COMMUNITY - THE FINAL YEARS

I Eric Ng frowned as he read my letter. ‘They can’t stay in that hotel,’ he called to his wife Charlotte, who was in the bedroom. ‘Where have they booked?’ she queried, noting the concerned look on his face as she entered the room. ‘At a down-town place in central Singapore, but it’s a notorious transvestite hotel. They couldn’t possibly stay there.’

In all innocence, Kay and I had bought a tourist book on South-East Asia and had picked out a centrally located hotel and made a booking without consulting a travel agent. It was not long before we received a letter from Eric telling us of our disastrous choice.

‘We have taken the liberty of cancelling your booking,’ he wrote. ‘Since my wife Charlotte works for the Ministry of Education, she has booked you into the Premier Hotel, which is not far from the tourist area of Orchard Road. This is a training hotel run by Charlotte’s Ministry. It is quite comfortable, and very cheap. Charlotte has also secured for you a Government discount of 10% as she works in the area.’

Kay and I flew to Singapore on Sunday 28 August 1977 and, from the moment we arrived, were overwhelmed with hospitality. Six former students, now looking well-dressed and well-settled into their government and private-sector positions, were there to greet us at the airport. Soon, Eric and Charlotte drove us to the Premier Hotel, which we found very comfortable. It was a small place but had all the facilities of a larger establishment. Each morning at 6.30 am we could hear the young men and women, training to be Singapore’s future managers, chefs, waiters, barmen and maids, doing their physical exercises in the courtyard before starting their day’s work. Each day, a bevy of young girls came to our room to make our bed under the watchful eye of their teacher. At the few times that we took a meal in the hotel, the young student waiters tended to our needs, to be corrected by their ever-watchful supervisor should they make a mistake.

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After breakfast on Monday morning, Jimson Yeo took us to a camera shop. I had mentioned on arrival that I intended buying a Canon camera.

¹ See pages 326 and 341

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‘I went to school with the owner,’ said Jimson, and introduced me. When I identified the camera I wanted, the owner spoke a few words in Chinese to Jimson. Later I asked, ‘What did the shop- owner say to you in Chinese?’ ‘He said, do I sell this camera to your friend at the price I would sell it to you, or do I quote the tourist price? ‘Of course, I told him to sell it at the price he would sell it to me.’ So I bought my camera for 38% of the Australian price.

Jimson took us to his home and then to his work place, the LeBlond factory in the Jurong Industrial estate. At this stage he was a junior engineer, but was very intelligent, had a good personality and much drive. It was not surprising that he would later rise to a position of great importance in his community.²

And so it was with many of the young people we met; not that the others became Members of Parliament, as did Jimson, but they were in the early stages of their careers in countries like Singapore that were beginning to make great economic strides. Soon South-East Asia was to assume world importance, and the students from the late 1960s and early 1970s were in the right place at the right time to contribute significantly to that development.

2

In 1997, Uniview, the magazine of the University of Western Australia, published the following article about the man who, in his student days, was known as “Jimson”:

With Full employment and an economy growing at between eight and ten percent annually, you would think that the Republic of Singapore’s Minister for Trade and Industry could afford a degree of satisfaction. However, the Minister, UWA graduate, Yeo Cheow Tong, sees dangers in complacency.

‘In a country like Singapore which has no resources other than its people, you cannot afford to slacken,’ says Mr Yeo. ‘When people become comfortable, there’s a tendency to take things for granted, to indulge in distractions.

‘Yes, despite our success, we still talk about our future in terms of survival. Our products and services are sold on the international market. We have to remain highly competitive. If you have a huge domestic market, you have an advantage and can afford to make mistakes. On the international market you can’t.’

Mr Yeo believes that one of Singapore’s major challenges is to upgrade the republic’s ‘human capital’.

‘While most young job-seekers are well-educated, we were only able to revamp our education system in the 1970s, so only a quarter of our population have completed secondary education. Because the economy is buoyant, and there’s full employment, many don’t see the need to improve their education. We are therefore encouraging local companies to implement retraining programmes for employees, as an investment in the company’s and the nation’s future.

‘We must focus on improving our human capital and our level of technology. Economically we are now developing from a much higher base and we have to compete in terms of product quality and innovation, much of which is technology based.’

Mr Yeo, who was awarded a Colombo Plan Scholarship to study at UWA in 1967, never envisaged a political career. When he graduated with a Bachelor of Engineering in 1972, he anticipated a future in the private sector. After a stint with the economic development board, he joined LeBlond Makino Asia as a staff engineer in 1975 and six years later he was the company’s managing director. In 1984 he became a Member of Parliament.

Whereas study abroad was a feature of the Singapore in which he grew up, higher education standards within the republic have risen. However, Mr Yeo still sees an advantage in local students studying overseas.

‘Overseas study does help to develop a student’s independence, because Singapore is small,’ he says. ‘Having to cope on your own with everything, from psychological and emotional to physical needs, having to manage your own finances and your own time, all these are useful skills to develop.’

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TWO MONTHS IN SOUTH-EAST ASIA: SINGAPORE & OUR PAST STUDENTS

We had little time to think about the future prospects of our students; their immediate concern was to introduce us to their society and their food. Monday lunch-time saw us at an Indonesian restaurant. In the evening we consumed Chilli crabs, fried squid, prawns, pomfret and Indian noodles at Punggol near the straits of Johor. Next day, Serene Chia and Shanta Abishagenaden took us to a restaurant in Pasir Panjang for a Nonya meal of Fish Head Assam, Rendang, Sotong Assam, Satay Pork, Fried Kangjong, Sayur Lodeh, and chicken curry. The flavours were new and exotic, and we spoke of old times.

Serene had come to Currie Hall in 1971 when we first became coeducational. Kay always said that she was “Serene by name, and serene by nature.” Level-headed, competent and calm, she held court in her Currie Hall bedroom, squatting on her bed while all the other Asian girls gathered round. Serene dispensed good common sense, listened to the emotional woes of the other girls and calmed them with words of wisdom. She was very mature for her years. For her twenty-first birthday, all the girls clubbed together and bought her an enormous teddy bear that stood waist high. When she returned to Singapore she had too much luggage and left the bear with us, saying she would collect it next time. Although she came back to Perth three times, she never had room for the bear. So “Big Ted” remained in our house and each of our grandchildren learnt in turn to love him. Finally, when our sixth and youngest grandchild turned seven in 1996, we gave Serene’s well-worn and much loved bear to the local Children’s Hospital, so that others might bestow love on him.

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On Merdeka day, Soh Siong Hoon , now working as an accountant in Johor Bahru on the Malaysian mainland opposite Singapore, took us to Penawar Resort at Desaru on the Malaysian East Coast. That night, back in Singapore, we dined at the Equatorial hotel on spicy Szechuan food with a party of eleven former students. Next day Jimson’s close friend Manohara Chinniah⁴ took us to see the construction of the new Chiangi airport on which he was working as an engineer. That evening another gastronomical event at a Chinese steamboat party made certain that we would not forget the hospitality of our Singaporean hosts. In just a few days we had not stopped sight-seeing, talking or eating. Our Government employed students complained of low wages, but all spoke with much zeal about Singapore’s future. Their faith was not misplaced.

On Friday morning, Mano picked us up at the hotel and took us to the railway station. ‘I’ll just buy you three dozen sandwiches from the railway buffet,’ he said, and rushed off. Kay and I wondered how we would eat so many sandwiches until we discovered that each “sandwich” comprised considerably less than a quarter of a round of bread! Our train pulled out at 8.00 am, travelled through rubber and palm estates, to reach Kuala Lumpur at 2.30 pm.

We were to stay almost a week in KL, as the capital was known locally, and quickly discovered that our Singapore experience simply prepared us for a surfeit of Malaysian hospitality. I had made a booking to stay at the Majestic Hotel because my father had stayed there during the Second World War. I wanted to experience an old colonial-style hotel, but our host Joseph Low who picked us up at the station did not approve.

‘It’s a very old-fashioned colonial hotel,’ he explained. ‘It probably doesn’t even have air-con . I can easily take you to a much more suitable hotel.’

3

See page 326. Soh had been President of Malaysian and Singaporean Student Association in Perth at the time that Malaysia and Singapore had parted company politically. “M erdeka” day on August 31^st officially celebrates M alaysia gaining independence from Britain

⁴ See page 326

⁵ The local vernacular for “Air-conditioning”.

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We thanked him, but refused. We wanted to experience the old hotel. When, weeks later, we returned to KL, our students insisted that we stay at the modern South-East Asia hotel, a concrete and glass affair, no different from any other international hotel. We preferred the Majestic.

As Joe had guessed, the Majestic did not have air-conditioning but had quaint, old-fashioned Punkah-Louvres. These looked like long carpet pieces hanging from the ceiling on horizontal rods which were moved mechanically slowly back and forth, producing a gentle wafting of the air. Breakfast was the only meal we took in the Majestic. Waiters, clad in white uniforms, stood behind the chairs, observing our every move. When we had finished one dish, a hand appeared from behind us to whisk it away, and replace it with the next course. Kay and I felt embarrassed to carry on a conversation when two waiters were so very attentive.

Joe Low had appointed himself our host and organiser. He had made a list of everything we should see and eat, from visiting the Batu Caves to partaking of Satay at Kajang - the “best in Malaysia”. He had also compiled a list of all our former students and arranged some of them to take us sightseeing and others to dine with us in groups, or visit their homes.

Kay and I recalled his period in Australia in the early 1970s. Before he came to Perth, Joe was already married, and a school teacher. When the Ministry decided to build an agricultural college, they selected him as the future principal, and sent him to Perth to complete a degree in Agriculture. For the first three years he came without his wife, lived in Currie Hall, and was regarded by many as a father figure - although he was only a few years older than most students. At the end of each year, before returning home to his wife, he worked for a few weeks as a tally clerk in a country town during the time of the wheat harvest. The tally clerks lived in small huts beside the wheat silos at the railway sidings. The local farmers quickly discovered Joe as someone who knew how to prepare delicious Asian food. They invited him to their homes on the weekends, and he cooked for them.

At the end of his third year he vacated Currie Hall, returned to KL, and brought his wife back so they could live together in a flat for his final year. When they arrived at Perth airport, Joe found that all the farmers had come down to meet them. The women had a beautiful bouquet of flowers for his wife, Shirley, while the men handed Joe the keys of his old car. While he had been home on holiday, the men had come to Perth, taken his car and had it completely repainted and put in order, as a mark of their appreciation. Joe was much liked by everyone.

Now, for a few days, we were on the receiving end of Joe’s hospitality. Every morning immediately after breakfast, he, or one of our former students, arrived to take us out. After hectic sight-seeing we almost invariably found us lunching with a group of our students. After an afternoon of further sight-seeing our host for the day would deliver us back to the hotel at 5.15 pm to “freshen-up” before another student arrived at 7.15 pm to take us to sample yet another example of Malaysia’s culinary art. One night we found ourselves with eighteen others in a private banqueting room. Joe had even invited my old Indian friend Harcharan Singh Gendeh and his wife

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Jit . He had also sought out Andrew , my young Chinese student who had returned home to Malaysia with a psychiatric illness. Andrew was still very unwell, but came to the banquet with his sister. Joe had known Andrew in Australia, but he had never known Harcharan. I must have mentioned his name and that he worked for Radio Malaysia. That was enough for Joe to track him down and invite him to the banquet.

⁶ See pages 382-383 ⁷ See pages 402-403

457

HOSPITALITY IN MALAYSIA. TRAVELLING BY TAXI TO SOUTHERN THAILAND

When Joe delivered us to a bus that would take us to Kuantan on the east coast, we breathed a sigh of relief. We had had a wonderful, but exhausting time. Each morning we had been picked up by a new, fresh young person who wanted us to experience everything. Sometimes we wondered how we would face to up a feast in the evening, or how we would get out of bed next morning to be greeted by yet another fresh-faced and enthusiastic former student.

‘I have booked you into the Hotel Kuantan for two nights,’ said Joe. When we arrived we found that it was three miles out of town and was a very small hotel on a delightful but isolated beach, run by a Chinese family. Joe knew that we were exhausted and had arranged a rest for us. Next day we lazed about and took a swim.

Very few Chinese live on the east coast and we discovered that most people were rural indigenous Malays. Kay and I enjoyed spending five days by ourselves, working our way slowly northward, passing through many rural villages and kampongs, finally reaching Kota Bahru. We made our last leg of the journey from Kuala Trengganu in an old Mercedes-Benz taxi. There were no seat belts and the rear doors were in constant danger of flying open every time we sped round a bend. Our driver set a furious pace, and moved out of his way for no one. Once, we saw a bicycle ahead, wobbling along, laden and top-heavy with farm produce. Our driver gave a great blast on his horn and forced the man and his bicycle into the ditch: nothing deterred him. But we reach Kota Bahru safely and on 14^th September flew to Penang to reenter a Chinese dominated society, and to engage in another round of excessive hospitality from our former students.

We spent six days in Penang, our next destination being the Prince of Songkhla University in Southern Thailand, not far from Hat Yai, where we were to stay with my former student Yuth

8

Kangsanant . However, there was a problem: There were no planes from Penang to Songkhla or Hat Yai, and buses had been cancelled because of insurgency and unrest at the Malay-Thailand border. For some years a Malay-speaking Muslim Thai minority-group had been causing problems and the region was reckoned unsafe. After much consultation it was agreed that we should travel by a Thai taxi, the driver of which covered the route regularly and was well-known. I remembered how in 1969 I had intended taking the train from Bangkok to Penang, but had cancelled the booking

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at the last moment after a railway bridge was blown up by insurgents in Southern Thailand . I crossed my fingers and hoped that we would not encounter problems.

On the mainland at Butterworth we picked up another passenger, Rahman Muda. He was in uniform and told us that he was a Malay who came from Mersing but was now attached to the Regional Border Committee Office in Southern Thailand. When we lunched at Alor Star, our driver absented himself for some time and we thought he had absconded with our luggage, but he returned eventually with several large cartons of cigarettes. We set off again and soon reached the Thai border.

‘Give me your passports and wait here,’ said our driver, and quickly disappeared into the border post, affably greeting the guards as though he were among well-known and trusted friends. He and the officials emerged with much camaraderie. We knew that he had much more than our luggage in the boot and was smuggling goods across the border. However, everyone seemed happy, and there was no inspection of us or of the contents of the taxi. Our driver approached the border boom gates and expectant grins broke out on the faces of the two guards. Cartons of cigarettes were handed over, the boom raised, and we were on our way with correctly stamped passports. Money had probably changed hands in the guard house, and everyone was happy.

⁸ See page 378, also pictorial essay page 484 ⁹ See page 378

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The recently established Prince of Songkhla University was surrounded by military personnel. The guard house at the entrance reported our arrival to Yuth, and soon he came to collect us. Yuth and his young wife, Toi, lived in a staff house on campus. Both had received their degrees in Perth; he was now Head of the small Electrical Engineering Department, while she was the Head of the Department of Business Administration.

Yuth was a southerner, having grown up in Nakhon Si Thammarat, north of Songkhla on the eastern seaboard of the Malay peninsular. He wanted us to see the sights that were important to him in his youth. So we visited Hat Yai - a sinful city, so he said - went over to Songkhla, and took a boat trip to Yor Island. One day we headed south into the jungle to visit a remote waterfall that he knew well. It was deserted when we arrived but, while we were resting after much walking, four burly men arrived, dressed only in shorts. They swam in the water beneath the falls, drinking from bottles; soon we realised that they were drunk. Suddenly they came over to us and offered us a drink.

‘You’ll have to drink it,’ Yuth said to me, ‘it’s probably potent stuff and I’m driving the car. We daren’t refuse.’ So I drank the proffered hospitality and as soon as possible we returned to our car and sped off. ‘Thank goodness we got away safely,’ said our relieved host. ‘I was really worried back there. They were Malay-speaking Muslim Thais, and probably part of the insurgency group. We could have been in real danger.’

On the night before we left by bus for Phuket, we spent the evening with six of the University staff who had trained in Australia They were all heads of their departments except one, Pichet Wiriyachitra who, having graduated in Chemistry at UWA, was now the assistant Registrar. It was a very pleasant evening talking about the problems and future development of the University, about personal affairs and about the politics of Thailand. I could not help but think of the wonderful spinoff that accrued from the Colombo Plan scholarships that enabled these young men to attend Australian universities. They all knew and understood Australian society and culture well. They had good feelings towards Australia, and so were good ambassadors. Just before we caught our bus next morning, Yuth told me that he had applied for lectureships both at the University in

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Singapore and at RMIT . He asked if I would write referee reports to both places for him.

Kay and I had four days of relaxation on Patong beach at Phuket before catching a bus at 5.30 pm for the fourteen-hour, 900 km journey to Bangkok. We stopped at 7.30 pm for dinner and roused ourselves again at 1.00 am for a rice-gruel supper. The bus seats were proportioned for the small frames of the local people, and we felt cramped and uncomfortable. By 6.00 am we were passing through rice fields in the pouring rain and finally drew into the Bangkok bus station at 7.30 am, feeling very tired and weary.

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In 1969 while in Bangkok I had bought an official 1968 Yearbook of Thailand. There was no mention of the university in the book, so presumably it was established at a later date. All buildings looked very new.

¹¹ Yuth was offered both positions, accepted the one at RMIT (Royal Melbourne Institute of Technology), and migrated with Toi to Melbourne.

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SOUTHERN THAILAND - BANGKOK - CHIANG MAI & THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE

The next six days were an intense mixture of sight-seeing and renewing old friendships. We were

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most surprised to see Thongpool waiting for us. He had travelled 750 km overnight from Chiang Mai, where he was a lecturer at the university, just to greet us, even though we planned to visit his

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home town a week later. On our first night Sumet visited us at our Vieng Tai hotel - a place frequented by young Australian tourists. He told us of his life in the advertising world since returning from Australia. It was a busy and sometimes frustrating life. Although insecure, he found it challenging, and was doing well. In two days time he was flying to India on an assignment and would not have opportunity to see us again. We talked without stop until he left at 11.00 pm because he wanted to be home before the midnight curfew.

Four of our past students took us to temples, the Grand Palace, and to the five-ton gold Buddha. They took us to Ayutthaya - the ancient capital, to universities, to markets, and a variety of shrines.

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We enjoyed Thai food and conversation with our friends. Then on Tuesday 4 October we found ourselves on another bus, heading 750 km north to Chiang Mai. When we arrived at 7.30 pm, we found Thongpool and his wife, Punporn, waiting for us.

We had two contacts in Chiang Mai at different ends of the economic spectrum: Thongpool was young and without money, while Paul and Alice Liu -related to one of our Perth Vietnamese friends - lived in a well-furnished mansion. When Thongpool married Punporn, he was living in a one-room bachelor-apartment on campus. As there were no spare on-campus married quarters, he still lived in the one room. A blanket hanging from the ceiling, divided their “bedroom” from their “living” space.

University salaries were so low that most lecturers took second jobs. This made it very difficult for them to devote their time whole-heartedly to teaching and research and to the development of the University. As the years went by, Thongpool and Punporn had two children, and found it necessary to run a private school on a part-time basis to give an important supplement to their income.

They wanted to spend money on us that they could ill afford. If we refused, they would lose face, so we had to be very diplomatic. They took us up the mountain to Doi Suthep to see the inevitable temple; we visited the zoo and on another day they took us to a small village where we saw wood carving, and watched young girls making Thai silk under what seemed sweated labour conditions. Punporn was learning English and spoke hesitantly, her words punctuated with nervous giggles as she explored the new language. She and Thongpool might be poor, but they were happy.

Paul and Alice invited us to their home set in spacious grounds. We discovered that they had a Vietnamese background and had lived in nearby Laos before taking up their present post. Now Paul worked for the United Nations and was in charge of their opium crop eradication program in

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the Golden Triangle . No job seemed more unlikely. Stamping out the illicit drug trade was a near-impossible task, but at least an attempt was being made to encourage the Meo hill-tribe people of the region to substitute cash crops.

¹² See page 404 for an account of his time in Perth, See also pictorial essay page 484

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See page 404. Sumet had run into psychological problems in Perth and returned home without a degree.

¹⁴ The Golden Triangle is a Meo hill-tribes region bordering northern Thailand, Laos and Burma. The hill tribes people cultivate the poppies, slitting the capsules to extract the drug which yields lucrative profits for the middle-men and dealers. Heroin, derived from the opium, is a scourge in many countries, often producing dependancy and eventually death for those who become addicted.

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‘Would you like to visit a mountain village?’ he asked one day. We jumped at the chance, so set off with him next morning in his Landrover, travelling along deeply rutted mud tracks as we climbed into the hills. In the back he had many small passionfruit vines: his task today was to distribute these to several villages.

By mid-morning we reach a village. It seemed typical of the photos we had seen in old copies of the National Geographic magazine: Simple thatched-rooved houses with earthen floors; chickens that ran from our path; a young boy herding oxen; beautiful mountain scenery; a terraced hillside planted with cabbages. Paul showed us around.

‘There are two types of hills-people,’ he explained, ‘the red-Meo and the blue-Meo. These people are blue Meo. You can tell it by the way they dress. Before we came here all they did was cultivate the poppy for its opium. They knew little of farming techniques. They had never overcome the problem of soil erosion on the hillsides in the heavy rains until we showed them how to terrace the land. Now they are growing cash crops such as the cabbages you can see over there.

‘Soon, I must deliver these passionfruit plants to a few other villages, but I will leave you here because there is an educated woman in this village who will show you around. She is an anthropologist from Bangkok and is studying the people. I will introduce you and she will take you to meet the people.’

So, for the next two hours Kay and I had an exciting time. Our guide took us into the houses to meet the women folk, and interpreted for us. The women seemed delighted to show us their work: one demonstrated how she did batik work; another brought out the beautiful embroidery done by her children. ‘They sell their work in the low-lands,’ explained our guide.

As we wandered about, learning about the way of life and customs of the people, we passed a house outside of which hung a white piece of cloth. ‘I can’t take you in there. The wife is pregnant and the locals believe that, if a stranger enters the house, they will steal the spirit of the baby.’

At the end of the village we came to a house from inside of which came the sounds of a young girl shrieking and moaning. Outside, a man was squatting over the embers of a fire. He had just killed a goat as part of a religious rite. ‘A misfortune has befallen the family,’ explained our guide. ‘The man you see has just killed the goat as part of a sacrifice. The girl inside is in a trance trying to propitiate the spirits. I don’t know whether you can go in.’ A few moments later she came out of the house, ‘Yes, you can go in. They say that your spirits are not their spirits, and no harm will be done.’

The interior of the house was dim. As with all the other houses there was a simple earthen floor. Against one wall was an altar. A young girl sat on a wooden bench before the altar with her back to us. She seemed no more than fifteen - but ages are difficult to guess. The girl swayed about making shrieking and moaning sounds. ‘She has already been in a trance for several hours,’ explained our guide, ‘and will continue all day until she eventually collapses, exhausted.’

We noted that in the centre of the room three older men squatted around an open fire. The smoke curled up to the roof and disappeared through a circular vent in the thatch. They took no notice of the girl and seemed to be gossiping. The contrast took me by surprise. When we went into the fresh open air our guide explained that in the evening the family would come together and kill a pig. They would then hold a celebratory feast assuming that the spirits had been appeased and that good fortune would return to the family.

Paul took us back to Chiang Mai leaving us with indelibly inscribed memories of our encounter with a culture so utterly different from our own.

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THE MEO HILL-TRIBE PEOPLE - PREMA AT TELOK ANSON - MALACCA & HOME

Soon we had left Thailand and were travelling south from Penang, heading for the United Plantations Palm Estate near Telok Anson on the west coast of Malaysia. We had left Chiang Mai by bus for Bangkok on Sunday 9^th October and then taken a plane to Penang. By Tuesday we were again travelling south by taxi. Wherever we could, we stayed at Government Rest Houses. The Government set these up in colonial days to accommodate itinerant officials, but now anyone could book a room if there were vacancies. They were basic, cheap, but comfortable. Some were small and old, such as at Tanah Rata in the Cameron Highlands, at which we stayed after leaving Telok Anson. Others had been modernised and resembled country clubs.

We had a special reason for visiting Telok Anson: Our past Currie Hall student, Prema Thambydorai, worked there as the personnel manager, and had asked us to stay the weekend. In Currie Hall we had come to know this small-framed, and very excitable Malaysian Indian girl very well. We always remembered how, one day, after knocking at our door, she had taken a flying leap through the air in her excitement, and wrapped both arms and legs around Kay like a little monkey. It seemed incredible that now she held what had always been a man’s job on the largest palm estate in Malaysia. The Unitata Estate was run by Indians and was completely male dominated, which made it all the more unusual for Prema to hold such an important post.

While Prema was competent at her job, enormous pressure was put on her personal life by the Indian men, some of whom tried to take advantage of her. She lived by herself in a company house within the grounds of the estate, which was some miles out of Telok Anson, and so she was vulnerable. Eventually the stress proved too great for her, she resigned, and returned to her family in Kuala Lumpur. When we visited her, these problems lay in the future.

‘I have a letter for you, Doctor Fall,’ she said. ‘It has come from the University.’ ‘I hope it is good news,’ she added excitedly. Prema could not hide her curiosity, as she knew that I had applied for the position of Principal. ‘Yes, Prema, it is very good news. The University has offered me the job at Currie Hall.’

While I knew that, with my background, I would undoubtedly be short-listed for the job, I had heard that there had been some high-quality applicants. At the interview for the position I had said I would soon be out of the country, and supplied a list of contact addresses. Now I could breath a sigh of relief with the knowledge that when we returned to Perth, I could throw myself wholeheartedly into my new responsibilities.

After much talking, touring the estate, feasting on seafood at Bagan Datok at the mouth of the Perak River, and attending a Sunday night charity concert in Telok Anson arranged by the Indian community, we went on our way to the Cameron Highlands. We had a simple dinner in the small Government rest house, cooked for us by the resident Chinese family, who first brought afternoon tea to our room. Next day, Kay’s birthday, we had a long walk through tea plantations and then rested for a drink at a small cafe. We were perturbed by the presence of many soldiers, each with his rifle at the ready. Wherever we went our taxi drivers had warned of unsafe routes that they avoided. This was first-hand evidence that unrest still persisted in the country.

Back in Kuala Lumpur, we dined in the home of Wong Thin’s parents and next day took a bus to Malacca where the uncle of one of our students entertained us. Malacca, Malaysia’s most historic town, occupied first by Portuguese, then by the Dutch, and finally by the British, had a quaint, old-world atmosphere. After a weekend of sight-seeing and hospitality, we returned to Singapore and a

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plane that took us to Perth on 24 October. Our sojourn with our Asian friends was over.

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II

There is an old aphorism that it is better to travel hopefully than to arrive; at the end of 1977 this applied to me in two senses. As I prepared for my duties as Principal of the Hall, the task that lay ahead was one of fine-tuning a community that had already come far. I had been on a challenging and exciting journey since I first arrived in 1967. We had faced dissent and disorder; I became part of the team building trust and cooperation. Now we had arrived. When I took the helm in 1978, it was a matter of further burnishing an already bright and vibrant community. To be sure, there was much that I wanted to do to strengthen that community, but the way ahead was not as challenging as it had been in the earlier days. In hindsight I realise that it was more rewarding to travel hopefully in the late 1960s and early 1970s than it was to arrive in the 1980s with a fully fledged community.

The aphorism applied to me in another, much deeper sense. Up to that time my whole life had been one of travelling hopefully, and often fearfully, with great uncertainty of myself and of my capacities. Now I had arrived: I knew myself well; I had overcome many of my problems and had a strong sense of personal fulfilment. Again I realised that the struggle to discover the person that I was, and then to live that person, was what had brought the sense of completion. It was the journey through life that was important, not the attainment of a goal. It was like happiness: you cannot make happiness a goal; it flows in as a consequence of your experiences and the way you live.

When I arrived back in Perth I received many letters of congratulations from relatives, friends and colleagues on my new appointment, some of whom saw it as a prestigious position. One or two said that I must be very proud of my achievement. I was a little embarrassed by this because pride in achievement was a foreign notion to me. It was not until ten years later, after I had left Currie Hall, that I again confronted this notion. In 1989 I attended a University Extension course with the title Biographies for Future Generations. I contemplated writing an autobiography to hand down to my great-great-grandchildren. Our tutor, Luceille Hanley, set us a challenge to write about how we felt about things when we were young. I accepted the challenge and sent her a copy of my first draft.

A few days later she rang and complimented me on what I had written. ‘There is much learning in what you have written, and much that can be learnt by others, so I hope that you will include it in your autobiography,’ she said, and then added: ‘Aren’t you proud of yourself?’ ‘No, not proud,’ I responded, somewhat taken aback by her comment, ‘No, not proud. I am simply satisfied. Perhaps I should say that I feel complete.’

It was the first time that I had given expression to this sentiment of completeness that lay hidden within me. After the phone call, I found myself thinking about the word ‘proud’ and how it just did not fit the situation. I likened myself to an emerging flower: If a bush has been planted in fertile soil, given rain and fertiliser at the right time, and if the sun has shone on it, is it not natural that a developing bud would unfold and blossom into a flower? Should the flower be proud of its achievement? Surely not. It has simply been itself, and should be quietly thankful for the opportunity given it. Maybe the only proper response is to feel compassion for another, planted in less hospitable soil, starved of water and given insufficient sun, so that its buds cannot fully blossom, or may wither.

After that phone call I also recalled some guidelines I had written a quarter of a century earlier. had reached the point where I was no longer sensitive about my personal experiences or attitudes

463

MY JOURNEY THROUGH LIFE - JUDITH & PETER’S MARRIAGE - VISIT FROM JOAN

and could write openly about them. At an earlier time I had been very sensitive to criticism and, although still not completely immune, my guidelines proved a great help.

They were:

Criticism can no longer hurt me because it will fit into one of three possible categories:

[1]	It is based on lack of correct information.	If the critic fully
	understood the situation, the criticism would not be made;
[2]	The criticism is made by someone for the purpose of “putting me
	down”. Maybe, only in this way can he make himself feel good.
	I should feel sorrow and compassion for such a person;
[3]	The person, in making the criticism, has perceived a truth about
	myself that I had not seen. I should be grateful, and not hurt, by
	being given this piece of truth about myself, and from which I can
	learn.

When I returned to Currie Hall from South East Asia towards the end of 1977, I was ready to embark on my new role, but first family matters claimed my attention.

III

On the day we arrived home from Singapore both Judith and Peter announced that they had become

15

engaged to marry. Judith’s partner was Ian Ozanne whom she had met while working for the Department of Community Welfare. Although she did not marry until 2 December 1978, the year was a busy one as Peter married Lee Baker on 13 May. Peter was still a student and had met Lee while engaged in long-vacation work-experience. His boss invited his young sister to visit him from Newcastle and introduced her to Peter. After marriage, Peter and Lee eventually moved into our Como house until they could afford a home of their own.

But our most immediate concern was the arrival of my sister Joan, her husband Joe, and two of her five daughters, Jane and Mary, just two days after we ourselves landed in Perth. Joan and Joe had not been in Perth for thirty-one years. They stayed with my mother, but there were difficulties as she had never liked Joe, and let it be known. She greeted him aggressively: ‘You are the man who stole my daughter.’ She was never able to hide her feelings, and was never diplomatic - a trait that caused her to have few friends. Not only did she feel that Joe had taken Joan away from her to a distant country, but that his background was so different from hers that Joan had had a difficult

16

time. Nor did she approve of Joe’s drinking habits, as he seemed to prefer a “six-pack” to food. Nonetheless, it was a successful visit because she recognised that Joan and Joe loved each other.

¹⁵ See pages 425 and 448 ¹⁶ A slang name for a pack of six, 375 ml cans of beer

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9: COMMUNITY - THE FINAL YEARS (1977 - 1987)

Joan and Joe paid us another visit in 1980. On that occasion he asked me to come with him on a “pub crawl” to visit all the old drinking holes of his youth when in the US Navy. While Joe had unlimited capacity for beer intake, I had to be very careful. As we moved from one hotel to another, it became obvious that Joe was curious about something but did not like to ask. Several times he started: ‘John, I believe there is a . . . no, it doesn’t matter. Forget it.’

Eventually, after a sufficient number of pubs, he stated his mind:

‘Someone told me that there is a nudist beach around here. Is that true?’ ‘Yes, there’s one at Swanbourne, but I have never been to it.’ ‘Will you take me to it?’

Joe obviously wanted to skite¹⁷ to his work-mates back home that he had been to a nudist beach. I told him that you were not supposed to go to such a beach unless you were a nudist and were

18

prepared to take off your clothes. Otherwise you would be regarded as a ‘perv’ . But Joe insisted on visiting the beach; he really did not believe that there would be nudists in staid Western Australia.

As we walked along the water’s edge towards Swanbourne from North Cottesloe, we saw groups of people on the beach, some sun-baking, others playing games such as volley-ball. ‘No. They can’t be. . .’ said Joe. Then, as we came nearer, ‘My God! They are. They’re all starkers!’

Suddenly Joe became very interested in sea-shells and, as we walked right through and past the group of sun-lovers, he gave the appearance of collecting these, before turning round and retracing his steps to North Cottesloe. Now Joe could return home and add another boastful story to his already large collection.

I related well to Joe and liked him. His serious drinking habit had started when he was in the Navy, but he always remained a boy at heart and had a good sense of humour. Unfortunately he later had a serious fall from a ladder at his workplace and eventually could work no longer. He died in January 1987 at about the time that I retired from Currie Hall. Joan visited us by herself later that year.

IV

At length I turned my attention to my new task. I negotiated with the Vice-Chancellor and with the Electrical Engineering Department on my division of duties. We agreed that 30% of my salary would be met by the Department and 70% by Currie Hall. I would continue to lecture both first and second-year students, set and mark examinations, conduct second-year tutorials, coordinate the work of my tutors in first-year and allow sufficient time for individual student consultation. I also remained a member of several committees. Theoretically this is was occupy no more than two days of my time each week.

¹⁷ Boast

¹⁸ In Australia a ‘perv’ is a person who engages in erotic gazing at others starkers =naked

465

MY ROLE AS PRINCIPAL OFFICE STAFF PROBLEMS

I realised that my role at the Hall would change considerably: no longer could I give special attention to overseas students; I must deal with all students with an even hand. Although I still played a strong counselling role, it was not as pronounced as before. I now represented the ultimate authority and many students were reluctant to discuss their supposed misdemeanors and troubles with me because of perceived possible consequences. I had to make certain that I had people on my staff who could undertake these roles.

People and their management were now the most important aspect of my work. I needed an administrative, catering and household staff that, while efficient, had a very human face. I wanted good relations with University administrative staff, with members of the University Senate, and with those who became members of the Hall’s Advisory Council. Constantly I had to be looking for good tutorial staff that could be welded into a team. I needed people who would not regard the job as a sinecure, but who were genuinely interested in people, and who related and communicated easily. More than anything, I had to be seen by my student residents as always fair, especially when the need for disciplinary action arose, and that I acted always with their interests foremost in my mind.

There was another group that became increasingly important: the five heads of the other Colleges. In one sense we were rivals but beneath this we had a friendly supportive association. We helped each other with problems, but vied with each other to secure the best tutors, visiting academics or resident students. We had a formal local association and were part of a national body that offered help to its members and who represented the interests of all Australian residential colleges to Government. For a short period I became the National Secretary of this body.

My first problem arose in November 1977. Mike Bazley¹⁹, our very capable and well-liked bursar, had been studying commerce in the University on a part-time basis. He had gained distinctions in almost everything he did. He reminded me that he would complete his undergraduate degree at the end of the year, and then added: ‘I have decided to embark on a full-time masters’ degree next year and intend resigning from my job here.’

This would be a disaster for me. I needed him for at least a year so that I could study his management role, his catering and accounting skills. This was an area whose detail was as yet unfamiliar to me. After much discussion, I persuaded him to stay until the end of 1978 and asked the University to appoint him as Assistant Principal. Mike saw this as a useful addition to his Curriculum Vitae; he and his family moved into my old flat for the year and left at the end of

20

1978 .

We had only a small administrative staff and suffered both the strengths and weaknesses of this. People who knew each other well could work well together, provided we could avoid personality conflicts. However, if someone became ill, or went on leave, there was little slack in the system and an extra load fell on the others, or work was left undone. Apart from myself and the Bursar, we shared a secretary, had a book-keeper and a junior. At least I did not have Robin Gray’s difficulty when, one year, his secretary eloped with the second-cook. My secretary, Pat, developed

¹⁹ see pages 410, 437 & 445

²⁰ Mike gained his higher degree, took up a lectureship at Murdoch University and was head of the Business Department at the time of his retirement. We remained in contact through the regular meetings of our dining group.

466

9: COMMUNITY - THE FINAL YEARS (1977 - 1987)

chronic back pains and often had to take time off work. This put extra strain on the small office, but we coped.

A more serious problem arose with my book-keeper, Gwen. She had worked for us for many years and was intensely loyal. She was also an ardent Baptist, and had tried several times to convert me. However, she progressively fell behind in her books, guarded them jealously, and did not want anyone to pry into her work. I started to worry about her change in character until one day she came into my office bright-eyed with enthusiastic excitement.

‘I have decided to become a missionary,’ she announced.

‘Good,’ I thought, ‘this might be what she needs - a break away from her present position that is taking its toll on her.’

‘Where will you take up your missionary work?’ I asked.

‘Oh, I’m not going away,’ she replied fervently, ‘I’m going to become a missionary to the students in the Hall.’

I was taken aback and quickly told her that she could do what she liked in her own time, but could not use her position in Currie Hall to preach to the students during working hours. These words were of no avail. Soon, every time students came to the office counter to pay an account, she preached the Gospel to them. I told her she must not do it, and she responded that this was her God-given mission in life. Students started to avoid her and would not come to pay their accounts. Some even bobbed down when passing the counter so that Gwen would not see them and grab them. Gwen was utterly convinced of the importance of her holy task, and nothing would change her.

In desperation I visited Dave Robinson, a minister of the Uniting Church and the Principal of St. Columba College, told him of Gwen’s years of loyal service and of the turn of events, and asked his advice. ‘I’d sack her,’ he said without hesitation.

So, I had a long heart-to-heart talk with Gwen about the problems in her work, and the difficulties made for me by her passionate religious crusade. Gwen admitted that she had not felt well for some time and that the stress of her work had got her down. She decided to retire from the Hall, and did so gracefully. Gwen had contributed much to the Hall and, when I met her some years later, seemed much recovered and in good spirits.

My new bursar, Howard, had trained in Britain and was more skilled in catering management than in accounting. However, when Gwen left us, we appointed John Connell, a qualified accountant, to her position. Howard was overweight and jovial, and entered into everything with great gusto and enthusiasm. He enjoyed working amongst young people, got on well with the kitchen staff under his command and seemed excellent, apart from one characteristic: He was a great talker. He knew everything about everything and, like a steam roller, flattened everything in his path.

Howard threw himself whole-heartedly into his work and he was very good at his trade but, because of my responsibilities to the Electrical Engineering department, I probably gave him more control than was wise. However, as the years went by and he gained more confidence in his job, I realised that his bombastic, “know-all” style was a grave weakness. If someone on Council asked any question of him, he would never say, ‘I don’t know.’ Always he replied with a barrage of details, many of which he could not possibly have at his fingertips. I realised that Howard had a

467

PROBLEMS WITH MY BOOK-KEEPER AND BURSAR THE ROLE OF SENIOR RESIDENT STAFF

very broad interpretation of the meaning of truth. This worried me greatly: when could I believe him? How often would he simply tell me what was convenient at the time?

Two years before I left the Hall I noted that he became very nervous and restless when the State auditors were about to visit us. He made disparaging remarks about them. I realised that he might not always be honest. This was reinforced by other members of the office staff who noted little things that concerned them. However, I only had “gut” feelings and circumstantial evidence, although I started keeping a record of everything that caused me disquiet.

It was not until my last year in the Hall that I gathered enough evidence to indict him. For example, we had a policy that when we emptied the commercial washing machines of their coinage, two members of the office must always be present. Usually the bursar accompanied our office junior. Sometimes, picking a moment when the junior was very busy, Howard would say, ‘Don’t stop what you are doing, I’ll go along and empty the washing machines.’

One day the junior came to me: ‘He’s my boss, and I can’t say that I must go with him, but I’ve noticed that whenever he clears the machines by himself, the money collected is significantly less than on other days.’ We thought it likely that part of the money was going into his pocket, but how could we prove it?

For the next few weeks I got up at five in the morning, went to the student laundry and emptied all coin boxes. I then punched a small indentation on every coin before placing them back in the boxes. After Howard had emptied the boxes by himself, we contrived to ask him for some small change. It was not long before he passed over coins that bore the impression of my punch.

With this, and almost twenty other items of evidence, I went to the University Staffing Officer. Howard was unable to give a satisfactory account of his actions and the University dismissed him after retrieving several thousand dollars from him. This was the most unsavoury experience of my time in Currie Hall; Howard had been my friend, and I had worked with him for almost eight years, but he had taken advantage of his position.

There was, however, a satisfactory ending to this story. Fortunately we resolved the matter so that Bruce Macintosh, who became my successor, did not have to deal with it, while John Connell became the bursar, proving himself to be an honest and competent man of great integrity, who greatly improved the financial position of the Hall.

The resident academic staff were the most valuable tool I had in strengthening the community. In this I was very fortunate, as we always had overlapping, senior and dedicated people who stayed for a few years and passed on the ethos of the Hall to younger, more short-term tutors. In 1978 I had four such senior people: Noreen Hocking²¹, Ray Couche and his wife Elizabeth, and Canadian Ed Arundell. Ed was the man who suggested that a portrait of Robin Gray should be commissioned, and thus set a precedent. He was also the person who instituted our highly successful seminar lunches and dinners. A married man with wife Elaine, he was the perennial

21

See page 419. Noreen Hocking was a resident tutor and later resident fellow from 1972 until 1978. She was invaluable. Ray Couche was a middle aged chemist who entered the Hall as a Fellow in 1975 and also stayed until the end of 1978. He came with his wife, Elizabeth, and two teen-aged children. Elizabeth was a highly qualified nurse who suffered badly from arthritis. But she looked after the students’ medical problems, gave them much sympathy and support and never complained of her own problems. Ed Arundell had come as a tutor in 1976 and stayed until the end of 1980.

468

9: COMMUNITY - THE FINAL YEARS (1977 - 1987)

student. He came from Canada to study for a Masters’ degree in Politics but so loved the student life that he never completed his research.

In 1980 I appointed Charles Johnson to the staff after my old friend Martyn Webb, the Professor of Geography, who knew British college life well, told me that Charles would make a fine “College Man”. Charles had completed his undergraduate degree in Geography and had embarked on a higher degree in town planning. Martyn’s opinion was well placed, and Charles stayed in the Hall until 1985. He married and was joined by Lorna. Together they were a wonderful role model for the students, level-headed and mature, but fired with great ideas and enthusiasm.

In 1981 Ralph Pervan, a senior lecturer in Politics, came into the Hall with his family. He was an enormously able and popular man and became Acting Principal when I took long service leave. Most unfortunately in 1984, while still living in the Hall, he attended a conference in Melbourne. When he did not arrive one morning to give a scheduled paper, it was discovered that he had died in his sleep in his hotel room. This was a great loss to us and to the community. One of my more emotional and unnerving experiences was to give the funeral oration. Not only was Ralph a popular figure in Currie Hall and within the University, but he was also a highly respected and loved member of the Yugoslav community. The chapel at the crematorium was packed, and people flowed outside. Some years later I gave another funeral oration following the death of Robin Gray, but, having done it once before, no longer found it so difficult.

In 1985, David Carter, a senior lecturer in Education, came to the Hall with his wife Sheena. They helped strengthen the early orientation of our tutors. Before the commencement of the academic year we went away as a group to a cottage at Fairbridge Farm School near Pinjarra and conducted a most successful orientation program over a long weekend.

What marked all these people was their quality as human beings. Each brought his own strengths and weaknesses, but all brought to their job a quality of humanity and openness that added to their intellectual integrity.

I spent much time in private discussion with my tutors; we also met as a group over lunch once a fortnight in a private room. This was a clearing house for problems, a venue for throwing out new ideas and a vehicle for bonding us together and learning from each other. However, occasionally it had its difficulties. Inevitably there were individual student problems: some might be performing poorly academically, others might be going off the road socially; a few might have a serious personal problem. If a tutor became aware of a potentially serious problem, he would often discuss it with me privately. I would then decide how best to deal with it. Our task was to be supportive of, and helpful to students with problems, but everyone had the right to privacy and we had to be careful before invading that privacy.

Sometimes at a staff meeting a tutor would raise his concern about a minor student problem, only to find that other tutors had further concerns about the same student. We would discuss how best to help the student, but stressed the utter confidentiality of what we discussed. Inevitably, some issues were sensitive. One year we appointed a young woman as tutor who, in the previous years, had been resident as a student. Aileen could not keep anything to herself. Tid-bits were far too exciting. As soon as a staff meeting was over she would tell all her friends: ‘Do you know what we discussed today?. . . .’Confidential matters soon spread throughout the Hall. I talked with Aileen, but to no avail. Responsible students, hearing elaborated and convoluted versions of staff meetings, complained. That year we abandoned any attempt to help students directly through our staff discussions.

469

ACADEMIC STAFF, MEETINGS, AND THE ‘COLLEGIATE’ NATURE OF THE HALL

In spite of these problems, the free and wide-spread exchange of information was important for the Hall. While the tutors had their meetings and the committee of the Residents’ Club had their’s, we

22

also had a Hall Committee . This comprised the Principal, Bursar and a few members drawn from the tutors and from the Residents’ Club. Since not all tutors or all Club Committee members were involved, this led to difficulties as it created a privileged inner circle who were “in the know.” Sometimes there was disaffection amongst those who were left out.

Robin Gray had wanted the committee small in size as this was tidier and more manageable. We had now reached a level of harmony in the Hall where it was more important to preserve that harmony and to have good communication, so I changed the structure to include all tutors and all Club committee members, and held the monthly meetings in a much less structured form.

23

We met at 5.30 pm in what had become known as the George Bartlett Room to have pre-dinner drinks and then an informal buffet together, followed by our meeting. The convivial atmosphere was conducive to good, relaxed relationships and positive outcomes. Often, during the informal pre-dinner drink period, controversial ideas could be tested, or differences of point of view resolved, or at least better understood before the commencement of the meeting proper. Although the group was large, it never became unwieldy, but required careful control to direct discussion efficiently.

In 1979 I attended the biennial conference of the National Association of Heads of Australian University Colleges and Halls of Residence, which was held in Brisbane. One major concern was securing the continuation of the Federal Government policy

24

of subsidising collegiate residences . However, the

CONDITIONS FOR

Government had a very loose definition of “collegiality”

COLLEGIALITY

and some residences provided little more than accommodation. Fearing that this might be used by the

1 The provision of academic and tutorial assistance

Government as a lever to cut the subsidy to all colleges, the

2 Programs of visiting speakers

Association drew up a detailed list of requirements for a

and discussions 3 Extensive association with

university staff

residence to be called a Collegiate residence; Eventually

the Federal Government adopted this definition.

4 The provision of study facilities 5 A concern for the academic and

personal development of residents

When, in 1983, I spoke on the University radio station

6 Encouragement of the acceptance

about the nature and philosophy of colleges²⁵, the Hall was

of responsibility

very strong in all the defined “collegiate” areas. During

7 Encouragement of members to meet across faculty, national and

the early 1980s the demand for places was almost double

socio-economic boundaries

the number available and our community was vibrant. We

8 Fostering social, cultural and

sporting activities. were strong academically, having a first-class academic support program, while our academic achievement was consistently higher than that of the University as a whole.

²² For a discussion on the formation of the Hall committee in 1967, see page 296

23

See pages 280, 287 & 293. By the time I became Principal, George had become the University Registrar. He had a long and significant association with the Hall being a member of the Council and of major committees, such as the Staff Appointments Committee. Unfortunately, not long after my appointment he developed heart trouble and had major heart surgery, which he did not survive. We commemorated his long association with the Hall by naming after him the room where we held seminar dinners, Hall Committee, Staff meetings and the like.

24

This had been introduced at the time of the Murray Report. See page 217

²⁵ See pages 304 - 315

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9: COMMUNITY - THE FINAL YEARS (1977 - 1987)

It was very gratifying to see the number of residents who, in their final year, gained either first-class or upper second-class honours. Numbers of students gained distinction passes in all their units and our residents consistently received University prizes - for example, students were awarded twelve prizes in 1980.

However, there was no stuffy academic atmosphere in the Hall. I always remember one first-year student saying to me at the end of the year, ‘You sure run a fun place here!’ Life was lived to the full, and a lively program of light-hearted events helped counter the demanding study required for academic success, while the senior students were excellent role models for the new-comers. Not that we did not have our failures. There were students who ran off the rails; there were students who failed when there was no need to fail, but they were the minority.

We had a program of visiting after-dinner speakers when Robin Gray was Master, but these events were sometimes embarrassing. If our guest spoke during the dinner, some students felt that they were a captive audience, and that the Master was forcing them to attend when they might not be interested in the topic. Some got up and ostentatiously walked out. Our catering supervisor, Alan Cornes, complained that he could not clear the tables and that kitchen staff were late finishing and became disgruntled. Furthermore, there were overtime payments to consider. Robin changed the format, announcing during the meal that our guest would speak after dinner when everyone had risen, but was often dismayed when few students remained and the guest was faced with an embarrassingly small audience.

I felt that there had to be a better solution to the problem and discussed it with my tutors. Canadian Ed Arundell made the brilliant suggestion that we abandon the after-dinner speaker for all but the very popular guest. We would then institute a series of regular “Seminar” lunches and dinners. The guest and topic would be widely advertised and the first thirty residents to sign on could attend. We provided pre-dinner drinks in the George Bartlett room during which residents could meet the guest informally. Then we had a buffet in the same room before settling down to a seminar with

26

our guest. This formula worked magnificently and was very popular . One great advantage was that we could sometimes include topics of interest to a small specialised group. Students and tutors took the responsibility of deciding the program and of inviting speakers, many of whom where prominent members of the community.

There were always a few negative aspects to our community. Not everyone was considerate of others, and noise was sometimes a difficult problem, because the Hall was both a place to study and a place in which to live. Some residents studied in their rooms rather than go to the Hall or the University library; Others wished to relax in their room. At times there were conflicts. We tackled this by calling a general meeting of all residents at which we asked them to thrash out the problem

26

For example, in 1980, topics included: Genetic engineering; Computers and the future; The work of Amnesty International; Does the work ethic need to exist?; Aspects of prison reform; Moscow Olympics and Australia; Offshore ocean racing and sailing; Western involvement in the M iddle-East; The rationale of Australian foreign exchange policy; The role of social science in our society; The environmental and economic impact of wood-chipping and the Alumina industry in W A; Sex in our society; Gathering good advice on farm management; Perth planned, or unplanned?; On Australian films; An Irish poet in Australia; On League football.

471

DINNER GUESTS, SEMINAR LUNCHES AND DINNERS NOISE AND THEFTS

and find a solution. Only a solution imposed by the residents themselves would work. So they drew up a set of rules about noise, defining times when it was acceptable, and “study and sleeping hours” when it was not. The rules were strict from Sunday night until Friday, but more relaxed on Friday night and on the weekends. Alcohol was sometimes a problem but excessive use of it invariably led to excessive noise, for which there were rules. Sometimes a noisy party was diverted to our “party” room, placed well away from the living areas. Occasionally we had solitary drinkers. They were rarely a problem to others, but were a problem to themselves. We were not always successful in attempts to counsel and help them.

Twice, during my twenty years in the Hall, we had the problem of a resident stealing money from others. The first occasion was in the 1970s, and the second in the 1980s, and it had a devastating effect on the community. Everyone suspected everyone else. The community disintegrated, as mutual trust broke down. No one knew who it was, but many people came under suspicion. Fortunately, on both occasions we found the culprit.

On the second occasion small sums of money started disappearing from student rooms until one day a very distressed resident confessed to me that someone had stolen his credit card and withdrawn $800 from his bank.

27

‘But how did he know your PIN number?’ I asked David . ‘Like a fool, I had it written in the back of my pocket diary. What am I to do? It’s the only money I’ve got, and it’s all been taken.’

One by one I interviewed each person who had suffered a loss: What were the names of their friends and all those who visited them? Who had they seen in recent weeks along their corridor? When I compared the lists, one name, Tony, stood out as being common to many of them. So he became my chief suspect, although I told no one of this.

I visited the police and they suggested that I set a trap. They dusted a number of small denomination bank notes with an invisible powder that fluoresced in ultraviolet light, which I then placed in three rooms on a Monday evening. Nothing happened during the week until at 11.00 am the following Sunday Matthew pounded on my door.

‘The money has gone from my room. It was in my top drawer when I went out last night and I forgot about it until just now. It’s gone.’ My suspect lived in the same block of sets as Matthew.

I called the police. ‘Check that your chief suspect is in the building and then call us again, and we will come right down,’ they said.

Tony was not in, but he returned for lunch and then went to his room. I rang the police and they were with me within ten minutes.

‘First take us to several residents whom you do not suspect,’ they requested. I knocked on a few doors and asked the students if they would cooperate by allowing the police to shine their ultraviolet lamp on their hands. Nothing showed up. ‘Now take us to your suspect.’

I knocked on Tony’s door. When we shone the light on his hands they fluoresced brightly, as did the whole area around his hip pocket.

27

PIN = Personal Identification Number. Names in this section have been changed from the real names.

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9: COMMUNITY - THE FINAL YEARS (1977 - 1987)

‘Give me your wallet,’ demanded the police, who then read out to me the numbers of the bank notes. They corresponded to the list I had of the notes we had planted.

Tony was charged with theft and told that, if he made restitution before appearing before the magistrate, it would go better for him. We dismissed him from the Hall and he returned to his home in an outer northern suburb of Perth.

Next morning Tony appeared at my front door and handed me an envelope containing $800, which his mother had given him. David was much relieved at the return of his money, and slowly the Hall returned to normal, and trust was again established.

Life was nothing, if not varied. It was my habit to call on new students after they had lived in the Hall for a few weeks to see if all was going well with them and whether they had any problems. One night I called on Francis, a twenty-four year-old Chinese from Hong Kong who had come to study for a Masters’ degree. When I started talking to him, he suddenly burst into uncontrollable tears.

‘I’m not a boy,’ he sobbed, ‘I’m a girl. I’ve known it all my life, but have never been able to tell anyone how I feel, especially my parents.’

Finding himself away from home he had plucked up courage and written to his parents telling them that he was a transsexual. Having posted the letter not long before I knocked on his door, he was suddenly filled with fear. ‘What have I done! I have written to my parents and told them! I can’t get the letter back. It’s gone,’ he wailed.

He told me that he had chosen the western name “Francis” because it was close to the girl’s name “Frances”. Now that he was in Australia he wanted to have a sex change. Could I help him? ‘It’s not that easy,’ I said, ‘but first we must get the facts clear, so I will find a doctor who can advise you.’

I contacted Bob Mackie, the doctor in the University Health Service. He referred me to a man in Fremantle who specialised in sexual problems. Francis asked me to accompany him during the interview. There he learnt that it would be very difficult for him to have a sex change in Australia. First he must live as a woman for two years and have hormonal treatment before a sex-change operation would even be considered. Then he would have to go to Melbourne for the operation, and that would take time. It would also take money. It seemed impossible for Francis to make the change while in Australia on a two-year visa.

When Francis received a letter from his parents, he asked me to write to them and I did so, telling them all that had happened. They were distressed and worried, and much correspondence passed between us. Because Francis was such a girlish person, his personality and his sexual leanings soon became known in the Hall. One or two male Chinese students from outside the Hall with whom he had formed a relationship came to see me. Most overseas students within the Hall shunned him and he became the butt of their jokes. This so distressed him that I sought psychological help for him. At the end of the year, the stress of Hall life became too much for him and he took a room at a private house. Eventually he returned home to Hong Kong without solving the problem of his sexual orientation.

Francis was a very soft, gentle person and I felt very sorry for him as I would for anyone in his position. Genetic and psychological makeup had made life very difficult for him, and he was very fragile emotionally. I never knew what happened to him, but I would not have been surprised had

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someone written to me and told me that he had committed suicide. He had already attempted it while in the Hall. For some people, through no fault of their own, life can be very difficult.

There was another aspect of Currie Hall that had nothing to do with the students: Ever since the formation of the Hostel, great attempts had been made to keep the fees as low as possible. Consistently, Currie Hall fees were lower than those of the other colleges. Whenever students were not in residence, we attempted to generate income by making our rooms available to conference groups. This started in the sub-standard hostel days by letting cheap rooms to country folk from the Kalgoorlie area who wanted a summer holiday by the seaside. A large departmental store, Boans, arranged the bookings.

Initially, Currie Hall and St. Catherine’s College were the only ones to engage in this income-generating practice. The other colleges deigned not to involve themselves in such lowly commercial pursuits - until they were eventually forced into it by rising costs and reducing demand for places. There was always a special relationship between our Hall and St. Catherine’s. We had sprung from the same origins and were the only two residences that were non-denominational. The others often considered that they had proprietary rights over students from denominationally related church secondary schools. The other colleges also gained some tax concessions because they were affiliated with religious bodies. They, in turn, considered that Currie Hall had a financial advantage as the University was its parent body. This was in part true, but never to the extent that they thought. Even when all colleges sought the conference dollar, it was done in a sense of cooperative rivalry.

Conferences were always a risky business. Enthusiastic conveners would book the entire Hall and we would turn away other requests, only to find that the numbers attending were far less than expected and, in some cases, conferences were abandoned. We could never base budgets on expected conference income for the next twelve months. However, they usually kept us busy over the long vacation, and occasionally gave rise to serious problems. A case in point was the Indian Ocean Arts Festival held in November and December 1984.

The festival focussed on all countries bordering the Indian Ocean and brought to Perth Africans, Indians, Sri Lankans, and artists from Thailand, Malaysia, Singapore and Indonesia. There were musicians, singers and dancers. Many artistic groups, such as the Thai classical dancers, were housed in the Hall. Western Australia contributed its own local talent, including a group of Aboriginal tribal dancers, brought from the more remote part of our North-West. We had reached the anti-discrimination days and Aboriginal issues were political issues. The Aboriginal group had rooms in the Hall not far from the Thai dancers.

Unfortunately they had never lived under western conditions. They did not like the food, and we had to dig pits in the grounds and let them cook kangaroos over a spit. Someone brought alcohol to them and they had drunken gatherings in their rooms, which they damaged, desecrated and soiled. The Thai dancers walked out and booked into an hotel, as did several other groups.

Because relationships with the Aboriginal community were very sensitive politically at the time, the Festival organisers felt that their hands were tied. Currie Hall lost almost $5,000 dollars on the conference, and found it impossible to claim compensation in spite of agreements. The festival body, as a legal entity, was bankrupt.

In spite of this bad experience, we had many successful conferences at the Hall.

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THE PROBLEMS OF A TRANSSEXUAL RESIDENT CONFERENCE DIFFICULTIES

Cooperative rivalry was perhaps the best way to describe the relationship between members of the local division of the National Heads of Colleges Association. For many years the Association nationally was very restrictive in its membership, being dominated by the older colleges such as St. George’s in Western Australia and Trinity or Queens College at Melbourne. It took a long time before Halls of Residence, which were growing in number, were admitted to the inner sanctum. However, by the 1980s, all Halls and Colleges were members.

Over the years there had been changes in Perth. Following the retirement of Josh Reynolds²⁸ at St. George’s College, Peter Simpson had become warden and, when he resigned, Ben Darbyshire was

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appointed, not long after I became Principal. Leigh Cook had retired from Kingswood College. Bill Ellis and then Colin Honey had followed him. The Rector of the Catholic St. Thomas More College changed every few years, while Rosemary Reynolds had been at St. Catherine’s for some time, and Dave Robinson was the founding Principal of St. Columba College. We met once a month to compare notes.

Initially, I found that polite rivalry was the operative description of our association. Towards the end of the year every college set its budget and fees for the following year, and each kept the value struck a deep secret until the last possible moment. Each tried to discover what fee was being set by the others, since low fees were considered an important determining factor in attracting applicants. There was periodic argument about “value for money”, the higher-fee colleges pointing out to potential students and their parents both the tangible and intangible benefits of their college.

Potential residents had a difficult task. They applied to the college they wished to attend, but then put in applications to two or more other colleges in case their desired application was rejected. Sometimes they would receive an offer from a college of their second or third choice before hearing from the one of their first choice. They were then in a quandary as to which way to move. The colleges also had difficulty: how many applications that they received were genuine? Often they would offer a place only to have it rejected when the student accepted another offer.

‘The way we do things independently without reference to each other is stupid,’ said Ben Darbyshire at a 1979 meeting, ‘we need a common application form.’

We all agreed and, over the coming months, hammered out a format acceptable to all. From 1980 onward, the form was distributed to all schools. Students then nominated the colleges in their order of preference, and submitted them to the college of their first choice. Each college then passed forms on to other colleges when they could not offer a place. During the crucial weeks we met weekly as a clearing house. As applications were passed down the line, the quality of the student academically and socially decreased, and Colin Honey complained because these students were often passed to Kingswood College. For some reason Kingswood was not favoured. St George’s always had a regular clientele from the private church-schools, while Currie Hall filled quickly and had a large demand from overseas students, although we kept their proportion at 25%.

The common application form was the beginning of increased cooperation between the colleges. It was also the beginning of an Australia-wide economic down-turn, particularly in rural areas. In 1980 there was an overall 12½% drop in demand for residence, although there was no drop in demand for university places. Those who lived in outer metropolitan suburbs started to commute rather than live on campus. Parents in rural areas sometimes found it more viable financially to purchase a unit in the city as an investment and house their sons and daughters in it during their university years.

²⁸ See pages 290, 320 ²⁹See page 304

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It was this decline in demand from male students and an unmet demand from women that caused all colleges except St. Catherine’s to become coeducational. By 1983, although Currie Hall still had a large demand for places, some of the other colleges were experiencing vacancies, especially in the latter part of the year. In that year there were overall 31 empty rooms at the beginning of the year and over 70 by the end of the year out of a total of over 1,000 rooms. Soon, the other colleges started offering places to students attending other tertiary institutions. As the economic downturn continued, the Federal Government progressively decreased the subsidy to colleges, saying that they must now stand on their own feet. Demand continued to drop and, at the end of 1984, Currie Hall had five vacancies, which rose to twenty-five at the end of 1985, while Kingswood College had many vacancies but refused to reveal just how many. At the beginning of 1986, we had been forced to follow the other colleges, twenty per cent of our places being offered to non-UWA students.

The college heads started visiting country high schools to espouse the virtues of college life, and divided the state between them. Because of my lecturing commitments in the University, I could contribute to this exercise only by visiting outlying metropolitan schools. We also had an unwritten agreement that we would not poach students from other colleges after the beginning of the year. found this embarrassing as students from Kingswood often asked for a place in the Hall during the year.

‘I am sorry,’ I would have to say, ‘but I can’t steal you from another college. If there are reasons why you find it difficult to live where you are now, you should discuss it with the head of your college. He may be able to resolve the problem or, if not, he may, at your request, ask me if I can take you. If I have a vacancy, then I will welcome you here.’

Sometimes the student would tell me that he simply did not like the atmosphere of the place, or that the head of college was unsympathetic. There were other times, particularly after the colleges had become coeducational, when there would be a break-up in a relationship, and the only way to resolve the matter was for one member to leave the college. Heads of colleges usually cooperated in making such changes. At the end of the year, all students were free to change college if they wished.

One year I received a phone call from a very aggressive father. ‘My daughter has been living at St. Catherine’s college for the past two years. Now she tells me she has applied to Currie Hall for next year. You are not to take her.’ ‘Why is that?’ I queried. ‘Because it’s immoral.’ ‘Immoral? What do you mean?’ ‘Well, you take both men and women there don’t you?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Well, it’s immoral. I know what I was like when I was eighteen, and you can’t tell me that the young men of today are any different. It’s immoral. There would never be women at St. George’s College, and that’s how it should be. You are not to take her.’

I refrained from telling him that in the days before coeducation, there were often women visiting the all-male residences, including St. George’s, and that some did not leave until the following morning, in spite of the rules about overnight visitors. However, I later interviewed the young lady in question, found her very uptight and most unlikely to benefit from the Hall, so she remained at St. Catherine’s.

In many matters the college heads were very supportive of each other, and individually discussed problems. On the day that I finally dismissed my Bursar for theft, Ben Derbyshire happened to drop in to discuss a minor matter. I found myself unburdening my woes to him, and he helped me come to terms with them.

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THE LOCAL HEADS OF COLLEGES ASSOCIATION THE EFFECTS OF ECONOMIC DOWNTURN

The National Association of Heads of Colleges held their biennial conferences partly for the purpose of supporting and educating their members. Although some heads were fixtures for many years, there was a large turn-over, especially in the newer halls of residence where joint appointments with an academic department were often held. The conference provided opportunity for the newer members to talk over matters with those who had many years of experience. This took place both through the formal program and through the opportunities for informal discussion.

At the 1983 conference, Perth was chosen as the 1985 venue. The conference was rarely held in Perth because of expense. It was cheaper to fly Perth heads to the East than to bring all the Eastern States heads to Perth. Nonetheless, the decision was made, as it was many years since Perth had been the venue. I was nominated as the conference convener and shortly afterwards also became the National Secretary of the Association.

‘We must do it in style,’ said Colin Honey at our end-of-year luncheon in Perth. ‘We must show the Eastern Staters how to run a conference.’ The Perth heads always had an annual luncheon; Colin invariably knew the best and most expensive restaurants to choose; he was also extremely knowledgeable on wines. I found this strange as he was a Methodist Minister, and the Methodist Church had always had severe strictures on the use of alcohol. ‘Let us not hold the conference dinner in one of our colleges,’ Colin continued, ‘Let us go to the Kings Park restaurant which overlooks the city and river. And invite the Governor.’

We all agreed with this, but I had difficulty in persuading the national president, who was the Master of Queens College, Melbourne. ‘Not hold the conference dinner in a college?’ he was horrified. ‘It has always been held in a college. It is part of our tradition.’ ‘But in Perth we want to break that tradition,’ I said, and finally persuaded him, after showing that it was financially feasible.

I made several flights to Melbourne as part of my work as convener or secretary, and slowly the conference program took shape. All heads, except Colin, were very supportive in arranging different segments. He was strong on telling us what we must do, but very weak on contributing in any other way. The other heads always found him a difficult man with whom to work. However, in spite of much help from others, I found myself particularly busy in making arrangements and in tying everything together, particularly as the conference was centred on Currie Hall.

In the August vacation of 1985 the delegates arrived, everything went very smoothly, and it was voted one of the most successful conferences ever held. We were happy, and breathed a sigh of relief. It had been a lot of work.

One part of the conference explored management and leadership style, and we all submitted to psychological tests. My own test suggested that I was an intuitive type with depth and concentration; I had insight and penetration, originality and the ability to grasp the complicated. was strong on organising ability with a sympathetic understanding and handling of people. Overall, one half the heads were intuitive types, the others being extroverts. Both groups differed from me in that they were strong on analysis and logic and had an impersonal critical faculty. Dr Ron Cacioppe, who conducted the survey, pointed out how we differed markedly from the general picture for Principals and their deputies in the New South Wales Education Department. They were particularly strong on thoroughness and respect for detail. Their characteristics included realism, a critical faculty and organising skill.

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V

One day in 1979 my secretary came to me. ‘There’s an Asian man at the counter,’ she said, ‘who has asked me to give you this letter. He is waiting to see you.’ That man was Du Kinh Hang. In the letter he explained that his wife, Xieu, was the sister of one of my former Vietnamese students who was now working in Sydney. They were “boat people” from Vietnam and, as refugees, had been sent to Perth, although they asked to go to Sydney. An accompanying letter from my former student in Sydney, asked if Kay and I could help them. So started a long association.

In 1977, two years after the fall of Saigon, which had been renamed “Ho Chi Minh” city in honour of the communist leader in the north, people started fleeing from South Vietnam. Many who had been military officers and officials of the former South Vietnamese Government were sent to “reeducation” camps for several years. Many people, fearing for their lives and their future, fled the country.

A newspaper report in December 1977 stated:

Something like 1,500 a month are slipping away from isolated beaches in craft completely unsuitable for the open sea. But so desperate are these “boat people” to escape that they are prepared to risk certain hardship and possible death.

They risk not only storm and shipwreck, but also pirates who board them at sea, raping and killing and stripping the survivors of all their meagre possessions. Many of them have no chance of reaching friendly land but hope that passing ships will pick them up before they sink.

This can prove embarrassing to ships’ captains unable to find a country willing to take them, and some skippers are ignoring the plight of the boat people. Many countries are, however, responding to this world problem. America, Australia, Canada, Germany, France and Britain have all accepted Vietnamese, who are proving to be admirable, hard-working citizens.

Hang had arrived in Perth with his wife, Xieu, and his three sons, Vu, Luan and Quoc, who ranged in age from ten down to five. At first they lived at the Graylands migrant camp, but later found a small house in the older part of Highgate. We visited them regularly, took them to our home and to outings. Hang had a reasonable command of spoken English, but his writing was poor. His background was that he had been the skipper of small vessels trading along the Vietnam coast. At one time he had been sent to the United States for further training. After the fall of Saigon, this background made him very suspect, and officials gave him a hard time.

Xieu spoke very little English, but the boys quickly picked it up at school. Hang and Xieu were very anxious to improve their English, so we helped them all we could by explaining the meaning of words and phrases, and by practicing pronunciation with them. I suggested that Hang write me a series of letters telling the story of his escape from Vietnam, and I would work through them, correcting the grammar and discussing his sentence structure with him.

In Vietnam, when Hang began to fear for his future, he realised that he must escape from the country, but he could not afford to do so. Corrupt officials at Vung Tau, the Saigon seaport, would

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look the other way when people boarded small boats and escaped, provided they paid $2,000 per adult and $1,000 per child. Hang did not have $7,000, but he did have another asset: he could navigate larger vessels. So a deal was done: he and his family could travel without payment of the bribe, if he was prepared to navigate a vessel that could carry 325 people.

On the night that they were to set out down the river and into the open sea, there was a raging storm. Hang said it was unsafe to leave at night. The officials said, ‘Go! Go!’ They had their money and did not care if the boast capsized and all were drowned. Eventually Hang was allowed to delay his departure until next day.

Most small vessels, piloted by inexperienced seamen, hugged the coast in the Gulf of Thailand, but that was where most pirates operated. Hang’s plan was to set out into mid-ocean and head for the east coast of Malaysia; ocean navigation was no problem for him. However, the storm persisted and the waves were so large for the small vessel that he was forced to move into the more sheltered waters of the gulf. Fortunately the seas were too high for the pirates who would not venture out, and Hang approached the Malaysian coast without trouble.

He knew that there was a Vietnamese refugee camp at Kuala Trengganu but had also heard stories that Malaysian soldiers, stationed in the area, sometimes used their rifle butts on refugees wading out of the water in an attempt to force them back to their boats. As he approached the coast, he asked several young men to swim ashore to identify the beach as a suitable location. On their return, he ushered all women and children to the bow and headed for the shore, beaching the boat at full speed so that it became lodged in the sand. Hang figured that, if the women and children disembarked first, soldiers would not use their rifle butts on them; Once they were on shore, the men could probably follow without problem. This is what they did.

Soon they were living in the refugee camp. They had no housing and lived in the open; only by doing menial work for the locals could they eventually purchase a tarpaulin sheet to protect themselves from the rain. At last, they were sent to an island off the coast that had become a refugee processing centre. There they applied to enter Australia as refugees and be sent to Sydney, as they had family there. The officials sent them to Perth, and they arrived on our doorstep.

Hang found that his seamanship credentials were not recognised in Australia, so he studied hard, and successfully sat for the local exams. Eventually he secured work on the pearling luggers in Broome, a job that gave him several months leave in Perth after each period at sea. His family stayed in Perth and Xieu, a former high-school teacher in Vietnam, encouraged the boys with their studies. During his period in Perth, Hang and his wife both trained as insurance representatives and were soon also selling insurance to the local Vietnamese community. The AMP company gave them several awards as the best representatives in the State. They moved to a substantial house in Floreat. After living in Perth for twelve years, the family moved to Sydney.

‘There is only a small Vietnamese community in Perth,’ said Hang, ‘and further prospects for selling insurance to them are limited. There is a much better opportunity in Sydney.’

At the end of 1995 Luan wrote to me telling me that he was about to graduate in Dentistry. His parents were still working for AMP and for World Books. Hang had won a prize as best “World Booker” in Australia, the award including a trip to USA with Xieu. However, the problems and the stress of past years had taken their toll on both parents. After suffering from Bell’s palsy, Hang had lost much confidence in himself, but was slowly recovering. Luan said that he and his mother went to the Buddhist temple and that this gave them strength, courage and guidance to face everyday calamities: both Vu and Quoc had had problems. ‘I remember those days when I grew up in Highgate,’ he wrote, ‘and cherish the family outings and Christmas dinners we had with you.’

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Another family had come into, and then out of our lives.

VI

Kay and I led very busy lives throughout the 1980s, quite apart from the demands of Currie Hall. We took great interest in our children as they settled into married life and raised their families. By

30

1983 we had five grandchildren , with a sixth being born in 1989. We loved having the young children around us: they brought a new dimension to our lives. Both our parents, however, found it increasingly difficult to live in their own homes and in 1984 moved into Wearne Hostel for the Aged at Cottesloe.

My mother took a particular interest in the establishment of Wearne Hostel. At one time the building had been used as an annexe by Fremantle hospital; The City of Cottesloe now proposed to raise funds to develop the site. As soon as she heard of the plans, Mother asked me to accompany her to several public meetings concerning the venture. She contributed to it financially and made herself known to the committee. The hostel had two attractions for her: it had a sea-front position, and it was not far from the site of the former “Lady Lawley Cottage by the Sea” for crippled and sick children. In her single days she had helped the nursing staff there for a fortnight; This made such an impression on her that she spoke of it all her life as though she had worked there for many months. As construction at Wearne progressed, I took my mother to inspect the plans and buildings. We picked our way through builders’ debris until she found a room with a southern aspect that looked out over the ocean. She wanted such a view from her window because it reminded her of Dad and his seafaring days. When she requested this room she was delighted to find it allotted to her.

Kay and I had debated the possibility of one of our mothers living with us but, with all the bedrooms upstairs, it was not possible. I also knew that I could never live in the same house as my mother since I found her so dominating. We spent much time visiting them in their new surroundings, brought them to our home and took them on outings. Unfortunately, Dorothy and Vi were so utterly different in character that they rarely saw eye-to-eye.

Both had failing health. My mother developed emphysema from the many years exposure to

31

passive smoking . Kay’s mother slowly lost her sight and became almost blind. This was a serious affliction, but she endured it bravely and with courage. Once in Wearne Hostel, she formed a group of friends who sat around for hours talking to each other.

It was important for Kay and me to take breaks from Currie Hall as it so easily absorbed us seven days a week, twenty-four hours a day. In 1979 we bought a caravan and in 1980 followed this with a Canadian canoe that we could load on top of the car. We soon referred to the caravan as our “escape pod”. In the first two years we went away in it twenty times - almost once a month. It was wonderful for Kay and me to leave the Hall after lunch on a Friday and drive about 100 km to

³⁰ Peter’s children were Shannon (b 26 August 1979), Michelle (b 16 March 1981), Christopher (b 28 September 1982) and, much later, Amy (b 23 December 1989). Judith’s children were Ben (b 26 November 1979) and Sasha (b 9 January 1983)

³¹ Passive smoking occurs when a person who does not smoke is exposed to the smoke of others. M y mother was exposed all her life to the smoke of Dad’s pipe: he was never without it. The induced emphysema eventually caused her death.

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a bushland caravan park. There we hid, relaxing, bush walking, paddling our canoe, and simply enjoying each other’s company until we returned to the Hall on Sunday afternoon feeling greatly refreshed.

Sometimes as we backed the caravan into its resting place beside our house, a tutor would rush out full of the news of the disasters that had occurred during our absence. Usually it was nothing of significance but it irked me that even before I stepped into my house, I was back in harness, dealing with community problems.

Music had always been my passion and I had built an extensive collection of records and cassette

32

tapes. I tinkered with the piano but had little skill . I planned to buy an organ when I retired but in 1984 said, ‘Why wait!’ Soon, a second-hand organ sat in our lounge room and I started taking weekly lessons. I greatly enjoyed this but had to give up the lessons in 1985 when the demands of planning the national conference of College Heads took all my time. When I discovered that organ playing would give me years of satisfaction, I extravagantly traded the old machine for a new and much more elaborate one. I enjoyed writing small compositions.

It was also in 1984 that I realised that I no longer had the stamina of my youth and that it would be a mistake to continue as Principal until retirement age. As Principal, I insisted on throwing myself into my work with all my enthusiasm and vigour. When the enthusiasm remained but the vigour declined, it was time to quit. I had seen Josh Reynolds³³, the warden of St. George’s College, decline in health. He hung on to his wardenship until the College declined in health with him. This was not for me. So I visited the Vice-Chancellor and told him that I wished to retire from Currie Hall at the end of 1986. I proposed that I then return to the Electrical Engineering Department with a 50% fractional appointment until I reached the age of sixty-five. I must have spoken about the Hall with much enthusiasm because when I left his office and was strolling across the lawns, he rushed after me:

‘Do you really want to retire from the Hall? Are you sure?’ he pressed, as he caught up with me. He saw that, while my words spoke of retirement, my emotions still bespoke a strong commitment. ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘I love Currie Hall, but it would be a mistake to continue. I and my wife have thought about it carefully and we know that retirement is the proper choice.’

I had long decided that one should never look back with regret at the passing of what has been. When the door on one chapter of life closed, one simply opened another door and threw oneself into whatever lay ahead. In the early 1980s we had decided to demolish our house at Como and build a set of five town houses on the large corner block. We owned two units while the developer had the others. We thought of living in one of these, or of buying a ready-built house but rejected both these plans. I thought that I might suffer ‘withdrawal symptoms’ on leaving Currie Hall, so we decided to buy a block of land in a new suburb, and then build a home for ourselves. As 1986 progressed, so our new home arose on the site, and we became so preoccupied with planning and making decisions that I suffered no withdrawal symptoms. Indeed, I fretted when there was a delay in appointing my successor and I could not vacate the position until late January 1987.

³² See page 116 ³³ See pages 290 & 320

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After twenty years of excitement and adventure I said goodbye to Currie Hall and opened a new phase in my life: A phase in which, for the first time in my life, I had freedom to discover and develop my own interests. I had five years of semi-retirement followed by full retirement. These years soon became some of my most productive.