Smoky Joe's Cafe (19 page)

‘We've been lucky so far, maybe it will hold?' Bong-face calls out and there is a murmur of agreement from all present.

Wendy hasn't finished yet. ‘Perhaps I can talk about another aspect of the Anna-mobile,' she now says, ‘there's another opportunity here to publicise the veterans' cause, to get the Agent Orange message and everything else out to the public. That is, if we go about it in the right way. The Anna-mobile is going to attract a lot of publicity once we're on the road and it's up to us to make the most of it. We'll never get a better chance to bring up the issues involved and in the process try to shame the government into some sort of action.'

‘What do you think we should do?' It's Ocker Barrett, who usually doesn't say much.

‘First thing is to make it a spectacle, a big event when we come into town.'

‘It's a pretty big rig, it ain't gunna go unnoticed when we pull into a small town,' Gazza says.

‘Exactly right!' I say. I know where Wendy's heading and I can't help myself.

‘You're right, but there's a lot more we can do.' Wendy points to Killer Kowolski and then to Animal, ‘That's where your lot come in. If the Vets from Hell, the whole mob, move into a town or suburb as an escort for the Anna-mobile it's going to create quite a sensation. Then when we've parked in the town square, the bikes disperse and the vets give out leaflets to the good citizens, explaining why we're in town and urging people to have a blood test.'

Killer Kowolski doesn't let her finish. ‘Jesus! One hundred and fifty Harleys, that would be really something.' It's not hard to see he's pretty excited at the prospect.

‘Reckon you can organise that, Killer? Animal?' Shorty now asks. If them two still have a thing about Wendy, which I don't think they do, I reckon their differences are sure enough settled at this very moment.

‘Oath,' Killer replies, ‘The boys will be in on it in a flash.'

‘Righto then, it's just a question of what town to choose for the launch, or should it be in Sydney?' Shorty asks Wendy.

‘My first thought was that Sydney would be easy for the media, the obvious place for the TV channels. But the more I thought about it, the more I think it should
be a small country town, somewhere near a bigger town, like a regional centre, so we can repeat the performance the next day and allow the media time to get there and turn the whole thing into a media event.'

Wendy must've seen by our faces that we were a bit confused. I mean, why make it hard for ourselves, when if we did it all in Sydney the media could stroll down the road so to speak and we'd make it happen big time first time up?

‘So, why not in Sydney?' Spags Belgiovani asks. It's the obvious question for all of us.

‘Well, it's up to us to decide, I suppose,' she adds quickly, ‘The media will respond either way. It's just that I thought, you know, if we left Sydney and travelled through a number of towns to our destination, it wouldn't look like a deliberate media hype, a set-up? Though, of course, we'll make sure that our progress is reported so they see it as a possible news break.' When no one speaks she adds, ‘We'll get more out of the story this way.' I can sense she's not certain she's right, that she'll back down if she's pressed and go for the city.

‘Hey, Currawong Creek! That's where it all started!' We all turn around, surprised that Animal's had an idea. ‘Well, why not?' he says again, ‘It's where
Thommo and Wendy live, best fu . . .I mean, bloody good place to start.'

I'll never be certain that Wendy hadn't got Curra-wong Creek in her plans all along, but now Animal's said it, it seems like the obvious place to start, to park the Anna-mobile slap-bang in the middle of town outside Smoky Joe's Cafe.

The town has a population of nine hundred people and I reckon just about all of them would come in for a blood test. It'll be the biggest day in Currawong Creek since the pub burned down on the night after Don Bradman and Sid Barnes each made 234 in the Test match against England in 1946. The town loves Wendy and they've almost forgiven me for my earlier behaviour, though I suspect this is mostly because of Anna's illness.

If Wendy had hoped for a media scoop, none of us were ready for what was about to happen. We leave Sydney about four in the morning for the Riverina, it's about a seven-hour drive, maybe eight or nine with stops on the way. We aim to get to Griffith about lunch time, then on to Currawong Creek.

By the time we reach Wollongong, about eighty clicks out of Sydney, a regional TV crew are already onto us.
One hundred and fifty bikies on Harley-Davidsons and the big Kenworth Anna-mobile make an awesome sight tooling along the highway at sunrise, though we're careful not to break the speed limit or give the cops any reason to stop us. Goulburn is the next big town we pass through, horns blaring,
BARP-BARP-BARP
, down the main drag and out onto the highway again. We stop for petrol and Cokes, then on to Cootamundra and just on lunch time we come into Griffith.

Griffith around these parts is the big smoke, the regional capital of the Riverina. But after Sydney it looks small, a sort of going nowhere place. Then I think to myself, if Griffith looks like two chooks scratching around the shithouse, then what about Currawong Creek? It's a drop of passing bird shit splat on the bonnet of a ute.

Still and all, Wendy and me are coming home, it's like the circle is complete and we're doing something positive about our lives, about little Anna. We may not get what we're looking for, the chance of finding a tissue match for the little bugger is still a million to one, but we're in control this time and it feels okay. Matter of fact, it feels bloody marvellous. No more government, no more handouts and being thought of as bludgers working the system. We're helping ourselves, doing it
our way and, as I said, it feels fucking wonderful. I'm driving the Kenworth on this last section, it's an old rig but a good 'un and whoever done the mechanics done a bloody good job, it's got a good donk, running smooth with plenty o' grunt.

I glance over at Wendy seated beside me, she's got her eyes closed, head resting against the window, having a bit of a kip I hope. She's lost a fair bit of weight and her jeans don't fit as snug, the crinkles ‘round her eyes have deepened and there's a bit of a line starting to pull downwards from either side of her mouth. All these months she's never complained but I know she's taken a hiding, there's been a whole heap of shit she's never spoke about to anyone, just copped it sweet and said nothing. Being the forward scout in the civilian jungle has taken its toll, that and little Anna.

We're nearly into town and suddenly I've got this heaviness pushing up into my throat, it's like my heart wants to force its way out or something and then I feel the tears running down me cheeks. Jesus, how I love this little bird! I can hardly see the road for me tears and I hit the air brakes and Wendy jerks awake. ‘What is it, Thommo?' she asks.

I want to tell her how much I love her, how much she means to me, she and the brat, how without her and the
kid my life would be a piece of shit, but I don't trust myself to say it proper. ‘Griffith' is all I manage to grunt.

She looks out the side window, ‘Oh look, there's two helicopters following us,' she shouts.

The blokes from the regional TV station caught up with us when we stopped for petrol but all we told them was that we were headed for Griffith and then Currawong Creek, just to whet their appetite like, sort of invite them to come along but staying dead casual like it don't matter to us if they don't, it's no big deal. It must have worked because now there's two media helicopters following us.

‘Channel 7 and Channel 9,' Wendy shouts. She's wound down the window and her head is sticking out, the wind sending her blonde hair streaming back, with the sun catching it and the rushing air tearing at her words. I guess the media have got the message all right, another bit of Wendy's organisational genius falls into place.

In Griffith, except for two sets of traffic lights, we don't stop. People, hearing the roar of the bikes, are running out of the shops, restaurants and pubs to see what the racket is all about and the helicopters follow us all the way to Currawong Creek, where we finally come to a halt outside Smoky Joe's Cafe.

The boys disperse on their bikes to hand out leaflets door-to-door. I don't have to tell you it works a treat, there's two national TV-station choppers landed on the showground.

The good burghers of Currawong Creek, the lame, the pissed and the sound of mind, to a man and his dog, they've all turned up and the queue stretches all the way from the exhibition shed to Willy McGregor's pub. With the thirsty citizenry and the bikies in town, Willy is doing such a roaring trade that he is reluctantly persuaded to send over a slab of beer for the workers.

Currawong Creek is finally on the map and for once it feels good to be a part of it all. People keep coming up, asking, ‘Have you closed Smoky Joe's for keeps?' They seem pleased when we say we'll be back in a while. One old chook squints up at me, ‘Can't say you've always behaved yerself, Thommo, though you're not the only one not done that in this town. But you're one of us, always have been, always will be, welcome home, son.' That was real nice.

Currawong Creek kind of sets the pattern we learn to use in other places, the Vets from Hell moving their big Harleys from door to door, passing out pamphlets, explaining the cause and inviting people to come on down and have a blood test. Of course there's the
incentive to win the money but most don't seem to care and say they'd come anyway. Country folk don't seem to have the hang-ups the city has about Vietnam.

Wendy and me and Shorty and Lawsy are on the box that night on national television. Wendy and Lawsy do most of the talking with her explaining how the Vietnam vets are sick of being pushed around and she tells about what's happening to our kids, then Anna's story and the reason for the Anna-mobile and how everyone's contributed to make it happen and to take responsibility for their own kind and stuff the effing government.

Well, the shit hits the fan big time and the story goes international and is picked up by NBC and CNN, the BBC and the French and German networks. There's the picture of little Anna in the isolation bubble with no hair from the chemo she's getting. Her story touches the hearts of people everywhere, particularly the Americans, who've got the same Vietnam guilt over the rejection of their vets as we've got.

Because Anna has no resistance to infection she has become what the hospital call 'a bubble child'. Which means she is placed in a large sealed and sterile glass enclosure where filtered air is pumped in. The hospital allow the media to photograph her and even for short
periods to talk with her. She's got her mother's brains and is pretty bright and knows what's happening and is happy enough to talk to the reporters.

There was one famous occasion when this American female reporter from ‘The Johnny Carson Show' asked her if she knew what the Anna-mobile was all about.

‘Oh yes,' she exclaimed, ‘They're looking for blood to make me better again.'

‘Do you know what type of blood?' the reporter then asks.

Anna puts her head to one side and thinks for some time. ‘Well, it has to be very red and it's a secret nobody knows ‘cept the person who's got it.'

‘And if they find this person, what then?'

Seven-year-old Anna looks at the reporter as though she must be stupid or something. ‘Well, then her and me will share the secret and the person will get a lot of money and be very happy and I'll come alive again.' And then she adds the words that ring around the world, ‘But you mustn't tell the government.'

‘Why mustn't we?' the interviewer asks.

‘'Cause they don't like to help kids whose daddy went to the Vietnam war.'

Anna must have heard Wendy and me talking at
some time to have come up with this last bit, because we'd certainly never put it to her like that.

Anyway, this, and the Anna-mobile along with the Harleys and the Vets from Hell, interviews with smalltown people standing patiently in long queues to have a blood test, all makes powerful television.

Wendy and me don't like exposing Anna to the media but the kid doesn't seem to mind and tells us she likes the television and people talking to her, though it's kept to an hour a day. I guess it must be pretty lonely living in a glass case an' all.

The hospital too is anxious to get the publicity as they are hopelessly underfunded for their leukaemia research and the State government has just cut their research budget in half. Two of their most brilliant young researchers are being forced to go to America to pursue their careers. The brain drain, so common these days, is on again and nobody in government, Federal or State, seems to care. Given the fact that little Anna's prognosis isn't real good we can't really object to the publicity opportunity they see in Anna. After all, they're doing all they can for our little daughter and the care she's getting doesn't come cheap, I guess it's a matter of you scratch my back and I'll scratch yours.

It would be nice to say we were getting somewhere
but so far we've done several thousand tests on the road without any luck. There's been nothing even remotely worth sending to Sydney for further analysis, not even a poor match to raise our hopes a little.

The American public goes apeshit about Anna and, of course, the treatment of their own vets and their children is brought up in the hullabaloo. Their veterans are not exactly backwards in coming forward and soon the whole Vietnam catastrophe is back in the news and back on the political agenda.

On the third week after the first exposure Anna receives eight thousand get-well cards from all over the world. The Minister for Health and the Prime Minister make statements, the usual bullshit, but no matter how hard they try to kill it, the story won't die. The world is looking in on Australia and not liking what they see.