Paul Wilson

You might think that given his public image, dad might have led a different life at home. But he didn’t.

As a father and husband, he was the same man you’ve heard about: calm and constant, respectful, fair and principled. There was possibly one difference from his public persona – at home he was never given to speeches of any kind. In fact as a father he didn’t make grand statements, nor pronounce or moralise at all; there were very few rules or boundaries. For all of dad’s virtues he never tried to instruct us to be like him, except purely by example.

Our home life was truly child centred, thanks to the vision and love of both our parents. I heard once that, talking about his family, Dad had said that before marriage, the most important person in his life was himself; after marriage the most important person was still himself (such a romantic he was!) though Pam came a very close second; but after his children came, they were then, and by far, the single most important thing that he lived for.

Dad worked hard, he came home from work after dark, and he had to travel from time to time. He worked at home sometimes, but when he was there he was always available to us. He put us first – not 100% of the time, but almost. He’d offer to do things - he drove us around, dropped us off, drove our friends home. He really loved some of those friends – Victor, Julia, Simon, and others.

I know he read to us as babies, and he included us in whatever he was doing (even if that meant traipsing around a paddock from time to time while he collected bags of dirt). He cooked scrambled eggs in the morning, and made orange juice, not so much on weekends actually, but every day of the week.

Then he raced us to the school bus at such a pace and under such pressure that it once occurred to me (while chasing a bus down Moggill road) that we kids were actually killing him. That was something that worried me deeply, though I can’t recall that I changed my morning behaviour as a result.

Even more important, dad gave us unconditional acceptance in whatever we wanted to do. I don’t recall him once saying, “you’re wrong”, “that won’t work”, “forget it”, putting us down or belittling us in any way. He always took an interest, he would always help if asked, but he never interfered. And I should say that this principle applied as much to mum and her work as to us – her work is wonderful as you all know, but I think she never had such a great supporter as Dad.

A few boundaries were being set by the time high school came around and he got wind of some (and only some I expect) of the exploits that we got up to. By that time however I think we had been given such a sense of respect, of being loved, that we had some kind of inbuilt control– a sense of self-value and responsibility – that held us back from some of the many temptations we met.

Needless to say, dad never once hit any of his children. As I parent now, I know what an achievement that is. But I truly believe that in dad’s case he was more or less incapable of doing it.

I clearly remember, as an 8 or 9 year old, being struck very hard by dad, but not by his hand. It was at Caloundra, driving down our street and passing some aboriginal kids playing. I muttered something disgusting – “black buggers”, or similar – and without hesitation dad turned to me, saying “don’t you let me ever hear you saying anything like that again”. He was so deadly serious, so unlike anything that I’d seen, that I felt I’d been hit. There was a boundary I’d crossed, and I never forgot it.

During high-school, Stephen had a similar experience I know, which he also has never forgotten.

In hindsight, I guess that’s the benefit of being “reserved”. You’ve always got something left, and it carries weight when you really need it. In any case, I know that dad generally avoided battles with his children; and he later revealed another philosophy behind this; something like “don’t get into fights with your children, but if you have to, make sure you win”.

Of course I heard dad using his strategic reserves at other times, dinner parties and similar, when he could really argue, and vehemently at times. His style was such that it seemed to me he must have been in the right every time. But I was too young to recognise the dramatic hyperbole and red herrings for what they were, not to mention his regard for the place of “facts” in a debate. Mum told me yesterday of the technique of long time friend Peter Underhill when dealing with Dad’s occasional excesses: he would simply say, “Oh Patrick, do you really think so?”

Apart from those few strict boundaries in our lives, there was another time that dad had to draw the line. First, I should explain that as children, we spent most of our spare time in the bush, running around barefoot, building cubbies and collecting things (mostly living), growing our hair until it was really quite long. I’d learned to sew (thanks mum) and I had jeans which were literally made of patches; Stephen hadn’t, and he had jeans that were literally full of holes. Joanna could sew and also had taste, and had a skirt beautifully made of neckties, and various patchwork items fit for gypsies. We must have looked totally neglected, but far from it, we were simply free.

Anyway, Stephen in particular began collecting snakes, first the smaller green ones kept in the metal shell of our old pool, but then larger ones including a python called Max kept in his bedroom. Dad was actually terrified of snakes, but put up with this until one night Max got in among his shoes. An ultimatum was delivered, in which (of course) Stephen and the snake lost out.

I’ll be honest and say that as a kid, one of the great frustrations of life was that (in spite of the richness of our surroundings), we were never showered with gifts. There was a certain frugality at home, for mum and dad also. Who can forget the truly appalling vehicles that they’ve both been driving for years (for decades I can tell you). What I realize is that dad had a certain sense of priorities – for the beautiful over the valuable, for love over money, for quiet security over risk and excitement.

In small ways, we shared our family with others, like the foster child Budi from Java. There was mum and dad’s god-daughter Chloe Bryce. There was Minh, a young teacher at BIS, for whom he always had a special fondness.

We shared our home with many other friends, and many of you are here. As you’d recall, the kids were never shuffled off when you were around, and we became very used to adult company (whether you liked it or not!). The funny thing is, we kids thought of all of you as very normal at the time, but only realized later that you were actually far from it. You came from the far right and left of politics, from the arts and education, from places I didn’t even know (still don’t).

Add to this that we children were dragged out to art openings and such events on many weekends (typically making ourselves unwelcome by hogging into the cheese and biscuits), and it really seemed like we were rather grown-up kids. I realize of course that there was another side to it – that although mum and dad sacrificed a lot for us, they still insisted on having a life, and that was something we also had to get used to (whether we liked it or not!).

I have often wondered, had one critical thing been different, what life in our family would have been like. I mean of course, if Johanna had not suffered from Cystic Fibrosis and ultimately died of the disease. Her illness was such a feature of my childhood and of Stephen’s, such a formative feature of our whole family life, that it’s impossible to know.

But while she was alive I know that the joy she brought, and the love that dad felt for her, were profound. I do believe that she was his great love, and the fact that my parents both were able to hold our lives together after her loss is a huge tribute to them.

Dad changed after that time, so did we all. Some of the joy had gone from his life, but I know what brought it in more recent times. His other daughters, my partner Margie and Stephen’s, Lizzie, both felt his warmth and his unconditional love. It was always great to see him kiss them or hug them and say something like “you’re precious, thank-you”.

Then came his grandkids in more recent years – Alistair, Louisa, Nikola and Thea. His dedication to them, love of them, and pure joy in having them, was so familiar to me (seeing him as a father again), and I am so grateful that they were able to experience it.

On a lighter note, I think Alistair summed it up beautifully:

“He was a lovely man; he didn’t mind shopping; he made a good fruit salad. He hated the beach, but he loved to watch us swim.”

He didn’t really hate the beach: he couldn’t, because it allowed him to share in the happiness of his children, and his grandchildren, for so many years.

In recent times, he and mum were able to travel – Vietnam, India, Europe, UK, USA, central Australia, among others. This type of pleasure was something that they had sacrificed for many years, particularly with Johanna to care for, and it was something that they especially enjoyed together, and planned to continue for as long as they could. Then again there was this frugality and sense of justice – just a month ago dad cancelled a booked trip to Alaska, explaining that after the tsunami it seemed impossible to justify. I gather (though he would not reveal this himself) that he donated to money to the relief effort.

Dad was also getting tired. Just recently, 5 days before he died, he said “I’m 76, I’ve had a good life, I’ve seen the Taj Mahal”. The Taj was very significant to him – he said once that it was the place of the single religious experience he had felt in his life.

There is so much more to say, but I’ll finish up now.

Dad also once said, and he was being either melancholy or ironically humble in this, that he wanted his epitaph to read simply “He did no harm”.

Well it’s true that he did no harm, but we all know there was so much more to his life than that; his work and his achievements, his many friends and colleagues, his beloved children and grandchildren, and his profound influence on all of us.

On behalf of the family, thank you all so much for coming.