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  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.

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