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John Thomas Martin
(December 21, 1925 - January 14, 1996)
Eulogy at St Finn Barr's, Invermay
In accordance with my dad's wishes, the eulogy, on Tuesday, January 16, was delivered not by a priest but by long-time friend Marguerite Scott:
The last time I saw Johnny Martin was a few weeks ago.
It was his 70th birthday and he was surrounded by people he loved. It
was evident that he was very ill, but at the same time he was in fine
Johnny form.
He was the centre of attention, accepting as his due,
with an affectionate grin, Grace’s constant attention to his comfort.
He was obviously happy in the familiar company of Kate
and Geoff, Sally and Stuart, together with their children,
introducing each grandchild with a mixture of pride and irreverence.
He was excited by the arrival of Therese and her boys,
delighted that he would get to see them for four weeks and grateful
to Michael for his generous loss of their company over Christmas.
He was smugly content to brag about young John’s
domestic happiness with Katherine and their impending parenthood,
adding young John’s otherwise absent voice to the party by
urging us to read his latest witty letter.
And yet, it seemed that at the same time, he was
bombarding Rod with questions about the forthcoming elections,
gaining wicked delight from remembering stories from my past that
I’d rather he’d forgotten, speaking with gentle gratitude
about the solicitude of friends, and in particular, that of Dave
Ransom, who’d flown from Sydney to spend the day with him. He
provided a few comments about the seriousness of his condition,
shared recent stories from the hospital ward and advised us about the
music he had chosen for this funeral.
If that wasn’t enough, he was also giving very
interested attention to the activity in the next room, interjecting
in its occupants’ conversations and making it clear that,
diabetes or no diabetes, he had every intention of sampling the cream
cake being prepared by his sister Mary and niece, Lise, even if it
meant rigging the result of the blood test being forced upon him.
No scene could better exemplify John - a man of
devotion to those he loved, a man with immense curiosity, enthusiasm
and generosity, but also, at heart, the scallywag, Jackie who, as a
little boy in Northern England, could easily convince his sister Mary
to skip Sunday school to visit their Aunt Polly - who also provided
forbidden cream cakes.
Grace doesn’t doubt that it was this character
trait that brought Johnny to Australia.
The war was over. He had served his country and was on
a working trip to Australia when he impulsively jumped ship. A young
woman hid him, some caring people helped him find work but, after a
few months, he became increasingly worried about being, what was, I
suppose, an illegal immigrant.
The solution - some fine Jackie cheek. He wrote to the
government, complaining that his food vouchers had not arrived,
received a letter of apology and the type of documentation that
provided him with instant legitimacy.
A little over 20 years later Jackie was now more
usually John or Johnny. He seemed to know everyone in Tasmania, had a
huge network of contacts, was respected by colleagues in the media,
his readers, his listeners, politicians, sporting and business people.
In fact, about this time, when he returned on a visit
to England, he carried a letter of introduction from the Premier of
Tasmania in his pocket.
John credited Grace with much of the success that came
to him in those years.
Grace says that she still remembers her first sight of
the dapper little Pom who could dance like an angel, and ''geez
didn’t he know it.''
He was briefly introduced to her by her brother at a
dance. He looked over the "sister’’ in a disinterested
way and moved away to what he described as "some good looking
sheilas on the other side of the room.’’ Such rudeness was
not to be tolerated. Grace said: "I nailed him the next week at
the Albert Hall, during the barn dance.’’ I said: "How
nice to meet you again’’ and each time around wouldn’t
tell him where we had met.’’ In the end, the famous Johnny
curiosity got the better of him and he took her home to find out who
she was. After that, he didn’t have a chance.
Grace said: "We had over 40 years - of course,
with some ups and downs - but with so much love and, in the end, not
one regret.’’
John was a good provider for his new family. His first
jobs in Australia were a variety of labouring jobs, and finally,
steady work at the mill.
But he loved to write and, under various pseudonyms,
wrote for Man and Esquire magazines at the same time as he was being
published in the Catholic Weekly. When times were tough he even wrote
a very successful cowboy series.
After seeing an ad in the paper, Grace encouraged him
to apply for a job as a reader at The Examiner.
He got the job, was soon senior reader and finally made the move into
journalism via some very happy years at the Advertiser
in Scottsdale.
Perhaps it was because John came to journalism quite
late in life that he held such strong views about what a privilege it
was to do the job. Dave Ransom says that John believed that the story
came first, the journalist second. He said that he had no patience
with journalists who did sloppy work, believing that they should
understand there were too many other capable people eager to hold
their jobs.
John was what Dave describes as the shanks pony, the
leg man who was always prepared to get out and do the work to get a
story. As an example of that I’ll share with you just two Johnny
Show stories from the hundreds that I’m sure exist.
Many are the journalists, some of whom I can see here
today, who quaked at the thought of a day at the Launceston or Hobart
Show with Johnny, being instructed to approach complete strangers,
just because he could sense a great story. So, I can still remember
Rod’s embarrassment after being forced to approach a Chinese
family to ask why they were at the Show - and their offended tones as
they replied "Why shouldn’t we be here,’’ in
broad Aussie accents.
However, John often was right with his hunches. Dave
Ransom told me that one year John was walking around the Launceston
Show with one of his proteges, Andrew Swanton (who, by the way, went
on to become a prominent war correspondent in Vietnam), when John
noticed Rod O’Connor, quite alone, mucking out his sheep stalls.
John decided there was a possible story about the
reasons for the landowner performing such a menial task. He suggested
that Swanton approach O’Connor and, when the young journalist
refused, did it himself. That day John was the journo who had the
national story about Rod O’Connor’s world record price for
a fleece, information he gleaned while also discovering that
O’Connor’s farmhand was ill.
It was that attribute that earned him the nickname of
the Blowfly. He seemed to be everywhere,
asking questions in a characteristically blunt, and
sometimes abrasive way, wanting more, full of enthusiasm, talking
non-stop, getting on people’s nerves, while, at the same time,
earning respect for his talents and real affection for his fairness
and generosity.
Ian Johnson told me that John was a man with an incredible eye for detail, a man who instinctively knew how to write a human interest story, a verbally articulate man who also had the highest level of mastery of the written language. In fact, Ian said, John seemed to be good at most things he tried. He said: "He wasn’t just a good writer, he was a good soccer player and I think he was a good boxer as well.’’
John was a man who was a classic case of not judging a
book by its cover. He was well read, erudite, urbane and yet, as Bob
Grierson said, in those days, he was certainly never an advertisement
for Saville Row.
Bob said: "I don’t know how he did it. I
personally saw him arrive at work once in a new suit that looked
great. By mid afternoon he looked as if it had been slept in for a
few weeks.’’
And who could forget the ash from his cigarettes? I
remember it always being everywhere - down his front, on his desk.
And no wonder. This was a man well known for the mosaic of burns that
covered every desk he ever had, caused by the three, four or even
five forgotten cigarettes, their ash curling over about to create
another scorch mark, while he hurriedly lit another one. All this,
from a man, who Grace says never learned to even do the draw back.
By this time, Johnny had become John Tom, the man who
would go on to become news editor at the ABC, on the way a generous
mentor to so many young journalists.
Even before I knew what a mentor was I knew that John
was an unusual boss. It wasn’t just that he and Grace had the
greatest of parties, but it was also because John admired talent in
others, encouraged it, was patient with those who possessed huge egos
even as he deflated their arrogance.
Even years later, he could be relied on to know where
all his proteges were, how their careers were progressing and to
express great pride in their achievements.
I can find no evidence of him ever expecting anything
in return for this generosity. On the contrary, I can find example
after example of journalists who say he helped them reach their
potential, and get better jobs.
I also know that John picked people up and helped
them, even when they had let him down and showed no thanks for
previous assistance.
This is not to say that John was a saint. He could go for the jugular when he felt like it. One night, about three years ago, Rod and I went to see him in hospital. We hadn’t been in contact for a while and as we approached his bed he exclaimed: "Where’s the nurse? I must be on the way out for you two to visit me.’’ Yet, within minutes, we were forgiven and he was sharing stories about hospital life that had us weeping with laughter.
Anyone who wants to know more about John’s
hospital years should read his book. Tell It
Like It Is is Johnny to the core.
The language was a problem for the publishers he first
chose. They wanted it changed. John wanted to tell it like it is. He
went elsewhere, did it his way and produced a book that is, as he
says, a tribute to all health workers who care for the sick, but
it’s also a story that reassures frightened people who are about
to have heart surgery, a cause dear to John’s own heart.
John finished that book when he was 68. He also passed
TCE Italian at the age of 65, Japanese at 67, and, only last year, at
69, a Words for Windows course so that he could keep up with his grandchildren.
To describe John Martin in such a short time is
impossible. I’ve only been able to give you a small glimpse of
his complex character.
He was the young scallywag, Jackie; the energetic
Blowfly and talented writer, motor-mouth, Johnny; the generous mentor
of a legion of young journalists, John Tom; the loving husband, John,
who, as Grace says, spoiled her rotten; the proud Dad who saw
Therese, Kate, John and Sally as individuals, made each feel special
and loved them unconditionally; the affectionate but mischievous
brother who kept teasing Mary even when he was 70; the gregarious
father-in-law who welcomed Michael, Geoff, Stuart and Katherine into
his family, as extra children to love as his own; and, finally, the
admiring grandfather whose grandchildren gave him optimism about
future generations.
We are here together today to mourn John’s death,
because we all wanted him around for much longer. We are here because
it is a time to give care and support to Grace, Therese, Kate, John,
Sally, Mary and all their families at a time of sadness and loss.
But we are also here to celebrate John’s life, to
give thanks that his life touched ours and to acknowledge the spirit
of a man who could write the words which I will now read from his book Tell
It Like It Is:
I do not fear death.
I have watched too many men suffer in life to fear
the peace of death.
I’ve also lived several years longer than most
male members of my family and, here in blessed Australia, I’ve
lived a far better lifestyle than I could possibly have done in
depressed northern England.
It was a lucky day when I arrived in Australia in
nineteen forty seven and, an even luckier day four years later when I
married Grace Locke, born and bred in Launceston.
We’ve been together for more than forty years
and she has always been my supporter, my encourager, my partner and
my love.
No sacrifice has been too great for her in my
interest and I’m not sure if she realises how much I appreciate
her. I know that relatives and friends often make the comment about us:
‘See one and you see the other.’
I love and am proud of my son John and my daughters
Therese, Kate and Sally. They have been good children and have never
given us reason for grief. The girls have also provided us with six
lively grandsons and two beautiful granddaughters.
My by-pass surgery in 1986 has given me a chance to
know the youngsters. They are my pride and joy. Because they have my
bloodlines they are also my future.
I hope that I will live to see them grow up.
Whatever is in store for me, I know they carry a little bit of me.
Why should I fear death?
After the eulogy a stirring rendition of The Holy City, by American tenor Richard Crooks, was played. John loved this musical piece. In a letter he left for his wife Grace, he asked that it be played.