KEY POINTS:
Who was, John Roughan wonders, the real "Kiwi Keith" Holyoake?
The man whom many saw as pompous and too plum-voiced, a relic from the past, yet one whose party they kept re-electing to power? The vastly underrated, closet liberal described in Barry Gustafson's new biography? Or the affable,
natural, generous bloke who took time to talk to Roughan and his school group in Parliament's debating chamber, even though he was on his way to a prime ministerial engagement?
A bit of everything, probably. But to me, as a member of the parliamentary press gallery towards the end of his prime ministerial reign, then in Opposition and finally with the amorphous title of Minister of State in the first Muldoon Administration, Holyoake was a man of high intelligence, remarkable political nous and, most endearingly, a sly wit all too often suppressed in public.
We saw a side of him unknown to outsiders - the gun poker player, for instance, noisy and aggressive, shouting "Read'em and weep" as he laid down yet another winning hand at press gallery parties. The Prime Minister who seemed to enjoy the company of reporters and entertained them royally in a solo tour de force at Christmas.
The seasoned politician who once, in a few words, revealed to me his judgment on the man who was next to lead the National Party to victory. That was at a bookstore on Lambton Quay, when one Robert Muldoon launched his first literary exercise in political self-promotion.
I stood by Holyoake as Muldoon described how his book, ostensibly about himself, was "really" about the man who had taught him all he knew about politics - though his name might not be mentioned often. He owed so much to Keith Holyoake, he said.
Holyoake, as vulnerable to flattery as any of us, brushed away a tear. I said: "That was a nice tribute."
"I would never have suspected," said Holyoake sincerely. "Never for a moment. I never, ever knew he felt like that."
Then that devilish imp twinkled in his eyes.
"He's good, isn't he?" he said. "So very, very good - far too good for us. He should be overseas." Nothing more to be said.
Another time I saw that mischievous instinct emerge was when he announced his knighthood.
We were told that there would be a press conference the next morning, Saturday, at his Pipitea St ministerial home.
A small group of us duly presented ourselves at the door at the set time. Holyoake opened it himself at our knock, studied us, then said: "Norma's still doing her face. Come back in five minutes." The door closed.
Back we came. The announcement was made, the congratulations tendered, the standard question asked: "Do you have any plans for retirement?"
Came the standard Holyoake response: "I am not thinking of retirement at the moment." To be read as: "I may have thought of it yesterday, or might think about it tomorrow; but at this very moment, no."
Then the awaited invitation: "I suppose you boys would like a drink?"
While our regard for the new knight was genuine, what did he think we were there for, on a Saturday morning? So the answer was not unexpected, and unanimous.
"Well, I'll get Norma to put the kettle on then," Sir Keith said.
And as we sat with our cups of tea and cakes, you knew he was struggling to suppress his chortles. I'm sure we could hear them as we left the property, knowing we had been well and truly had.
"Crafty old bugger," said one of us as we walked down Molesworth St in search of something stronger to celebrate his elevation. We agreed; then another expressed the thought for us all: "But you can't help liking the crafty old bugger."
