The Funereal Charm Of A Labor Farewell

by Matt Price - The Australian

There's nothing quite like a funeral to realign the synapses and crystallise priorities. And, trust me, there has never been a funeral quite like Peter Cook's.

The veteran Labor senator lost an 18-month tussle with cancer on December 3. John Howard offered Cook's widow, Barbara McDonald, a state funeral and last Monday an archive of Labor luminaries made the trip to Perth. Famous surnames in attendance included Hawke, Hayden, Beazley, Brereton, Faulkner, Button, Willis and Dawkins. Whitlam and Keating sent messages of condolence.

Like most of these tribal ALP gatherings, the whiff of stale, faded glory was thick in the auditorium. Cook, it's widely agreed, was one of the most significant Labor figures of his generation: a union leader, cabinet minister, policy wonk and formidable parliamentarian. He was highly regarded and generally well liked among colleagues, a rare caucus quinella.

Looking infeasibly dapper and, apparently, entirely unbowed by his starring role in the Mark Latham experiment, Laurie Brereton spoke eloquently of sharing wine, wit and warmth with close friend Cookie, who clocked up 22 years in the Senate before his retirement.

One of the curious features of the aftermath of Cook's passing is the residual bitterness after his forced exit from politics. The sequence goes: Cook lost preselection in Western Australia, was subsequently diagnosed with cancer, presided over a Senate inquiry into the disease, retired to wide acclaim on July 1 and was hospitalised in August. With hindsight, it's tempting to regard the factional brawl that freed Cook from his parliamentary responsibilities during the final months of his life as a tremendous blessing.

Yet, during tributes to Cook in parliament, several Labor MPs lamented the internecine nastiness and Peter Dowding, former West Australian premier and the funeral MC, even suggested the senator might still be alive but for factional shenanigans.

Still, there's a palpable and genuine feeling of respect, tradition and camaraderie at these ALP clusters that defies the cynics. As comrades embraced and uttered fine words in tribute to the dead, I was reflecting on Latham's profoundly poisonous disregard for the party that nurtured him, as expressed in his book.

This bitter, resentful view of politics and political relationships doubtless says more about the diarist than his former profession.

Then, midway through the service, Dowding announced that Cook's children - the product of his first marriage, to Phillipa, an Aborigine - would address the 400-strong audience. Four distraught adults walked to the podium; Bianca and Michael stood sheepishly behind as siblings Kylie and Samantha delivered an extraordinary narrative.

The women opened up, sharing memories of their childhood and long drives with their father. Recalled Kylie: "By the end of the trip we knew every word to Billy Joel, Joan Baez and Simon and Garfunkel. [We were] inducted into our father's folk music inclination, nowadays known as 'easy listening'." But the folksy tone changed dramatically when the story reached 1981: in Kylie's words, "the day our father never came home".

The tale of Cook's estrangement from his four children is, as you'd expect, extraordinarily sad and complex. It was a stupendously brave decision by Cook and Barbara to provide a platform for the children at the funeral. According to Samantha: "Our bond was broken and we were replaced. Few people understand and know the toll and the pressures, both on the family and the individuals who dedicate their lives to public office. In our story, this cost is real ... we lost our father twice. We were too young to understand the greatness of our father's work ... we'll have to rely on those who knew him to fill the empty gaps."

Kylie told of seven grandchildren and how "the next generation also share this loss of never knowing their grandfather, as did Dad, who lost the opportunity to have in his life his own flesh and blood".

As you can imagine, this contribution shifted the mood of the funeral. Most of Cook's colleagues had only sketchy knowledge of his first marriage; few were aware of the sad canyon between the late senator and his children. Simon Crean, Cook's closest political friend, ad libbed magnificently.

"I think we've been privileged to hear from Kylie and Samantha," he said. "Their story epitomises the great tear there is in terms of dedication to public life. It does take people away from their families, it does hurt and it took great courage today to tell that story.

"But your dad had it in spades and it's clearly been passed on to you. I hope today helps you, not just for your ability to tell the story but for us to fill in those gaps, because your loss was our gain."

McDonald wound up with a dignified, insightful eulogy focusing largely on her husband's tenacious but vain fight with cancer. She told of colleagues bringing footy jumpers, flowers and bountiful good cheer to Cook's bedside during his months in convalescence and joked about John Faulkner turning up with Hansard copies of his speeches: "I did read them to Peter but the morphine got him first."

Flanked by her own children, Kate and Connor, McDonald ended proceedings with former Labor MP George Gear's reaction to Cook's terminal condition: "George uttered a mild expletive and said: 'I'd pencilled Cookie in for the rest of my life.' Me too, George, me too." It truly was a class act.

Nobody understands how other families work, break down, survive and interact. Practically every politician in attendance shuddered knowingly afterwards; rare is the senior MP without some kind of human debris in their wake. When the Prime Minister lists the relative happiness and stability of the Howard clan as his mightiest achievement, he isn't kidding.

Cook, who planned the funeral with McDonald, proved unpretentious in death as in life. The refusal of the senator and his wife to gloss over the sadness of his circumstances made for awkward moments.

Although the content of Kylie and Samantha's speeches upset some of Cook's dearest, it was impossible to leave the ceremony without enduring admiration for the senator and his widow.

Crean is right; we demand a nigh impossible toll from our representatives. Almost everybody seriously interested in a political career sacrifices a large chunk of their family life on the altar of public service and personal ambition.

Latham, incidentally, was touted as a possible attendee at the funeral but didn't show. You'd bet the gentle chronicler turned home dad was hugging those boys of his even tighter on learning about Cook's stirring, sad farewell.