Thank you for coming. It may be a bit bumpy but I promise to give everyone a safe landing.
The tableau on Wayne’s coffin represents important aspects of his life. The rug is from his travels in South America. These are the books he was reading at the time, and his glasses, pen and the Herald folded at the crossword page ready to go. And, of course, the bottle of Guinness for his Irish connections – as we know, he didn’t mind the occasional beer. You’ve gotta think Dan Murphy’s must be feeling the pinch this week. And the beautiful flowering gum which he saw every day on his walks with the dogs – and it’s there because he’d love the fact we went out last night under cover of dark and nicked it. Thanks Botany Council.
Baby Robert Bruce was born at Bethesda Hospital in Marrickville on November 6, 1952, to Patricia Joyce Smith. Who knew how and why that 20 year-old woman from Glen Innes got to Marrickville and what pressures were brought to bear to make her give up her baby son? We know now that there may have been extraordinary pressures and we can be reasonably sure that Patricia’s surname was not Smith. But we don’t know much more. Wayne tried to trace his mother but Bethesda Hospital burnt down, taking all its records with it.
But baby Robert Bruce was soon to be given to his wonderful new parents, Dallas and Fred, and became Wayne Charles Lindeman, and no child was more cherished, evidenced by his family nickname, “Precious”. A few years ago Wayne took his Dad up to Cowra and managed to broker a bit of a peace between the previously feuding twin brothers – that is to say his Father and Uncle Charlie. And when they knocked on the door, whoever answered it was heard to shout out to the family: “Hey, look who’s here – it’s Fearless and Precious!”
So Wayne grew up in Canowindra, and a bit of a jock by all accounts, that is to say, an athlete. He was very proud of the fact that though his Uncle Charlie was the swimming coach, he, Wayne, was always able to beat his cousins at the swimming meet. Sorry Bobbie, that’s his version so you can correct me if that’s wrong. He was also a Judo champion and it was not so long ago that Wayne ruefully admitted he probably couldn’t wrestle Rory to the ground anymore. In his early teens Dallas moved the family to Wollongong. Wayne managed to survive Keira Boys, meeting along the way Bob Shaw who was to remain his dear mate to the end, eventually fulfilling his role as godfather and taking such good care of Rory.
Now I haven’t got all the detail of the chronology of events, but some years ago I helped Wayne put together his CV and what I’ve got there is that until the early ’80s he worked in pubs and bars around Australia and in the United States and many of us have heard his travel stories from South America, which I shall quickly gloss over as I know some of you may have connections with the Federal Police.
Fortunately Wayne managed to get back to Australia under his own steam, you know, rather than on an extradition order, and began his steady career in the hospitality industry. These were the Northern Beaches years, the Midnight Oil years. Wayne and Helen lived with Peter Gifford, then the bass player with the Oils, and the other day Peter told me how he and Wayne used to do carpentry together at a hideaway of Giffo’s in Manly. In fact, in our kitchen we have a huge wooden cutting board made by Wayne with the word “Shed” branded into the corner. I don’t know exactly the story of how Wayne and Helen met but I do know he won her over some stiff competition, including, I believe, a certain Peter Fitzsimons.
Rory was born on St Patrick’s Day in 1985 and that was probably the proudest and happiest day of Wayne’s life I’d reckon. And those were the years Wayne managed the Manly Pacific and the Ivanhoe. But it was in about 1992, I think, that Helen decided she wanted to go home to Ireland, and then began the Dublin years. So until Rory was in his teens, Wayne went back and forth, not really able to stay and work legally in Ireland for very long, and it was also during these years that he and Bob travelled through Europe together. Bob will have a few reminiscences from that period and I’m looking forward to getting his version of events.
Wayne loved Ireland and the Irish. Dublin was a special place for him and he often spoke to me of his time there. A lot of Guinness, of course, a lot of good times with music and with Helen’s family, who, in spite of the separation, always welcomed him with great affection.
With Rory growing in his teens, Wayne made a more permanent return to Australia, basing himself in Woolloomooloo.
I first met Wayne shortly after I moved into Woolloomooloo in 2003 and my neighbours Mark and Terry introduced me to the East Sydney Hotel and inevitably to Wayne. Wayne reckons he won me in a pool game with another Wayne who seemed to be expressing a bit of interest in me. But our Wayne would always shake his head when he told the story and mutter: “But I lost the game so I don’t know how that works.”
And then we lived happily ever after, but “ever after” ended up being a bit too short, though nearly 10 years with a man like Wayne was a greater gift than many people ever have.
Let us share some of the great loves and interests in Wayne’s life.
All of you who know Wayne so well understand his passion for music. He couldn’t hold a tune but had the most extraordinarily eclectic taste in music – there was nothing he didn’t like. Well, there was a certain school of popular music he detested and I share with you his own particular and typical expression of dismissal – “That’s just soft-cock nancy-boy rock and roll”. Some of the music here today is special to us: k.d. lang – Gurrumul – Johnny O’Keefe. But that’s such a tiny reflection of the diversity of his taste – later today at the pub we’ll be playing you his iPod, so you’ll get a better feel for the very broad church of his music tastes.
Probably the job he loved the most was the years he worked for FDN – Food Distribution Network – where as a community worker he delivered fresh fruit and vegetable to people who were incapacitated in various ways. His years in hospitality had honed his innate ability to deal with people from any and all walks of life – the elderly, the sick, the frail and damaged. Nobody was too much trouble, and Wayne frequently went beyond the call of duty to extend a helping hand to any of his clients who reached out.
Wayne was a staunch Republican (what, did you think I wasn’t going to mention politics?) and a solid Labor supporter, though a lapsed member now, and, like so many of us, bitterly disappointed by NSW Labor in particular, and consequently absolutely gleeful about the ongoing ICAC hearings. “Take ’em out and shoot ’em” was the most often heard phrase in our house around news time. But he was a founding member of the Woolloomooloo Branch of the Labor Party, with me, and willingly joined in whichever piece of activism I happened to be plotting or engaging with. And last week he said to me: “You know, I reckon Julia Gillard’s been a pretty good Prime Minister, given all the circumstances.”
And Fred, our dear old Fred who died in March last year. Many of you know how incredibly devoted Wayne was to his Dad. Once we were able to find a place for Fred up here in Sydney, not a week went by when Wayne didn’t visit very regularly. And for most of Fred’s last year, Wayne was with him every day. We used to invite Fred to our place often and the Fred Roast Pork Lunches began with a group of friends, dear Mark and Terry and Felix and Sue and Fiona, talking loudly around the table while Fred listened happily, mostly interested in making sure he got more of the crackling than Mark.
When Fred died it was as if a light went out in Wayne’s life – some of you may know he did it tough for much of last year. But when he got his new job through Terry he picked up and since October last year he was in a pretty good space.
And, of course, the special fur baby, Spud. We found Spud at Monika’s Doggie Rescue in January 2006 and from the moment Spud licked Wayne’s toes at the first meeting it was true love. Neither Spud nor Wayne was particularly thrilled when Bono turned up last year, initially fostered from Monika’s for a couple of weeks, but, of course, I couldn’t give him up. It took me a few months of solid campaigning to win Wayne round and I’m afraid I never got there with Spud who remains resentful. The one proviso was that we change the name and so we have Edgar Booboo much loved by me, of course, but Wayne was never going to give up his loyalty to the number-one fur precious.
And finally, let me tell you about his very happy last weekend. On the Saturday he went down to Wollongong to spend the day with his dear old mate Bob, and his precious son Rory. And he came back, ever so slightly wobbly and with a great big beaming smile – he had had such a lovely time. The next day we had our dear friends Bruce and Catriona and Bert and Jane for our traditional February birthday girls’ duck lunch and he couldn’t wait to boast about his son and how very well he was doing. He was so immensely proud of you Rory.
And then it all goes a bit pear shaped. But I would like to end with this. Wayne would have been astonished at the outpouring of sadness and love. He was a modest man who would have been overwhelmed by your response. Over the past days, when people call me, the same words are repeated over and over: He was such a lovely, gentle man.
And he was. My dear old friend Lizzie in England, who also knew Wayne, when I told her about what people were saying, said to me: And he was lovely, and not in a narrow way. He was full-circle lovely, it was 360 degrees of lovely.
And he was.
