Lawless: He [Holt] had a phone call, and I answered the phone call, and it was Billy McMahon from Sydney.
Interviewer: How did you know it was him?
Lawless: I’d known his voice. I knew him well, too. He said, ‘Is that you, Tiny?’ I said yes. And he said, ‘Is Mr Holt there?’ I said yes. I got him. He came to the phone, and coming back in, as Mr Holt was finishing his conversation, I just heard, ‘That’s that, Billy,’ — to him — and he said, ‘That’s it, Tiny,’ to me.
When this was put to McMahon later, he denied it: ‘No, I did not.’ But Lawless was not going to back down. She remembered. She remembered it clearly:
Interviewer: Mr McMahon says he never made a phone call on that day.
Lawless: Mr McMahon did make one … Absolutely certain, I am. Just as I came out looking at him, he [Holt] was saying goodbye to Billy and he said, ‘Alright, if that’s the way you want it, have it that way.’18
‘In politics,’ Hasluck wrote later, ‘the story and the fact are not always the same.’19 Working out what was story and what was fact in McMahon’s autobiography was taking time — too much. And it was never really certain whether those facts were true.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Cold Water
1967–1968
The news flashes began just before two o’clock, Sunday 17 December. Jim Killen rang McMahon immediately. The deputy leader had not heard anything.1 Then Peter Howson was calling to inform McMahon that it was confirmed.2 Police, military, and lifesaving personnel, in helicopters and in boats, on foot and in the water, were converging on the shores around Portsea, Victoria.
The prime minister was missing — missing at sea.
‘When I heard that he had disappeared,’ McMahon said later, ‘well, for me, it was just two or three days of agony. And I never wanted to think — and I never did think — I stopped myself from thinking — what might have happened.’3
Howson asked McMahon to spread the word. McMahon agreed, but he did not need to. Phones were ringing everywhere that afternoon. Down at his farm in Stanhope, Victoria, John McEwen heard the news from Lady Ansett, wife to Sir Reginald. McEwen had barely put down the phone when it rang again with official confirmation.4 McMahon was soon on the line to inform McEwen, but the Country Party leader was already making his plans to travel to Canberra. John Gorton was sitting in his gardening clothes at his home in Narrabundah, Canberra, when Ainsley Gotto, a staff member attached to the office of the government whip, Dudley Erwin, called to break the news.5 Paul Hasluck was at his duplex in Deakin, Canberra, when McMahon called at around three-thirty. Noting that the prime minister’s wife, Zara Holt, and press secretary, Tony Eggleton, were on their way to Melbourne, McMahon asked Hasluck if he should travel to Melbourne, too. Hasluck thought not, and said as much.6
Meanwhile, Sonia contacted McMahon’s staff and asked them to come to their flat in Darling Point. When Peter Kelly arrived at around half-past four, the place was excitedly busy. There was nothing concrete, Sonia said to him, but Holt was likely dead — drowned, most probably. Absorbing this news, Kelly noticed that McMahon, who seemed ‘solemn’, was packing a bag. He asked Pat Wheatley, also present, what was going on. ‘We’re off to Canberra in a VIP,’ she replied.
Kelly was disbelieving. ‘What! He must be mad.’
Kelly was thinking of the media fallout. With the controversial VIP affair barely beginning to fade from memory, McMahon was going to commandeer another VIP flight? More critically, was he really going to jet into Canberra to lay claim to the prime ministership with the search and rescue still underway? With his colleague, friend, party leader, and prime minister potentially dead?
Kelly hinted that McMahon should hold back, but to no effect. He told Sonia of his concerns, but she refused to intervene. So he decided to shock McMahon: ‘Do you really want Fitchett to write in tomorrow’s Sydney Morning Herald that McMahon arrived in Canberra before the body was even cold?’
This prompted a response. McMahon might have been grieving, but what he said revealed his uppermost concern: ‘But Jack’s already there!’
Kelly’s droll reply that McEwen was, after all, the deputy prime minister, failed to dissuade McMahon. The treasurer was panicked by the political implications of Holt’s likely death. With Holt gone, the Liberal Party leadership — and, with it, the prime ministership — would fall vacant. McMahon knew that as the Liberal Party’s deputy leader he had the first claim to the job of leadership, even if only in a temporary capacity — and from there it was easy to foresee making it permanent.
But McEwen’s presence in Canberra could upset that. Without McMahon around to contest advice or say differently, McEwen, as deputy prime minister, could take charge, possibly even be sworn in as prime minister. From there, who knew what could happen? McEwen could emulate Arthur Fadden and remain prime minister, with the Liberal Party acquiescing in a subordinate role under the Country Party, just as the UAP had in 1941. All the policies that McMahon had advocated would be overturned, replaced by policies he had resisted. The AIDC, the move to devalue, the support of economically inefficient industries — they could all come back.
Even if this worst-case scenario did not eventuate, an acting prime minister McEwen would have the clout to cruel McMahon’s chances of becoming prime minister. He certainly had no liking for McMahon — this could be his way to exact revenge. McEwen would certainly know how to do so. He would not make the mistakes that Sir Earle Page had made in 1939. McEwen would know how to ensure he had his way.
Understandably, then, Kelly’s warning did not immediately cause McMahon to drop the idea of going to Canberra. The treasurer did what he normally did when he heard an opinion he did not like: he rang around until he could find someone who had similar views to his own.7
Those calls went nowhere. A conversation with Gorton, in which McMahon raised the prospect of an immediate party meeting, ended with Gorton’s demurral.8 A talk with Eggleton, in which McMahon ventured going down to Melbourne, stymied McMahon. ‘I discouraged him from joining what was already a full house,’ Eggleton said later.9 A steady stream of calls to the Liberal Party organisation, to state politicians, and to the press continued for the remainder of the afternoon.10
Cold-blooded as it might seem, McMahon was not the only one thinking of the consequences of Holt’s probable death. Dudley Erwin had called John Gorton and delivered a blunt message to get over his shock at Holt’s disappearance: ‘I am afraid, John, that it is true and you must start to think what this means to you.’11
McEwen was similarly thinking ahead. His men in the Country Party — Ian Sinclair, Doug Anthony, and Peter Nixon — had been informed of the state of affairs and were on their way to Canberra. McEwen had called Peter Lawler, acting secretary of the prime minister’s department while Sir John Bunting was on holiday, and asked him to be present at Canberra Airport when McEwen arrived. From the moment he stepped off the plane, Lawler thought, McEwen was in charge.12 Moreover, it was obvious that McEwen was soon to appeal to the highest authority: at the Hotel Kurrajong, Lawler noted McEwen’s secretary, Mary Byrne, putting out McEwen’s formal clothes.13
Anthony went to see McEwen immediately upon reaching Canberra. In the hotel room, the two agreed that McMahon would obtain no benefit from the upheaval caused by Holt’s death. ‘McMahon’s name never came forward from McEwen as a possible leader of the Liberal Party,’ Anthony recalled. ‘My thoughts were similar to McEwen’s.’14 They could not abide him, and they would not allow the Country Party to serve in a government led by him. To the inevitable question this raised — who, if not McMahon, would be acceptable as a successor to Holt — they decided on Gorton. Though a senator, Gorton’s handling of the VIP affair, his wartime service, and his familiarity with rural matters were enough to win McEwen’s approval. Hasluck — ostensibly Gorton’s senior and, without McMahon, certainly the most experienced Liberal minister — was scrat
ched.
At around twenty minutes past seven, McEwen called Hasluck. He caught the external affairs minister just as he was about to leave for dinner with New Zealand’s high commissioner. McEwen informed Hasluck that the governor-general was likely to commission him as prime minister on a caretaker basis once he had been satisfied that Holt was dead. The commission would be temporary, to be held until the Liberal Party elected a leader to replace Holt. McEwen told Hasluck that he would inform Casey that he would not serve under McMahon. Nor would the Country Party serve in a government led by him. McEwen’s question was whether or not he should let others know. ‘I thanked him for his frankness,’ Hasluck recalled. ‘I said that, as he already knew, I myself would find it impossible to work with McMahon as prime minister.’15
In Yarralumla, meanwhile, Casey had taken care to be abreast of all the necessary information and to take every precaution. At three o’clock that afternoon, he had called Nigel Bowen, the attorney-general, for advice on Holt’s commission as prime minister.16 Judging that Holt was likely dead, Casey sought confirmation that forty-eight hours was ‘about the appropriate period of time’ to wait before swearing in a replacement. Bowen agreed, as did the man Casey telephoned next, the chief justice of the High Court, Sir Garfield Barwick.17
Casey also contacted Sir John Bunting, who had by now broken his holiday. Casey told Bunting that a ‘personal and confidential letter’ should be among the papers in Holt’s briefcase in Portsea. It was the letter about his meeting with McMahon. It needed to be returned, Casey said.18 Police were dispatched to Holt’s home in Portsea to retrieve the letter. They marched straight into Holt’s bedroom, where his briefcase was located, his housekeeper said later. With the letter in hand, they left via the window.19
Some time after seven-thirty, McEwen arrived at Government House to dine with Casey. ‘We discussed all the matters involved and potentially involved,’ Casey wrote in his diary, ‘so that I knew his attitude in the circumstances that lie ahead.’ Casey had already decided the person he would commission as prime minister to succeed Holt. When he had spoken with Bowen and Barwick, he had explicitly mentioned that it was McEwen who would be sworn in.20
Luckily, Casey found a willing audience. McEwen said that if Holt were dead, Casey would have to commission a new prime minister. But, McEwen went on, to commission any Liberal Party member as prime minister on an interim basis would give them an ‘absolutely unfair advantage’ in the leadership contest that would follow. Therefore, Casey should commission him as prime minister. But he would not accept any formal conditions to that commission, he said. His promise that he would hand it back once the Liberal Party elected a new leader should suffice. Casey agreed.21
From there, they discussed the Liberal Party. ‘His attitude toward McMahon is a key matter,’ Casey wrote.22 McEwen informed Casey that neither he nor his party would serve under McMahon should he be elected leader of the Liberal Party. Moreover, he told Casey that he intended to make this fact known to McMahon and the Liberal Party.
At around the same time as McEwen told Casey this, Hasluck was speaking with Gorton at the New Zealand high commissioner’s home. Around dinner and games of Scrabble, Hasluck told Gorton about his phone call with McEwen.23 Gorton agreed that a commission for McEwen to become prime minister was appropriate. He mentioned that the government whips had been contacted by McMahon, who wanted an immediate party meeting. Both men disagreed with this kind of speed, mostly out of respect for the Holt family. Gorton let on that his aversion to McMahon was almost as strong as Hasluck’s.
Later in the evening, Hasluck drew Gorton aside. Sitting on the sofa, Hasluck told Gorton that he should put his hand up for the leadership.24 The contest should be between the two of them. The other potential contenders — Allen Fairhall, David Fairbairn, Les Bury, and Alan Hulme — were just not good enough. And he himself, Hasluck went on, had the disadvantages of age and a reputation rubbished by McMahon. ‘Gorton gave no clear response except to say that he agreed that I was the only senior minister in the House of Representatives with “enough brains” to be prime minister,’ wrote Hasluck.25
By half-past nine, Gorton had left the high commissioner’s residence and thus was not present when Hasluck received a call from Government House, from which McEwen had just departed.26 Could Hasluck meet with Casey the next morning at ten o’clock? Hasluck accepted.27
Returning to the Hotel Kurrajong, McEwen was joined by Anthony and Sinclair. After about fifteen minutes, Anthony emerged from the hotel and asked his driver to take him to Gorton’s home in Narrabundah.28
The Senate leader was in his pyjamas when he heard tyres crunching outside his home.29 It was Anthony. He came bearing word that Gorton would be the Country Party’s preferred candidate in the imminent contest for the leadership of the Liberal Party.30
BY the time McMahon arrived in Canberra the next morning on a commercial flight, he had lost crucial time and influence. His absence from Canberra had left him unable to make the case to Casey that he should be commissioned as prime minister. It is likely that his argument would have rested on the events of 1945, when John Curtin died in office and Frank Forde, deputy leader of the Labor Party, was sworn in as prime minister by the governor-general, until a party-room ballot was held to elect a new leader — in that case, Ben Chifley.
There was another precedent, though, which was potentially more relevant — the death of Joseph Lyons in 1939. His death had ostensibly left a question about who the governor-general should commission. But a cabinet meeting had resolved the question: as leader of the UAP’s coalition partner, the Country Party, and the highest-ranking minister after Lyons, it was Earle Page who received the commission.
But even here there were murky waters. At the time of Lyons’ death, the UAP did not have a deputy leader in place, Menzies having resigned several weeks earlier. Yet at the time of Holt’s death, there was a deputy leader in place — McMahon. Also, McEwen’s assertion that neither he nor his party would serve under McMahon was, for the moment, irrelevant. Whether McMahon could command the confidence of the House was a moot point. Parliament was not in session, so a test of the government’s numbers was not in the offing. Therefore, as Geoffrey Bolton later argued, ‘custom dictated that, as senior partner in the Coalition, the Liberals would expect their leader to be selected’.31
Casey took a different view, one that drew as much on his experience in politics as a member of the Lyons and Menzies governments as it did on his knowledge of the personal dispute between McEwen and McMahon. First, just as Lyons had designated Page acting prime minister while he was away, so, too, had Holt designated McEwen. Indeed, McEwen was the first minister to be officially designated deputy prime minister. There were, therefore, grounds to suggest that McEwen should act as prime minister in Holt’s now-permanent absence.
Second, Casey did not agree that McMahon’s deputy leadership was relevant. A notable factor in the commissions to Page and Forde had been the order of precendence. In both cases, Page and Forde were the ministers ranking immediately after the prime minister. McEwen ranked above McMahon in the Table of Precedence. That McMahon was deputy leader of the Liberal Party was immaterial: his possession of the deputy leadership did not necessarily involve progression to leadership.32
Last, and most contentiously, the coalition between the non-Labor parties was all-important. It had been in the 1930s and it was still. Commissioning McMahon, while knowing of McEwen’s warning, would endanger the coalition. ‘Casey wanted at all costs to preserve the Coalition,’ wrote his biographer.33 This was perhaps the most partisan judgement Casey could make, and the one most open to question and criticism. Was it really within his role to facilitate a Coalition agreement?
By the time McMahon’s appointment at Government House was fixed, a whole troop of Liberal Party MPs had already come and gone, and each had confirmed Casey’s belief that, at least in this case, the deputy leader would not necessar
ily become leader. Hasluck had told Casey that he would not serve under McMahon; Fairhall had informed Casey that he might stand for the leadership; Gorton gave similar news; and Erwin, the Liberal Party whip, informed Casey of McMahon’s ‘increasing unpopularity’. By the time McMahon arrived to see Casey at four o’clock, his opportunity to put his case had been severely undermined. Casey had already resolved on commissioning McEwen.34
Even before he arrived at Government House, though, McMahon was aware that serious obstacles would have to be overcome if he was to mount a credible bid for the leadership. McEwen had spoken with Gorton and Hasluck in his office at Parliament House, and confirmed that he would not serve under McMahon. McEwen said the same to Erwin, and then to Fairhall, later that day. Erwin told McEwen he had to tell McMahon. ‘Please, would you tell McMahon you are not prepared to do this?’
McEwen agreed, and immediately picked up the phone and asked McMahon to come to his office. Erwin was just leaving when McMahon arrived. His presence, immediately before a pivotal meeting, sparked considerable enmity from McMahon, who blamed Erwin for what followed.35
McEwen was direct. His words, he said later, were ‘very heated’, but they were also few.36 He told McMahon that his party would not serve in a government led by him. ‘Bill,’ he said, ‘I will not serve under you because I don’t trust you.’
The explanation was simple, unadorned, and decisive. For some it was not enough. Much later, when Reid was researching the events that followed Holt’s death, he asked McEwen what he had said. McEwen repeated the single sentence. ‘And I waited for him to go on,’ Reid recalled. ‘He didn’t go on. I said, “Yeah, go on, go on, go on.” He said, “That’s it.”’37
McMahon requested no further information. He said nothing. He did nothing. ‘He just sat there looking at me and then left the room,’ McEwen wrote later.38
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