Author Martin Flanagan: Women can tell you things you don’t otherwise know

Martin Flanagan is an author and journalist who is best known for his book, The Long Short Book. The 68-year-old talks about his brave and spirited mother, his wife Polly, and the value of female friendship.

Author and journalist Martin Flanagan feels sorry for any man who doesn’t have female friends. Credit: Ness Vanderburgh

I would love to have known my paternal grandmother, Ada Flanagan, as her father was a convict and a bushranger. I did, however, know my maternal grandmother, Kitty Leary, who was made to feel shame for her convict descent.

Kitty was Irish and wore her Catholicism like armour. She raised my mother, Helen, to be fiercely religious. This put me at odds with them both from the age of five or six, as I didn’t connect with it.

Mum lived through her six kids. She was brave and spirited, and a lot of fun. Mum loved nothing more than a houseful of people talking and laughing.

My dad, Archie, didn’t speak much. He’d been on the Burma Railway and saw a lot of horror. Mum loved to talk, but after her strokes our conversations became more and more like listening to jazz. When she was dying, we all stood around her deathbed – it was like being in a pub, as that was the sound she loved. Her last words were: “Thanks everyone. I’ve had a lovely time.”

I went to a Catholic boarding school in Tasmania from the age of 10. For a considerable time I had no female input in my life as the priests oversaw us. But in second year, we had our sole female teacher, Liz Hamilton, for English. She was graceful in an environment that lacked grace.

When I was 13, we were allowed to go to a party. I met an older girl who captivated me. She kissed me. The experience was transformative.

Martin Flanagan

In my memoir, The Empty Honour Board, I write: “She was gentle as a flower and remarkably brave. Thank you Liz Hamilton.” An intermediary contacted me and said she was delighted I had written about her. We have reconnected, which is fantastic.

When I was 13, we were allowed to go to a party. I met an older girl who captivated me. She kissed me. It was a beautiful kiss. The experience was transformative, as in a single instant I went from a spiritual desert to Kakadu.

My first serious relationship happened while at the University of Tasmania. I was studying law and she was studying arts. We fell in love and did everything together, but it blew apart. I was writing plays back then, which is like conversing with yourself, and I think I grew boring to her.

When I met my wife, Polly, in 1972, I was still in that relationship, but I had always liked Polly and respected her. After breaking up with my first love, I wandered the world for a few years but returned to Hobart. I attended a march to save the Franklin River. Half my hair had fallen out and Polly’s hair had gone grey. We weren’t sure it was the other, but within a year we were married.

Polly is a brave, intelligent woman. She used to be a school principal, and when it comes to writing I’ve relied on her judgment for over 40 years.

She’s been a great role model to our two daughters. When my oldest, Brigid, married, she said to her husband: “All you’ve got to understand is that you come from a patriarchy and I come from a matriarchy.”

I have four granddaughters. Three of them are very good swimmers. One has already swum at the national championships and wants to make the Olympics. Another is the second-fastest in Victoria for her age group in 50-metre freestyle.

The book I’m writing is about Aboriginal elder Patsy Cameron, an Aboriginal historian. Patsy is the Patrick Dodson of Tasmania. Australians, especially Tasmanians, need to know about her.

I feel sorry for any man who doesn’t have female friends, because women can tell you things you don’t otherwise know. They bring different wisdom and intuition. Women provide a different perspective.

The Empty Honour Board (Viking) by Martin Flanagan is out now.

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