The home of Australia’s new Prime Minister
and his wife is a five-roomed, cream house – No. 10 Busby Street,
Bathurst, N.S.W. – the house where young engine-driver Ben Chifley
brought his bride 31 years ago.
“It’s pretty homely and unpretentious for a Prime Minister,”
said the taxi driver who drove our representative there from the Bathurst
railway station, “but the Chifleys are that kind of people. This
house, in a way, expresses them.”
Mrs Chifley is perhaps the least known of Cabinet Ministers’ wives.
Her mother, 93 year old Mrs. Isabelle Mackenzie, is an invalid and Mrs.
Chifley has to stay in Bathurst to look after her.
She says that because of this she cannot move to the Lodge at Canberra.
“Usually Ben can manage to get home only once a fortnight, arriving
from Canberra on the Saturday night and leaving on the Sunday afternoon,”
she said, as she stoked up the fire before which her mother was sitting.
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It’s pretty homely and unpretentious
for a Prime Minister
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“My husband is never so happy as when he is just
pottering round the house, fixing this or that or relaxing with his pipe
and newspaper before the fire.
“Not that Ben gets much of a chance to enjoy doing that these days,”
she added.
Only grudge her husband bears his busy existence is the lack of time to
indulge in his favorite hobby, gardening.
Ruefully observing bare garden plots, Mrs. Chifley said that before the
war the beds under Mr. Chifley’s care were ablaze with color.
The Prime Minister and his wife met in early youth. Both lived at Bathurst.
“My people lived in Logan Street, and Ben’s not so very far
away in Havanah Street,” said Mrs. Chifley.
Their romance, which began at a local dance, culminated in their marriage
at Glebe Presbyterian Church in 1914.
“Only snag we struck in that first year,” Mrs. Chifley smiled
reminiscently, “was my packing of Ben’s crib (lunch-box).
“He is always meticulous about details, even the packing of a lunch-box,
and I never could pack it to his satisfaction.
“In fact, I’ve always secretly thought he went into politics
to escape from my lunch-boxes,” she laughed.
The part played by Mrs. Chifley in assisting her husband’s career
was praised by an old friend, Mrs. G. Philpott, who lives almost opposite.
‘Elizabeth couldn’t have proved a better helpmate. She works
so hard during elections, you’d think she was the candidate, and
she’s always there to help him out with sympathy and understanding.
“They’re both pretty wonderful people, as most Bathurstites
who have known them practically all their lives will agree,” summed
up Mrs. Philpott. |
My husband is never so happy as when he is just pottering
round the house, fixing this or that or relaxing with his pipe and newspaper
before the fire. |
“Average bloke”
The new Prime Minister is as simple and unpretentious in his habits
as his house suggests.
A good mixer, with no affectations, no delusions of grandeur, no power
complex, he regards himself as a pretty average bloke, which is an underestimate
of his ability, but an accurate description of his personality.
His suits are blue, single-breasted, usually a bit shabby and shiny in
the seat.
He can be sympathetic and eager to help a genuine case. But pity help
the man who is caught trying to “put one over” him –
and invariable the intrepid fellows are caught.
Chifley is apt to speak to them bluntly, luridly, and very, very clearly,
so that they never repeat the offence, and their ears burn for days afterwards.
One of the few Cabinet Ministers with a sense of humor, Chifley is more
gregarious than was John Curtin, though he is about as lonely.
He has hundreds of acquaintances, but few real friends. He works 12 hours
a day and longer in his office at Canberra.
He has a very average, very typical Australian voice, much though it may
distress some Australians to have to admit it. He drawls. He slurs his
vowels, drops his g’s, runs his words together, is guilty of all
the lazy Australianisms that irritate or captivate visitors.
There is a harsh, rasping quality in his voice which is partly natural,
partly caused by a throat condition.
Yet it is a voice that seems to bring to his listeners some intangible
reminder of the bush.
It is the same when you talk to him in his office.
He leans back in an old swivel chair that squeaks outrageously as he rocks
himself gently to and fro, sucks at a pipe gripped between teeth that
are still sound and strong, and drones on in an unemotional monotone that
yet holds warmth and friendliness.
On the desk a wick burns a steady flame in a little jar of oil, a contraption
he made himself when matches became scarce.
Never a stickler for formality, he seldom uses his ministerial car in
Canberra, walks a lot in the Parliamentary gardens, knows most gardeners,
public servants and typists by their Christian names.
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The new Prime Minister is as simple and unpretentious in his habits
as his house suggests. |