Michael Kailis on Perth in the 30s and the Seafood Trade

 

I was born in Pier Street in Perth in a house.  The reason being that my parents couldn't afford to go to a hospital and my bassinette I was told was a suitcase.  The lid had been removed and a pillow had been put into this suitcase and that became my bassinette. The house has since gone which is a crying shame.  We lived in that house for about five years, as I understood but when I was about two we shifted across the road to 105 Pier Street. And we stayed there until 1940 so I was born in 1933, in January 1933 and that's another story where my brothers thought the doctor was going to come and do harm to my mother and they chased the doctor round the house with an axe. My oldest brother is six years older than I, so he was six, and that's Peter and Theo was about four.  So that was their way of protecting mum.  

 

And then we shifted across the road to a semi-detached house at 105 Pier Street which I remember very vividly. I think most immigrants in those days took great pride in their houses and my vivid recollection is of my mother, every month painting the front doorstep. It had to be painted black and any visitors came she wanted to make sure that the front doorstep was, was painted black and it was shiny. Well black was just – doorsteps were black. They weren't brown; they certainly weren't white, they were black and mum used to have a little tin, a little brush and we'd get out and just paint that step.

 

Our chores included cutting up the newspaper for the dunny and threading it through a piece of string because there were no toilet paper in those days. Another chore and I don't quite know why they did this, but when the watermelon season was on, I had an Uncle John, he would go down the fruit and vegetable markets and he would buy twenty watermelons and he would supply the whole street, all the Greek families living in that street with watermelons.  And for some reason or other we used to roll these under our beds.  Now I don't know if it was to keep them cool or what reason but we used to roll them under the bed.  It was a wonderful life because you had about seven or eight families, nine families who all emanated virtually from the same island living in I guess a hundred metre distance of each other and you'd be living in each other's house and each one would do something for the other. 

 

My father was the most honest man I've ever known. Also, you know, respect.  I mean he placed such great emphasis on respect.  And he demanded respect and he got respect.  He was a very generous, gregarious man. Generous to the point of ridiculousness.  He rose to become president of the Greek community. It was a very big honour in those days to be president of an ethnic community, bigger than what it is today, I don't want to detract from the people who are in those positions today but post-war, it was very difficult and a lot of immigrants would come in. It was nothing for us to come home and find we had no clothes left because dad had given our clothes away to immigrants.  He would give them a job. We had no need for them in the business but he would give them a job for a few weeks so they could earn some money so they could start off in life in Australia.  And he saw that as his duty as president of the Greek community.  He died in office; he was the longest serving president.  And qualities – I mean honesty was the most important thing.  He was a serious man who just said, you know, there was never any nonsense; you weren't to tell lies and you weren't to do harm to people and you had to be absolutely honest at all times in everything that you did.

 

There's a fabulous story I tell about my dad which occurred many years later. When I wanted to buy some crayfish, I was short of crayfish and I knew if stuffed my pockets with some money and went down to Fremantle, I saw a friend of mine, Tony Carrello. Tony's father, Pasquale Carrello supplied my dad with crays.  He was the carrier who carted the crays to the Fisherman's Co-op.  So he knew all of the fishermen.  And when I was short of crays I rang Tony one day and said "Tony, I need some crays."  He said "Look come down and I'll get you some." And when I got down there, there was a boat pulling in and he said "I'll try and get some from this bloke." And from memory the price was about four dollars, fifty a kilo.  Anyway this guy came in and Tony spoke to him in Italian and said to him "I've got a buyer, who wants to buy some crayfish, will you sell him some?"  He said "Yes, I want five dollars a kilo."  Tony then argued the toss with him and he said "Look, you know, the best I can get them for you for is about four eighty."  And I said "Tony it doesn't matter.  I want the crays, so I don't care.  I understand what he's doing, playing funny buggers but I need the crays."  He said "Alright."  And Tony reluctantly got them out and put them on the scale and all the time he was arguing with this bloke going crook.  Next to us with his legs dangling over the side of the jetty, was an old guy and he was listening to all of this conversation and he turned around and gave this fisherman a mouthful in Italian.  All of a sudden I got the crayfish for four dollars, fifty. I said "Tony, what's all that about?"  He says "I don't know. You'd better ask Mr Vinci."  I said "Don't tell me that's Frank Vinci."  And of course I'd known him as a young man, a young boy and I walked up – I didn't recognise him.  He had a bit of a stubby beard – and in perfect English he says "G'day young Kailis, how are you?"  I said "Mr Vinci, I didn't recognise you, I'm sorry. It's great to see you.  Thank you very much for whatever you just did."  "That's okay" he said "He shouldn't try and trick you."  I said "That's very generous of you."  He says "Oh, I could never repay your father's generosity."  I said "What are you talking about?"  He says "In 1940, '42, we couldn't sell our crayfish, we just couldn't sell them.  And the price of crayfish in Fremantle, was four pounds a bag and in Perth it was four pounds, ten shillings a bag, ‘cos you've got an extra ten shillings a bag to drive them up to Perth which was a long way in those days.  And I rang your dad one day and I never used to sell my crays to your dad, I sold them in Fremantle for four pounds knowing full well that your dad paid four pound ten.  And I asked your father to take the crayfish and dad said "Look, Frank, I can't I'm full" because there was a hell of a big season. "I'm really full, I'm chock-a-block, I've got more crays than I need."  Anyway he said I begged your dad I said "Look, George I can't, I've got to – I can't throw them away. Please would you help me out?"  So my dad says "Alright, well bring them down."  So he said "I took them down and I went into the office to get paid and I said to your dad "Look George, give me three pounds a bag."  And your father turned and said to me "Frank, I can't do any business with you. Either you take my price of four pounds; ten or you take the crays away."  I said "George, you're not listening to me, you can have them for three quid."  He said "No, you're not listening to me.  My price is four pounds ten.  That's what I pay everyone else and that's what I'm going to pay you."  Now this was Frank Vinci's way after twenty or nearly thirty years later, ten years after my dad died, this was his way of repaying.  This was the first opportunity he said, I've had and I've done nothing. All he did was give the bloke a mouthful and told him he should be ashamed of himself for robbing people.  It is a lovely story and it's a true story and there were very many others of them.

 

Michael Kailis interviewed by John Bannister, 1999

OH 199928 | City of Perth Cultural Collections