To James Kellow and Cristina Cappelluto, who fight to keep Australian publishing an integral part of our culture, and also create and support the perfect team to work on every book, my deepest gratitude. Thanks also to Hazel Lam, who created a cover that richly fits time, place and theme.
The Matilda Saga is the story of our nation, seen through the eyes of strong women. It’s fitting, then, that as I sat down to write these acknowledgements I realised that the books have been created by women like this too. Three, especially, have been the foundation of this book:
Lisa Berryman of HarperCollins, who evolved through complex genetic and professional factors to become the most magnificent publisher in the universe. Lisa is always correct. Life is far easier if everyone accepts this. This series is as much her creation as mine, nor would I be the writer who could have drawn together the historical and emotional threads of this book without the need to reach Lisa’s expectations. Lisa is also the ‘Julieanne’ in this book, writing most of the letters Jed receives. Even more than Jed, I knew little about the popular culture of that time, nor about the ‘real world’ beyond Australia where so many would-be writers, publishers, artists, filmmakers and photographers had to go if they wished a career.
Most people in 2016 cannot conceive just how small the Australian arts scene was back then, nor how much struggle went into establishing it in the 1970s and 1980s, and turning it into the powerhouse of diversity it is today. Lisa has travelled its entire journey, from Australia to London then back to Australia, a major part of creating an industry that now punches well above its weight overseas. I deeply hope that by the time you read this the recent threats to demolish the industry by abolishing territorial copyright (PIR) and making disastrous changes to author’s copyright have vanished, and our industry can continue.
Angela Marshall once more translated a dyslexic’s long, peculiar document and managed to turn it into text. Our journey together began as friends and neighbours, back in the days described in this book, sharing a concrete mixer and homemade formwork — we built our house of stone, she built hers of rammed earth — and an ice-cream machine (Angela had the cow that gave the cream, I grew the peaches added to it). Our dreams of self-sufficiency and the good life have changed a little, but the ideals we had then are still the heart of our lives.
Noël Pratt was a Most Senior Person in the Canberra Public Service when I was a Most Junior Person, and possibly the youngest in the department. Without her insight and friendship, as well as her background as political correspondent for The Australian, I would never have understood much of the events around me during those years. Women did not become senior political journalists back then. Noël did. I don’t even know how to finish a sentence that begins: ‘Without Noël’s friendship . . .’ Perhaps I should just say that every time I have sat in a hospital emergency room, for loved ones or myself, Noël has sat there too — and had soup waiting in the pot for our return.
Enormous gratitude as always to Kate O’Donnell, who will not forgive me for the death of Gavin in To Love a Sunburnt Country, but still edits each book with deep and wonderful commitment. Kate Burnitt brings it all together and edits once again, and is totally, magically, always there and always able to do exactly what is needed to each book.
I would also like to extend my deepest admiration and gratitude to the late Rex Connor, who actually sent word to thank a graduate clerk for her background briefing paper on expanding the export potential of our minerals, and who — even knowing he was dying and that this stress would hasten his death — fought for his vision of the infrastructure needed and the laws in place for the best possible development of those resources. Nor did I realise at the time what a privilege it was to work with Tom Uren, whose vision of regional development is rediscovered every decade or so; the man who understood and forgave his Japanese captors from World War II, and who spoke to each of us individually after the dismissal, asking us ‘to keep the candle lit’.
I wish I’d had the courage to say then what it is now too late to tell you: your passion for your portfolios was as deep as your desire to serve our country, and my admiration goes beyond words.