by Tom Scott
If Muldoon’s first act in office hadn’t been taking a wrecking ball to Roger Douglas’s far-sighted if imperfect compulsory superannuation scheme there would have been enough money in the kitty today to make the selling of state assets unnecessary and unthinkable. By this one measure alone Muldoon failed to meet his modest goal of leaving New Zealand no worse than when he found it.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
LANGE TAKES THE REINS
RIGHT FROM HIS ARRIVAL IN Parliament, Lange was burdened with the expectation that he was a leader in waiting and the corollary accusation that, try as he might, he would never be battle-hardened enough for the top job. Just how ready he was, we were about to find out. The scenes on the morning of his elevation to the top job on the third floor of the old Parliament Building were almost without precedent. Not since the early ’70s when these rooms were part of the Prime Minister’s Department had there been such heady excitement.
More than 40 of us congregated in the long corridor. Red and black power cables feeding four television crews ran like the entrails of a terrible beast down to the old cabinet room where the crucial caucus meeting took place. Under the heat and glare of the television lights, Labour MPs gathered nervously at the tea urn for a last hit of caffeine before the vote. Russell Marshall, who had bravely tossed his hat into the leadership ring, glided past calm and serene in the knowledge he didn’t have a shit-show. Bill Rowling attempted light conversation with a solemn David Lange, who didn’t want to be engaged. Party president Jim Anderton looked like he hadn’t slept. His preferred choice for deputy leader, Ann Hercus, wore a rictus smile. Grinning sheepishly, Mike Moore conceded that he was the ugliest contender for deputy leader. The man who would eventually beat him by one vote, Geoffrey Palmer, arrived looking quite unruffled, jacket draped casually over his shoulder—he’d just done twenty lengths of the Beehive pool and looked like a man who either knew he had it won or genuinely didn’t care either way. Eventually the Opposition chief whip, Jonathan Hunt, fussily shepherded his flock into the caucus room and ushered us back down the corridor.
We listened to distant bursts of applause much like doctors listening to a heart murmur. What did it mean? Forty-five minutes after they’d gone in, the door flung open and a jovial Rowling, flanked by a less pleased Anderton, led out Lange and Palmer. Lange expressed his relief that it was all over. Genuinely dazed, Palmer could only give a silly grin and say he felt humble. Unable to conceal her hurt, Ann Hercus dashed tearfully to her room where staffers guarded the door. Mike Moore, who had wanted the number-two spot just as desperately, hand-delivered a gracious press statement around the Press Gallery offices, congratulating both Palmer and Lange, lingering to add sorrowfully, ‘You spill your guts for the party and this happens.’ Russell Marshall, a former Minister, exuded the Methodist equivalent of Zen calm. He had just wanted the record to show Lange hadn’t been elected unopposed, something he pointed out repeatedly in years to come.
Lange appeared delighted with the leadership mix when he and Palmer held a first press conference together in the Beehive theatre. ‘The pairing,’ he said, ‘could have come straight from a manual and the chemistry was immensely attractive.’ Compared to the government’s top two the combination exuded vigour, youth and optimism, and Lange fielded questions with an awesome battery of quips. It was a lively, hugely entertaining start, even if it did feel like a child’s birthday party—lots of sugar and food colouring but precious little nutritional value.
A Newsmaker television special taped a few hours later with Ian Fraser was considerably less assured. Lange sounded fine. It was what he said that was disturbing. He claimed that his greatest political strength was his ability to articulate a vision so Ian invited him to do just that, then shrewdly sat back and let him go without interruption. Lange began saying he had a conviction that New Zealand was a richly endowed country with an unmatched population mix, adding that this vision wasn’t really a vision because he could see it already in the schools in his electorate. ‘If I talk about these things in terms of a vision it’s because they are rooted in me.’
He went on to explain that this vision came partly from the fact that the state intervened to give him free school milk. A little worried, he then asked what many were wondering. ‘Can a vision be communicated rationally?’ Ian didn’t answer. Lange boomed that he wanted to be a person who really wanted to say something for himself and for the people he cared about. ‘These things are emotional and not necessarily coherent but I tell you, it’s what the Labour Party is all about!’ Then he tossed in the towel altogether and admitted, ‘I’m simply saying, accept me as a person with a soul and not just a mechanic.’
It was too late. Small wonder that Palmer, who had earlier been describing himself as the backroom boy and Lange as the great communicator, was within hours intervening politely with, ‘What I think David was trying to say was …’
The confusion continued when it came to articulating his stance on visits by American warships. I wrote a Listener piece called ‘The philosophy of the philosophy of confusion’ that in part went like this:
Studio lights dim, throwing a small but excited audience into darkness. The floor manager raises one arm and conversation stills. All eyes are on the black swivel chair that seems to float in the centre of a single shaft of light. To one side illuminated by another spot sits the ageless, blond quizmaster, Peter Sinclair, nervously licking his thin lips and shuffling papers. The floor manager gives him his cue.
SINCLAIR: Good evening and welcome to Mastermind. Our first contestant is Reon Mudgeway, a Dargaville beekeeper and amateur gynaecologist. Mr Mudgeway has chosen as his specialist subject the policies of the Opposition leader, David Lange, on the nuclear threat and visits of nuclear warships. You have two minutes starting now. What, in Mr Lange’s own words, has characterised the recent debate in New Zealand on the nuclear threat?
MUDGEWAY: Confusion.
SINCLAIR: Correct. And what sort of confusion is it in Lange’s view?
MUDGEWAY: Unfortunate.
SINCLAIR: Correct. And where does Mr Lange think this unfortunate confusion has come from?
MUDGEWAY: It arose in the heat of debate.
SINCLAIR: Correct. And who provoked that debate and ensured it was heated by advocating changes at variance with existing Labour Party policy?
MUDGEWAY: (screwing up his face and closing his eyes) Oh dear. I don’t know. I’ll have to guess, the people of Mangere?
SINCLAIR: So close but I can’t accept it. The answer I wanted was David Lange. You knew that all the time, didn’t you? (Close to tears, Mudgeway can only wring his hands despairingly.) Now, in March Lange called for a review of Labour’s official policy on the visits of US warships and he warned his party not to get sidetracked by what?
MUDGEWAY: (still rattled) Loose women?
SINCLAIR: No. He warned against getting sidetracked over whether the vessels were nuclear-powered as well as nuclear-armed.
MUDGEWAY: Of course! (He strikes himself a blow with some force to the side of the head.)
LATER THAT YEAR THE LABOUR PARTY held its knees-up in a windowless convention centre on Auckland’s beautiful waterfront overlooking the glittering harbour—not that anyone would have known. I picked up a copy of the Auckland Star en route to the opening session on a Friday evening and read a long piece on David Lange on the eve of his first conference as party leader. In the piece he revealed that one of the worst aspects of political life was having to deal with people he despised, and he named me in that category. I must admit I was a little taken aback, but I didn’t have time to brood for very long as I ran into him just minutes later in the conference foyer. He strode towards me bellowing, ‘Tom! Tom! I was misquoted! It was taken out of context!’
I replied, ‘Don’t worry about it, David. I get to say critical things about you in print—you can say critical things about me.’ He looked visibly relieved.
‘As long as you see it in the spirit of tit for tat.’
‘Are you heading home tonight?’ When I said I was, he reached into a pocket of his jacket. ‘Here! Have these.’ He pulled out half a packet of Griffin’s Chocolate Wheatens. The heat of his body had melted the chocolate, fusing everything into a brown gelatinous mass. It resembled a bag of dog poop scooped up from a park. Given how dear chocolate was to David’s heart, this was the equivalent of giving me a knighthood. There was no higher compliment.
‘No thanks, David,’ I demurred.
‘Go on! Take them. Bring them home to the kids.’ When I declined again he asked how I was getting out to the airport. I said I was catching a cab.
‘Come with me in the LTD.’ As the Leader of the Opposition he had his own chauffeur-driven limousine.
I said it wasn’t necessary but he was still desperately seeking to make amends, so I accepted. When we parked outside his modest house in Mangere I opted to stay put in the car, but David insisted I come in with him. I soon discovered why. Having a stranger in the house would prevent his wife letting him have it with both barrels.
We walked down a driveway past knee-high grass and a rancid Para pool. Inside the house it was all clamour and clutter. Pots boiled on the stove, dishes filled the sink, folded washing was piled on chairs, kids delighted to see their dad hugged him and wanted to tell him things. Petite and pretty Naomi, clearly harassed, shrilly demanded her husband’s input on all manner of domestic matters before he shot out the door again. Back in the car Lange sagged in his seat and mopped his brow, looking relieved to be heading back to Wellington and he wasn’t even in power yet.
IN THAT REGARD HE WAS helped when Malcolm Fraser called a snap election in Australia. I covered it for the Listener and caught up with Bill Darcy covering Labour leader Bob Hawke on a walkabout through a crowded Sydney shopping mall. The diminutive man they called the silver budgie, obviously very proud of the Liberace pompadour shimmering high above his scalp, was wearing a dapper, nattily cut, powder-blue new suit. ‘The Jewish tailors in Melbourne have done a number on you, Bob,’ whispered Bill proudly as Hawke swept past, looking insufferably pleased with himself. And why not; the polls predicted a big Labour win. The crazy grazier’s plan had badly backfired.
Two nights later in Melbourne, Aussie journalists snuck me into a surprise birthday party for Fraser in his hotel suite. The big man knew he was done for. His deep-set eyes were full of sorrow and regret. Earlier that day he’d been on ABC Radio talking about his stern father and his tough childhood in the Outback. It was a plea in mitigation. Unconsciously he was saying ‘I know I can seem arrogant and patrician, but I have suffered. Don’t judge me harshly.’ It was too late. He lost.
Back in New Zealand, Muldoon declared that he wouldn’t be making Malcolm Fraser’s mistake. Hell no! His government would serve out its full term, giving Lange as much time as possible to shoot himself in the foot. As it happens, he made exactly the same mistake as Fraser—calling a snap election—and he made a nearly identical plea in mitigation on the campaign trail.
I was in the audience the night he addressed an election rally on the shores of Lake Rotorua. National’s sitting MP Paul East and his team toiled mightily to ensure that the hall was booked out well in advance. A room full of party faithful guaranteed a decent hearing, looked good on camera and kept hecklers to a minimum. In the event National voters stayed away. When it should have been full, a good third of the hall was empty. Muldoon was confronted with a disheartening crescent of empty yellow seating. He swallowed and began telling the people who had turned up that he came to Rotorua often as a small boy. His mother put him on the train in Auckland and he walked to his grandmother’s house when he arrived at Rotorua station. He described getting off the train one night and walking through swirling steam from thermal pools in the wrong direction until he was thoroughly lost. His voice cracked. He was that terrified child again. I knew that he knew he was going to lose.
I WAS BY THIS STAGE working for the Auckland Star, covering my first election in real time. As well as writing and illustrating a weekly column for their Saturday paper I wrote a daily campaign diary accompanied by a pocket cartoon. The former NZPA photographer, the kind and conscientious Ray Pigney, who had a bushy white beard with no moustache that made him look like an Amish elder in mufti, was my driver and minder who photographed my cartoons and columns then wired them both back to the Auckland Star office. Jumping back and forth between Labour and National, Social Credit and Bob Jones’s New Zealand Party I was seldom in bed before midnight and always up again before dawn.
I had anticipated leisurely reflections in tranquillity for the Listener but yet another editor, this time David Beatson, had fired me. There was a degree of provocation involved. I had just been approached by the Auckland Star, who offered me a job for twice what the Listener were paying. I told David I would stay if the Listener gave me a rise that split the difference. He became apoplectic and said he wasn’t going to be blackmailed and I could leave forthwith. I cleared my desk and did just that. No drinks. No thanks. No farewell. My Listener colleagues were more stunned than I was when I walked out.
My new desk was in the Auckland Star office in Parliament. It was a delight to share it with the doyen of the Press Gallery, the supremely knowledgeable, utterly charming, ever thoughtful and helpful Ian Templeton. I was working harder than ever, but I felt less like a solo yachtsman than before so it was a lot of fun until it stopped being fun, and a lot of that had to do with my home life. Helen was holding the fort, which was only half renovated, while I was trying to justify the huge investment the Auckland Star had made in me.
I accompanied Lange on his first trip as Prime Minister to the UN in New York. It was raining when we arrived and the famous skyline was veiled in low overcast. The travelling press party hit Chinatown that night, where we tested our noughts and crosses skills against a hen in a cage. RNZ’s Richard Griffin and private radio’s Barry Soper got beaten soundly. I was relieved to battle the hen to a draw. They were inconsolable until I theorised we were playing a computer and when it was the hen’s turn it got a zap of voltage through its feet and pecked a fake keyboard.
Afterwards we spilled happily out into the night and I saw a sight from a science-fiction film: two impossibly tall ladders of light stretching up and vanishing into cloud. It was the first I had seen or heard of the Twin Towers. They were dazzling, awe-inspiring advertisements for American might, know-how and can-do. When my alarm radio came on automatically on the morning of 11 September 2001 and I heard the slow, deliberate baritone of former US Secretary of State Henry Kissinger intoning gravely, ‘Der verld vill never be der same again!’ I rushed to switch on the television in time to catch the second plane hitting the second tower. You could see immediately why Osama bin Laden had long had them in his sights.
Back at the UN the next morning, it was Lange’s turn to dazzle at the General Assembly. The room started to empty as soon as he was introduced but his sonic boom of a voice and soaring anti-nuclear rhetoric had people scrambling back to their seats. Afterwards, trailed by admiring journalists, he made his way to his next appointment down wide UN corridors. A cluster of Japanese diplomats bowed at his approach.
‘Excuse me. Are you the Finnish?’
‘No,’ roared Lange. ‘We’re from Neeeew Zeeeeealand!!! We’re the pits!’
His mega-decibel ebullience and dancing wit on that trip was astonishing. Later that same day, at his grand hotel over the road from the UN building, I observed him emerge from a meeting with the normally granite-faced US Secretary of State George Shultz, who was grinning broadly. In a corridor crowded with press and wary Secret Service agents, Lange did all of the talking, cracking jokes and laughing loudly, but rather than looking peeved at being upstaged Shultz wore the look of a proud uncle in the presence of a precocious nephew. I saw this phenomenon
repeated a few days later in London, in another corridor in another swanky hotel, overlooking the Thames. Labour leader Neil Kinnock, small, sandy and pasty, looked on in frank admiration as Lange amusingly described their talks.
Clearly this did not happen on his visit to Chequers, the sixteenth-century official country residence of the British Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher, who was displeased with New Zealand’s stand on nuclear weapons. Asked about this visit by the assembled UK press at a press conference in New Zealand House just off Trafalgar Square, Lange’s irreverence got the better of him when he said Thatcher spoke to him as if she were addressing a Nuremberg Rally. Gasps and shocked laughter filled the room. Likening a British Prime Minister to Hitler in a city that had endured the Blitz was borderline unforgivable but he was saved by the fact she gave everyone the shits.
FIVE YEARS AFTER THE PREVIOUS debacle, in 1984, I was back in Delhi again with Dick Griffin, this time as an accredited member of the New Zealand Prime Minister’s official party. Unlike Muldoon, David Lange had a deep affection for India and a prodigious knowledge of its recent history. He had visited the subcontinent as a young law graduate on his OE, staying in shonky backpackers’ and youth hostels. This time he was a guest of the Indian government in the former residence of the last Viceroy of India, Lord Louis Mountbatten, 1st Earl Mountbatten of Burma, and Edwina, Countess Mountbatten of Burma. With unabashed glee David led the press on a tour of their vast and sumptuous private quarters.