83 Declared

GH at a celebration of the life of Ian Redpath

Ian Redpath represented Australia on the cricket field for twelve years and lived eighty-three. A celebration of him at the OneHope Baptist Church in Highton today was a suitable reflection. Cricket was well-represented - I found myself alongside a strong Victorian contingent of Paul Sheahan, Bob Cowper, Ray Bright and Jim Higgs, while John Inverarity and Garth McKenzie had come from the west. But the dominant note was of family and of community, and all the better for it. The several hundred in the audience testified to a mutual devotion, of Ian to Geelong, and Geelong to Ian.

The three hymns Ian selected were the same as those played at his wife Christine’s funeral three years ago - their ashes are now to be commingled. The service opened - I have never seen this before but it is a great idea - with each of Ian’s twelve grandchildren bringing on an item of significance to him, and explaining its provenance.

None of them, I notice, concerned cricket. Siena brought one of the watercolours Ian had painted with his Thursday art class; Jaydan carried the Wellington boots in which Ian liked stomping in his garden, to which he’d adjourn when life got a little noisy. Zac carried the fishing rod: ‘He loved the peace and quiet and occasionally he would catch a tiddler.’ Isabelle brought candlesticks in token of his thirty-five years selling antiques; Annabel presented the saucepan in which Ian was inclined to burn porridge and rice when he got distracted. Rather a lot was said about Ian’s capacity for drifting off and losing track of time - he was described as observing Adelaide time ie being half an hour behind.

Keith Stackpole, his Australian opening partner, and Ken Davis, his co-coach at Geelong and Barry’s brother, spoke ably for cricket in Ian’s life, but the best parts of the afternoon were the intimate glimpses. Stacky, who despite his Collingwood soul wore a South Melbourne tie, recalled Ian’s Target flannelette pyjamas from their years as roommates, always with the top button done up: ‘His mother must have told him that if there was a fire it would be good to be well-dressed.’ Second daughter Jillyanne narrated Ian’s life by reference to three cars: a brown-and-white Torana, a secondhand Hi-Ace nicknamed ‘Battlestar Galactica’ which was his ‘automotive soulmate’, and a 2002 Audi brought, cautiously, in 2020. This Ian referred to as the PGV - the ‘Prestigious German Vehicle’ - and used it mainly for driving to Barwon Heads Golf Club for not for long. ‘It’s too fancy for me,’ Ian explained.

At the club, he apparently became a latterday ‘tree hugger’, fighting back in his polite but determined manner against the culling of Cypress trees. I can totally see Ian digging in against this. He loved his golf, but he knew his mind. Most of us, of course, only ever knew the public Ian; Jillyanne had all the dope on the private Ian: how he wore holey jumpers and pants stained with French polish, how he cut his own hair with the kitchen scissors, how he cut the kids’ school lunches with a certain flourish. Ian was a believer that a sandwich should serve as main course and dessert, so his favoured concoction was Ham, lettuce, tomato, banana and raisins. The secret of his eternally svelte physique, thought Jillyanne.

Afterwards, this being Geelong, everyone knew each other, or had a connection in common. A man on his own came up and introduced himself - his name I recognised immediately as a friend of my brother’s whom I had not seen since his funeral in 1987, and who offered some happy, warm tales of him. It turned out that he had also gone on teaching rounds with my mum and been her postie. Since then, he confided, he had had some tough times, many challenges and setbacks. What had brought him here? It turned out that he had met Ian in a fish shop some years earlier. They had got to talking. Every month or so since, they had got together for a cup of tea, and chatted about life and family, this or that. ‘I was with Ian when you called him a few weeks ago,’ he said. The friendship had clearly meant a great deal. It had nothing to do with cricket, or sport, or fame. But it echoed the line with which Stacky closed: ‘We’re all fortunate that we’ve known this magnificent man.’