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  “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.

  As he walked into the lobby, he told the security man on the front desk that he wanted to see the editor and the chief executive the moment they came in, and that he required a locksmith immediately. This time as he walked through the building no one asked who he was.

  Townsend sat in Sir Somerset’s chair for the first time and began reading the final edition of that morning’s Chronicle. He jotted down some notes, and when he had read the paper from cover to cover he rose from his chair and began to pace around the office, occasionally stopping to look out over Sydney Harbor. When the locksmith appeared a few minutes later, he told him exactly what needed to be done.

  “When?” asked the locksmith.

  “Now,” said Townsend. He returned to his desk, wondering which of the two men would arrive first. He had to wait another forty minutes before there was a knock on the door. Nick Watson, the editor of the Chronicle, walked in to find Townsend, head down, reading through a bulky file.

  “I’m so sorry, Keith,” he began. “I had no idea that you would be in so early on your first day.” Townsend looked up as Watson added, “Can we make this quick? I’m chairing morning conference at ten.”

  “You won’t be taking morning conference today,” said Townsend. “I’ve asked Bruce Kelly to.”

  “What? But I’m the editor,” said Nick.

  “Not any longer you aren’t,” said Townsend. “I’m promoting you.”

  “Promoting me?” said Nick.

  “Yes. You’ll be able to read the announcement in tomorrow’s paper. You’re to be the Chronicle’s first Editor Emeritus.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “‘E’ means ex, and ‘meritus’ means you deserve it.” Townsend paused as he watched the realization sink in. “Don’t worry, Nick. You’ve got a grand title and a year’s fully paid leave.”

  “But you told Sir Somerset, in my presence, that you were looking forward to working with me.”

  “I know I did, Nick,” he said, and reddened slightly. “I’m sorry, I…” He would have completed the sentence if there hadn’t been another knock at the door.

  Duncan Alexander walked in and said, “I apologize for bothering you, Keith, but someone’s changed the lock on my office door.”

  15.

  Evening Chronicle

  20 November 1947

  THIS HAPPY DAY RADIANT PRINCESS ELIZABETH WEDS HER SAILOR DUKE

  Charlotte decided that she wouldn’t attend Arno Schultz’s sixtieth birthday party because she didn’t feel confident enough yet to leave David with their German nanny. Since she had returned from Lyon, Dick had become more attentive, and sometimes he even got home in time to see their firstborn before he was put to bed.

  That evening Armstrong left the flat for Arno’s house just after seven. He assured Charlotte that he only intended to drop in and drink Arno’s health, and then return home. She smiled and promised his dinner would be ready by the time he came back.

  He hurried across the city in the hope that if he arrived before they sat down for dinner, he would be able to get away after just a quick drink. Then he might even have time to join Max Sackville for a couple of games of poker before going home.

  It was a few minutes before eight when Armstrong knocked on Arno’s front door. As soon as his host had escorted him into the packed drawing room, it became clear that they had all been waiting for him before sitting