In 1997, I was living and working in Italy, dividing my time between various archaeological digs. At one point my mother came to visit me in Assisi (I was working on Etruscan remains in Bettona at the time). During her struggles with luggage, a very tall and obviously strong older gentleman stepped in when she was about to give up and manhandled her suitcase into the overhead racks. She thought he was English, but he put her right: he was Australian, and his name was Tom Uren. They sat down in the closed travelling compartment and got to talking. And talking. And talking. I was greeted at the station when mum got off the train by the spectacle of her arm-in-arm with this very tall fellow I could not quite place. Until he introduced himself. He knew me better than I knew him; at the time I was more recently famous. You must think anyone who claims to be downtrodden is wasting your time, he said at one point. My mother insisted on supper, and we went into the centre. Tom insisted on paying. He and my mother corresponded until her death in 2003. He went to some trouble to organise a signed copy of his autobiography, Straight Left, for my sister, who is a keen reader of Australian political history. He wrote a beautiful personal dedication. Tom and my mother and I likely agreed on very little, but he was a consummate model of the human. I shall miss him, and so will Australia.
Posted on: Mon, 26 Jan 2015 04:36:47 +0000
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