REMEMBERING BOB HAWKE: the former PM’s daughter rediscovers her father through the stories of others

From her fog of grief in the year since Bob Hawke died, his daughter Sue Pieters-Hawke has rediscovered the man she adored and forged a deeper bond with stepmum Blanche.

What a year it’s been for all of us! For me, the tone of the year was set by a phone call last May 16 from my stepmum, Blanche. I had just finished bottling my first ever brew of kombucha, and was in the midst of cleaning up. I answered it, there was silence, then her tremulous voice said “Darling ...” And I knew. My stomach lurched, my knees buckled, I called my kids, and took up smoking again for six weeks.

Many of you know what it is to grieve the loss of a parent, which I have found no less shocking for being expected, maybe even half-welcomed. The fact they are well known makes no difference at all to the impact. Grief is personal, varied, and at times breathtakingly intense and disabling. For a month after Dad died, apart from helping to organise the memorial, I did nothing but lie around watching television, sleeping, or playing mindless games. The word ‘orphan’ popped into my mind, seeming weird

at 62, but they are both gone now. I felt physically numb, leaden, underwater. There was seeing Dad’s body, the small private funeral – so painful – then the public memorial at the Opera House – powerful and poignant, yet also deeply comforting in the outpouring of love and togetherness, conviction and music. It was a turning point for me in starting to arrive at a resting place about him – the magnificent rambunctious whole of the man – and towards feeling a more celebratory aspect of recalling and reflecting on fragments of Dad’s life. All the personal memories, those of family and friends, and indeed the country. They jumbled around my overwhelmed mind as feelings roller-coasted through grief and joy and everything between. I often felt powerless, as you do in the face of such times in life. There came a moment – call it crazy – when I decided, ‘what the heck? Let’s do it!’. Inspired by the love and

storytelling and shared memories at Dad’s wake – the comfort received and the tall tales told with aplomb – and thinking I couldn’t feel any worse, I pressed the re-activate button on a half-baked plan to do a book with Dad. Without him now, people’s stories could be another way of sharing the celebration of who he had been to the tapestry of the nation, of the laughs and achievements and legacy he left behind. Other people had the stories in abundance, I merely had to collect and collate. How hard could it be?

Four months of crazy followed, tempered by reaching out and connecting and conversing with so many folk throughout Australia. It struck me at some point that this was where having so many people to share him with was a source of joy, of pride, of companionship in grieving, and at times of wry, eye-rolling disbelief.

This was indeed something to be grateful for, a wealth of such broadly shared experiences that offered validation to my delighted recollection of his chutzpah, his kindness, his relishing of life, his glee and commitment. It unintendedly became a weird sort of recovery project, one which melted away the last remnants of any upset I’d had about some of the darker memories, and started to dissipate the worst of the grief at losing him.

As the project rapidly gathered pace, I soon had a good and diverse array of anecdotes, but decided to reach out beyond, via social media and to friends of friends of friends. Dad had encountered so many tens of thousands of people I never met or knew, and I wanted the narrative chorus to extend beyond ‘the usual suspects’. The rewards were rich as a further wealth of recollections and experiences of Dad spilled forth from folk all over the country. Living at the keyboard and on the phone, I heard and read many familiar stories, and revelled in new ones that emerged. I got to share reflections with some of the diverse and outstanding characters who populated Dad’s work and play, and to make new friends along the way. I often chuckled and shared warm fuzzies with my cat as I sifted through them.

One of the lovely features of the time was that Blanche was under contract to update her definitive biography of Dad – among the grief and multitude of pressures she faced, we would share black laughter, check occasional facts or interpretations with each other, and egg ourselves on to the finish line. We both have fiery streaks when roused, but I had become reconciled and then close to her over the years, and was moved by her care for Dad and the love they shared. With his death, she has become my one remaining ‘family elder’, and our bond deeper and more poignant. This has continued as she faces invasive treatment for breast cancer and endures it all, looking positively towards a brighter future. She’s physically very weakened and has had to dig deep to find the iron woman within. I sometimes imagine Dad hovering benignly around her, as around all the family, smiling his quirky love smile and lifting her and us all through.

Publishing a book has much in common with birthing a baby. There’s flurry and fear and anticipation and labour, then it whooshes off the presses and is suddenly real and in your hands! It was of course not the overwhelming love I felt as I first held each of my kids, but certainly a refreshed love and gratitude for Dad and the countless other souls who generously contributed memories and who helped to midwife Remembering Bob into being.

On the road for the launches and endless chats, I was sustained and moved to tears over and over again by

friends and erstwhile strangers’ warmth, enthusiasm and kindness, and by reams of further personal stories of

“the time when your Dad ...”. At locations which resonated particularly with Dad’s life – Parliament House in Canberra; The Caves House Hotel in Yallingup, Western Australia, where he and Mum honeymooned so many moons ago; the wonderful spanking new Bob Hawke College and its community near where he grew up – there was an extra poignancy to the happy tears we shared.

And now?

As Australia has faced an unprecedented year of horrifying bushfires, virus pandemic, grieving and angst, we both struggle with and give thanks for a spectrum of erratic and terrifying, outstanding, bland and workmanlike leaders across nations, states, agencies and communities. Leadership is not easy in tough times, and I have received more than a few messages wishing “Bob was here and at the helm, now”, and of course I have wondered what on earth he would think of and do about it all.

But no one at all is irreplaceable other than in our hearts. I have a crowded pantheon of heroes big and small who move and inspire me. They span from nations across the ages, through obscure writers to small towns in the Aussie bush. My current ‘Pin-up PM’ is Jacinda Ardern. For me she exemplifies outstanding leadership of her country’s time, place and circumstances. No one is unique, but some are pretty damned good.

Things I love, respect and admire about my father include that he was fierce and kind; a warrior and a mush ball. He loved being surrounded by smart, capable people (and animals) and had the confidence to revel in the debate and challenge it all generated. He could be demanding, generous, tender, encouraging and would maddeningly drive us all on, but asked no more of anyone than of himself. He was intelligent, yes, but more precisely he used his smarts to assess needs and realities, possibilities, probabilities, facts and advice; and to strategise rapidly, collaboratively and with imagination for the greater good (and for winning at the races!).

His driving ambition was FOR something, and for others, not merely himself or a few – he reflected the learnings and inspiration of humanity, his progressive Christian upbringing, his education, and that of experts, friends and colleagues. He had an almost unkillable sense of humour.

He could do a great demolition job on an argument or proposed policy or course of action, yet flinched like a wuss (unless drunk in earlier years) at the prospect of hurting people. He could be ‘a mongrel’, but not a sustained ‘hater’. He was ultimately driven to unite rather than to divide, and this is what most of us want in our leaders, whoever and wherever they are.

So, a year has passed, and just as we talk about our loved ones finding ‘their final resting place’ in death, so must we find it about them in life. I’ve found mine for now, and am about to clean out the mouldy kombucha jar and set it brewing again, to return to the garden beds that I’ve been unable to touch for months. I’ll huddle happily into winter and the comfort of home in these weird times of viral madness, that preclude me, as many others, from working much on earning a living. But I count my many blessings and feel a quiet gratitude most days. Buffered by a bequest in Dad’s will, I can use a time that would otherwise be fraught with panic, for nurture instead – for connection with friends and family, for preserving and pickles, sewing and sourdough, for reading, research and whimsy. And for building, as we do, towards the next phase of whatever the future may hold. AWW

Remembering Bob, edited by Sue Pieters-Hawke, published by Allen & Unwin, is on sale now.

“He was ultimately driven to unite rather than divide.”