THE FUNERAL OF BILL WARREN
My uncle, Bill Warren, died on 6 September, 2004 and was cremated a few days later. The funeral directors were W.D. Rose – it had to be the Rose firm because Bill knew the family from his schooldays, and “they have always done our funerals”! The memorial gathering was at the Rose premises in Burwood, with the celebratory gathering a little later at the Andrews home in Glen Iris. This was the culmination of several days of the house being overwhelmed with people, arrivals from interstate, food preparation, searching through old photographs and slides, and general busyness and high spirits meant to counteract the gloom. And, through all this, I was finding moments to add to and to polish the funeral oration that I’d commenced writing in Hobart - I was there at a conference when news of Bill’s death came through. What follows is my eulogy, interspersed with the heartfelt remarks of some others. When the funeral had concluded, and the coffin had been installed in the hearse, I was approached by one of the Rose representatives: he had “enjoyed” the eulogy so much that he was suggesting that I might like to conduct other funerals for the firm. Flattery got him nowhere.
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My name is Gary Andrews. I am Bill’s nephew, nephew by marriage.
With the death of many older people (and certainly with the death of those who have had protracted illnesses) we frequently say that they are better off, or that their death is a blessing; and we console ourselves by saying that while they are physically gone they live on through our memories of them. Well, Bill, we’d rather have you than our memories any day.
But memories it must be; and we are here to share, and to reminisce, and to do our best to relieve our sorrow.
Bill will be cremated. He was always emphatic: “You’re not going to bury me! So unhygienic!” As we leave here later the coffin will stay behind, and the final stage of Bill’s journey will be attended to; and our journey will be continuing elsewhere, in a more convivial setting. More of that later.
I shall be delivering the principal eulogy, interspersed with loving contributions from a number of others, and we shall conclude with a little visual tribute.
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What a way to go! This was the reaction of the two young police who forced entry into Bill’s flat last Wednesday, and found him at his dining table – The Age spread out before him, glasses on his nose, sitting up, pyjamas and dressing gown. Only two words remaining in the crossword. No body on the floor, no hands clutched to the chest, no signs of distress, no look of pain or terror on his face. Bill had just slipped away. What a way to go!
We might think that quietly dying in bed would be better; but for Bill, reading the morning paper is so fitting as to be unbelievable.
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For all of us Bill’s death is quite surreal. We have ignored the clock, and ignored the inevitability of nature, and assumed that this moment would never come. Bill was going to keep on indefinitely. In his 70s and 80s very little changed; and, sure, in recent times he was on medication for his heart and was being pretty closely monitored; and, sure, he’d slowed up in the last twelve months – he’d given up golf, and didn’t walk great distances any more – but you’re surely entitled to slow up a bit when you’re 91! And, sure, his health had become a topic of our conversations: “How’s Bill today?” “Good.” “Seemed better than last week.” That sort of thing. But our concerns were day-to-day concerns, not born of a fear that his time was short. And now that time has come, and it’s surreal, and it’s a bloody shame. You know, Bill has only lost his life; but we have lost Bill.
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William David Russell Warren was born on 21st April, 1913. He was born at Middle Park. It wasn’t until applying for a passport when about 75 years old that Bill discovered that he had a third given name, Russell. Russell was his mother Caroline’s maiden name. Bill’s parents were English, and Caroline was the daughter of a well-off horse dealer. There was an elopement, and migration to Australia, and Caroline never again saw her family. There was said to have been gypsy blood on his father’s side, accounting for Bill’s dark hair and complexion
Bill had two brothers, George and Charles, both now dead. George’s widow, Irma, is with us today; and her daughter Julie, Bill’s niece. His other niece, Jan, is away in Western Australia. Bill’s surviving sister Beatrice (Bea) is here too. There was another sister who died at the age of four of pernicious anaemia. Bill’s attitude to his father can be gauged from his assertion that his sister’s life may well have been saved if the father had taken her to hospital sooner.
Bill’s father, Charles Warren, although a skilled cabinet-maker, was a wastrel and, despite always being able to secure work, he kept his family in poverty by drinking away the money at the Prahran Club. Bill vividly and often described the unpleasant aspects of his childhood, notably the constant moving from rented house to rented house around Prahran in the middle of the night to escape the unpaid rent, family belongings on a pushcart – nine times he said. Bill called them “moonlight flits”.
The three brothers and the sister were necessarily close in their adversity; and doted on their mother. The father died young; and to Bill he was the subject of lifelong dislike, indeed hatred, for what he’d done to his family. Still, Bill and the others survived their childhoods, and who can say whether the best tempered steel might be produced in the hottest flame.
And while speculating on cause and effect, it is tempting to think that Bill’s lack of connection with forebears other than his mother – no grandparents, no aunts or uncles, no cousins – intensified his connection with all of us who are his friends and his “adopted” family.
After Prahran the family lived at Cheltenham. The father was dead, brother George a soldier in the permanent forces, brother Charles married; and, when I first knew Bill he was living at Charman Road with mother Caroline and sister Bea.
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It was at Cheltenham that Bill formed his love of golf - caddying for members at Victoria, sneaking through the fence to whack balls around the Cheltenham course. Bill later joined the Cheltenham Golf Club, and for many years played off a handicap of around ten. He was undoubtedly Cheltenham’s longest-serving member. The Club seemed unaware of this, probably because in later years Bill played once a week, mid-week, and barely went near the clubhouse or the bar, so his identity was likely not known to the Committee and the pennant players. I was a bit cheesed off, actually, when after Bill let his membership lapse a couple of years back the Club made no acknowledgement of his long association.
As to Bill’s golfing companions: well his weekend golfing mates from the 1960s and the 1970s are all dead. And the weekday players of the last decade have been stalked by age and infirmity, and a number had drifted away before Bill.
A few generations earlier - Bill is on the right. Can it be an ankle-deep fairway?
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Bill’s great love of golf was complemented by his prodigious memory of golfing events. It was awesome to listen to him describe matches and exploits of the golfing stars of 60 and 70 years ago. A couple of years back an article appeared in a leading golfing magazine about the Australian tour of the great Gene Sarazen in the 1930s. Bill fulminated over the errors in the article. I can’t remember the particulars, but something about describing a hole incorrectly (because the hole didn’t exist in its present configuration at that time) and ascribing the wrong club that Sarazen had used for a particular shot. Bill was there. He knew. I persuaded him to write to the editor and to point out their errors. I was half hoping that they would contact Bill, and ask him to be their resident historian, or sub-editor, or some such. Bill wrote the letter, heard nothing further and – typically – didn’t even bother to buy the next edition to see whether his letter had been published.
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Golf was Bill’s sport for all the years we knew him, but there had been others. As a youth and in his twenties Bill played cricket. He described himself as a handy fast bowler. With his height and strength and dark visage he may well have been the D.K Lillee of the churches league. Bill theatrically described the end of his cricketing career. He said that he was in the outfield on a hot Saturday, and it struck him how boring it all was; and at the end of the game he left the field - hung up his ball so to speak - and never played cricket again.
And he took up bike riding. Bill was a good road racer, and won a few cycling prizes. He expressed regret at not taking up riding until his thirties – if he had started earlier he could have been a contender!
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For years Bill had a keen interest in horse racing. He was a race-goer and a punter. But he lost interest in both; and then kept a book detailing all his bets under the doubles system he devised. Dozens of pages, over years……he made thousands of dollars - but all on paper. On one occasion when I persuaded him to prove the system on course (this was before the TAB and off-course totalizator betting) we went to the Mornington January meeting. The system failed miserably. There was a reason, of course. Bill the punter, the optimist – they’re synonymous terms – explained that January was not a good time for the system, which was based on relatively short-priced horses, because all the long shots came home. So we agreed to try again at a more orderly time of year. But we never did. And, strangely, the betting system started to go wrong. Bill lost interest, and it sank without trace. The old exercise books might be found somewhere in Bill’s memorabilia.
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A final word on Bill the sportsman. He was a life-long supporter of St. Kilda, and over many years derived perverse satisfaction from supporting the worst team in the League. This year he has been complaining about St. Kilda doing so well. And again on Friday, by beating Sydney, they let him down.
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While it is clear that Bill was a good sportsman and athlete, to focus too much on these attributes would be to misrepresent the Bill we all know. Bill left school at thirteen and therefore had little basic education. What Bill did learn at school was reading and writing and spelling; and he learnt to love learning. He read widely. He was like a sponge, devouring the newspapers from front page to back, and keeping up with all current affairs; and when you couple this with his amazing memory and total recall you had a formidable encyclopaedia. Although he loved dictionaries, and had totally destroyed a couple over the years through constant use, the time came when there was hardly any need for one when you had Bill in the house.
Bill did have a rather declamatory style, he did pontificate somewhat, but he was not being superior – if he knew something he just stated it loud and clear……..with a touch of astonishment that everyone else didn’t know what he knew. He was non-judgmental – except with Liberal politicians and everything to do with George W Bush – and, basically, with Bill what you saw was what you got.
He was a wonderful conversationalist, and welcome at any table.
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With Bill’s knowledge and verbal skills it is something of a surprise that his working life was spent as a factory worker. We can ascribe this to his lack of formal education, but maybe it was a lack of confidence. I don’t think this was a discussable topic. Perhaps Bill was content to be a big fish in a small pond, and to leave it at that. He would have made a great newspaper sub-editor – no mistake in the daily press ever got past his eagle eye!
Bill never talked of his work – at Peter’s Ice Cream, and later at the laminex factory – and work for him was not only a necessary evil, but the part of his life that had least importance. So far as I know he made no enduring friendships from his working years, and never met with workmates away from work. Without knowing the reason for this it was pretty clear that Bill had little in common with his fellow workers – Bill with his wide reading and extraordinary general knowledge, Bill with little interest in blokey small talk (he never indulged in salacious talk, and hardly ever swore), Bill with no interest whatever in going to the pub after work. I’m sure Bill wasn’t difficult to work with, and didn’t remain aloof, but there was no common ground on which friendships might develop.
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With Bill’s background it is not surprising that he was a lifelong Labor voter and supporter – although not politically active. Against the tendency of the upwardly mobile he proudly claimed to be “working class”. He developed a particular distaste for John Howard and the present Government.
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Bill had equally strong views about religion. He was an outspoken atheist, and strongly believed that much of the world’s evil is due to the religious not practising what they preach. It follows that Bill had a firm view that there was no such thing as life after death. Those here who believe otherwise will, in a sense, have the last laugh; and as we speak Bill will be mightily surprised, and not a little peeved. Of one thing we can be sure: if there is a heaven, and if there is justice in heaven, Bill will be there with the great and the good.
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Bill went to war, the Second World War but, unlike so many of his era, Bill did not spend his days re-living the experience – it was not something that impacted greatly on his later life. This may have been because he never fired a shot in anger – Bill was an artilleryman, and his unit traipsed around Australia for years and, by the time they were posted to Borneo, the war was over. But more likely Bill’s disinterest in re-living wartime memories was due to his disinterest in institutionalized participation. Bill never marched on Anzac Day; and only in very recent years did he attend unit reunions – and only then because they came to be held a few kilometers from his home. And he would never join the RSL – “warmongers”; and, more significant, they wouldn’t admit women as members.
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I met Bill in 1946, not that I remember the occasion, I was six or seven at the time. Our family – my sister Margaret and me, and our parents, Gordon and Gloria – had moved to Melbourne from Chinkapook in the Victorian Mallee having left the land after years of drought. Gordon’s widowed sister Kath, had been running a delicatessen in the city, in Elizabeth Street; and it was agreed that Kath and Gordon would go into business together. So, a lifeline was thrown to my family, and a lifeline it proved to be. A delicatessen business was acquired in Chapel Street, Windsor, with a substantial residence behind and above, and we all move in together – the four of us, plus aunt Kath and my cousin, her son Graeme (Graeme was and is the same age as me!) and, for good measure, Kath and Gordon’s parents, my Pa and Grandma Andrews – also drought exiled farmers from Chinkapook.
And where did Bill fit into this? Well he and Kath had recently met and formed a friendship. Bill was working at Peter’s Ice Cream in Richmond, and living at Cheltenham. Kath was living with Graeme and Grandma Andrews at Aspendale. Bill met Kath on Flinders Street Station. Can you picture the tides of history carrying Kath along the tram down Elizabeth Street, and carrying Bill along Bridge Road and Wellington Parade, and converging at the Station? Bill wasn’t drawn to Kath’s chain smoking, although he was himself a smoker at the time, but there must have been some chemistry and - dare I say - the rest is history.
So when we moved to Windsor early in 1946 Bill was already on the scene, and has been an integral and loved part of sister Margaret and my lives ever since. And when our sisters Kathryn and Judith came along Bill was already there; likewise with our spouses, and our several children – from as soon as the kids had awareness Uncle Bill has been part of their lives. It is very hard for us to let go today.
I should point out that my father, Gordon, died when I was 20, so I “knew” him for say 16 years. I have known Bill for 58 years and, in some ways, he has been my surrogate father.
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We stayed at Windsor for less than six months and then, in September 1946, we all moved to Bridge Road, Richmond to a much bigger shop – two shops in fact, a delicatessen and a cake shop with bakehouse – and a much bigger upstairs residence. Kath and Bill were married a little while later, and Bill officially “took on” his new family, and became very much part of it. Importantly, Bill took on the role of father to Graeme. Graeme and I have been trying to recollect whether Bill moved in with us at Bridge Road before he and Kath were married – but we can’t recall. The idea of them “living in sin” has a certain quaint charm today – although in those days it would not have. But if it did happen it clearly had no shock impact on the kids in the house.
Over the next few years my relationship with Bill was firmly cemented. My father Gordon had become a hard-working, very hard-working partrycook and shopkeeper, with business commitments, with financial worries, with family obligations, and whose principal social outlet was the local lawn bowling club. Meat and potatoes. Bill, by contrast - at least to my boyish imagination - had excitement. His eight to four working day at the ice cream factory meant that he was around more after school. And he had a gramophone, and a record collection. He had been buying discs of popular music – especially jazz – from a young age, and had dozens of Artie Shaw, Bing Crosby, Fats Waller, Louis Armstrong. Some time after LPs took over, and Kath and Bill acquired their big radiogram, Bill gave up playing the old records and he gave them all to me. So I have some hundreds of his shellac 78s. They are not fundamental to my existence, but I cherish having them, and they do get an outing every couple of years. Occasionally Bill has said he wants his records back – joking of course, because he had no means of playing them, but this was his way of reminding himself of the happy times of his twenties.
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Speaking of Bill and music I must record that he had a fine baritone voice. Saturday night parties were a big thing at Bridge Road, and in Kath and Bill’s later homes, and at every party Kath would appear, dressed as a tramp and carrying a sugar bag, and do her party song, Nuts, Nuts, a Bloody Big Bag of Nuts. Bill, for his part, took about ten seconds to be persuaded to sing. There was a regular repertoire – Some Enchanted Evening, A Bachelor Gay, St. James Infirmary; and if sister Bea and brother Charles were there they would team up to give us The Wiffenpoof Song and Foggy, Foggy, Dew. We are hearing some of these songs today.
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In marrying my aunt Kath, Bill acquired a step-son, Graeme Lee. Graeme’s father had died tragically when Graeme was two. Bill took Graeme as his own, and the relationship has been harmonious and loving. It is a shame, in a way, that Graeme and Kaye his wife have lived in Western Australia for the past 35 years. It meant that Bill did not have day-to-day contact, and was not involved with the growing up of the Lee children and grandchildren. Their loss, of course, was our gain because my lot – the Andrews tribe – became much more Bill’s substitute family than we would have been if the Lees had stayed in Melbourne. Nevertheless, Bill always had a lively interest in his Western Australia family – living early on in Karratha, and later in Perth – and, in talking of the Lees, Bill would invariably speak proudly of his four grandchildren. I can hear him say of his hard-working grandsons: “Those boys, you know, have never been out of work.”
Bill, wife Kath, and step-son Graeme Lee
A few years ago Graeme and Kaye took Bill on a trip to New Zealand. The trip involved a lot of travelling around – which was always a pleasure to Bill – and included power-boating down the rapids. The photos show Bill sitting up front, waterproof gear and life jacket, participating as always.
The last time that the Lee family saw Bill was on his visit to Perth last year; but the last time there was communication was on the evening of Father’s Day, eight days ago, when Graeme and Kaye spoke to Bill for about 30 minutes. They were the last people to speak to him, and that’s a very special memory for them.
We should not forget that while for all the rest of us Bill was “Bill”, for Graeme he was “Dad”.
Graeme and Kaye, and daughter Tracey, are here today, and the words I am speaking are said on behalf of Graeme and the whole family.
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Another who has suffered from a geographical separation from Bill is my sister Margaret – and her husband Peter and sons Andrew and Michael. Margaret lived with Kath and Bill for some time during her single years, but having moved to Perth after marriage she has been able to see Bill only one or two times a year for the past 34 years. In such circumstances the get-togethers have special meaning. Marg is here today. She was also in Melbourne a couple of weeks ago, and is so grateful for having been able to spend so much time with Bill during that visit.
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Things at Bridge Road changed in 1950 – Kath, Bill and Graeme (and Pa Andrews) moved out. One day Kath saw her father Fred go down the street rather dressed up, and come back soon after. When quizzed on where he’d been, he said he’d been to the bank to sign something, he wasn’t sure what – but to Pa bankers were God, and if they said sign something you signed. Kath’s bloodhound nose started twitching. The unfolding of the story changed Bill’s life forever.
Pa Andrews had taken up land in the central Mallee, about eight kilometers from the establishing township of Chinkapook. This was in 1910. He had come from a farming family further south at Quambatook, so he knew about dry-country farming. But farming in the Central Mallee in those days, and still today, is a much harder proposition than further south – otherwise the land would have been settled sooner. Anyway the Andrews family farm came about, and they farmed at Chinkapook (we all call it Chinky) for nearly 30 years; and it was at Chinky that Kath and Gordon – my aunt and my father – grew up. There were prosperous years, and there were years of drought and disaster; and the early 1940s were the worst of all - so much so that the bank foreclosed, and Pa and Grandma Andrews were forced off the farm. The surprise is that the bank (the former Commercial Bank of Australia) sat on the property for years…….and then in 1950 sold it to a neighbouring farmer; and then, to close their file, they called in Pa Andrews for a final signature.
Much drama ensued. It happened that the buyer of the Andrews farm had always been a farmer and had, as a consequence, been in a “reserved occupation” and not called up for World War 2 military service; and because Bill had been a soldier, and because of the pro-veteran laws that existed at the time, Bill was able to lodge an appeal against the property sale and have it overturned in his favour. The upshot: for the same price Kath and Bill were able to buy back the family farm. Gordon bought out Kath’s interest in the Richmond business, and Kath and Bill and Graeme and Pa Andrews were off to Chinky.
And thus began Bill’s love affair with the Mallee. They stayed on the farm for five years. They made money. The seasons were kind, and the crops were good; these were the years of the Korean War, and the United States decided to stockpile wool, and the price of wool skyrocketed.
It wasn’t just the ability to make money that attracted Bill to the Mallee. It was the lifestyle. He regarded the life of a wheat and sheep farmer as easy. Sure you work hard at certain stages of the year, but it’s possible to organize a lot of leisure time. There was a lot of socializing; and golf was a regular weekend fixture. Bill’s golfing ability was ahead of most of the locals, and he has the distinction of holding the course record at the Chinkapook Golf Course. Don’t laugh. There was a course in those days……..today the sand scrape “greens” have faded into the dust, and the fairways have been reclaimed by the bush. But Bill’s record stands.
The years on the farm were the years of bonding between Bill and Graeme. As do farmer’s sons everywhere, Graeme helped on the farm, learnt to ride a horse, drove cars from his early teens – and himself became a fine golfer.
Bill would have gone on indefinitely as a farmer, but Kath had lived through droughts and knew that in the Mallee they invariably returned, and she was forever anxious. Like the toss of the coin, with each year of “heads” she became increasingly certain that next year would be “tails”. So after five years they sold up, and with the proceeds of the farm (which, I should add, had in the meantime through acquisition become quite a bit larger than the original Andrews place) there was enough to buy the home and four apartments at Brighton. Ever after Bill proclaimed that it had been a mistake to leave the Mallee but, while he might have meant it early on, he didn’t mean it later. And who here would say that the move back to Melbourne was a mistake. Unless Bill had spent the last, nearly 50, years in Melbourne many of those present today would never have met him; and those of us who are family would never have had the quality time.
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The return from the Mallee, and the move to Brighton, has particular significance for Judith Wines and Beverley Burnside - Beverley Wall as she then was. Judith and Beverley, as teenagers, were tenants of Kath and Bill at Brighton almost from the start – and they were taken under the wing, and taken into the hearts. The friendships have been enduring and deep. Judith would like to speak to us. Judith……..
My friendship with Bill was for over 45 years.
This started when I was a young married lass and lived in one of Cath and Bill’s flats at Brighton. Fortunately for me my marriage broke up, and not being able to afford the rent, I moved in with Cath and Bill.
It was a great life with them as they loved younger people and had lots of dinner parties, and we attended quite a few functions at the Cheltenham Golf Club.
The only cross word I had with Bill in those 45 years was when I left a function at the golf club, with a bloke for a spot of romance, and I did not tell Cath and Bill – needless to say I was in bed sound asleep when they arrived home at some ungodly hour, and Bill gave me the rounds of the kitchen, saying that they had been searching all over the place for me – he was very angry. We have laughed many times since with this story.
It was so sad when Cath died and Bill was on his own. However, he was never alone because his personality was such that people were drawn to him – mostly women of intelligence. He always said that he preferred the company of women to men for this reason. There were a few exceptions of course where the males were allowed into the circle, and most of you are here today.
He was held in high esteem by members of my family, especially my sisters and their children.
It was always a pleasurable experience to be with Bill. His knowledge was so vast, in almost every subject you can think of. His total recall was just so amazing and this remained right through until the end.
I dined with him on very regular occasions and he really made a fuss of setting the table, cooking a delicious 3-course meal, making sure the flat was tidy. We would drink a bottle of wine and talk for hours, with the thesaurus, road maps, dictionary, and many books close by which we would refer to. He loved discussing films and, although he did not go to many in latter years, he always read the reviews and was interested to know about films I had seen.
I never tired of the stories he would tell about his childhood, his family, his sporting prowess, such as cycling, cricket, golf of course - and I think he even had a go at football. His interest in horse racing - even though he didn’t have a bet, he still wrote his selections in a book each week to see whether he would have won or lost that day!
Bill was my confidante, a very very special person, and I was able to discuss my many happy and sad moments with him.
Jude Russell and I went through his drawers the other day and sorted the hundreds of cards and letters he had saved from his dear friends and relatives over the years. Hundreds of photos too.
Bill had a marvellous sense of humour and it was a joy to receive a letter from him, and many times i would have to refer to the dictionary because he loved using rather long words. He would never leave a blank spot on a card or letter. Filled to the nth degree.
I often said he should have written a book on his life – how extraordinary that would have been!
I have saved many of his letters to me, and reading through them the past few days found that he visited Chinkapook so many times with Gary – he would always write and advise he was going, as he preferred the pen to a phone call. He loved making either his famous sultana cake or sponge and sandwiches to take with them.
We had a really wonderful visit to Perth during Bill’s 90th birthday and what a delight that was for him, and me too, to catch up with his dear friends Marg and John Turner, as well as stay with Marg and Peter, Jude and the children and Graeme and Kaye.
Bill played a big role in my life – there is no one to replace him and no one could equal him. I love you dear Bill.
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The Brighton apartments led to one of the great experiences of Bill’s life. This was the time, in 1961, when he travelled through Queensland and the Northern Territory as camp cook for a team of field geologists. One of the Brighton apartments had at one stage been occupied by four young men, geologists with CRA. And one of them, when later embarking on four months of exploration, rang Bill with the offer. There was little hesitation, and Bill flew out to Mount Morgan, and the adventure of a lifetime. I doubt if any bunch of field workers was ever fed so well; and Bill forever dined out on stories of his time away – dry creek crossings, flooded creek crossings, the coupling of multiple Land Rovers to drag the truck out of the bog – all recounted with relish……as I say, one of the great adventures of Bill’s life.
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Speaking of cooking: Bill was both capable and experimental – not experimental with fancy exotic dishes, but show him a new cake recipe and he was into it. He lived alone for many years, and never took meals on wheels. As we all know, Bill didn’t starve.
Bill and I have had a regular late Sunday afternoon get-together for some years. The cake or the slice was always awaiting my arrival – two portions for Bill, two for me. Always two cups of coffee, Bill made the first, and I made the second. My wife Anne and I have been in Tasmania, and I rang Bill last Sunday in lieu of the weekly visit. He had forgotten that I was away - or perhaps he hadn’t heard when it had been discussed…….he was somewhat disinterested in wearing his hearing aids. Anyway, after expressing surprise that I wasn’t coming around, he said: “But I’ve made a cake! What am I going to do with the cake?” There was no doubt (in both our minds, actually) about what he was going to do with the cake – starting with the four slices he’d already cut.
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Women were Bill’s favourite people. He liked to be with them, and he liked talking with them. It is not surprising, therefore, that they responded with enthusiasm, and that – as a consequence – there were many special women in Bill’s life. A lot of you are here today.
Bill’s wife, Kath, died in 1975, so he was a widower for nearly 30 years. In 1985 he met Margaret Telford, and Bill and Margaret have had a loving relationship ever since. Dear Margaret is mourning with us today; and daughter Alison. Bill was warmly welcomed into the Telford family; and in 1988 Bill travelled to England with Margaret to visit Margaret’s family there.
Margaret Telford and Bill at the wedding of Judith Andrews and Wayne Russell
Bill and Margaret’s lives have been closely intertwined, and it was the absence of Bill’s daily phone call that caused Margaret to raise the alarm last Wednesday.
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Although Bill left the Mallee in 1954 the Mallee never left him, and he and we have been lucky that the Andrews have a cottage in Chinkapook township, and hence the ready-made pretext to take frequent trips back there. Every year I get to Chinky about seven times, and on about five of those Bill has been a cheery companion. You can’t usefully travel to Chinky in under five hours so, like marriage, the journey is not to be entered into lightly or unadvisedly. But, with the obligatory stop along the way to partake of Bill’s sandwiches and cake, the journey is almost an objective in itself. Certainly, for my part, the stresses of the city fall away the instant the car points north – so an element of both escape from Melbourne and escape to the Mallee. For Bill’s part…….well, so far as I know, Bill never had much to do with stress, and his trips to Chinky were part of the seamless flow of his happy existence. But the Chinky trips were special for him nonetheless, and he was keen to share some of the detail with Melbourne friends both before and after each few days away.
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Bill has always been close to my sister Kathy, and the two of them often shared Chinky trips. Those were special times together, particularly because of their mutual love of, and facility with, crossword puzzles……..much time expended in chasing that last elusive word.
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Chinkapook has about 25 permanent residents in about seven houses; and there are three or four other houses that are weekenders like ours. When Kath, Bill and Graeme lived on the farm in the 1950s Chinky had two general stores, a garage cum café, a football team, and maybe 100 residents with many more on the outlying farms. But Bill has not grieved for the past, and has been accepting of the changes that have been brought about by good roads and farm consolidations. Plenty of talk about the old days, of course.
People ask: “What do you do at Chinkapook? Do you go fishing? Or golf? Or what?” The answer is we do nothing. We have family groups of from three to a dozen, and we sit around, and we eat. And we listen to old records, and we eat. And we talk, and we eat. And we visit the cemetery, and we eat. And we trip around the bush, and we visit the old Andrews farm, and we eat. And we have port with our breakfast, and……And we trawl through the tip - and we don’t eat there!
We feel privileged that just two weeks ago, while sister Margaret was over from Perth, the three sisters and I, and Laura my daughter, and young Emily, had Bill with us for a Chinky weekend.
For the rest of our lives we shall picture Bill sitting at the end of the kitchen table – Bill’s spot – reading the papers, doing the crosswords, ignoring the hullabaloo, and being Bill.
Not the crossword in this snap, but still being Bill
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In 1986 Bill became the official sitter to the Andrews family. Anne and I asked him to baby-sit, house-sit and pet-sit while we went overseas. Tom was farmed out to his Gran, and Bill moved in to look after Dan and Laura. A bit of weekend respite was arranged, but Bill’s was basically a full-time appointment. There was a degree of grandmotherly concern. “There’s no doubt he can cook and keep house, but children – how can an old man look after children properly?” Bill was 73 at the time. Well, there was no cause for concern. Certainly Bill wasn’t concerned; and the kids had a ball. Total freedom. For ever after Bill proclaimed amazement that they wouldn’t eat everything he cooked for them – but there was no force feeding, and they got away with it. Laura was allowed to dress herself, and her zany clothes sense took flight - including one memorable Friday, when she was to go to her Gran’s after school, when she went to school without underpants! Shock and horror; but neither Bill nor Laura affected in any way.
And on Bill’s watch Sheff, our dog, became an indoor dog - and stayed one thereafter. No way was Bill the dog-lover about to leave a dog out in the cold.
Laura remembers what was one of Bill’s most endearing traits. Every morning he would wake her with a verse from Omar Khayyam:
“Awake! for morning in the bowl of night
Has flung the stone that puts the stars to flight;
And lo! the archer from the east
Has caught the Sultan’s turret in a noose of light.”
Who but Bill would think to wake a child in such a way? What style! Laura learnt the words, and taught them to her amazed teachers.
Little wonder that Bill’s seven weeks stint cemented Bill’s relationship with Dan and Laura into equivalent to that of the grandfathers they had never known. But more than that. Bill was never “old”, so he wasn’t really the grandfatherly stereotype. He was never patronizing, and he didn’t talk down to children – he was simply Bill, and children were free to treat him as equal.
Laura, in particular, has been devastated by Bill’s death, but has some lovely memories to share. Laura……………
This is an almost impossible task, even more impossible to be as grammatically correct or use as many interesting or unusual words as Bill would have.
This man, my Great Uncle Bill, has impacted on my life more than I can describe, and what I have found even more amazing is how present he has been throughout my life, and everyone else’s. When I was going through family photos the last few days, it was evident that Bill was present at every special occasion in our lives.
He always held such a warm, intelligent, and cuddly presence. Actually I noticed in the last few years his hugs became stronger, he held me closer and for longer, and I did the same.
Also the last year or so we spent more time talking. I of course now wish it had been more, but to give you an example: the second last time we were at Chinky we arrived late Friday evening, and Bill and I chatted away at the kitchen table till about 3 or 4 in the morning. And it was beautiful how we talked as if old friends, not just relations. We discussed my parents, my Dad Gary, in particular. Bill was astounded at my Dad’s wisdom and intelligence. Even after knowing him all these years, my Dad still amazed Bill. He held my Dad in the highest regard.
That night Bill and I talked about relationships, marriage, sex even…...can you believe! I remember his kiss to my forehead as we parted ways to go to bed that night; I remember the slight scent of port on his lips, and the days’ stubble gently scratch my face; and how I felt complete and utter contentment. Bill always made me feel like that.
He has been, I think, like the pillar of our family. I’m sure he will always be with us at every occasion in the future, certainly always in our conversation. I can’t explain how sad I am that I won’t ever see him again, have another cuddle or kiss, feel his big tummy or hear his gorgeous old voice.
I’d like to mention just a couple of the things I loved about Bill.
· I loved his big, firm, soft, extremely hairy hands that ‘looked’ as thought they had lived as long as he had.
· I loved his comb over of hair, which never seemed to get thinner and was always that way since I was alive.
· I loved the way he spoke. He was articulate, and used unimaginable words; he was loud and abrupt when he saw fit.
· I loved his story telling. He’d take me away to the place or time when these events happened, and I was 100% guaranteed a laugh or a smile.
· I loved his ability to eat and appreciate food - yes this runs in our family I know, but Bill was the Master.
· I loved his baking. What sponges and cakes and sandwiches!! My god, the best egg and lettuce I’ll ever taste, I’m sure.
· When I was little and he took care of us kids, I loved that he not only freshly squeezed me orange juice every day, but also that when he made my lunch he’d twist the brown paper bag, held by the corners, up and over, just like a greengrocer; with his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth of course.
· Even how he tied his apron or did any task, all with deliberate accentuated movements - you could tell what he was up to.
· I loved how at Chinky, without fail, that his electric shaver came out for us all to watch him go over his cheeks and around his mouth and nose; and he would stop only to say something like: “these things don’t do a good job”.
· His deafness: I’m sure nobody loved that he was deaf, due to the frustration it caused us all, but it was just so Bill – it was such a part of him. For us to have to shout at him and for us to all laugh when he had to regularly say “HUH?”.
· I loved his braces and jumpers, his polished shoes, his P.J.s and dressing gown.
· I loved his big thick unfashionable glasses, and on his nose the dint from them that was permanently carved in.
· I loved how he looked me in the eye, and I looked at him - it was okay not to speak…..just wonderful to be with him.
I loved Bill Warren, my Great Uncle Bill – the whole package. He was a bloody Diamond. What I have said barely skims the surface of things that will cross my mind, I’m sure, for the rest of my life when I think of this beautiful man.
Thank you, Bill, for enriching my life so very much. You were Amazing!
Amazing Bill and adoring Laura
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Bill has been a speechmaker at special family occasions, and has remarked more than once that getting married to Kath and – as a consequence – becoming involved with the Andrews family was a smart career move. Well we think it was a pretty smart move too. And living such a long life has meant that Bill has been shared by successive generations.
The latest bunch to come under his spell are the Russell kids, Jessie, Emily and Charles, the children of my sister Judith and her husband Wayne. In the 15 months since the Russells moved back to Melbourne Bill has taken a lively interest in the kids’ schooling and all their doings, and has become their loved Uncle Bill. Jude is going to tell us about her Uncle Bill. Jude………………….
Just like Bill, I have always loved to write, and I too, love nothing more than an audience. But, on this day, this day that we never wanted to come, it is so terribly painful to speak………and the words have been so hard to find………so forgive me if I falter along the way - I am sure to.
My gorgeous Bill………most notable nonagenarian………oh venerable sage………oh scholarly oracle………my knight in shining armour………my wise and noble prince……….Each time I rang him I searched for a new salutation just to tickle his fancy………for we all know he loved a compliment! I can still hear his chuckle, his response feigning modesty yet at the same time loving every syllable of my adoring praise…… …with just a hint of “give me more!”
We were together in this chapel not so long ago………the funeral for my mum’s elderly sister. Bill and I sat next to each other, just over there………he spending his time quizzing me………”who’s that woman over there?”……… and, of course, louder than we should have been, because he’d forgotten - or more likely refused - to wear his hearing aids. He hadn’t intended going to Lillie’s funeral………not, that is, until I told him that the Andrews clan would be doing the catering and there’d be good grub on afterwards. And then he was in like a flash. Bill could never resist a good funeral………or, more realistically, the good spread that followed. He loved a good tuck in.
The events that followed marked it as a day to remember………to make it brief: back at Gary’s for the wake, and Bill one moment perched on a stool, animated, lively - the next minute slumped, unconscious, then lowered to the floor, 000, ambulance ride to Epworth (“the ride was a bit bloody bumpy”), and tests on his heart. The diagnosis: a warm day, too much of a tuck in, more than his share of Sparkling Shiraz, and………“Mr. Warren, you fainted, and do lay off the drink next funeral you go to!”
The conclusion. I was elevated to the status of national hero for, to quote Bill’s words: “plucking him from the jaws of death”. He did reckon, however, that he’d been ripped off - because he hadn’t seen the light shining for him at the end of that final tunnel, and couldn’t hear us calling ”come back Bill”. Perhaps it was the hearing aid again!
But it didn’t end there. As we were leaving the hospital and he was emerging like a gladiator victoriously leaving the battle arena, he stopped as he often did, mid gait, and bent over to do up his fly or whatever, only to be nearly decapitated by the automatic glass doors. After pushing him aside, we cacked ourselves laughing because, once again, I had saved him from the brink!
It became, thereafter, known as the day of his “Near Death Experience”!
This week, more than anything, I wished I could have plucked him from the jaws of death just one more time. Bill was such a special, special, person and I just loved him to bits. He was sincere and honest, and the true epitome of his favourite pastime of reading - he was an open book.
He held the adoration of so many people (mainly women of course!) of every decade. To name just a few
………in their 80s: his adoring sister Bea, longtime friend Margaret Turner, and loving companion and soul mate Margaret Telford.
………then the sixty somethings: his loving son Graeme, dearest, dearest lifelong friends Judith and Beverley, and the bubbly Margaret who was the light of his Saturday mornings at Ashburton. And my brother Gary, his ever true and loyal friend who, I’m sure, loved him more than we will ever know.
………the 30s, 40s & 50-year-olds: overflowing with so many nephews, nieces, friends, grandchildren and admirers.
………in her 20s: the lovely Laura worshipped him so much; and even my kids, yet another generation again, despite being a bit miffed by his bushy eyebrows, weird hairy fingers and eccentric ways - all still thought he was a pretty cool old dude!
Just how many 91 year olds do you know who can command such love and admiration across the generations?
Today is a day when we can, and should be, sad.
Sad, because we will no longer hear his “dulcet tones” as he proclaims, “I love women, and they love me!”
I’m sad because I’ll never be able to wrap my arms around his wonderfully round belly, smell his delicious Billy smell, and whisper in his ear that I adore him. And then, better still, delight in having him whisper back “and I love you!”
But on this day I can also be so very joyful. Joyful that he died as we all would have wished - peacefully, with sound mind, and with dignity.
And, I can be so grateful that I have had the honour and pure joy of enjoying him for so many years. How truly lucky we all are.
My wonderful and gorgeous Uncle Billy. You filled my life with incredible happiness, and just thinking of you swells my heart with such joy.
I’m distraught that I can no longer hold you in my arms; but I am so, so, lucky that I will have you to hold in my heart forever
Bill and niece Judith Russell
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In this catalogue of memories you might have gained the impression that the Andrews lot, Bill’s wife’s family, hijacked his life. I guess that’s true – as they say, “propinquity breeds familiarity”. [I don’t know who “they” are actually. Having remembered the expression I looked it up, as Bill would have done, in his book of famous quotations – to see who first said it. But it wasn’t there. Actually Bill wouldn’t have looked it up in Bartlett – he would have known!] Propinquity breeds familiarity, and the Andrews saw a lot more of Bill than did his Warren family. Jan and Julie, his nieces, simply did not live nearby. But Julie has lived nearby for the last few years, and there has been a lovely closeness. The exception has been Bill’s sister Bea. Bill and Bea have lived within a kilometer of each other for more than 30 years. What was always a close bond was inevitably strengthened by that physical closeness. Bill revelled in Bea’s career successes, and the two of them together were like one mind with two bodies. Having known and loved Bill the longest of all of us, Bea is his deepest mourner.
Bill and Bea. And birthday slippers.
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Bill spent a lot of time at the Andrews place, my home. My wife Anne is another one of Bill’s “women”.
Around the table at Summerhill Road, starting with Anne, then Margaret Telford, Judith Wines, Beverley Burnside, Gary Andrews, Bea Warren, and Bill
There were the times when he was resident caretaker – many weeks in total over the years. There were the drop-in times, the “come over for a meal” times. There were the before and after Chinky trip times. And there were the special occasion times – Christmas, birthdays, celebrations. About 15 months ago one of those special occasions was the funeral of my mother, Gloria. This was a very sociable occasion, and Bill has continually remarked that it was “the best funeral he ever attended”. One of the key features was the happy gathering later back at the Andrews home. We are doing that again today, and you are all – I emphasise all – most cordially invited to gather at 26 Summerhill Road, Glen Iris after we conclude here. Summerhill Road is a little over a kilometre back towards the city, and number 26 is on the first corner, 200 metres along. Look for the black house with the flagpole.
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And now, to conclude, a kaleidoscope of Bill’s life. Laura and Tom, and Jude, have worked hard and lovingly to compile this presentation. There are 113 snapshots of Bill’s life, and some of the accompanying songs Bill used to sing.
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How to sum up? There is no way…….except to say that Bill touched our lives, that we loved him, and that we’ll never forget him.
Gary Andrews
13th September, 2004
Speak up!
Picnicking again
