The Fourth Estate Page 5

  “‘Benevolent Dictator’—weak headline,” his father declared one Sunday morning as he glanced at the front page of the previous day’s Adelaide Gazette. A few moments later he added, “And an even weaker story. Neither of these people should ever be allowed near a front page again.”

  “But there’s only one name on top of the column,” said Keith, who had been listening intently to his father.

  Sir Graham chuckled. “True, my boy, but the headline would have been set up by a sub-editor, probably long after the journalist who wrote the piece had left for the day.”

  Keith remained puzzled until his father explained that headlines could be changed only moments before the paper was put to bed. “You must grab the readers’ attention with the headline, otherwise they will never bother to read the story.”

  Sir Graham read out loud an article about the new German leader. It was the first time Keith had heard the name of Adolf Hitler. “Damned good photograph, though,” his father added, as he pointed to the picture of a little man with a toothbrush moustache, striking a pose with his right hand held high in the air. “Never forget the hoary old cliché, my boy: ‘A picture’s worth a thousand words.’”

  There was a sharp rap on the door that both of them knew could only have been administered by the knuckle of Miss Steadman. Sir Graham doubted if the timing of her knock each Sunday had varied by more than a few seconds since the day she had arrived.

  “Enter,” he said in his sternest voice. He turned to wink at his son. Neither of the male Townsends ever let anyone else know that behind her back they called Miss Steadman “Gruppenführer.”

  Miss Steadman stepped into the study and delivered the same words she had repeated every Sunday for the past year: “It’s time for Master Keith to get ready for church, Sir Graham.”

  “Good heavens, Miss Steadman, is it that late already?” he would reply before shooing his son toward the door. Keith reluctantly left the safe haven of his father’s study and followed Miss Steadman out of the room.

  “Do you know what my father has just told me, Miss Steadman?” Keith said, in a broad Australian accent that he felt sure would annoy her.

  “I have no idea, Master Keith,” she replied. “But whatever it was, let us hope that it will not stop you concentrating properly on the Reverend Davidson’s sermon.” Keith fell into a gloomy silence as they continued their route march up the stairs to his bedroom. He didn’t utter a sound again until he had joined his father and mother in the back of the Rolls.

  Keith knew that he would have to concentrate on the minister’s every word, because Miss Steadman always tested him and his sisters on the most minute details of the text before they went to bed. Sir Graham was relieved that she never subjected him to the same examination.

  Three nights in the treehouse—which Miss Steadman had constructed within weeks of her arrival—was the punishment for any child who obtained less than 80 percent in the sermon test. “Good for character-building,” she would continually remind them. What Keith never told her was that he occasionally gave the wrong answer deliberately, because three nights in the treehouse was a blessed escape from her tyranny.

  * * *

  Two decisions were made when Keith was eleven which were to shape the rest of his life, and both of them caused him to burst into tears.

  Following the declaration of war on Germany, Sir Graham was given a special assignment by the Australian government which, he explained to his son, would require him to spend a considerable amount of time abroad. That was the first.

  The second came only days after Sir Graham had departed for London, when Keith was offered, and on his mother’s insistence took up, a place at St. Andrew’s Grammar—a boys’ boarding school on the outskirts of Melbourne.

  Keith wasn’t sure which of the decisions caused him more anguish.

  Dressed in his first pair of long trousers, the tearful boy was driven to St. Andrew’s for the opening day of the new term. His mother handed him over to a matron who looked as if she had been chiseled out of the same piece of stone as Miss Steadman. The first boy Keith set eyes on as he entered the front door was Desmond Motson, and he was later horrified to discover that they were not only in the same house, but the same dormitory. He didn’t sleep the first night.

  The following morning, Keith stood at the back of the school hall and listened to an address from Mr. Jessop, his new headmaster, who hailed from somewhere in England called Winchester. Within days the new boy discovered that Mr. Jessop’s idea of fun was a ten-mile cross-country run followed by a cold shower. That was for the good boys who, once they had changed and were back in their rooms, were expected to read Homer in the original. Keith’s reading had lately concentrated almost exclusively on the tales of “our gallant war heroes” and their exploits in the front line, as reported in the Courier. After a month at St. Andrew’s he would have been quite willing to change places with them.

  During his first holiday Keith told his mother that if schooldays were the happiest days of your life, there was no hope for him in the future. Even she had been made aware that he had few friends and was becoming something of a loner.

  The only day of the week Keith looked forward to was Wednesday, when he could escape from St. Andrew’s at midday and didn’t have to be back until lights out. Once the school bell had rung he would cycle the seven miles to the nearest racetrack, where he would spend a happy afternoon moving between the railings and the winners’ enclosure. At the age of twelve he thought of himself as something of a wizard of the turf, and only wished he had some more money of his own so he could start placing serious bets. After the last race he would cycle to the offices of the Courier and watch the first edition coming off the stone, returning to school just before lights out.

  Like his father, Keith felt much more at ease with journalists and the racing fraternity than he ever did with the sons of Melbourne society. How he longed to tell the careers master that all he really wanted to do when he left school was be the racing correspondent for the Sporting Globe, another of his father’s papers. But he never let anyone into his secret for fear that they might pass the information on to his mother, who had already hinted that she had other plans for his future.

  When his father had taken him racing—never informing his mother or Miss Steadman where they were going—Keith would watch as the old man placed large sums of money on every race, occasionally passing over sixpence to his son so he could also try his luck. To begin with Keith’s bets did no more than reflect his father’s selections, but to his surprise he found that this usually resulted in his returning home with empty pockets.

  After several such Wednesday-afternoon trips to the racetrack, and having discovered that most of his sixpences ended up in the bookmaker’s bulky leather bag, Keith decided to invest a penny a week in the Sporting Globe. As he turned the pages, he learned the form of every jockey, trainer and owner recognized by the Victoria Racing Club, but even with this newfound knowledge he seemed to lose just as regularly as before. By the third week of term he had often gambled away all his pocket money.

  Keith’s life changed the day he spotted a book advertised in the Sporting Globe called How to Beat the Bookie, by “Lucky Joe.” He talked Florrie into lending him half a crown, and sent a postal order off to the address at the bottom of the advertisement. He greeted the postman every morning until the book appeared nineteen days later. From the moment Keith opened the first page, Lucky Joe replaced Homer as his compulsory reading during the evening prep period. After he had read the book twice, he was confident that he had found a system which would ensure that he always won. The following Wednesday he returned to the racecourse, puzzled as to why his father hadn’t taken advantage of Lucky Joe’s infallible method.

  Keith cycled home that night having parted with a whole term’s pocket money in one afternoon. He refused to blame Lucky Joe for his failure, and assumed that he simply hadn’t fully understood the system. After he had read the book a third time,
he realized his mistake. As Lucky Joe explained on page seventy-one, you must have a certain amount of capital to start off with, otherwise you can never hope to beat the bookie. Page seventy-two suggested that the sum required was £10, but as Keith’s father was still abroad, and his mother’s favorite maxim was “neither a borrower nor a lender be,” he had no immediate way of proving that Lucky Joe was right.

  He therefore came to the conclusion that he must somehow make a little extra cash, but as it was against school rules to earn any money during term time, he had to satisfy himself with reading Lucky Joe’s book yet again. He would have received “A” grades in the end-of-term exams if How to Beat the Bookie had been the set text.

  Once term was over, Keith returned to Toorak and discussed his financial problems with Florrie. She told him of several ways that her brothers had earned pocket money during their school holidays. After listening to her advice, Keith returned to the racecourse the following Saturday, not this time to place a bet—he still didn’t have any spare cash—but to collect manure from behind the stables, which he shoveled into a sugarbag that had been supplied by Florrie. He then cycled back to Melbourne with the heavy sack on his handlebars, before spreading the muck over his relatives’ flowerbeds. After forty-seven such journeys back and forth to the racecourse in ten days, Keith had pocketed thirty shillings, satisfied the needs of all his relatives, and had moved on to their next-door neighbors.

  By the end of the holiday he had amassed £3 7s. 4d. After his mother had handed over his next term’s pocket money of a pound, he couldn’t wait to return to the race-track and make himself a fortune. The only problem was that Lucky Joe’s foolproof system stated on page seventy-two, and repeated on page seventy-three: “Don’t attempt the system with less than £10.”

  Keith would have read How to Beat the Bookie a ninth time if his housemaster, Mr. Clarke, had not caught him thumbing through it during prep. Not only was his dearest treasure confiscated, and probably destroyed, but he had to face the humiliation of a public beating meted out by the headmaster in front of the whole school. As he bent over the table he stared down at Desmond Motson in the front row, who was unable to keep the smirk off his face.

  Mr. Clarke told Keith before lights out that night that if he hadn’t intervened on his behalf, Keith would undoubtedly have been expelled. He knew this would not have pleased his father—who was on his way back from a place called Yalta in the Crimea—or his mother, who had begun talking about him going to a university in England called Oxford. But Keith remained more concerned by how he could convert his £3 7s. 4d. into £10.

  It was during the third week of term that Keith came up with an idea for doubling his money which he felt sure the authorities would never latch on to.

  The school tuck shop opened every Friday between the hours of five and six, and then remained closed until the same time the following week. By Monday morning most of the boys had devoured all their Cherry Ripes, munched their way through several packets of chips and happily guzzled countless bottles of Marchants’ lemonade. Although they were temporarily sated, Keith was in no doubt that they still craved more. He considered that, in these circumstances, Tuesday to Thursday presented an ideal opportunity to create a seller’s market. All he needed to do was stockpile some of the most popular items from the tuck shop, then flog them off at a profit as soon as the other boys had consumed their weekly supplies.

  When the tuck shop opened the following Friday, Keith was to be found at the front of the queue. The duty master was surprised that young Townsend spent £3 purchasing a large carton of Minties, an even larger one of thirty-six packets of chips, two dozen Cherry Ripes and two wooden boxes containing a dozen bottles of Marchants’ lemonade. He reported the incident to Keith’s housemaster. Mr. Clarke’s only observation was, “I’m surprised that Lady Townsend indulges the boy with so much pocket money.”

  Keith dragged his spoils off to the changing room, where he hid everything at the back of his games locker. He then waited patiently for the weekend to pass.

  On the Saturday afternoon Keith cycled off to the racecourse, although he was meant to be watching the first eleven play their annual match against Geelong Grammar. He had a frustrating time, unable to place any bets. Strange, he reflected, how you could always pick winner after winner when you had no money.

  After chapel on Sunday, Keith checked the senior and junior common rooms, and was delighted to discover that food and drink supplies were already running low. During the Monday morning break he watched his classmates standing around in the corridor, swapping their last sweets, unwrapping their final chocolate bars and swigging their remaining gulps of lemonade.

  On Tuesday morning he saw the rows of empty bottles being lined up by the dustbins in the corner of the quad. By the afternoon he was ready to put his theory into practice.

  During the games period he locked himself into the school’s small printing room, for which his father had supplied the equipment the previous year. Although the press was fairly ancient and could only be worked by hand, it was quite adequate for Keith’s needs.

  An hour later he emerged clutching thirty copies of his first tabloid, which announced that an alternative tuck shop would be open every Wednesday between the hours of five and six, outside locker number nineteen in the senior changing room. The other side of the page showed the range of goods on offer and their “revised” prices.

  Keith distributed a copy of the news sheet to every member of his class at the beginning of the final lesson that afternoon, completing the task only moments before the geography master entered the room. He was already planning a bumper edition for the following week if the exercise turned out to be a success.

  When Keith appeared in the changing room a few minutes before five the following afternoon, he found a queue had already formed outside his locker. He quickly unbolted the tin door and tugged the boxes out onto the floor. Long before the hour was up, he had sold out of his entire stock. A mark-up of at least 25 percent on most items showed him a clear profit of just over a pound.

  Only Desmond Motson, who had stood in a corner watching the money changing hands, grumbled about Townsend’s extortionate prices. The young entrepreneur simply told him, “You have a choice. You can join the queue or wait till Friday.” Motson had stalked out of the changing room, muttering veiled threats under his breath.

  On Friday afternoon Keith was back at the front of the tuck shop queue and, having made a note of which items had sold out first, purchased his new stock accordingly.

  When Mr. Clarke was informed that Townsend had spent £4 10s. on tuck that Friday, he admitted to being puzzled, and decided to have a word with the headmaster.

  That Saturday afternoon Keith didn’t go to the racecourse, using the time to print up a hundred pages of the second edition of his sales sheet, which he distributed the following Monday—not only to his own classmates, but also to those in the two forms below him.

  On Tuesday morning, during a lesson on British History 1815–1867, he calculated on the back of a copy of the 1832 Reform Bill that at this rate it would take him only another three weeks to raise the £10 he needed to test Lucky Joe’s infallible system.

  It was in a Latin lesson on Wednesday afternoon that Keith’s own infallible system began to falter. The headmaster entered the classroom unannounced, and asked Townsend to join him in the corridor immediately. “And bring your locker key with you,” he added ominously. As they marched silently down the long gray corridor Mr. Jessop presented him with a single sheet of paper. Keith studied the list he could have recited far more fluently than any of the tables in Kennedy’s Latin Primer. “Minties 8d, Chips 4d, Cherry Ripes 4d, Marchants’ Lemonade one shilling. Be outside Locker 19 in the senior changing room on Thursday at five o’clock sharp. Our slogan is ‘First come, first served.’”

  Keith managed to keep a straight face as he was frog-marched down the corridor.

  When they entered the changing room, Keith found his
housemaster and the sports master already stationed by his locker.

  “Unlock the door, Townsend,” was all the headmaster said.

  Keith placed the little key in the lock and turned it slowly. He pulled open the door and the four of them peered inside. Mr. Jessop was surprised to discover that there was nothing to be seen other than a cricket bat, a pair of old pads, and a crumpled white shirt that looked as if it hadn’t been worn for several weeks.

  The headmaster looked angry, his housemaster puzzled, and the sports master embarrassed.

  “Could it be that you’ve got the wrong boy?” asked Keith, with an air of injured innocence.

  “Lock the door and return to your class immediately, Townsend,” said the headmaster. Keith obeyed with an insolent nod of the head and strolled slowly back down the corridor.

  Once he was seated at his desk, Keith realized that he had to decide on which course of action to take. Should he rescue his wares and save his investment, or drop a hint as to where the tuck might be found and settle an old score once and for all?

  Desmond Motson turned round to stare at him. He looked surprised and disappointed to find Townsend back in his place.

  Keith gave him a huge smile, and immediately knew which of the two options he should take.

  5.

  The Times

  9 March 1936

  GERMAN TROOPS IN THE RHINELAND

  It was not until after the Germans had remilitarized the Rhineland that Lubji first heard the name of Adolf Hitler.

  His mother winced when she read about the Führer’s exploits in the rabbi’s weekly paper. As she finished each page she handed it on to her eldest son. She stopped only when it became too dark for her to see the words. Lubji was able to go on reading for a few more minutes.

  “Will we all have to wear a yellow star if Hitler crosses our border?” he asked.

  Zelta pretended to have fallen asleep.