³⁴ I discussed some aspects of this on page 406

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VIII

It was always our aim to stimulate residents by introducing them to as many people and to as many ideas as possible. For this reason we had a program of guest speakers and discussion groups on a wide range of topics. However, our greatest asset was the four visitors' suites provided within the Hall for University visitors. We made these available at low cost, and they were in constant use. The spin off³⁵ for us was that these visitors, from all parts of Australia and abroad, often made valuable contact with our residents.

When I visited Canada in 1969, I had such a benefit from my prior meeting with Professor Robin Harris

36

of Toronto University when he stayed in the Hall . Many of our senior residents received similar benefits both through the opportunity to meet the visitor more intimately than they would in their University department, and through the contacts provided. Although some visitors only stayed a few days and we saw little of them, we encouraged long-term visitors who would have time to relax and join in our community. One such visitor was André Tchaikowsky.

André was born in 1935 in Warsaw. As a Polish Jew he survived the Holocaust but led a childhood of great trauma during the horrors of Jewish extermination. He was also a child prodigy and, as a pianist, soon gained much note. Artur Rubinstein said of him: “I think André Tchaikowsky is one of the finest pianists of our generation - he is even better than that - he is a wonderful musician.” Rubinstein helped launch his career as an international concert pianist: he saw the appeal of a young and prodigiously talented Jew who had survived in the midst of the worst horrors of the Nazi occupation of Poland, and who had developed his talent in spite of his impossible situation.

We knew none of this background when André first arrived at the University in 1974 as an Artist in Residence to the Music Department. He stayed in the Hall for three months, then returned for a further three-month period in both 1975 and 1976. After his first visit, he insisted each time that he stay in Currie Hall. Within the Hall he was simply “André” to everyone, and led a life of relative anonymity, away from the socialite adulation he received when on concert tour. He befriended wayward students, played chess and bridge with the residents, and talked to everyone. He was immensely popular.

Anne Allsop³⁷, a resident at the time, later wrote about her encounter with André:

I met André at the University. He asked if I would be coming to his recital. I said, ‘No,

I don't really like the piano.’ So André replied, ‘Well, I'm sorry, but I don't play the

guitar.’ Maybe he found that refreshing: someone who didn't like the piano. We had

38

fascinating conversations about French literature. He could spout it: just sit there and

recite French poetry. His face really lit up. I found that much more impressive than

piano playing.

Once André played for us students at an old upright piano in the Hall. Previously, he had come to a performance of a musical called Jabberwocky, written by an Australian

³⁵ Side benefit

³⁶ See page 369

³⁷ Anne was a most vivacious and friendly, straight-forward girl. She was an adopted child and, after graduation, married a St. George's College Vietnamese student. They settled in Canberra but, due to cultural differences, the marriage did not last. Eventually Anne returned to Perth and led a vigorous life, only to die of cancer in July 1996

³⁸ Spout = speak in a declamatory manner

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student in Sydney, who tried to set Lewis Carroll's poems to music. One character in it,

the Bandersnatch, wore a pink pantsuit.

Well, when André came to play this old piano, he first gave us a program of classical pieces. Then, he excused himself, saying that he needed to get a musical score from his room. When he reappeared, he was wearing this pink pantsuit! It was so funny. He then played a selection from Jabberwocky for us. We all loved André.

I don't think I've ever met anybody before or since who was so alive so much of the time. You could imagine him burning himself out. I didn't find him tiring but, then, I didn't spend every day with him either. If you were with him all the time I suppose it could have been hard. All the women were attracted to him. He was so alive and charming. He was interested in what I thought and in what I was saying. You felt you had his whole attention.

André's popularity in the Hall can be summed up by the following Item that I included in the 1975 Annual Magazine. At the time I was acting Master, as Robin Gray was absent using up accumulated recreational and long-service leave before retiring at the end of 1977.

Have you ever thought what geography and architecture have done for us in Currie Hall? Our close proximity to the main campus and the existence of visitors' suites within the Hall have provided us with an unceasing flow of interesting people who have often become part of our community. Not only have we had visitors to the academic departments but also a number of Artists in Residence at the University -from members of the Alberni quartet, to the harpsichordist, Sam Valenti, and to André.

Only those who entered the Hall after June this year would not know André Tchaikowsky, who first stayed with us for a term in 1974 and who returned again this year. André comes from Poland, was educated in France, and has won many competitions. When he became a public performer he gave over five hundred concerts in his first three years with leading orchestras around the world . . . but this is not the André we know. When he gave us a private concert just before leaving this year, we clapped him and he said: ‘Don't do that, you make me feel that I'm working!’

To us, André has not been the public figure, but a likable human being with a thirst for bridge (in 1974) and for chess (in 1975), and a continuous thirst for relaxed friendship. He became part of our community, joining in our activities, and adding his own brand of good humour. When he left us in June for a concert tour of New Zealand, and then of Mexico, Sam Leong³⁹ had a bad cold, but was braving it out. From New Zealand came a telegram: “Go to Bed” and, one week later, another one: “You can get up now.”

André did much for the Hall, and our Council acknowledged this by inviting him to

become an “Honorary Fellow” of the Hall - a distinction that carries with it no tangible

advantages - no free meals and board - but simply the recognition of this community.

In reply, André wrote these words:

³⁹ Sam was a music student, who gained much from André

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Can you imagine me speechless? Well, I am. I am overwhelmed, touched, delighted and dizzy

with pride. I had another look at my passport to make sure I was not Walter Mitty⁴⁰ and read

both your letters at least twice. And I am no longer envious of Napoleon.

Of course I realise that I've done nothing to deserve this honour. This, in fact, makes it even more

gratifying, like a Christmas present in midyear! But couldn't I try to deserve it now, in

retrospect? What can I do to make myself useful and prove your choice right?

A refugee's sense of “home” is subject to strange vagaries. I never felt home in Poland, or through my student days in France, but I always do in Currie Hall. Now this is the work of the Hall, and I'd like to thank and shake hands with every single member of your affectionate and stimulating community - OUR community, as I can proudly say from now on!

What news from the home front? Are we playing other colleges at chess? Has the annual exam

panic affected us yet?

My warmest greetings to you, Kay and Peter, Mike and staff, to all students and tutors, in a

word, to everyone - AT HOME.

Your friend and fellow fellow, André

Before André left Perth in 1975, Frank Callaway, Head of the Music Department, offered him a challenge: to return in 1976 and play the complete set of Mozart piano concertos. André accepted the challenge and immediately wrote to his manager in London:

Excitement! Frank has asked me to do the complete series of Mozart concertos next year. Now this is something I've been dreaming of for a decade! Moreover - can there be a greater compliment? - he is going to create a chamber orchestra in Perth, just to enable me to do this. Since the man is prepared to move mountains, the least I can do is to learn the remaining 11 concertos before next March, and I can think of no more pleasant task.

Kay and I attended one of his Mozart concerts in 1976 and found ourselves sitting on the side in the University Octagon theatre, where we would be looking straight at André through the raised lid of the grand piano. The orchestra members took their places, tuned up and at 8.00 pm an expectant hush descended, but the conductor and André did not arrive. At 8.05 pm a murmur of background talking arose in the audience. At 8.10 pm, even the orchestra members relaxed and started whispering together. What had happened? Where was André? At 8.15 pm, fifteen minutes late, he arrived, took his place at the piano, looked up and saw us in the audience. He winked at us, and the concert was on its way.

Next morning, after having breakfast with my family at home, I wandered around to the dining hall to have a coffee with whoever was there, and saw André sitting alone. I took a place beside him.

‘Whatever happened last night, André?’ ‘You will never believe it,’ he replied. ‘When I left Perth last year, I was determined to work into my touring program all the Mozart concertos that I did not know well. But no one wanted Mozart. So, I had to work very hard in my spare time to master them. Last night I felt ill-prepared and had an attack of

40

Walter Mitty was a fictional character with vivid imagination, always day-dreaming that he was someone very important.

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VISITORS TO THE HALL ANDRÉ TCHAIKOWSKY

nerves. Before the concert, I went to the toilet and locked myself in. I felt afraid to come out and face the audience. For fifteen minutes the conductor pounded on the toilet door telling me that I must come out as everyone was waiting. Of course, once I came out, it went well.’

-oO-

André did not return to Perth after 1976, and there is both a sad and a bizarre ending to his story. In 1982, at the age of 47, he died of cancer. In his will he specified that his skull be given to the Stratford on Avon Shakespearean Company for use in Hamlet. It was used once. Apparently André always had a yen to be an actor, but his busy professional life as a musician precluded this.

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IX

When I returned in 1970 from my year overseas, although I devoted about twenty-five hours a week to Currie Hall, this was only my part-time hobby. Except when I was seconded to the Hall during Robin Gray's periods of absence, my full-time appointment was still as Senior Lecturer in Electrical Engineering. I gave courses at all levels from first-year to fourth-year honours, conducted several small group tutorials each week, and supervised third-year students in their laboratory work. Although I had given up personal research - as I had no time for it, and my interests had moved elsewhere - I greatly enjoyed teaching. I loved my direct encounters with students in the laboratory or tutorial, or when I supervised the research projects of honours' students. What I enjoyed most was the opportunity to draw-out a student's capabilities and potential, helping them to overcome setbacks and frustrations, to emerge with greater self-confidence and maturity.

Because of my past involvement, never could I escape from faculty committee work. When combined with the necessary time spent in assessing students' work and in academic reading to keep myself well informed, my total commitment to University and Hall consumed at least fifty-five or sixty hours each week.

Somehow, I combined these commitments with family life. We had brought our large German tent⁴¹ back to Australia and, each year during the long school holidays, we took it to Denmark on the south coast for a family holiday. Judith and Peter usually each brought a friend. Peter played hockey for his school and on weekends I sometimes drove him to his venue and watched the game. Then, we bought a small sailing craft known as a “Mirror” dinghy⁴². We hoped to have much fun in this, but it was too light and responsive to every change in the breeze for Kay to enjoy it. When it heeled over and looked like it might capsize, she became frightened. However, we had much fun in it on lighter days. Once we took it to the south coast and sailed it in Walpole inlet. We also took it to Shoalwater Bay where my parents had settled after retirement, and sailed in the bay, but mostly we used it on the Swan River. Kay was much happier in the early 1980s when we changed our aquatic activities to paddling a canoe.

In the early 1970's our daughter, Judith, embarked on a primary teacher training course, but became disenchanted with the narrowness of the education system. She left home and shared a house with a few others, and loved the independent life that it gave her. She took several jobs, including one with the Department of Community Welfare. Returning to studies, she enrolled for a BA in the University of Western Australia, majoring in psychology. She met Ian Ozanne and they married in 1978. By the time she completed her degree, she had two children of her own.

When I started learning classical guitar in 1970⁴³ both Judith and Peter played folk guitar. At first, Peter resisted my attempts to interest him in classical guitar until one day he unexpectedly took it up. While I plodded along, the skills came to him very quickly and he started lessons with a professional teacher, Brian Black.

⁴¹ See page 357

42

The name "Mirror" came from the London Daily Mirror newspaper which ran a competition for the design of a small sailing craft suitable for family use. The boat could be rowed or sailed, could hold four people, sailed by one or more people, and was light enough to be carried, or put on top of a car.

⁴³ see page 399

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ANDRÉ TCHAIKOWSKY UNIVERSITY & FAMILY LIFE IN THE 1970s

Many years later, Peter wrote of this period when he was fifteen years of age:

I enjoyed the classical guitar very much and spent many hours each day practising. Then, I went to Sydney for a master class. This was my first time away from home by myself. Later, Brian Black wanted me to go to Spain to continue my studies and to make a career in music. I appreciated the fact that my father counselled me, but left the decision to me. Although I loved the guitar, I decided that an electronics career would be more economically viable.

Peter did very well at school, completing his matriculation in 1975. In 1976 he enrolled in Engineering at the University and I had the mutually dubious pleasure of having him in my classes in the early years. In 1978, as a third year student, he married Lee Baker, and left home. Kay and I kept in contact with both our children.

In the year that I and my family moved into Currie Hall, my father retired from his position as General Manager of the Swan Timber Company, sold his house in Mt. Lawley and moved to Shoalwater Bay, just beyond Rockingham, about twenty miles south of Fremantle. There, he and my mother lived a quiet life in a house that had a commanding view of the ocean. He had always been an ardent student of history and wished that he had become a history professor, but there were no opportunities during the economic depression of the 1920's and 1930's. Although he never expressed it openly, he probably envied the way in which I had entered so easily into an academic life without the hardships that he had experienced.

He had long decided that, in retirement, he would devote himself to writing. Dad chose the history of the port of nearby Rockingham, a small settlement that prospered in the early days by exporting timber from the nearby hills. He was well placed for the task as he knew both the timber industry and the details of shipping intimately. I interested Reg Appleyard⁴⁴, the Professor of Economic History, in the project. Reg agreed to edit the work and arranged publication through the University Press. When The Sea and the Forest was published in June 1972 and we were all delighted with the published reviews, one of which started:

Western Australia's University Press and the Shire of Rockingham were singularly fortunate in discovering in V. G. Fall a man who knew intimately both the sea and the great hardwood forests of Western Australia and who also proved, when he retired and wrote this book, a natural and gifted historian.

and ended:

Apart from the enthralling interest of Mr Fall's narrative, this book with its excellent

illustrations, adds richly to the history of the sailing ship in the nineteenth century.

Later, Dad published a second book, The Mills of Jarrahdale, and was in the final drafting stage of a third volume dealing with the timber industry in the south of the State, when he had a stroke, and died in 1974 at the age of seventy-two.

⁴⁴ Reg was a council member of Currie Hall from 1970 until 1976 and, through this, I knew him well.

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On 13 November 1974, only a few days after my discussion with Noreen Hocking and Graham Chandler about the problems of men⁴⁵, Mother rang to say that Dad was unwell and was being admitted to a local nursing home. For some weeks he had become progressively more weary and less able to write. I cancelled all appointments and immediately drove to Shoalwater Bay. Mother said that at lunchtime Dad had been unable to move or talk.

Next day I felt drained and exhausted. The year had been a particularly heavy one and I was weighed down with all the problems of my students, and I felt very worried about my father and mother. Mid afternoon I drove briefly to the shops and was unfortunately caught by a colleague who would not let me go. When I returned home, Kay was in tears and very worried. ‘You looked so bad and exhausted when you left,’ she said ‘that I thought you must have had an accident when you did not return.’ Five minutes later, the matron at the nursing home rang to say that Dad had taken a turn for the worse. Again, I cancelled all appointments and we drove back to Shoalwater Bay, staying overnight with Mother. I returned to Perth in the morning as I had to interview a prospective tutor and his wife, but we spent as much time as we could with Mother. Dad died at 6.45 am on 18 November.

In the middle of annual examinations, assessments, meetings, and dealing with students suffering examination stress, I attended to all funeral arrangements. Mother came to stay with us in Currie Hall. I felt very sorry for her at this time of grief, but all her possessiveness, and my resentment of it, reemerged, no matter how hard I tried to prevent it. I hid this from her but several times gave vent to my inner feelings by writing in my diary:

24 November

Mother had a bad night last night and she cried when I took her a cup of tea in the morning.

Unfortunately, grief cannot be avoided; somehow it must be lived-through, before it can be

accepted and resolved.

One of my mother's problems is that she is so insecure, and has always been so. She has an enormous element of the child within her, which has made her scared of life. She has so little sense of her own identity and self-esteem, and is so subject to fear of criticism from others, particularly her sister, Phyllis, that she has always escaped life by turning inwards, devoting herself entirely to Dad.

With his declining health, he needed her more and more, and she continued to sacrifice herself not only because to do so gave her life meaning, but because it helped her to hide and escape from her own inner fears. Now that Dad has gone, she feels the loss dreadfully; Her life is doubly empty because she had nothing but Dad. To reconstruct her life will be very painful. Mother achieved her identity through Dad, and has no identity apart from him. So, while Dad needed her, she also needed him.

I don't think that anyone should completely sacrifice themselves for the other, if this denies them

the opportunity to develop an independent existence and a sense of their own self-worth.

believe that many of my own problems of development arose from my need to grow and achieve

self-confidence; a need that was not aided by my mother. She was not an adult herself, and

needed my dependence to sustain her, just as she needed Dad's dependence.

If I ever attempted to go my own way, to do or be something different, or to differ in opinion

from her, she would express her hurt so strongly that it became emotionally impossible to oppose

her. At times, I did oppose her, but these were drastic, hitting out, traumatic experiences. When

⁴⁵ See page 419

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EMOTIONAL PROBLEMS WITH MY MOTHER

I had not yet established my own inner strength and identity, I had only the weapons of a child

at my disposal.

Fortunately, through Kay, and through experience of life, I have now achieved a considerable

degree of independent inner strength and a sense of myself as a person.

That evening, Bui Vinh Ton called on us. He was a student with whom I sometimes played guitar, and whom we had helped by offering to act as guarantors when he wanted to bring a younger brother from Saigon. When he left, I went onto the porch to say goodbye. He put his arm around me, took hold of my hand and very softly and warmly told me how sorry he and the other Vietnamese students were to learn of my father's death. I found it very touching, because I felt so sad.

By the end of November I felt exhausted and numb from the strain; I developed dull stomach pains that I recognised as psychological, caused not only by my excessively busy lifestyle and the death of my father, but by the presence of my mother, and by Kay's feeling of depression in recent months due, in part, to her going through the menopause. It was a very difficult time for us all. The constant presence of my mother, in particular, brought out all my old memories and suppressed resentments.

I again gave vent to my feelings in my diary:

28 December

I am immensely irritable over the presence of my mother in the house. She talks continuously about herself and says the same thing over and over again. She just will not be silent for ten minutes. I know that Kay also finds it hard to take. I know that Kay is having hot flushes and emotional moods, and that I am continually making mistakes. Several times yesterday I tried to get my mother out of the house for a walk with me, so that Kay could have a little time to herself, but this, again, was the wrong thing to do.

Coupled with my mother's problems, Kay probably deeply resents my continued association with the Hall, feeling that it may have contributed to Judith's departure from home. Unfortunately, during this period of menopause, life is very difficult for her, and I find her emotional reactions unpredictable.

This morning when I got up and heard my mother talking on and on and on about herself, completely oblivious to anyone but herself, and assuming the attitude of “Wouldn't it be nice for you to do this with me?” I felt the uprise of all the resentment and hate for the way in which she never allowed me to be a person in my own right. I always had to be what she wanted. I could never do anything, go anywhere, almost think anything, without first gaining her approval; she always wanted to know what was going on.

I remember that sometimes in my adult life, when I talked privately with Dad in another room, Mother would call out: ‘What was that? Wait for me!’ She wanted everyone around her to be a part of her and, if I were irritable and said that I was speaking privately to Dad, she would respond pointedly with the words, ‘It is nice to do things together.’ To me it then felt, and still does feel that, what she really meant, was that it was nice to possess other people, so that they had no independent existence of their own. She complains bitterly about Aunty Phyl's possessive nature, but would deny that she is also possessive. She would be bitterly hurt and say that she was only being kind to people, doing little things for them. But the things were always those that would make her feel pleased.

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It is true that she did many kind things for others, but it was always to give herself a feeling of

satisfaction, and she always looked for recognition of “how kind” she was to others, and always

complained when she did things for people and they did not return her “kindness”.

The really kind action does not force kindness on people, because that type of kindness sometimes

takes possession of you and binds you to the giver. Real kindness expects and seeks no return.

This morning my mother saw a house open for inspection in Clifton Street and said ‘Wouldn't it be nice for you to come around and inspect it with me?’ What she meant was ‘I would like you to come with me.’ Then, I would go willingly. If I had said ‘Do you want me to come?’ She would be hurt, because it would destroy the pretence that it would be something nice for me, and it would turn it into her need. It would turn her “giving” into “taking.”

When I was a child, she had that well-known phrase: “Anything for peace”. It implied: “don't argue with me or disagree with me because, if you do, you will upset me and hurt me, and I could not stand that.” To me, this was a form of blackmail: “Do anything that I don't like and you will inflict great harm on me”. This meant that I always had to be like her; I could not be myself; I became afraid to be myself.

Anyone else, observing my thoughts, would say that I am grossly exaggerating the situation and, indeed, I am, if we measure them at their face value. However, every relationship with my mother triggers off old relationships, old resentments and hatreds, and I react more to those than to the present words. My great difficulty is that I have love for my mother, and yet, I also have deep resentment. Both are present.

Mother means well. She said yesterday that she knew that mothers could get in the way between

sons and wives and that she does not want to cause difficulty between Kay and me.

Whenever mother asks me to accompany her to visit a friend, I feel that I am once again a little boy, brought along to be shown off, to sit dutifully and listen to their conversation. My mother just takes over and never stops talking long enough to allow me the chance to say anything. She never asks my opinion on anything genuine, except to hear the answer she wants to hear. I gave up trying to be an equal with her, even before I started. Years ago, I opted out, and still opt out.

But, am I the same? Have I prevented Kay from developing as a person? Have I commanded

the conversation, never giving her a chance before I jump in and take over? Does she, deep down,

hold the same resentments for me that I hold for my mother?

I guess that, for all my high principles and values, I was still the imperfect product of my early experiences. Under the stress of late 1974, these human weaknesses showed. Fortunately, my diary took the brunt of my sometimes explosive reactions and I shielded my mother from them as much as possible during this time of great personal grief.

I also remembered how, at a much earlier stage, I had vowed that I would never possess my children as my mother had possessed me. I may have over-reacted, and Judith may have seen this as a lack of love for her. It was not intended, and it was fortunate that my philosophy gave me permission to accept imperfection in myself and others as a necessary part of human nature.

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EMOTIONAL PROBLEMS WITH MY MOTHER

Mother finally returned to Shoalwater Bay and then periodically visited us for a few days at a time. We also visited her as often as we could. Eventually, through the help of Dr Jacobs⁴⁶, Dad's lifelong friend, Mother was declared a War Widow. Dad's death was hastened by his experiences as a prisoner of war and the Government recognised this, granting her a pension. We found that the distance from our home to Shoalwater Bay precluded us from keeping adequate contact with her, so we urged her to move to Perth. Mother's doctor, seeing that she was very lonely, also urged her to leave Shoalwater Bay. After about twelve months, she did this. We bought a house in Crawley, only twenty minutes' walk from Currie Hall.

X

No sooner had we returned to some sense of normality after my father's death than I was engulfed in the problems of my Vietnamese students with the fall of Saigon⁴⁷ on 30 April 1975. Even before the fall itself, many of my students were extremely worried, none more so that Le Van Tu. Tu was an older resident, completing a master's degree in mathematics. He had a wife and two young daughters in Saigon. One day he came to my home asking to use my phone to ring his family. He lodged the call through an operator and waited hours while they tried to contact Saigon, but conditions were too chaotic. He tried again another day, equally without success. Then he sent cables, but received no reply. He could neither work, eat nor sleep with the worry⁴⁸.

Before the fall of Saigon some students received letters from their families imploring them to bring them to Australia. Because the students knew that their own government was corrupt and could not be trusted, they felt that neither could they trust the Australian Government. They were reluctant to discuss their problems with the student welfare wing of ADAB⁴⁹: What if they told ADAB that their parents wanted to leave Vietnam, would this be conveyed to the Vietnamese Government, so that their families at home would be placed in jeopardy? I had seventeen students discuss the matter confidentially with me, and I, in turn, discussed it with ADAB, in general terms, without mentioning names. Then there were other worries. In Vietnam it now cost $US100,000 to “buy” a passport. None of the families at home could afford this, and the students in Australia did not have that kind of money.

ADAB officials told me that everything was up in the air but that, if evacuation became possible, preference would be given to wives, children, parents, and siblings - in that order - and that they would be regarded as refugees. They assured me that any information given by the students would be held confidentially in the Perth office until some form of action became possible. In no way would the

⁴⁶ See pages 26 and 36

⁴⁷ See page 401

⁴⁸ Finally everything turned out well. He received a cable from his wife in May 1975 that they were safe. Eventually, his wife and children came to Australia. After completing his higher degree, Tu obtained a lectureship in Canberra and he and his family settled there permanently.

49

Australian Development Assistance Bureau, a branch of the Foreign Affairs Department. It changed its name several times, but my references to it will be under this name.

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8: COMMUNITY - THE MIDDLE YEARS (1970 - 1977)

Vietnamese Government be informed. The students plucked up courage and, before long, all seventeen completed nomination forms to bring families to Australia.

When the war ended, the first concern of the students was for their families at home. What had happened to them? Were they safe? Had they been killed? Was there a bloodbath? Some thought that their parents might have escaped to Guam or to Hong Kong. How could they be traced? Could the Australian Government find out? Could the International Red Cross help? Everyone wanted answers immediately, and anxiety ran high.

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THE AFTERMATH OF THE FALL OF SAIGON MY STUDENTS' TRAUMA

The students were also concerned for their own future. Would their Colombo Plan scholarships continue? Would they be allowed to complete their studies? Under existing scholarship terms they were required to return to Vietnam. Would these conditions still apply? Ban was a second year student but had come to the University when barely sixteen. He came to me in May with these worries and confided that he could not work. How could he ever catch up? And what was the point of it anyway? He had lost all incentive. Slowly, week by week, I worked to get him back on track⁵⁰.

I was particularly concerned for the first-year students. Not only had they just arrived from Vietnam but they had not had time to adjust to Australian culture. I worried that their command of English was well below the standard of previous students, and discovered that there had been a “fiddle” in the Australian Embassy in Saigon: Rich families had paid to have their sons “pass” the English test, gain a scholarship and so escape from Vietnam. My first-year students in Currie Hall were Danh, Hoa, and Dinh. I made a special point in spending time with them.

Danh⁵¹, like the others, was worried, could not sleep and seemed very nervous, but he also proved very able. His English was good, so I judged that he had received his scholarship legitimately. He was also highly disciplined. Even in the depth of winter he wore only the lightest of short-sleeved T-shirts. One day I said to him, ‘Aren't you cold?’ ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Then why don't you put on something warmer?’ ‘It is simply a matter of self-discipline,’ he said, and continued wearing the flimsy T-shirt.

Hoa⁵² was very quiet, and very critical of Australian culture. Australians, he said, were too free in their relations: boys and girls kissed openly. Never could he form a relation with an Australian girl, he said. I invited him to play squash with me and sometimes went walking with him. He felt sad, listless and aimless, but managed to hold himself together. ‘Some of the first-year students,’ he told me one day, ‘like Ninh at Kingswood, are a little bit mad.’

Binh, a senior Vietnamese student at Kingswood College had already spoken to me about Ninh and brought him around to see me. I spent many hours with Ninh; He was a daydreamer who had partly lost track of reality. He had no will to do anything, and spoke in philosophical terms about the meaningless of life. His English was bad, and he told me he had been only a moderately successful student at home. He found the Australian culture strange, but did not even make friends with the other Vietnamese.

‘I had a girlfriend in Vietnam before I left,’ he said softly, ‘but she escaped with her mother to Hong Kong. My family is still in Saigon so, one day I will return there.’ He looked rueful. ‘My girl is willing to return to me in Vietnam, but I would not persuade her to leave her mother alone in Hong Kong.’

Ninh was suffering from mild depression and, following the recent events, had lost some contact with reality. He wandered around looking dazed. Eventually he withdrew from his course, ADAB sent him to study English as a second language, arranged psychological treatment, and proposed that he change next year from Engineering to Economics.

Binh asked me to get close to my own student, Dinh, who had also lost motivation to work. I often visited him. One day he said, `I am Vietnamese, and a new government is now forming in Vietnam. Legally, must I obey the new government?' So we talked about legality, and we talked about the meaning of asylum.

⁵⁰ Ban passed his exams, completed a good degree, married a Vietnamese girl from Melbourne and settled for two years in Perth before moving with his wife and child to join his mother in Michigan, USA where he established a successful career.

⁵¹ Danh did very well, finally settling in Sydney.

⁵² Hoa also picked up well and obtained his degree. His family was in the USA, so he migrated there. He did not marry until 1995.

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‘What if the new government does not issue me with a passport?’ He said. ‘My parents have already fled the country for America. Will I then be stateless? Will Australia throw me out?’ He had heard that the New Vietnamese Government did not want overseas students to return, but recognised that his first allegiance was to his family in America.

‘I can't work, and I know I will fail,’ he looked dismal. ‘Even if I do work and scrape through, I will be too weak to pass second year.’

I talked with Binh. ‘Dinh has had a rich and a spoilt life,’ he told me. ‘Never before has he had to face hardship. Right now he is just drifting around and I cannot get through to him. But he also has a lot of pride and does not want to share his troubles with anyone. Ban has had a go at him, but can't get anywhere. Ban reckons that Dinh is mad. I think that he may be working secretly in the middle of the night. That way he may hope to pass, but lets everyone think that he can't work, and so will save face if he fails. All we can do is to keep close to him.’

The upshot of this was that I offered to teach Dinh to drive a car. He accepted this offer excitedly and so I maintained contact and had a quiet, positive influence on him. At the end of the year he passed all units⁵³. He even obtained his driver's licence.

Towards the end of the year many Vietnamese still seemed very shaky, although a few had heard from their families. ADAB offered them new Australian scholarships to replace the Colombo Plan scholarships, but did not define the strings attached to them. This worried the students when they were pressed to decide whether to accept them. We persuaded ADAB to remove the pressure until after the annual exams. Almost all the students were studying engineering, so I spoke informally to the Dean and wrote a formal letter requesting that the Faculty bear in mind the stress under which they had laboured all year. Apart from Ninh, who had withdrawn, all the students successfully completed their year.

XI

If there were times when I worked long hours and intensively, trying to alleviate the problems of my students, there were moments that brought rewards. Wednesday 7 May 1975 was my birthday but I spent the evening from 5.00 pm onwards at a Council meeting, which we held over a sandwich meal in the Council room. At 6.20 pm there was a knock on the door and Barney McCallum, one of my tutors, appeared.

‘You are wanted immediately in the dining hall, Squire,’ he said with a sense of urgency. I excused myself and went with him, wondering what had gone wrong. As I entered, all the students rose from their tables and stood to attention. Barney escorted me well into the room while the assembled throng of two hundred and thirty sang “Happy Birthday to You,” cheered, and gave me a standing ovation.

‘Thank you, Squire,’ said Barney, and escorted me back to my council meeting.

53

After completing his degree successfully, Dinh migrated to America where he rejoined his family and established a successful career.

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VIETNAMESE STUDENTS' TRAUMA MY RECOGNITION BY THE HALL

Later in the year, I received a formal letter from Neil Midalia, the President of the Residents' Club. It informed me that, on a certain night, the club had decided that they would hold a “coronation” at which I was to be crowned king. “You will be expected to make a suitable reply,” the letter said.

When the night arrived, I was duly crowned, and entered into the fun of the event by offering a speech of acceptance:

To my Lords and Ladies, in Waiting;

To members of the Provisional Revolutionary Democratic Republic of Currie Hall;

To the Common People of the Realm: GREETINGS.

By these presents shall you know that my husband and I, ever mindful of the desire that

even in the days of your grandchildren's grandchildren, mothers will take their babes on

their knees and say:

“On this very day, was King John crownéd”,

do hereby PROCLAIM a Magna Carta, for the Greater Glory of this kingdom.

I have declared that 57 GREAT BOONS be implemented throughout the realm, the first

two of which I shall now proclaim:

Henceforth, all residential fees and charges, whether singly or in moieties shall be abolished

for everyone - EXCEPT for the Common People.

Secondly, Degrees shall be awarded automatically: Bachelors at the end of one year of residency; Masters, after two; and Full Doctorates after three years -and these great boons will be awarded without discrimination to everyone -EXCEPT, of course, to the Common People. . .

After continuing in this vein, I concluded with:

My Husband and I, ever mindful of the Provisional Revolutionary Democratic Republic

of Currie Hall and of its dangers to this Kingship, have cunningly contrived, as our first

Royal Act, to bestow a knighthood upon its leader.

NEIL DOV MIDALIA, Rise, and kneel before the Royal Presence.

I dub thee Knight of the Realm, Protector of this Kingship, and Participator in all the

corrupting privileges that it confers. ARISE, Sir Knight.

Loyal subjects, I give you SIR NOBLE NEIL!

These two events during 1975 were strong evidence of the degree of acceptance and support that I gained from the students in the Hall.

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VIETNAMESE STUDENTS' TRAUMA MY RECOGNITION BY THE HALL

XII

Lucky is a man who has not only friends but also a confidant. I have always been fortunate in this respect because, while my best friend and confidant has always been my wife, Kay, one other person also filled this role in the critical period of the seventies. That person was Stephen Ho, a colleague in the Electrical Engineering Department. When Stephen and his wife Betty arrived in Perth to take up a tutorship early in 1971, he was twenty-six years of age. Born in Hong Kong, Stephen matriculated and completed a first-class honours' degree in Sydney. His wife, Betty, came from the Solomon Islands, and they were married shortly before he took up his appointment in Perth. Usually, a member of the Department met new arrivals and helped them settle in; by chance, Kay and I elected to do this.

We were brought close to Stephen and Betty through a tragedy: Their first child, Adrian, was born not long after they arrived, but died when only a few months old. Fortunately, in 1974 they had Richard and, later, a second son, Weng. Our two families visited each other often, while Betty joined the International Wive's Group⁵⁴ with Kay. Stephen embarked on a Masters' degree and, although I was not his supervisor, I met with him each Friday to discuss progress.

We then took to lunching together each Thursday and strolled around Crawley Bay, consuming our sandwiches. Little by little we came to know each other very well, reaching a point where we could discuss openly any matter in our private lives, no matter how intimate. So Stephen learnt about my upbringing and about my negative reactions to my mother, just as I learnt about the problems that he had encountered in life. In the seventies, when Kay was going through a difficult time, he listened to me, and gave me an outlet for my own feelings of uncertainty and frustration. It was a period of high-quality friendship and mutual help. Every Christmas day they came to lunch with our families, as they had no family of their own in Perth.

Before Currie Hall built the sets and so provided kitchen facilities for students, Christmas day was always chaotic for us. Over the Christmas period, about forty students remained in residence and we provided a meal service for them in the Hall on all days except Christmas Day: We insisted that our staff have a free day with their families on that day: We locked the dining hall, and encouraged students to visit friends. Many overseas students did not have friends with whom to share Christmas, so we invited them to lunch with our family.

The day started with breakfast, which we supplied to anyone who arrived at our flat between 7.30 and

10.30 am. We provided cereals, followed by bacon and egg, and toast. Only eight people could sit at our dining table at a time so, while one group had their breakfast, others sat talking in the lounge. On Christmas Eve we had decorated the lounge and dining room, and usually had a canopy of coloured streamers.

Then, at 10.30 am, as we ushered the last students out of our flat, several, who were also coming to lunch with us, went with me to the dining hall to collect three large tables - each seating ten or twelve people which we brought back to our flat. Putting them together, we created one long, curved table, starting in the dining room and ending in the lounge. Not long after, my parents and Kay's mother and Uncle⁵⁵ arrived. Besides Judith and Peter, there was Stephen and Betty Ho, and a host of students, mainly Asian. Our total numbers were usually around twenty but, one year, it rose to thirty-three.

⁵⁴ See page 404

55

Kay's father, Joseph Melson, had died in October 1966 before we went to Currie

Hall

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We borrowed crockery and cutlery from the Hall, while Kay cooked the meal of chicken and ham and all the other goodies that go to make a traditional Western Christmas dinner. Of course, she cooked the meat on Christmas Eve and served a cold meal, as otherwise we could not cope. We had Christmas crackers, party hats, ice-cream and Christmas plum pudding embedded with trinkets or coins. There was much talking, laughter and friendship.

Late in the afternoon, when everyone had gone, our immediate family drove to the home of Kay's sister, Doreen, for an evening meal and further celebration. On Boxing day, we faced the enormous task of tidying the flat.

Our close friendship with Stephen and Betty continued until Stephen took sabbatical leave in 1979 to complete a doctorate at the University of Manchester Institute of Science and Technology. He returned in 1981 and, two years later, gained a lectureship at WAIT⁵⁶. It was no longer possible to lunch together and, although we maintained our friendship, we lost our former intimacy. Perhaps we had both developed, and no longer needed it. However, I still greatly value our friendship with Stephen and Betty.

XIII

Early in 1977, the Vice-Chancellor set up a small committee that included several former Council members, Don Watts, the President of the Residents' Club, and the Principal of St. Columba College, to advise him of the nature of the position of Head of Currie Hall following the retirement of Robin Gray at the end of the year.

The committee reported that, in view of the strong administrative support provided by the Bursar, the new head should be encouraged to maintain some academic activities and liaison with a teaching department. Perhaps, a joint appointment to both the Hall and an academic department was desirable. Whereas Dr Gray, due to his particular field of scholarship, had not participated in the Hall's tutorial program, the committee thought that the new head should do so.

How the new appointee would apportion his duties between the Hall and the academic department should be a matter of negotiation. Now that the Hall was coeducational, the committee saw no reason why the appointee had to be a man, and so suggested that the title be changed from “Master” to “Principal”, which was not gender-specific.

In April, the Vice-Chancellor referred these suggestions to the Currie Hall Council for comment. Council agreed with the general sentiments. They supported a joint appointment, but stressed that the Principal's prime responsibility must be to the Hall, not to an academic department. They did not want an academic who occasionally “looked in” at the Hall. We might have stronger administrative support than the other colleges, they suggested, but then we also had 50% more students, and did not have a deputy head, as did the other colleges. They also stressed that the head must live within the grounds.

⁵⁶ The Western Australian Institute of Technology, which eventually became Curtin University

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CLOSE FRIENDSHIP WITH STEPHEN & BETTY HO ROBIN GRAY RETIRES

I debated with myself and with Kay whether I should apply for the position. I had much experience; I favoured a joint appointment, since I felt that the Principal should be seen to be an academic, not an administrator; I enjoyed teaching. Against this, we had already spent over ten years in the Hall, and Kay was not particularly happy there.

Then I considered what I would do if I did not apply. After ten years in the position of Resident Fellow, it might be time to leave. If I did, and returned solely to the Electrical Engineering Department, would I be happy there? Although I held a full-time appointment, I had let go my personal research both because it did not give me much satisfaction, and because I found working with Currie Hall students much more satisfying. Alan Billings, the head of my department, had accepted the loss of my research activity, as he felt that my Currie Hall work more than compensated in terms of my total contribution to the University. I told myself that, if I were to leave Currie Hall, I would feel morally obliged to take up research again. However, I had slipped back from the forefront of my field so much in the last ten years that it would now be almost impossible to recover. I would probably not be very happy with the struggle. The Principalship had attractions; leaving Currie Hall did not, so I decided to apply.

Mid-year, I submitted my application, and asked Robin Gray to act as one of my referees. He agreed to do so, and then took the unusual step of giving me a copy of what he had written:

Dr Fall has asked me to write in support of his application for the position of Principal of

Currie Hall. This I am happy to do, for during the years he has been a member of the

residential staff of Currie Hall, I have developed a great respect for his ability and integrity.

He has served the Hall with distinction as a Resident Fellow since 1967. During my absence for eight months in 1968 and five months in 1975, he acted as Master. During these periods he proved himself to be a capable administrator and an effective Head. The establishment does not provide for a Deputy Master, but it is significant to note that by reason of his personal qualities he has been looked upon by staff and students as the senior fellow and as Deputy Master. In this respect, I too have tended to treat him as the Deputy Master and have used him as my confidant and advisor on Hall problems. In this role he has been invaluable and I have come to respect his ability to analyse a problem, his discernment and his sound judgment.

As a fellow and member of the Council, he is familiar with the government and finance of the Hall and has been heavily involved over the years in formulating Hall policy. In addition, he has taken a leading part in organising aspects of the academic, social and cultural programmes. When credit is being allocated for the success that Currie Hall has enjoyed in recent years, a large measure must be given to John Fall.

During the period I have worked with him, he has shown himself to be conscientious, highly responsible and loyal. His emotional maturity and balanced sense of values have been a desirable example for young people. He is fortunate in having a stable family situation in which his wife, in her own quiet and sincere way, not only gives him strong support, but is a friend to all students and represents a source of security for them. He tends to be conservative in his attitudes and values but is tolerant and understanding of others. His wide range of interests and warm friendly personality enable him to make ready contact with students and staff. He has a deep-seated and genuine interest in people and a desire to give service. Students find him very approachable, sympathetic and understanding. As a result, his counselling work in the Hall has been both extensive and successful. A constant stream of students in and out of his flat is testimony of the

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confidence students have in him as a counsellor. He has specialised in assisting Asian

students and is one of the better informed people in Australia on their problems.

As the Hall Principal his strength as a counsellor may prove to be a weakness, in that, it is difficult to combine the roles of counsellor, disciplinarian and arbitor. In addition “being always available” can be exhausting and may lead to an unbalanced distribution of time. However, if he were appointed, I would expect that his previous experience and good sense would enable him to adjust to his new situation.

It is with confidence that I recommend John Fall to you. I have met most Heads of Colleges/Halls in Australia and I believe he would stand tall amongst them. Having engrossed oneself in an institution for a decade, one cares about its future. I would be confident for Currie Hall if its future were in his hands.

I felt somewhat embarrassed to read what Robin had written but, in a covering note he said that he had passed his reference on “to let you know how I appreciate the contribution you have made to the Hall and the help you have given me over the past ten years.”

Robin and I had come a long way together since the day I first visited him in the old Hostel buildings late in 1966⁵⁷. In the intervening period I had learnt much from him, although I often disagreed with him. He also had learnt much from me. Ours had been a true symbiotic relationship. He was sixteen years my senior yet we worked as equals, particularly when we talked privately about matters of mutual concern.

Although Robin retired from the Hall at the end of 1977 we continued our association. Early in 1976 he had suggested that four couples associated with Currie Hall dine regularly together. He and his wife Norma, Kay and I, Michael Bazley and his wife Pamela, and George Bartlett and his wife Beverley joined the “Swan-Dining Club”. George Bartlett had been associated with the Hall since before its inception and he, Robin and I often put our heads together when a difficult problem arose. George had become the University Registrar. For several years, we enjoyed visiting restaurants where for each couple we paid for only one meal because we were members of the Club. However, we soon noted that all the approved restaurants in the Club were licensed, and had high markups on their liquor prices. Eventually, we adopted the practice of dining at each other's homes, in turn. Twenty years later we were still dining together four times a year, but by that time both George and Robin had died.

I had three months' long service leave due to me, so Kay and I set out to tour South-East Asia. I did not know how strong would be the field of applicants for the Principal's position, but crossed my fingers and hoped. We were determined to enjoy our period of leave, little realising that, while we were visiting a past student on a palm-oil plantation in Malaysia, I would receive an offer of the Principal's position. Another and final stage of my community life opened to me.

57 See page 288