Family values the driving force for new Premier Denis Napthine New Premier Denis Napthine with wife Peggy. JACK was the luckiest of lost little boys. At first, his huge brown eyes would look away. He was short and stocky. For all his six years, he had barely spoken. When he joined the house that Denis and Peggy Napthine ran, things looked up for him. And they realised years later he was also giving them a leg-up. The newlyweds were in their late 20s. They'd taken on the role of parents for the Hamilton house that cared for up to 10 intellectually disabled residents. Little Jack was one of them. On his first night, at 4am, they heard his footsteps along the passageway. He walked in and crawled under the covers between the couple. He had claimed his new parents. As he wormed his way into their affections, they realised they would never give him up. He learned to speak with careful coaching. Dr Napthine had a game, challenging Jack to investigate the eye colour of someone new. It taught him to make eye contact. They were adamant he should slot into a mainstream school. He'd last only half a day, an hour, a day in some places they tried. Then they struck a Lutheran school in Tarrington. He stayed there for primary school, mixed with other kids, and reached his potential. Jack taught the couple the most helpful of life's lessons - resilience. And in politics, that's a good thing to learn early. THE little boy with autism is now 37. When he was a teen, he became big brother to two other boys, Edward and Tom. They were a long time coming and the Napthines had figured there might not be more children. Family was important to them. Denis was one of 10, living the life of little tykes on the land. Their parents had a farm near Winchelsea. Forty milking cows, some sheep and mixed cropping. Dr Napthine is proud to be linked to the country. Not many country MPs get to become premier. The last was one of his heroes, Sir Henry Bolte, who left the post in 1972 He was the third-oldest. They are all close still - "but not in each other's pockets" - and he describes the depth to which their mum and dad's key maxim about the importance of the village has sunk in. Dr Napthine says each of his siblings has taken it on in their adult lives. They share the values and each has a heavy involvement in their communities. "Sure, we have different political views," he says, referring to his brother, Simon, who ran for the ALP in the 2004 federal election. We aspire to the same things. We just have different ideas about how to achieve them. Little Peggy and Denis went to primary school together. They remember catching the same bus for many years. She gave him little regard. She would never have suffered the ways of a little boy a whole two years younger. Despite the arm's-length start to their acquaintance, the couple had a lot in common, which they would only discover years later when they met again as adults. Biggest of those was that their hearts belonged in the country. Their two cats and two dogs make the trip each time to their city house from their "proper home" at Port Fairy. The last was one of his heroes, Sir Henry Bolte, who left the post in 1972. There is no hesitation or fear that he might offend the metropolitan voters. He makes no apology - the community-mindedness typical of country folk is harder to find in the city. It's what he loves. In 2003, he took a harsh swipe at the ALP for abandoning its blue-collar working-class roots. Then, he said the modern ALP had "sold out to the dual-income latte sippers of Albert Park and the Williamstown wankers." Surely, those are unwise words for a man who was later to be premier for all Victorians? He shrugs and smiles. I was really just trying to make the point that Labor was saying it represented people from the western and northern suburbs, but they lived in the inner suburbs. It was basically coming up with a term to replace the 'chardonnay set'. One Easter, when Dr Napthine was 34, his brother Chris told a family gathering he'd been diagnosed with melanoma. Six weeks later he died. It was so quick and traumatic. He'd been full of life and smart. Then he was gone. Dr Napthine spoke at the funeral. He helped carry the casket of a brother who'd skidded with him on their pushbikes around the farm. The grief of a brother lost so young knocked him. It was the hardest time of his life. His death coincided with a crossroads in his life that he'd seen approaching since he began his MBA a short time earlier. The qualification was to give him another road to consider, after life as a vet. It resolved him to pursue an interest Mrs Napthine says had always simmered beneath the surface: politics. "Chris's death stopped me in my tracks," Dr Napthine says. Dad always said, the more you give, the more you'll get back. It was time to give back.