by Mimi Kwa
‘Francis,’ he says to Dad, ‘perhaps you could advise me on how to bring my car back to life.’ John is half serious, half buttering Dad up.
‘Yes, yes,’ Dad replies, ‘I am a tup-tup-tup mechanic. I can show you. Yes, I can fix it.’
A few weeks later the car vanishes, and John and I are at a loss until I open our mail and unfold a council bill for towing and impounding fees. I call the council, and the person at the other end checks a file on the curious incident of the disappearing car. ‘It says here a Mr Francis Kwa called to have the car towed, because it was an eyesore.’
We can’t afford to bail out John’s beloved Commodore, so all he has left are pangs of nostalgia. We do see the funny side, though, and I’m thankful for the sense of humour my new partner brings to the table – after all, this is one of countless Francis Kwa incidents John will no doubt endure by my side.
Whenever my tiger stripes are shadows tightening around me, I turn to John, my rock in the storm.
When I tell Aunty Theresa about my new-found love, she flies out to inspect the relationship and gives it a cat’s pyjamas two-thumbs-up stamp of approval. She even meets John’s parents and, to my relief, somewhat redeems the Kwa name with them in a way only Aunty can do.
At yum cha with Dad, John, Adrian and Jerome, Theresa announces she is moving to Manila to escape the handover of Hong Kong, which is coming up in 1997, marking the end of Britain’s 99-year lease. She isn’t taking any chances, keen to get her money out before China takes the territory back. In Brigit’s home city, Aunty can be cared for in her old age without fearing her maid may leave her. Aunty has dual Australian–British citizenship, and we’ve tried for years – without any luck – to get a visa for Brigit to migrate to Australia as Aunty’s companion, so this is the next best option. Aunty plans to visit Hong Kong regularly.
Ocean Palace is Perth’s biggest Chinese restaurant, seating two hundred, and the maître d’ has assigned us a standard round table covered with a white cloth under the lazy Susan in the middle. We order san choy bau and spring rolls, plus stir-fry noodles for the boys. Considering this is a Kwa event, everything is going well so far.
But when chicken feet come out for Dad, so do a pair of surgical gloves from his pocket. He slides them over his hands, and snaps the latex on as if he’s in an operating theatre. Dad Wombled a whole palette of these gloves and uses them at every possible opportunity – and, apparently, even when there isn’t one.
Aunty looks at her brother, horrified. Dad helps himself to food with his gloved hands and eats, and I kick him under the table. Adrian and Jerome excuse themselves and go outside in teenage shame, while John – who is becoming accustomed to Kwa eccentricities by now – keeps eating.
‘What?’ Dad looks at me as if I’m insane. ‘They are free. No need chopstick. What’s wrong with you?’
Everyone in the restaurant seems to be staring as I die of embarrassment, and Aunty tut-tuts, frowning her disapproval.
Dad eats with his gloves on for the whole meal. ‘It’s a good idea, good idea. No washing up. No washing up. Ahhahahahahahah.’
John doesn’t speak to Angela out of respect for me. ‘I can’t understand why you’re nice to her,’ he says.
‘I do it for my brothers, you know that,’ I reply.
Plus, the little girl in me still craves acceptance and love from this woman. Why do I hang on when it makes more sense to let go? My grandparents never gave up on Mum, or me. Aunty Theresa would never give up on Dad, and I won’t ever give up on my brothers, or Dad either. So for Adrian and Jerome’s sake I keep making an effort with Angela.
Kwa blood is thicker than pain. It washes over wounds and warnings, whispering, ‘You are Kwa. You will never walk away.’
CLOUDS AND ANCHOR
IT’S 9.30 AM ON WEDNESDAY, 20 NOVEMBER 1996, AND AFTER many years as a litigant and hundreds of free court applications, Dad finally has a group of rather bemused and confused council lawyers exactly where he wants them: awaiting his late arrival at the High Court of Australia.
He tousles his hair and adjusts his bow tie to sit crooked as I hand him his stack of files. ‘Watch this. Watch this. The master at work.’ His eyes gleam, and he half hobbles, half shuffles into the courtroom, leaving me to find my own way to a seat in the gallery.
A High Court judge appears via satellite link-up from Canberra. I have barely sat down before Dad does his deliberate tripping act, dropping his stack of files and scrambling to gather them up. ‘Your Honour, Your Most Gracious Honour. So sorry, Your Honour. I am so tired from up all night preparing, Your Honour. So sorry, Your Honour.’
The Honourable Judge Toohey waits patiently.
HIS HONOUR: Yes, thank you. Yes, Mr Kwa?
MR KWA: Yes. I just lost a bit of paper.
HIS HONOUR: Just before you start, Mr Kwa, let me just point out a couple of matters to you. One is that this is a motion to remove a matter that is before the Supreme Court into this court.
His Honour explains that Dad is applying to change the entire national constitution and that the facts of the case need to be sorted out in the Supreme Court before that can be considered.
Dad says he has grounds to change the entire national constitution and that it will only take five to ten minutes.
HIS HONOUR: I will hear from you.
MR KWA: If you could hear from me.
His Honour tells Dad he has already said that he will.
HIS HONOUR: Can I just say something else before you start, Mr Kwa, and that is that there is a considerable amount of documentary material that has been filed in this matter, filed on your behalf.
MR KWA: Yes.
HIS HONOUR: And most of it, I have to say, seems to me to have nothing to do with the application at all.
His Honour explains he is yet to find a relevant document among the files Dad has submitted.
MR KWA: It is entirely irrelevant as far as giving evidence is concerned.
HIS HONOUR: Well, if it is irrelevant it is a bit of a pity that it arrived in the court.
Dad goes on to tell the judge that the court is biased. Then he reads from the Bible.
MR KWA: I would like to refer to the Holy Gospel according to Matthew 22:1–14, which says: ‘Many are called but few are chosen.’ Meaning that many may apply but few are chosen. In this regard I pray that I have sufficient merit as to be chosen. In further postulating, Your Honour, that I should be chosen, I again refer to the Holy Gospel. I read according to Matthew 22:1–13, which reflects that: in order to be chosen one must be wise and devote particular effort for their preparation. I pray that I have demonstrated this in my paper, which I submit to record now.
Dad tells His Honour about a case the judge himself presided over – Dad even gives the court staff a transcript.
HIS HONOUR: I am sufficiently familiar with that case, Mr Kwa.
The City of Stirling is as perplexed as the judge. There’s a team of six lawyers on the council’s side; on Dad’s, just him and me.
CITY OF STIRLING: Your Honour, I have not been provided with copies of any of this information Mr Kwa is handing up at the moment.
HIS HONOUR: Well, it is not information.
MR KWA: I know that this is not criminal law but everybody is entitled to a fair trial. That is my belief.
HIS HONOUR: But, Mr Kwa . . . your action is against the City of Stirling. It is an action brought in a State Court and on the face of it involves no Commonwealth matter. This is the High Court.
MR KWA: My pleading, Your Honour, is that it is a fair trial. I am Australian citizen. I am entitled to a fair trial regardless. Now, constitution . . .
His Honour appears to be in a degree of pain as he entertains Dad’s longwinded presentation, and I am unable to locate a suitable rock to hide under.
HIS HONOUR: Those are your submissions, are they?
MR KWA: Yes. Thank you, Your Honour.
HIS HONOUR: Yes. Thank you, Mr Kwa.
MR KWA: Thank you, Your Honou
r.
HIS HONOUR: Yes. Thank you, Mr Kwa.
MR KWA: Yes. Thank you, Your Honour.
The judge grits his teeth and hands down his decision, throwing Dad’s case out.
Outside court, Dad is jubilant. ‘Did you see me? Did you see me? It’s the High Court. He likes me. I get along very well with judges. All the judges. We have the same thinking, see. Better than average brain.’
I help him with his files. ‘Dad, I don’t think you won in there.’
He shakes his head. ‘Oh, I won alright. I won alright. The High Court of Australia saw Francis Tak Lau Kwa!’
By now I’ve swapped architecture for broadcast journalism, finally following my dream to become a TV news anchor, having discovered a university that’s just begun offering their long-established course as an actual degree.
In 1997, a year into my new study stream at the WA Academy of Performing Arts, I try out for an ABC cadetship, just for practice, along with three thousand other applicants. We jump through exam and interview hoops, and then, as the numbers are culled, more interviews and screen tests. It’s obvious I won’t get in.
I’m at my old high school, walking towards the school’s second-hand swap shop to finally hand over my old blazer, skirts, shirts and dresses, when my little red Nokia mobile phone rings. An ABC cadet recruiter is on the other end. ‘Mimi, how do you feel about moving to Melbourne?’
I sit down in the middle of the oval and fall back to lie down on the soft green lawn, watching white clouds shift across an endless blue sky, euphoric with the realisation that my life is about to change.
I had planned to defer uni and move to Kuala Lumpur with John for his new job, but now I can only stay a few months before my cadetship begins. In the new KL office that his Perth boss is renting, John and I paint dull partitioned walls white and the doors a cheerful mint-green. I carry in plants to feng shui the energy, and John sets about managing local staff. It’s summer and I don’t want to leave him here, but I do. A few months later, he follows me to Melbourne.
A year after, I defect from the ABC to Channel Nine.
‘You’re the first non-WASP I’ve ever put on TV. The first Asian.’ My formidable commercial news boss is gruff, with a terrifying reputation for cutting off neckties he dislikes and leaving around diet books as hints for female presenters. ‘Don’t get any fatter in the face,’ he tells me, then walks away.
I feng shui my desk with plants to deflect bad vibes, as well as the excessive electrical energy from the news feeds streaming on rows of TVs bolted to the wall above me. They show every channel simultaneously, and we’re also permanently tuned in to emergency service radio transmitters and news wires. Four fax machines spit press releases, and phones ring off the hook – the eye of the storm of daily news.
After a disastrous first shift ambushing Russell Crowe, I gradually win over my commercial colleagues and attract only the occasional derisive ‘ABC’ comment from my chief of staff.
I haven’t been assigned a story today, so I lean back in my chair, casually scanning the screens for a yarn to chase.
‘Oh God. That’s my house.’ I sit bolt upright with alarm.
‘Police are yet to comment,’ says the newsreader on the screen. ‘We’ll bring you more on this breaking news in our next update in an hour.’
I’m already on the phone. ‘Dad, what’s going on? Mandarin Gardens is on the news.’
Dad is pumped. ‘Yes, yes. All the televisions are here. It’s famous. I’m famous. All the televisions are here.’
I take a deep breath. ‘Dad, I realise that, but what is going on?’
I recognise the familiar sound of journos trying to get Dad’s attention. ‘There is a fight in the bunkhouse. Someone dead.’
I try to keep him engaged. ‘What do you mean “someone dead”? What happened?’
‘Yes, a man, dead. I have to go. Very busy.’
‘Dad. Tell me what happened.’
‘I tell you already. Buddy hell. There is man. He come in and stealing things from the backpackers. The police kill him.’
‘Dad, what man?’
‘I don’t know, he’s not here anymore.’
‘So who is dead?’
‘One of the backpacker.’
‘Dad, this is very confusing.’
‘The news is here. I have to go. I tell you everything already. Buddy hell.’
‘Dad, do not speak to the news. Do not speak to anyone. If you do, make sure it’s only Channel Nine, and I can try to manage it from here. But . . . actually, Dad, it’s just best you don’t speak to anyone at all. Okay?’
‘Yes, yes, okay, daughter. Know-it-all daughter. Yes, yes, whatever you say.’
I hang up and look on the wires: the exclusive channel where news agencies share information.
Police are investigating the death of a backpacker at a Perth youth hostel. The yet-to-be-named man allegedly carried out a number of thefts at Scarborough Beach backpacker hostel Mandarin Gardens. Police tried to restrain the man who is now deceased.
My chief of staff shouts across the newsroom, ‘We’re getting the feed from Seven, for the updates. Mimi, news exchange, now. Shot list what comes through from Perth on the backpacker thing. We’re pooling.’ This is just shorthand for the fact that Channel Nine has a deal to share footage with Channel Seven.
I head into news exchange and say, ‘That’s where I grew up. That’s my dad.’
The eighteen-year-old news edit assistant, who has spent seventy-two hours straight in this tiny room filled with small screens, looks up from a couch in the corner. ‘That’s your dad? Really?’
Dad is adjusting his position in front of the camera. He’s on the balcony outside his front office. ‘Have you got the pool in?’ Dad asks the crew. ‘Have you got the pool in?’ They are rolling, and the pool is in shot over Dad’s left shoulder. ‘At the moment we have a special deal,’ he says. ‘You stay six nights and get the seventh night free.’
I watch in horror as newsroom colleagues come to see ‘Mimi’s dad’ on TV. This part isn’t going to air, of course – it’s only raw footage shared between networks – but still!
I notice he has the wireless phone on him, the loud one with the tall aerial, so I call him again. ‘Dad, what on earth are you doing? I just saw you doing an interview with Seven. I told you not to talk to anyone.’
‘Daughter, you don’t understand about the media. Daughter – oh, daughter. You do not understand. In Perth, Channel Seven is the highest rating. See. See. Good publicity. Everybody likes me. Free advertise.’
I put down the phone just in time to see the tail end of Dad on the feed: ‘Yes, yes, yes. And we have a tennis table and twenty-five metres pool.’
GOLDFISH AND RATS
MANDARIN GARDENS IS FALLING APART. THE POOL HAS grown mouldy, and the bathrooms I once cleaned are blackening with grime. Monkey tails litter an overgrown lawn, and four and a half stars drop to three. Dad’s proud list of amenities grows yellow, with guests hardly recognising Mandarin Gardens from the glossy brochures anymore and posting poor reviews on something called the ‘internet’.
The Australian Youth Hostels Association drops Dad’s membership, so he sues them in the Federal Court. The judge, unable to see any reason for the case, orders Francis to pay the YHA’s legal bill and cites the parallel lawsuit against the YHA Dad is running in the Supreme Court. ‘Buddy hell. Buddy judge. He doesn’t understand. Buddy hell. I’ll show them. I’m a lawyer. I know better than buddy most of them buddy monkeys in the courts.’
Tenancy at Mandarin Gardens wanes to the point that utilities and the mortgage go unpaid. Eventually, the sheriff arrives to repossess all four and a half thousand square metres of land. The few backpackers still in residence demand refunds, and Francis stows a few things in a garbage bag as police barricade the property. Later, he returns with my twelve-year-old brother, Jerome, who squeezes through a gap in the padlocked fence to rescue his goldfish with a plastic bag. The boys move into a flat wi
th Angela, and Dad couch-surfs with friends.
When the latest Supreme Court verdict is handed down, Francis actually wins his thirteen-year fight against the City of Stirling to rezone and build a highrise on the Mandarin Gardens site. But the verdict has come way too late, applying to a property Francis Kwa no longer owns. It’s a sad end to Dad’s dream. The bank sells Mandarin Gardens to a developer, who plans to build a four-storey retirement village, and Francis has to start again.
He’s resilient, though, and quickly finds work as a chartered engineer – his pre-hostel profession. He also has his other sidelines – wedding celebrant, migration agent, arbitrator. After the bank takes its money from the sale of Mandarin Gardens, Francis uses the remainder to put a deposit on a house in Floreat, a major step up from Scarborough.
His new neighbours are judges and surgeons and, two doors down, a professor, and it doesn’t take long for him to alienate most of the street by turning his place into a derelict property. He crams his quarter-acre block with stuff – an accumulation of junk so extreme it makes the papers.
‘Rat Infested Property.’ Dad sends me a colour photocopy of the article. ‘Look, look. I’m on the front page.’ He shares his excitement over the phone and by letter. Look. Look. This is me, he jots in the corner of the article, the address highlighted in yellow in case I have any doubt. According to the article, neighbours have been complaining to the City of Cambridge about Francis’s hoarding for months.
‘No, no,’ he says. ‘My neighbours love me.’
Photos in the article appear to have been taken from over the fence by those loving neighbours.
‘Whenever I need legal advice, the retired judge agrees with me. They all love me. Everyone loves me. Everyone thinks I’m right.’
I remember what it was like at our youth hostel, with Dad reusing everything. He was ahead of his time waging a War on Waste. ‘No waste, no waste’ is Aunty Theresa’s motto for food, whereas it is Dad’s motto for everything.
