by Mimi Kwa
It’s a typical Perth day, beautiful and thirty-five degrees, an ideal pool day. Today there’s a bikie gang in the hood, looking for their own fun. They’ve been trawling the steaming streets of Scarborough in their leathers and chains and tattooed badges of honour. Wickedness on wheels. But even wicked people get hot around the collar on a 35-degree day, and as they head down to cool off at the beach, they happen past Mandarin Gardens. The leader on his Harley-Davidson looks left as he rides down the Wheatcroft Street hill. Screeeeeeeeeech. He slams on the brakes; his gang slam on their brakes.
The leader raises an arm for them all to reverse a few metres up the hill again, which they do in unison – a beautiful bikie ballet. The group look at what their leader has seen, and there it is, calling to them: a gleaming clear blue swimming pool. It looks as though it must be twenty-five metres, at least.
The bikies park, unsaddle and head down the red-brick driveway to the pool, one of them courteously holding the safety gate open for the others.
Dad is in his office. By the time he hears a commotion down at the pool, the other guests have made themselves scarce. Not wanting to offend the ruffians, no one has stuck around to watch them swim. Exposed backs and chests covered in tattoos and scars recline on sun lounges. One of the men rests his gun on a cushion while he strips off, as other bikies bomb into the water, cheering and shouting, drinking cans of whisky and cola.
Dad is incensed and, dressed in his white singlet and brown-and-black sarong, he strides through the safety gate to the pool. ‘Hey-hey-hey-hey,’ he says half jovially, half authoritatively, ‘this is private property. You can’t swim here.’
The dozen men in Y-fronts and couple of women in black lace underwear stop and stare for a while before their leader bursts out laughing. Then they all burst out laughing. ‘Hello, little Chinaman.’ They laugh some more. ‘Oh well, if we can’t swim here, how about you go for a swim?’
Two bikies – men you would not want to meet down a dark alley – walk towards Dad.
Angela and I keep watch from the balcony, bobbing down so we’re out of sight, as Dad wags a finger at the bikies. Angela starts to giggle; his bravery or stupidity in the face of these armed strangers is comical. He’s still telling them off and wagging a finger at them as two burly blokes pick him up by the ankles and under the arms. They swing him once, twice, three times and hurl him high into the air. His back smacks down on the water’s surface, his singlet riding up in the ordeal. A red welt forms on his skin.
He’s submerged for a moment then resurfaces, wildly gesticulating, telling off the bikies as if his monologue hadn’t been interrupted. Finally, ‘I’ll call the police,’ is the last thing the gang want to hear, so they collect their things – clothes, shoes, chains and guns – and head out through the safety gate in a line of wet inked figures up our driveway.
I start to laugh too, and Angela and I make eye contact and laugh together for the first time ever. I make a mental note never to forget this shared moment. Bikies are known for bombings, stabbings, setting people alight and the odd dabble in drugs, nothing funny about that – but as they uniformly reverse their polished vehicles to proceed down Wheatcroft Street, we are smiling.
Dad thinks they’re gone and, suddenly regaining his mojo, runs to the middle of the street. ‘And don’t you come back,’ he shouts.
The bikies screech to a halt and reverse up the hill. Dad runs, terrified, to hide under the stairs. The gang squawk with laughter as they ride off for good this time, while Angela and I are still giggling.
POT PLANT AND SKYSCRAPER
IN MY FINAL YEAR AT SCHOOL, I’M VOTED IN AS ARTS captain for my house. I had wanted to be a prefect and, according to the girls who helped count the votes, I may have been close. But the headmistress would have vetoed me anyway; I’m too unpredictable, and my family is too volatile. Arts captain it is instead, the perfect role for me. I’m so excited about the upcoming house drama competition that I lie awake much of the night trying to come up with the perfect choice of play.
I visit the State Library of Western Australia to do some research. When I look up at the brutalist grey entrance of the institution for the very first time, I feel as though I’m at university. The lobby is cavernous compared to anything at school.
Sitting at a long oak table, I leaf through pages and pages of texts, determined to find the perfect drama to win us the prize. In the end I settle on a flimsy little book. Once I’ve read it through three times, I know it’s exactly what I’m after.
I’ve brought a pocketful of twenty-cent pieces to push into the photocopy machine in return for A4 replicas of the book’s pages, but I choke a bit when I read a sign that only 10 per cent of any publication may be copied before copyright laws apply. This is unexpected. I weigh up my options.
Because I don’t want to break copyright infringement laws, I decide to steal the book instead. How much harder can it be than shoplifting bubblegum and clothes? Or lying to the police for Dad.
The front entrance of the library is an empty space, after which there’s the front desk with a rather stern woman seated behind it. Security plinths stand either side of the automatic door exit. I have a leather-tassel hippy satchel slung across my body.
An hour later, police escort me from the building.
I dropped the book in a pot plant next to the security plinths, planning to retrieve it from the other side once I was through – but when I reached for it the sensors picked it up anyway, and an embarrassing alarm filled the building. The librarian called the police, who arrived in a flash.
In the security room, we all watch the footage of my attempted theft. All I can do is tell the truth: I’m an arts captain at a well-known private girls’ school, and all I wanted was a book for the school play, and if this is reported to school I may lose my scholarship. The police are as perplexed as I am by my story, and by how articulate and genuinely remorseful I am, so they let me go with a warning and wish me the best of luck with the play.
I take up a library membership, borrow the book and photocopy it at home – technically breaching copyright law, but surely this isn’t as bad as the pirated videos – then give the play to all the girls performing. We have sleepovers in one of the empty bunkhouses, my old house, to rehearse.
When we win I almost knock Mrs Jackson out as I hoist the trophy in triumph. She smiles at me knowingly. ‘I always knew you would come through, Mimi.’
Given his own obsession with the law, Dad is adamant that I should become a lawyer, so I apply to do my two weeks of work experience at the Supreme Court.
The first person I meet is a tall, curly-haired clerk called Anthony. ‘Mimi KWA,’ he says. ‘Hey, you’re not related to Francis KWA, are you?’
I’m flattered. ‘Yes,’ I say proudly. ‘Yes, I am.’
He cocks his head and narrows his eyes behind his black rectangular glasses. ‘He’s quite well known around here, you know. A vexatious litigant.’
I’m thrilled. ‘Yes, yes, he is,’ I say enthusiastically.
I have no idea what he means, but later when I look it up I am mortified to find that it’s someone who sues people regardless of the merit of the case, often just to harass them. I find out later that Dad isn’t actually a vexatious litigant, as there has never been a court order against him. But now I know why the clerk laughed and walked off, and for the remainder of my two-week secondment I use my first name only, distancing myself from Kwa.
I attend quite a few court cases that fortnight, listening to the harrowing and brutal testimony of rape and murder trials, but the biggest court case in my life – the all-consuming one – is an ongoing battle of Dad’s that I’ve been helping him work on at home for about half a decade.
Dad is suing our local council, the City of Stirling, with the demand that they permit him to build a twenty-storey highrise on our block. His precedent, a few streets away, is the Observation City Hotel, built when the America’s Cup came to Perth in 1987. Alan Bond – or Bondy, as he’s
popularly known – was the mogul behind the hotel. And the minute the plan was announced, Dad wanted to do the same thing on our residential street.
‘I’m just like Alan Bond,’ Dad says. ‘Bondy. He’s my mate. I am Bondy.’ Dad has only seen Bondy from a distance once, but he is so inspired by Observation City, a nineteen-storey hotel revised down from Bondy’s original 24-storey plan, it keeps him awake at night. City of Stirling approved the smaller skyscraper despite mass protests. ‘If my mate Bondy can build a skyscraper,’ says Dad, ‘so can I.’
Dad applies to rezone Mandarin Gardens for a highrise like Bondy’s. When the council says no, he unleashes a series of court cases like I have never seen before. These multiple related cases become a drain on the public purse. There are so many he literally runs from court to court some days, skidding into courtrooms and filing sessions while always apologising profusely: ‘Your Honourable Honour, I am humbly sorry for being late.’
When these Honourable Honours don’t see things the Kwa way, Dad decides to go for ‘a promotion’ from the Supreme to the High Court – because he’s ‘not getting a fair trial’ in the ‘buddy Supreme Court’. But legal work of this sort is always protracted, and it will be more than a year before Dad can be heard.
With no one managing Mandarin Gardens, and Dad spending even more time than usual on his court cases against the City of Stirling, the hostel further deteriorates. So too does Dad’s second marriage.
My world is in flux, and I struggle to keep my head above water. I can’t stand to live next door to Dad anymore, or to stay with Mum. I finish high school and spend a couple of months living in a tiny flat with my friend Narelle, both of us on the dole and still sharing our secret handshake from when we were eleven and twelve. It’s a boozed-up period, and I scald my ankle on a bar heater, causing a third-degree burn.
Rather than spiral further out of control, I defer university and make a plan to run away to England for a gap year. I’ll fund it with the money Aunty Mary Cinderella left me in the hope I would travel the world. At seventeen, I’m very fortunate to be able to abscond with a small fortune, and put distance between me and my messed-up life. Dad isn’t paying, so he’s fine with it, and Mum supports me whatever I decide, or is too ill to know. Paw Paw and Granddad are quietly pleased I am getting away and plan to meet me in London for a couple of weeks at some stage.
Kwa looking after Kwa, Aunty Mary knew I’d need to escape one day.
FENG SHUI AND CAT’S PYJAMAS
FIRST STOP ON MY 1991 GAP-YEAR ADVENTURE IS SYDNEY, where I stay with model friends in Rose Bay, attend Mardi Gras and get a taste of independence. Next I head to Hong Kong on my way to England, and after that I plan to explore Europe.
Over the years I’ve grown close to my cousin David, one of Clara’s sons, so I’m pleased he’s free to meet up in Hong Kong’s bar district, Lan Kwai Fong.
‘Oh hyellow, Mimi,’ he enthuses as we lightly embrace and fake-kiss, European style, on both cheeks. I love it – so much more sophisticated than my bogan life in Perth.
David guides me down alleyways, along cobbled paths, through unmarked doorways and down dark staircases. We end up sipping cocktails in a small bar called Petticoat Lane, where little birdcages hang from lattice laced with ivy. I’m still underage but no one checks; being Eurasian I can look fifteen or fifty.
I show off to impress my older cousin, boasting about modelling jobs and television ambitions, but he has one up on me: he reveals he was scouted to be a big bank billboard model – seriously scouted on the street, just like in the movies. My cousin David! I can’t contain my excitement.
‘Ooooooh,’ he says, ‘didn’t you know I was the HSBC pin-up boy? Oh, it was nothing.’ He gestures in mock modesty as I sit on the edge of my seat.
‘You should write a book,’ I tell him.
David is a lawyer now. He rolls his eyes theatrically, giving the impression his current job is a little ho-hum compared to the bright lights of fame. We both know it’s the opposite, though: David always has a new serial-killer story to keep me awake at night.
David reminds me about the time Dad took him to the ocean liner terminal at Tsim Sha Tsui to tour the boat that Dad had sailed to Australia on. The story has become family legend. David was just a little boy then, handsome in plaid shorts and braces, his hair slicked down. He made a cardboard replica of the ship to give to Francis, but when David played up, Francis whacked him hard on the backside, and the model ship was left behind. Francis had criticised it for being inaccurate, anyway. David was around six or seven then, a pipsqueak next to his Uncle Francis. Now David the man stands at least a foot taller than Dad.
We seldom get to see each other, but David and I have developed a unique bond over uncanny coincidences in our parallel lives. Francis and Clara could almost be the same person in the stories we tell, both of us attributing ‘not turning out too bad’ to growing up under the auspices of Aunty Theresa.
It’s as though Theresa has been swapping one of us for the other. Throughout much of our childhoods we barely knew of each other’s existence. I walked in one door while David exited through another, but when we speak it’s like looking into a mirror. We both experienced the haircuts Theresa would take us for, and get entirely wrong; the scolding to sit up straight and to keep everything folded and neat; the memorable lavish meals; the walks along Repulse Bay – David following behind Aunty, me following behind Aunty – her consistent letter writing and, of course, thoughtful gifts. The unwavering care of Aunty.
David’s references to his partner over the years turned out to be references to his ever-chipper Chinese boyfriend, Sam. No one was surprised, but Clara likes the arrangement not at all. To neutralise Clara’s acidic approach, Theresa has welcomed Sam into the family with open arms, deliberately appearing in many photographs together with David and Sam to publicly embrace their relationship for Clara’s benefit. But for Clara it remains a sore point. The gesture Theresa makes towards Sam might not sound like much, but in Chinese culture for her generation, it is significant. She also includes Sam in her will, again thoughtful and a very big deal; she knows it may raise the ire of Francis and Clara, but she does it anyway.
As David and I talk late into the night, drinking cocktails, our storytelling about our parents goes deeper and comparisons grow. Clara’s scathing response to David being gay; Francis’s scathing response to me not being born a boy. And so much more. Cousin to cousin, we see that you can take his mother and my father out of Hong Kong, but you can’t take Hong Kong out of either of them.
When we stand up to say goodbye, I am swaying and he’s not. My lack of coordination has everything to do with body mass and capacity, nothing to do with not being able to handle my grog, I assure myself. David is going to meet Sam, and I will navigate my way back to Aunty Theresa’s place. We cousins European air kiss a wobbly farewell.
The next day, Aunty Theresa and I enter the magnificent foyer of the HSBC building, designed by British architect Norman Foster. ‘Look at this.’ She waves her hand upwards, and I take in the enormity of the complex modern masterpiece. ‘On top he designed cannons,’ she says like she knows Foster personally – maybe she does. ‘Feng shui design to protect the money.’ She nods at a staffer ushering us towards a long marble reception desk. ‘And do you know what the Bank of China do with their building design?’ I can’t say I do. ‘They build it like a knife. A knife to cut their competitor. To counteract the cannons pointed at them.’ She makes two pistols with her hands. ‘You look. I will take you to the China Club. It is a good view from there, and you will see. Fighting, fighting, the two bank are fighting.’ She moves her fists as if she’s preparing for a boxing match, tells a receptionist who we’re here to see, and turns back to me. ‘Even the building are fighting, Mimi. But it is peaceful fighting. It is feng shui.’
We are offered tea and more tea, but I accept a soft drink. While we wait at a desk for the banker to come, Aunty reaches into her Louis Vuitton handbag. ‘This was
a gift from’ – she looks up and thinks – ‘from the Duchess of . . . Oh, I forget the place. She gave everyone at the party this, in Milan.’ Aunty rifles inside the crocodile-leather pouch. ‘Her castle is very hard to maintain now. It costs her so much, she has to let go many of the staff so is not so comfortable to visit anymore, I prefer not to go. Better to meet somewhere to catch up.’
A Caucasian expat man in a three-piece pinstriped suit approaches us.
‘But, Mimi, a copy is just as good if you do not receive as a gift.’ She pats the crocodile and flashes her charming smile at the banker. ‘This is my very beautiful niece, Mimi.’ I blush and look down. ‘She is a beneficiary of my very beautiful late sister Mary’s estate.’
I smile at the thought of Aunty Mary’s high rosy cheeks and infectious good nature, and my memories of her playing Aunty Mary Cinderella with me at Bicton, her warm embrace as she lifted and spun me around at the park or on the beach. ‘As the executor, I will need to close this account and transfer all of it to this one – Mimi’s account.’ Aunty points to various documents she has neatly laid out to face the banker.
‘Of course, Miss Kwa. Not a problem.’ He excuses himself to finalise the paperwork.
‘Mimi’ – Aunty shifts her position and angles towards me – ‘this is a big amount. As you know, your Aunty Mary left the same to all her nieces and nephews because she wants you to travel and have good life.’ Someone places a plate of cookies in front of us; Aunty winks at me, taking one. ‘They always look after me here. I know the top, top banker.’ She does a little cat’s pyjamas wiggle in her chair.