Content warning: Child grooming
Nancy Huang was a shortlisted entrant from the 2021 SBS Emerging Writers' Competition. This is an extract of her piece 'Mini Moke' from anthology (Hardie Grant).
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Aged nine, I had no words for what happened in 1971. But I knew the car was a Mini Moke. In the months after, I learnt to recognise other cars to fill the void. From their brake lights, I knew a Toyota from a Datsun. A Charger from a Commodore. My parents, bemused and proud, would show off about how ‘Australian’ I’d become.
I’d had no idea Mokes were made in Sydney in the seventies. And although they went out of production globally in 1993, they would always hold a place in my heart. A space between light and love. Between wind and pain. Between words and meaning. Clear, but never quite reachable again.
It looked like a toy, the first time I saw it bouncing along the broken asphalt of the Matraville street – houses on one side and a drive-in theatre on the other, no footpaths, trees or nature strips. The man driving waved, delivering the morning paper. It was fun watching him. He never missed, steering with his left while tossing with his right, forming paper arcs towards fenceless lawns.
One morning, the Moke slowed. I always walked on the right, still used to Taiwanese conventions. When the Moke appeared on my left, it was like it was walking with me. With no other cars passing, we talked without losing stride.
"Hi."
"Hello." My English was new and foreign.
"You walk every day, by yourself?" He was young, with an uncle’s face. He was also Chinese. But he didn’t speak Chinese.
"Yes."
He tossed a paper, not missing a beat. I kept walking, thinking, wow, how cool is it to be walking with a car.
"You go to school?"
"Yes, Soldiers Settlement Primary School." I had learnt this off by heart. Mama said, "Here, if you get lost, say your name, address and phone number, then you’ll be safe." I learnt the name of my school, just to be sure.
"Okay, bye."
"Goodbye," I said. I may have just had my first conversation in English. No one at school talked to me, they just yelled ‘ching chong’ or ‘Jap’ or ‘flat face’. Since landing at Mascot, I had had many firsts. The sudden luscious wetness of a warm indoor shower. Viewing the glittering clown face of Luna Park at night, squashed in the back seat of the family Mitsubishi Colt. The dirty prickly sand between my toes at Maroubra beach. The stench of seaweed mixed with honey as I bit into a mussel. Walking with a car added to this list.
He stayed with me a bit longer the next morning. "Hi."
"Good morning."
"What grade are you in?"
"Four."
He said a few more things I didn’t understand, so I just smiled and skipped away.
"I walk with a car, you know," I whispered to my third-sister Yin in the dark while we compared feet in bed at night. It was warm, too warm for floral silk blankets, now discarded to a corner of the bed. Car lights magnified our feet against the wall through makeshift curtains. Yin, three years older, had only a slight margin over me.
"Oh my god, how did your feet grow so quick?"
"Because I walk with cars."
"What are you talking about, Tsiao Mian?" Little Mian, because I was the youngest.
Second-sister Feng stirred.
"Tell me, who is it?" Yin said softly, tired.
"Shhhh, go to sleep you two," Feng piped up.
We all curled and rolled, and Yin fell into a gentle rhythm of sleep.
She might have asked again the next morning, but she couldn’t because the next day was Saturday. The day I dreaded.
On Saturday mornings the clatter of the kitchen started and within twenty minutes everyone would be gone, leaving me alone. Yin and Feng would kick at their blankets and haphazardly pull on their blue tunics. Yin, at twelve with tissue-padded bra, and Feng, at fourteen with a brush of lipstick, were lucky to pass for waitresses at East Lakes on Dixon St. Hong, the eldest, would already be dressed in her wrinkled white shirt and baggy black pants, the issue uniform of cleaners at the Mandarin Club. I would watch as they moved to the bathroom, the kitchen, and then out of my world for the day. Liang Ge, a lodger who rented the third room, would drive, dropping Mama first at the Haymarket fish stall, then Yin and Feng at Dixon St, and lastly Hong to the Mandarin Club. Baba would have already left for Maroubra RSL to chop potatoes and carrots for the Chinese buffet. Mama said he’s not a cook but he had to learn. From Taiwan engineer to now Sydney linesman and kitchenhand.
Author Nancy Huang Source: Supplied
On her way out, Mama said, "Be good, don’t go out." In the beginning, I cried. But Mama said softly, "Mian, you know we all work, so you have to be good. That’s your job."
Now I knew the drill. The slow, empty day ahead. Opening, closing, checking drawers and doors. Searching for lollies. Fingering Mama’s lipsticks, Baba’s ties, Liang Ge’s chess set and Hong’s love letters. Killing time. I left the best till last, breathing in the aroma of the menthol shaving cream. I spread it thinly over my face, chin, suppressing a grin, copying Baba. Moving cautiously, feeling the razor’s cold glide across my skin. I knew to be careful. I’d had accidents.
Monday morning, I counted seven houses before it appeared.
"You like walking?" he asked.
"Yes. I like." I smiled.
He tossed a paper over my head, which made me duck and giggle. I walked some more with the purring car.
Some mornings later, not really knowing how I understood or if he even asked, I got in. It made all the difference. Managing to peer just over the dashboard, I felt grown up. I had never sat in front before. Watching the gravel rushing past below and the houses blurring into a rainbow, I imagined waving to my sisters.
I imagined them waving back, envious.
"What is this car?" I asked.
"Mini Moke. Or you can just say Moke." He was pleased.
"I like Moke." I nodded.
Days passed, or weeks even, just like that. Seven, sometimes eight houses along in the mornings, I got into his car, and he drove me all the way to school. I remember little of what was said. His voice was soft and his English, perfect. Not like other Chinese men.
I didn’t mention it to Yin again.
Then one day, when school finished, my heart skipped a beat. The Moke was waiting for me at the gate. It was a hot afternoon; he waved and bowed like a chauffeur, gesturing for me to get in. Some kids looked, but I didn’t have friends to show off to. Still, I was pleased. Maybe the teasing will stop. Maybe he will bash them up.
"Are you hot?"
"Yes, I am hot."
"Would you like an ice-cream?"
"No, thank you." I tried to be polite.
"Are you sure?"
"What ice-cream?"
"Let’s go and find out." Instead of veering right for home, he turned left and said, "Don’t worry, it’s not far."
A few turns later, we stopped and got out, as if we had practised.
When I went to the milk bar with my sisters, we had five cents for lollies, but never enough for ice cream. Now, standing at the fridge, I was overwhelmed.
"Choose one," he said.
"Mmmmm …" I couldn’t decide. So many colours, shapes and sizes.
"I like this," he said.
"I have this," I said, pointing to the same.
"It’s a chocolate Paddle Pop."
I’ll never forget that first frozen mouthful.
Somewhere, deep, I knew I had crossed a line. Except, I couldn’t quite decide if the line was good or bad. This was Australia, where things were different. Our family was different. The air, the space, with wide-open fields. Big, spread out, and deserted. In Taiwan, people were everywhere. I was never alone. Here, I was often alone. I had a key; I did homework then finished chores until everyone came home. If I was a little late, no one noticed. In my mind, the Moke was an adventure. I imagined everyone else having adventures when they were away. The minutes and hours didn’t seem so long anymore.
This is an extract from Between Two Worlds - an anthology of the 2021 SBS Emerging Writers' Competition. Source: Hardie Grant
In the following weeks, I hardly ever walked home. Some days, he bought hot chips and we ate in a park or fed seagulls on some beach. Other days, we bought Paddle Pops and finished them in the Moke. My English improved. He knew all my sisters’ names. His was Ben. Sometimes he wore a cap, other times his hair just swirled in the wind. When he smiled, his teeth sparkled. He never dropped me at home. It was always seven or eight houses away.
Some days, he didn’t come. I never asked, just happy when he reappeared. I would say, "Today is a good day, mate." It was my way of a joke. He always laughed, and said, "Yes, g’day, mate."
And then the days got shorter, and colder. Some days it would rain, and I’d wear a raincoat, even in the car. On the last day I ever saw Ben, it was cold but not raining. I remember a hot bundle of chips on my lap with the waft of vinegar tickling my nose. Then he had an idea.
"Have you ever tasted hot chocolate?" he asked.
"What is hot chocolate?" I was intrigued.
"Chocolate, made hot to drink."
I was confused.
"Let’s have some."
We drove a bit further than usual and arrived at a shop that I hadn’t seen before. It had mirrors and soft padded seats and music playing. A lady looked at us and took us to a table. Ben ordered hot chocolates, and I sat, like a princess, about to be crowned. I was so pleased with myself. Wait until I tell Yin.
The hot chocolate was so soft, the foamy sweetness exploding in my mouth. Like a warm blanket on the inside. I wanted to gulp and hold on to it all at the same time. If nothing else happened from that moment, I would remember hot chocolates as a comfort.
But something did happen.
Two large, tall men in blue approached; I saw them out of the corner of my eye. A lot of people gathered suddenly. It was like Taiwan, a crowd, but without Chinese faces. Then many things happened all at once. I can never exactly recall in which order, but I will never forget Ben’s look as they walked him away. He may have tried to grab me, or was it the police? A man may have tried to grab him as he started to bolt, or was it me trying to run? I may have cried, or may have heard his cries.
For weeks, months afterwards, I remember a lot of sighing, whispering and tears. My sisters looked at me with renewed gentleness. I didn’t get the spanking I expected. I almost wished for it, if only to mark a loss I couldn’t name. They took me everywhere with them. They let me off from dishes and laundry chores for a while. They kept asking, in slightly different ways, questions I hated: ‘Is there anything you want to tell us? Did he touch you? Where did he take you? Did you meet anyone else?’ I tried to block them out.
What happened to Ben? I’ve never asked. There was no one to ask.
One night, I overheard Mama say, "It’s all my fault." I still walked to school, but I never saw a Moke on the way again.
Much later, walking to school each day with my daughter, I realised I had dodged a bullet. I still cannot bring myself to imagine the face of Ben – if that was his name. I can only recall the Moke and, in the quiet of my mind, the joy of bopping along to school without a care in the world.
This is an extract from Between Two Worlds (Hardie Grant)
The 2022 SBS Emerging Writers' Competition is open for entries on August 16. Write on the theme of 'Emergence' for your chance to be awarded the $5000 first place prize, $3000 second place prize or one of two runners-up prizes of $1000. The top entries will also be published in an anthology by Hardie Grant. Go to to register and find out more.
