by Tracy Vo
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.
In August 1979, when Dad had been working at Al Picchio for almost a year, Mum and Dad received a call from my Uncle and Aunt Five, whom they missed terribly. This was the first time they had thought about leaving Perth. My parents didn’t feel lonely in Perth but there were times when they longed to be with the rest of their family. Mum and Dad discussed the option of moving to Melbourne and decided that this would be a good time to do so. Dad went to work the next day and asked Mario for three weeks’ holiday.
‘I’m going to see my sisters and brothers in Melbourne. My wife hasn’t seen them since we left Malaysia,’ Dad said, but he didn’t tell Mario about moving. Dad thought that if they decided to stay in Melbourne, he would just call Mario and tell him he wasn’t coming back.
Mum and Dad packed up all their belongings and purchased one-way train tickets to Melbourne for $175. As well as all their household items, they also took their new car, a 1978 Ford Fairmont that Dad had just bought, in the train’s cargo. It was very exciting for Mum because it was her first trip out of Perth. She stared out the train window the whole time, as the land rolled by, in awe of the country she lived in.
In Melbourne they drove to Aunt and Uncle Five’s house in Maidstone in Melbourne’s north-west where they lived with their children, and three of their brothers and sisters, my Aunt Sixteen, Uncle Seventeen and Uncle Ut. Mum and Dad spent the next two weeks with their family. They loved being with their brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews, but my parents found Melbourne dark, cold and busy. They missed Perth’s laid-back lifestyle and bright, warm weather.
‘Do you want to stay here or go back to Perth?’ Dad asked Mum. One of the reasons he hadn’t told Mario about moving to Melbourne was Dad wasn’t sure he wanted to.
‘Maybe we should go back to Perth. We’re settled there,’ Mum said. ‘I would like to go back.’
They were both relieved they wanted the same thing. They told Aunt and Uncle Five, who were disappointed but also understanding. The family were still getting used to the idea of freedom, of being able to fly back and forth to see each other any time they liked. ‘We will be back soon, I promise,’ Dad reassured them.
The next day my parents left all their belongings—kitchenware, bedding, even a brand new stereo—with Aunt and Uncle Five. All Mum and Dad took with them was their car and their clothes. They were exhausted from the excitement of their fortnight in Melbourne but they couldn’t wait to get back to Perth.
Mum and Dad found an apartment in inner-city Highgate. It was a small one-bedroom, one-bathroom apartment on the second floor. Dad returned to work at Al Picchio and never told Mario that he had intended to move to Melbourne during the ‘holiday’. Within a few years Dad became head chef of the successful Italian bistro. It was only open for dinner so during the day Dad worked in the kitchen at the Underground Nightclub on Newcastle Street in Northbridge. Sometimes he would even go back to the club after Al Picchio closed and work until 2 a.m., preparing food for the next day. It was hard work, and the hours were long, but Dad enjoyed it.
During his late-night shifts at the Underground, Dad met a lot of famous people. One of his highlights was in 1980 when Kiss performed at the nightclub. Dad got right up front. It was a great show. He’s still amazed at how long Gene Simmons’s tongue was and how they all walked in those platform shoes.
12
THE AUSSIE WAY
On 16 January 1980, my brother Trevor was born. Mum didn’t have any family around, so she relied on friends to help her with her newborn. Trevor was a very easy baby to look after—he hardly cried and he slept for long periods—but it was still quite a challenge to bring up a baby in a country that was quite foreign to her, especially when she still wasn’t fluent in the language.
One evening, when Trevor was about five months old, he came down with a fever. Mum didn’t know what to do or where to go for help. Dad of course was working, at Al Picchio. Mum remembered seeing a building near their apartment block with a sign saying ‘HOSPITAL’. She knew that word. She ran down to Beaufort Street with Trevor and had another look at the sign. There was a word in front of ‘hospital’ but Mum didn’t know what it meant. She went inside anyway, and showed her baby to the woman at the reception desk.
‘Excuse me. My baby feel very hot. Can you help, please?’ Mum asked.
The woman looked puzzled. ‘I’m sorry, ma’am. We’re not that kind of hospital. We only look after animals,’ she said, pointing to the pictures of dogs and cats on the walls. Mum had walked into a veterinary hospital. She was so embarrassed. The woman was very kind and tried to help Mum get to a hospital but my mother just thanked her and went home to call a friend of hers.
We call this woman Ma Hai, which translates to Second Mother. She was Trevor’s godmother. Ma Hai advised Mum how to reduce Trevor’s temperature, and the fever went away after a couple of days. Ma Hai helped Mum with a lot of things. When Trevor turned one, Mum got a job selling fruit outside the Commonwealth Bank in the Murray Street Mall in the city. She then worked at the fish markets in the Boans Department store. Trevor would spend the day with Ma Hai while Mum was working.
My mother really enjoyed going back to work. She was meeting different people and it was also a great way to improve her English. Meanwhile, Dad was thriving at Al Picchio and the restaurant had become very successful. Life was good. Everything had fallen into place. They had a wonderful son and a lot of support from their friends. Their next goal was to become true Australians.
By this time my parents had lived in Perth for almost three years and didn’t want to live anywhere else. They loved Australia and regarded it as their home. In those days, all they had to do to gain citizens
hip was apply. So they filled out the forms and, on 27 August 1981, Mum and Dad became Australian citizens. It was one of the proudest days of their lives.
My parents relied on a few local friends to help them become more accustomed to the Aussie culture. Among them were Mario, Dad’s boss at Al Picchio; Moyle and Aileen Campbell; and a kind-hearted couple named Diane and Pascoe. When my parents first met Diane and Pascoe in the 1980s, they were running a small café in Subiaco Village. Dad had quit the Underground Nightclub and was doing some catering work from home. He mainly made spring rolls and supplied them to cafés and takeaway shops across the city. One day Dad was dropping off some food and Pascoe was curious about his other jobs.
‘Tony, do you work anywhere else?’ he asked Dad.
‘Yes, I have a full-time job.’
‘Where do you work?’
‘At the Al Picchio Bistro in Claremont. Have you heard of it?’
‘Yeah, I know that place. I’ve driven past it a couple of times. So what do you do there?’
‘Oh, I make spring rolls!’ Dad joked.
‘Ha! Is that right?’ Pascoe thought it was a bit bizarre for an Italian restaurant to serve spring rolls.
‘Come down to the restaurant and we’ll look after you,’ Dad said. ‘I promise you will enjoy your meal there.’
So Pascoe and Diane had dinner at Al Picchio later that week. They certainly enjoyed their meal, as Dad had predicted, but they were disappointed they didn’t see him in the restaurant. They were about to finish their meals when Mario checked in to see if everything was all right. Pascoe and Diane raved about the beautiful food, then Pascoe asked Mario, ‘Do you know of a Vietnamese man named Tony? Apparently he supplies food to your restaurant.’