My son Malcolm
The Sun, 19 December 1977, p. 31
NATURALLY Una Fraser is glad her son is back as Prime Minister for another three years, but as she sits sipping a cool drink in this dignified South Yarra flat the hurly-burly of politics seems a world away.
A beautifully polished piano has pride of place in the lounge. Catching me eyeing it, Una says with just a trace of wistfulness: ‘I suppose the piano was my first love. I used to do repertory work … monologues at the piano years ago. It was in Perth, where I was brought up before I was married. I longed to go on the stage. But I really wouldn’t have been any good – I would have been dreadful,’ she says and laughs merrily.
‘But you don’t want to know about me: What do you want to know about Malcolm?’
‘I remember the day he was born (May 21 1930). I was getting very fed up. He was three weeks late and he finished up weighing 10 lb. 10 oz. I can’t remember the exact time, I really can’t, I have been rung up by these jolly astrologers wanting to write his horoscope and they have to have the exact time. I don’t know… I know it was after 4 p.m. and before eight. So I tell them between six and seven.’
‘Malcolm’s early years at Nyang (near Deniliquin) were happy, although it was very lonely … very lonely. There were very few neighbours and we had a river between us. We had a series of governesses for Lorrie (Lorraine, who is three years older than Malcolm and now lives in Rome). I remember an Estonian governess we had,’ and Una chuckles as it all comes back.
‘The first night she was there she came to me absolutely terrified – white about the gills. Apparently Malcolm, who was about four or five at the time when she was saying good night to him said we had 600 bulls, all of them wild, on the property.’
‘Then, when Malcolm was six or seven we went to live in town. He went to Miss McComas’ (the prep school in Toorak) where Stanley Bruce and all the rest of them went. He wasn’t very strong at that stage,’ Una recalls, frowns and sips her drink.
‘He got terribly badly infected. He nearly died when he was eight. He had pneumonia with a temperature of 106 for three days. It was before the penicillin drugs. He had to have the most ghastly syringes two or three times a week. It really was a pretty traumatic time. He was a jolly brave little boy.’
‘I remember his father (Neville) was having a birthday. The child was desperately ill but all he could think was: Would I please go into town and buy a diary for Dad’s birthday? He had counted out his money box, every penny of it, which was nearly five shillings.’
‘When he was nine we sent him to Tudor House (the annexe of the King School, near Moss Vale, NSW). I was looking at his old reports the other day. He was in the cricket team and they dropped him. We got a couple of broken-hearted letters, then at the end of term we got his report. It said by sheer determination he had got himself back into the team. So he showed some determination that I hadn’t noticed at a pretty early age. He could only have been 10 or 11. The reports on his studies at Tudor House were excellent – so much better than when he was down here at Melbourne Grammar. He did well enough at Melbourne Grammar … but I don’t know … I don’t know,’ Una muses.
‘He was a day boy and the war was still on. The first year he was there, I had a tiny flat here in the city (Neville was managing the Nyang property). The flat only had a bedroom and a sitting room. He was doing his homework in very uncomfortable conditions. But he was a tremendous worker even then. He used to come in from school and sit straight down and do his homework. He wouldn’t stop until he had done it all. I remember he got a prize once for ability,’ and she chuckles.
‘When he finished his Matriculation it was a difficult decision whether he should go to Oxford,’ Una continues. ‘One thought the war may have gone on, in which case there wouldn’t have been any question of him going away. But when it finished Neville thought he had been there and it would be a wonderful experience if Malcolm could get in.’
‘Neville wrote over and said: “Is there any chance of an overseas student getting in?” They said yes they had some vacancies for overseas students.’
‘Just before this we had bought Nareen (the Western District property where the Prime Minister and his family now live). Malcolm worked there during the Christmas holidays.
‘I don’t know that he was really keen to leave for Oxford,’ Una says. ‘He always has been a dinkum Aussie. I know he wanted to come back long before he was finished. I don’t think he would have admitted it but I think he was homesick when he first went … yes, I am sure he was. He came back the minute he had heard he’d passed. He didn’t want to stay any longer.’
Una recalls that during Malcolm’s final year, ‘He had written out when he had heard Dan McKinnon had lost Wannon (the electorate Nareen is in) to Labor and wasn’t going to stand again. He said he wanted to stand against the Labor member.’
‘We said yes that was a marvellous idea for some time or other, but no now. He was much too young. However, he got back and nothing was said for about a year. Then suddenly nominations came up and he said: “I want to stand”. We never dreamt that he would get the preselection, but he rang up about midnight one night and said he had got it.’
The years since … does this mother ever worry about her son in the hurly-burly of politics?
Una Fraser, who is about to sip her drink, suddenly puts the glass down and exclaims: ‘Of course! He looks so tired sometimes. His eyes sink into the back of his head which is always a sure sign of him being tired. His cheeks hollow… But he has great recuperative powers,’ she hastily adds. ‘He seems to thrive on a challenge.’
Then Una Fraser sips her drink, eyes me and says: ‘The thing that really makes me mad is the way he is misrepresented, the way they say he is aloof and arrogant. They might say I am prejudiced but on the other hand I know him better than they do. I know he has had this terrible shyness since we lived alone and was ill as a child. But underneath he is a terribly thoughtful person.’
Then, almost to herself Una adds a mother’s tribute: ‘He is a very good son.’