search of the nearest pay phone and called Bruce Kelly’s office. He was surprised that the editor wasn’t at his desk. Kelly’s deputy assured him that he still had enough time to make the final edition, and quickly transferred him to a copy typist. As Townsend dictated the article, he wondered how long it would be before Hacker and Kenwrigh
t were on the phone, begging him to make a deal now that he had broken their cozy cartel wide open.
He heard his name being called out over the loudspeaker, and had to run all the way back to the aircraft. They closed the door as soon as he had stepped on board. Once he had settled into his seat, his eyes didn’t open again until the plane touched down at Sydney the following morning.
When he reached the baggage collection area, he called Clive Jervis as he waited for his suitcases to come down the chute. He glanced at his watch when he heard Clive’s voice on the other end of the line. “I hope I didn’t get you out of bed,” he said.
“Not at all. I was just putting on my morning dress,” the lawyer replied.
Townsend would have asked whose wedding Clive was attending, but he was only interested in finding out if Ampthill had signed the contract.
“Let me tell you before you ask,” Clive began. “You are now the proud owner of the Wollongong Times, the Wollongong Grand Hotel, two coalmines and a radio station known as 2WW, which can be picked up as far south as Nowra and as far north as the southern outskirts of Sydney. I only hope you know what you’re up to, Keith, because I’m damned if I do.”
“Read the front page of this morning’s Chronicle,” said Townsend. “It might give you a clue.”
“I never read the papers on a Saturday morning,” said Clive. “I think I’m entitled to one day off a week.”
“But today’s Friday,” said Townsend.