Small Bamboo (17 page)

In October 1978, Mum, Dad and six of their friends moved into 1 Farnley Street, Mount Lawley, a single-storey, four-bedroom, two-bathroom brick home, on a lovely, typically suburban, tree-lined street. To the eight young refugees it was a beautiful mansion. Together they all paid $400 rent a week. Dad also bought a 1978 Chrysler Galant for $4000. They were settling in quite nicely and felt quite spoilt with what they had. They thought about my Uncle and Aunt Five, who had just moved out of their Maribyrnong hostel in Melbourne into their own home. Dad was earning good money and wanted to repay them in some way, so he and Mum sent them a Philips CRT television as a housewarming gift.

As Mum started to gain confidence she became a little bored at home and decided it was time to find a job of her own. One of her girlfriends was working in a meat-packing warehouse close to the city, so one morning Mum followed her to the offices of W. Pope & Co., on Murray Street. Her friend kindly did all the talking, introducing Mum to one of the managers and explaining that she was a fast learner and an extremely hard worker.

‘Okay, tell her to leave all her details and we’ll see what we can find for her,’ the manager said.

The next day, Mum’s friend came to her door in Mount Lawley.

‘Lien, the boss says there’s a position that’s just become available at the warehouse. Just go to the office in the city tomorrow and they’ll take you to the warehouse. It’ll be great and you’ll be working with me!’

Mum was excited—her first job in Australia—but she was also very nervous; she didn’t know what to expect.

After introducing herself at the city office, Mum was driven to the warehouse on Carr Street in North Perth by one of the managers. He explained what she would be doing every day. Mum found it all quite overwhelming, noisy and very busy, with big machines constantly rolling piles of meat and boxes. There seemed to be a lot of heavy lifting as well but Mum felt she could do it.

‘So this is where you’ll be stationed.’ The manager pointed to one end of the warehouse. Mum’s English still wasn’t strong enough so the manager used his hands to communicate with her. He held up seven fingers. ‘We need you to start tomorrow, so you have to be here at 7 a.m. on the dot.’

The next morning Mum was given a uniform, a hair cover and gloves before being directed to one of the meat-shifting machines. She had to pack 25 kilograms of meat into each box for exporting, and the number of boxes seemed never ending. By the end of the first day, she was shattered. At home she walked into her room and burst into tears. She hadn’t realised the job would be that hard. Like most Vietnamese women, Mum had never worked in a factory before.

But my mother never complained. After that first day, she toughened up and thought about the future, and how she was earning money to build their new life in Australia. Within a couple of weeks she fell into a routine, becoming more efficient as the days passed by. She even started to enjoy the job, and made many friends in the warehouse.

It was at W. Pope & Co. that Mum met a man she calls her ‘foster father’. Moyle Campbell was the warehouse supervisor. He was a tall man, with a commanding stature, but his manner was gentle. He was younger than Mum’s father, but she still regarded him as a father figure. One day Moyle was talking to Mary, a group leader who checked each box to make sure it was packed and sealed properly. He asked her about all the workers in her group.

‘See that girl over there?’ Mary pointed at Mum who had her head down, packing the meat. ‘She’s very, very good.’

‘Who is she?’ Moyle asked.

‘Her name is Lien. She’s a Vietnamese refugee who moved to Perth about four months ago. She’s been here for a few weeks. She struggled at the beginning, but she’s definitely got the hang of it now.’

As Mary spoke, Moyle watched Mum work. She was a hard worker, as Mary said, but she always did the work with a sense of humour and a smile on her face, which those around her appreciated. This also impressed Moyle straight away.

He walked up to her and introduced himself. ‘Mary tells me you’ve been doing a great job,’ he said. ‘I really appreciate your hard work. Well done, my girl!’ He patted her kindly on the back.

Mum just smiled and nodded and said ‘Thank you’. She was still struggling with her English, and Moyle’s thick Australian accent, coupled with his habit of speaking fast and running his words together, made it even harder for her to understand what he was saying. But she knew he was the boss and could tell by his smile and tone that everything he was saying was good.

‘Mary says you’re a fast packer and you’re very clean with your work,’ Moyle continued. ‘You’ve done well in the short time you’ve been here.’

Mum kept smiling and nodding. Moyle turned to Mary, obviously wondering why this new employee wasn’t saying anything.

‘Moy, her English isn’t the best,’ Mary explained. ‘Maybe just shake her hand. She’ll understand what you’re trying to say to her.’

Moyle looked back at Mum and her bright smile. ‘Ah, bugger it.’ He grabbed Mum and gave her a big hug. ‘It’s wonderful to have you with us. Thank you, my girl!’

Mum burst out laughing like a little schoolgirl. Now she knew he was trying to thank her for her work. In her broken English, she thanked him back.

Moyle still calls Mum ‘my girl’, even though she’s now sixty. Every day at the warehouse he would say ‘G’day’ to Mum and give her a little hug. Moyle was well known and respected for looking after his staff, but he treated my mum as if she were his own daughter, making sure she was well rested and that she ate during her breaks. Over time her English improved but it still wasn’t good enough for her to have a proper conversation with Moyle. Instead she would just listen to him talk—he’d yack on about anything and although he knew she didn’t really understand what he was saying, they enjoyed spending time together. Then, at the end of each day, Moyle would say goodbye to Mum and finish with, ‘You’re such a good girl.’

Mum worked for W. Pope & Co. for about six months, until she fell pregnant with my brother. In May 1979, Mum told Moyle she would be resigning from her job. He was thrilled for my parents but sad that he wouldn’t see Mum at work every day.

‘Moy, I would like to ask you, when is your birthday?’ Mum said.

Moyle answered the question but was confused, until Mum explained that she and Dad would like to visit him on his birthday to pay their respects and celebrate with him. In Vietnamese culture, respect for elders is an important thing, and when someone has gone out of their way to look after you, you always return the gesture. Mum respected Moyle immensely. She also wanted to stay in touch with him and his family so she continued to send him birthday wishes every year.

‘Oh, my girl, that would be great,’ Moyle replied tearily. ‘I would love to have you there.’

At the time Moyle and his wife Aileen were living on Hotham Street in Bayswater, close to Mum and Dad’s house. Aileen was a wonderful woman whom Mum loved like a mother. She was always so welcoming and caring towards Mum and Dad. Moyle and Aileen were a huge influence on my parents and their new lives in Australia. They wanted to embrace the Aussie way of life and learnt a lot about Australian culture from the Campbells, such as the typical barbecues in summer, and the dry Aussie sense of humour. My parents couldn’t understand some jokes but they caught on when Moyle and Aileen explained.

In June that year, Mum and Dad dressed up and drove to the Campbells’ house. As a birthday present for Moyle, they brought a bottle of Veuve Clicquot, which cost about $50 back then.

Moyle didn’t want to open it. ‘Let’s save it for a special occasion.’

Every year, for the next twelve years, Mum and Dad would give Moyle a bottle of the champagne for his birthday. He didn’t open any of them, just stored them away, repeating that he wanted to wait for a special occasion. Mum and Dad didn’t know what he was saving them for. Then, in that twelfth year, when I was seven years old, Moyle’s family and their friends, including Mum, Dad, my brother Trevor and I, gathered at his son’s home in Eden Hill to celebrate Moyle’s sixtieth birthday. In the middle of the celebrations, Moyle brought out the twelve champagne bottles and placed them one by one on the outdoor table. I remember how he looked at Mum and Dad with the greatest love.

‘Now this is a special occasion!’ And he popped open the first bottle they had given him.

By this time Dad had worked in many different jobs. While he was working in the Graylands kitchen, Hammer, the hostel’s manager, asked Dad if he wanted to do some outdoor cleaning instead.

‘Tai, I have someone going on a holiday. He normally cleans the single men’s quarters. I promise you, it’s easy work. It’s pretty much just hosing down the outside of the building to keep it clean and fresh every day.’

‘What about my work in the kitchen?’ Dad asked. He didn’t want to jeopardise his job there.

‘Don’t worry. I can get someone to cover those shifts. When the cleaner comes back, you can go back to the kitchen.’

‘Will it be the same pay?’

‘Don’t worry, mate. It’s the same pay, but the work’s easier,’ Hammer said with a smile.

So the next day Dad went down to the single men’s quarters. Hammer was right. The job was easy—all Dad had to do was spray the outside of the building with a high-pressure hose and clean up some rubbish; his work was finished in two hours but then he had six work hours to fill. There were many single men living in those rooms and Dad had a lot of time to hang around and make friends. He remembers one man who was envious of his job.

‘How much are you earning for this?’ he asked.

‘One hundred dollars a week.’

The man couldn’t believe it. His eyes almost popped out of his head. ‘That’s amazing. You do two hours of work then sit around with us for the rest of the day.’ The man laughed. ‘You know how to scam a good deal.’

Dad laughed along with his friend but he certainly didn’t want to scam anyone. He knew Hammer appreciated his hard work and that was why he was able to keep the same pay rate. For six weeks, Dad cleaned the single men’s quarters. Then the gardener asked Dad if he could replace him for a few weeks while he went on holiday. So Dad became a jack of all trades around the hostel. He was proud that Hammer came to rely on him, and he responded confidently every time he was asked to do a job. But Dad wanted to find work outside the hostel, so he kept looking and one day he saw an ad in the newspaper for a dishwasher at an Italian restaurant. Dad called the number from a public phone.

‘Hello, Al Picchio Bistro,’ answered a man with a heavy Italian accent.

‘Hello, hello. I am calling about the job advertised in the newspaper,’ Dad said.

‘Have you worked in a kitchen before?’

‘Yes, I’m a kitchenhand at the Graylands refugee hostel.’

‘Good. What’s your name?’

‘Tony. My name is Tony.’

‘Okay, Tony. Can you come down to the restaurant tomorrow, around lunchtime? You can enter by the back door and ask for me, Mario.’

Dad thanked Mario and the next day he found his way to the Al Picchio Bistro on Stirling Highway in Claremont. He knocked on the back door and heard footsteps in another room. Then a young Italian man, with dark hair greying on the sides, appeared.

‘Can I help you?’ the man asked.

‘Are you Mario?’ Dad said.

‘Yes.’

‘I’m Tony. I’m here for the dishwasher job.’

For a moment, Mario looked puzzled. Then something seemed to click. ‘Wow. I’m so sorry, Tony,’ he said, shaking Dad’s hand. ‘I was expecting to see someone else. On the phone you had a bit of an American accent!’

In Vietnam some of Dad’s English teachers were American so he did have a slight twang. He laughed and said to Mario, ‘I’m sorry I confused you!’

‘That’s okay. Is your name really Tony?’

‘The guys in the Graylands hostel kitchen gave it to me,’ Dad explained. ‘My real name is Tai. But all my friends call me Tony.’

Mario and Dad bonded immediately. Mario appreciated Dad’s good sense of humour; he could tell that Dad was an honest and hard worker, and after a brief chat and tour of the bistro, he offered him the job.

‘When can you start?’ he said.

‘I can start tomorrow if you like,’ Dad replied. And that was the beginning of Dad’s many happy years at Mario’s bistro.

Mario really looked after my father. He wanted Dad to be a great chef and paid for him to study at TAFE to learn nouvelle cuisine, the latest trend in cooking at the time, which focused on the beautiful presentation of lighter meals. Dad attributes his passion for cooking to Mario, who discovered this skill my father never knew he had.

Over the next few months Dad worked two jobs—at Graylands during the day and at Al Picchio at night. He was slowly building up more responsibilities at Al Picchio, with Mario intent on teaching him how to work in a commercial kitchen. Dad started off as a dishwasher then quickly moved up to the position of kitchenhand so, by December 1978, he decided to quit Graylands and focus on his restaurant job. He thanked Hammer for all his support; he would not forget this man. Dad was sad to say goodbye to Graylands but also excited to be leaving the refugee life behind him. He never returned to the hostel.