by Derek Rielly
But: ‘I love him like a father.’
— CHAPTER 17 —
COL CUNNINGHAM
COLIN CUNNINGHAM, HAWKE’S PAL SINCE 1972 – HIS dearest, if such things can be definitively catalogued – doesn’t exactly leap at my request for an interview.
Col tells me he’s said everything that he’s ever likely to say about his mate in the Australian Story episode that aired in 2014 and, anyway, he’s in Melbourne and I’m in Sydney.
I tell him I’ll jump on a bird any day that suits.
‘Nah, nah, nah, don’t bother coming down. There’s nuthin’ left to say,’ Col barks down his ancient plastic phone.
But …
… since it’s coming up to his eighty-fifth birthday and he plans to be in Sydney, maybe we could have a little chinwag then.
Doesn’t like the rain, though. If it rains, he’s not coming.
Col says that before Bobby swapped his Sandringham digs for Kirribilli House in Sydney, he’d come home from some trip or another, and say, ‘Col, we come up here and we get drowned every time. It’s the biggest con ever been pulled on man, telling us about the weather up here.’ Col won’t have it either.
It rains.
Hawke asks me, ‘Have you interviewed Col yet?’
‘We’re negotiating. About the weather.’
Hawke laughs.
Another phone call. Col comes around.
Two weeks later, on a sparkling thirty-one-degree autumn day in Melbourne (Sydney is soaking in its wettest March since Fraser had the wheel), I meet Col at the William Angliss cooking school on La Trobe street, right there in the heart of the city.
‘It’s a Herculean task to write another silly fucking book about Bob Hawke,’ he says, leading me through the rabbit warren of training kitchens, past the student café and into a mezzanine level with four-metre-high floor-to-ceiling windows and a low-slung black couch.
As for Col, even this late in the game he looks like he’s about to tap-dance straight onto centre court at Kooyong or swing a stick at Royal Melbourne. He wears Nike trainers, blue-and-green madras shorts and a pink Yonex polo shirt, with a cap pulled low across his forehead and a backpack swinging off one shoulder. Only slightly bent with age, I estimate the octogenarian to measure a little under six feet. His skin has been belted by the sun, as is typical for a lifetime tennis player and golfer. A scabby red island adrift on a sea of pink defines his right temple. Various other pieces of skin threaten their moorings, too. I promise myself I’ll be more diligent with sunscreen on my own face. But, whatever. Not bad for a digger heading towards ninety.
‘Come here much?’ I say.
‘Two or three times a week for the last thirty years,’ he says.
Col places his backpack on the floor and empties the contents, one by one.
First, a packet of biscuits.
‘Ah, well, I like a bickie.’
Then plums.
‘Blood plums, you like those?’
Oh, I do!
Pears.
‘Yeah, yeah, I like my pears.’
Then an old envelope with six photos inside. We see Hawke and Col at the Sandown Park races in 1973; Col and his wife Gloria with Bob and Hazel at the Lodge for Hawke’s sixtieth birthday; a photo that snatches the view of Sailors Bay from Hawke’s joint in Northbridge; and three shots of Hawke playing golf in 2009.
‘Good swing,’ I say.
‘He thinks it is.’
What’s Hawke like as a golfer?
‘Oh, he used to be alright. He’s stuffed now. He told me, “I’m good as gold myself but I just can’t walk. He sees me playing and says, “How old are you? Eighty-five? Jesus!’”
I tell Col I’ve just had an email from Blanche telling me the nerves in Hawke’s feet have switched back on and he’s starting to get a little feeling back.
‘Is he? Shit! That’s a result.’
So let’s get to know Col.
Are you a bookie?
‘Punter.’
More than a punter. Col grew up in the slums of Melbourne, the son of a cab driver, and left school in grade seven to work the stables for the city’s leading horse trainer and jockey, Fred Hoysted. Five in the morning until six every night. Thirty bob a week.
The kid learned to play golf. Became a bit of a hotshot and won five premierships at the Long Island Country Club in Frankston, a course owned by bookies and publicans back in the days when ‘if you didn’t have blue blood in your veins they didn’t fucken want ya. So they bought their own course.’ Col used to play the bookies for cash, saw how lucrative their businesses were and ended up working the bag for them at the races.
‘In those days, the bookies had millions,’ he recalls. ‘If they went to the races and didn’t win five or six or seven thousand pound, when you could buy a house for around three thousand, they’d pull the, “Oh gee, I had a bad day, I only won three thousand!’ That was their mentality, you know? People after the war, soldiers, pouring money into the bags, you know? So I went and worked for them.’
And then, says Col, ‘I ran into Bobby.’
The story is well-known, but he’ll tell it anyway, since I’m here and all. The Polish-born property developer and pub owner Eddie Kornhauser liked a good tip – and Col had the mail, as they say.
‘I knew what I was doing,’ says Col. ‘And I was at the Caulfield Cup one year and Eddie, who was a big, tall Jewish man – usually the Jews are quite small, but Eddie stood out – he said, “Colin! Col! Meet a friend of mine. Bob Hawke, this is Col Cunningham. He’s a friend of Roy Higgins. Col plays golf with Roy.’”
Roy Higgins. Australia’s leading jockey. Won the Melbourne Cup twice. A couple of Cox Plates. Hawke was thrilled at the chance to orbit the little man.
‘So Bob says, “Alright, come and have a drink.” And so we went and had a drink and that was that. He said, “I’d like to have a game of golf with ya,” and I said, “Well, give Gloria a ring, here’s my number.” He rung on the Monday and I got Roy to come along at the Victoria Golf Club and we went from there.’
Now let’s examine the public profile of ACTU president Hawke in 1972. He travelled in a chauffeur-driven Ford LTD limo that had been fitted out with a desk in the back seat so he could work:
[He] was treated like a grandee. Crowds fawned upon him; mobs of nouveaux riches rowdies attached themselves to him as cheer squads … Recognised wherever he went, Hawke moved in an aura of power. Foreign dignitaries who visited Australia wanted to meet him: an official of the American Embassy commented, ‘We had to make a cut-off point of seniority. For those below the line we would not even consider trying to arrange an appointment with Bob.’
In the case of Col, it was a switcheroo; Hawke latched onto Col.
‘Well, I suited Bob,’ says Col. ‘Bob wanted to play golf. Col liked to play golf. Bob wanted to play tennis. Col played tennis. We’d play, come back to my house, play snooker and drink beer. And I wasn’t politically motivated. I was a Labor person, but with the politicians they found it hard to have good friends ’cause it’s a nasty business, you know? With me, we got along well. As I say, we hit it off. Everything I liked, he liked!’
One of Col’s many impressive traits was his ability to befriend sports stars. He had Roy Higgins in his pocket, the golfer Jack Newton, the tennis player Lew Hoad, Davis Cup captain Neale Fraser, boxer Lionel Rose and cricket’s greatest all-rounder, Garry Sobers.
Was it an experience to drink with Hawke in those early days prior to his shift into politics?
‘He wasn’t Nice Bob all the time, you know. He’d carry on a bit. He was a heavy drinker in the early days, Bob. Bad-tempered and all that. He was alright when he was sober but when he was drunk he was a bit different. Do some silly things.’
What sort of silly things?
Col snorts a laugh. ‘Look, I can’t say a lot of things. I mean, I could tell a lot of things, but I don’t. And that’s one of the reasons why we’re still friends. Whatever I saw, and whatever he told
me, remained with me. I forgot about [it], you know? As I say, I could write a bestseller. But anyhow … ’
Tell me about Hawke’s capacity to drink, I prompt.
‘They say that beer destroys all your things in the brain. Well, he disproves that because he’s still got his marbles. He should be a raving lunatic if that was true.’
Were you surprised when he gave up the booze?
‘Oh, well, look, he had to. It was just going to be a wasted life. I drove him home one night and Fraser was PM at the time and the country was in disarray. Strikes and so on. And he was hated, Malcolm Fraser. Later he mended his ways, but at that time, he was bad for the average person. And I said to Bob that everyone was looking for [him] to do something. Even though it was ACTU days and he wasn’t prime minister, they were looking for … him. I said, “You’ve just got to, Bob. There’s too many people depending on ya.”’
How did he respond?
‘Oh, well, he was rolling drunk at the time.’
Col laughs, and moves on to a story about Hawke and his obsession with the SMOP Tote Buster, an electronic device for picking winners at the horses. Once, the pair flew to Perth together and Hawke spent the five-hour flight with the little device propped on his lap, the machine’s paper roll furiously printing predictions for the following day’s races.
‘He was doing alright for a while,’ says Col. ‘It was spitting out a few winners. Hazel was telling Gloria that Bob would get into bed at night and pull the bloody thing out. Because, you know, he only sleeps four hours a night. And it drove Hazel bloody mad. The bloody noise! He’s up playing with the bloody thing all night!’
Was Bob a good punter?
‘He wasn’t hopeless. He knew what he was doing at the time. A bit of help doesn’t hurt. Bob got matey with Ray Guy on the Gold Coast and he’d ring Bob up and say, “This has got a good chance, Bob. It’s thirty-three-to-one.” Win! Oh, he was marvellous. Bob got a lot of money out of Ray Guy.’
Would he have a good swing with his bets?
‘He’d get up a bit. He’d have fifty or a hundred on something if he liked it. He bet up big when his horse won the [Golden] Slipper. But that’s because Singo did it all [betting $100,000 of the syndicate’s money at ten-to-one]. They shit themselves! Him and Blanche went home and put their heads under the pillow!’
Oh, how Col laughs at that.
Have you always been close friends? Any fallings-out?
‘No! Never had a stink. Nuh. Nuh. Nuh. We’ve never even had harsh words, Bob and I. I think he really liked me. Well, I really liked him. I think he’s terrific! Old Bobby. I love him.’
What do you like about Hawke?
‘Look, he’s just a nice person, yeah? Although he was the wrong one to get accolades of Man of the Year.’
The Victorian Father of the Year in ’71?
‘Yeah, that was all bullshit. That was stupid. Because he wasn’t the father of the year. Everyone knows that. [But] he’s honest. He doesn’t tell lies. And that’s the reason we got on alright. There’s no telling fibs and all that bullshit. Speak the truth and if you don’t like it, well, that’s that.’
On the Wednesday night before Hawke was rolled by Keating on 19 December 1991, Hawke rang Col.
‘How are ya?’ asked Col.
‘I’m alright,’ said Hawke, ‘but I’m gone. They’ve got the votes on me.’
‘Do you want me to come up?’ said Col.
‘Yeah, I’d like you to,’ replied the beaten leader.
Col jumped on a plane on the morning of Keating’s successful challenge and spent the day, and the next night, with the Hawkes. He remembers waking up early the day after the challenge, going into the main bedroom, and Hawke and Hazel are sitting there and Hawke says, ‘What am I going to do now?’
When Hawke got the keys to John Singleton’s Birchgrove mansion shortly afterwards, Col and Gloria went to stay there, too.
‘They had no other friends, really – he didn’t anyhow,’ says Col. ‘But Birchgrove was good. Taught him to do things for himself. He didn’t know what money was! He’d go to a shop and he’d pull out some money and he’d look at it and wouldn’t know what to do with it. He hadn’t been in that situation for quite a while.’
Those weeks at Birchgrove must be the most precious memories, I suggest.
‘Awwww, no, not really, no,’ says Col. ‘He’d got thrown out. It wasn’t much fun in there.’
Was he pissed off?
‘He’s pretty realistic. He knew days before – weeks before, probably – that the game was up. If he’d done a couple of deals on the side, he would’ve still been there. He didn’t want [Graham] Richardson to get the post as the transport and communications minister and he lost out. If Richo had got the job, he’d have rolled Keating! [Bob] wouldn’t go against his principles and it cost him his job.’
When the 1990–91 cabinet papers were released after their quarter-of-a-century embargo, Hawke told the State Library of NSW, ‘I really settled my fate soon after the election in 1990. Those of you who have read the story will read that I refused to give Graham Richardson the transport and communications portfolio, something which he’d set his heart on. The background to that was that my dear friend Peter Abeles had told me something concerning Graham which in my judgement precluded him properly being in that position.
‘Because I still have a great deal of affection for Graham Richardson and because he’s in very bad shape, I’m not going to go to that issue because it would be hurtful for him. But I knew once I made that decision to refuse him what he wanted that he would turn his support and his very, very considerable influence with the New South Wales Right to Paul, and that’s what he did.’
Richo responded by saying it was either ‘amnesia or malice’ that drove Hawke’s comments.
Either way, Richo switched sides and Hawke was out. And it gave Hawke the opening to eventually formalise his affair.
When did you first find out about Blanche?
‘Awwww …’
Long pause.
‘I wouldn’t want to say. I don’t want to say … no … no.’
Did Hawke talk to you about Blanche?
‘No, he didn’t. Bob keeps things to himself; I didn’t enquire. You do your business, I’ll do mine and Bob’s your uncle.’
Did he ever seek your advice?
‘Why would he want my advice? He’s smart enough without me, Bobby! On a golf course or a race track he might.’
Describe your current relationship with Hawke.
‘He’s been hard to talk to on the phone since he’s been deaf. What did you say? Screaming and yelling, oh geez. So, to be honest, I just speak to [Hawke’s secretary] Jill. Look, I want to do this, tell him.’
Col had told Jill he’d be in Sydney for his eighty-fifth, but it didn’t happen because of a poor weather forecast. When Col didn’t show, Jill called and asked where he was.
‘Getting off a bus in Port Melbourne.’
‘But I arranged a dinner for you and Bob,’ said Jill.
‘Well, Jill, I’m not coming up.’
Col leaps to his feet, holds an imaginary golf stick and starts to swing at equally imaginary balls.
‘And I’m hitting balls about three o’clock, and I’ve got the phone down there on the ground, it rings, I pick up and …’
Col mimics Hawke’s deep basso. ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU! HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU! HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOOOOOOOOOOU, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU!’
‘It took him three minutes to get through it,’ says Col. ‘I’m on the green and everyone could hear it. Oh yeah, he’s got a voice on him.’
A student chef on an upper level drops a pepper grinder into the void.
‘You want me to throw it back?’ hollers Col. ‘Jesus! Where are ya?’
A spotty teen chef waves a hand. Col loops the grinder in an arc that lands square in her meaty palm.
‘Good shot,’ she says.
‘Good on ya!’ Col waves.
What do you
think Hawke has given you as a friend?
‘We’ve just enjoyed our relationship. I helped his kids open doors when they were the scatterbrained type. Ros [Bob’s daughter] – I helped him with that. And as soon as he became prime minister, my son John was in the army and he was up in Sydney and I said, “Go and have a look at Kirribilli House, he’s over there.” So I rung up Bob and he said, no worries, and John went over and had a look around. When he was away, I’d go to Kirribilli and invite friends over there for dinner. Not bad was it?’
What’s the kindest thing Hawke’s ever done for you?
‘I don’t know if he’s done any kind things, has he? Paid for me to go to Japan [to check out horse studs]. I’ve helped him a lot. There were a few sticky moments in the seventies when he needed looking after. Deep down he probably appreciates it. I hope.’
Has he changed as a man over the years?
‘Changed? He’s stuffed now, isn’t he. He’s slow, poor bastard. I rung him up when he was sick, probably eighteen months ago, I said, “What’s wrong with ya?” He said, “Colin, I’ve got old.’”
— CHAPTER 18 —
‘HOU KE’ GOES TO CHINA
BOB HAWKE’S FRIEND AND GENERAL SECRETARY OF THE Communist Party of China Zhao Ziyang had been in the job for eighteen months, when People’s Liberation Army units began their 4 am sweep of pro-democracy demonstrators in Beijing’s Tiananmen Square.
The atrocities quickly mounted. Diplomatic cables from the Canadian embassy in Beijing back to Ottawa reported:
An old woman knelt in front of soldiers pleading for students; soldiers killed her.
A boy was seen trying to escape holding a woman with a two-year-old child in a stroller, and was run over by a tank.
The tank turned around and mashed them up.
Soldiers fired machine guns until the ammo ran out.
The cables also mentioned unconfirmed reports of soldiers’ corpses found garrotted in canals.
The country is now being controlled by a group of vicious elderly generals and the government is run by people who will blindly follow their orders. The situation looks grim at best.
