Julian Corkle is a Filthy Liar

by D. J. Connell

  ‘I wouldn’t want anyone to pinch it. Far too valuable.’ I spoke through a locked jaw.

  When I got home from school, my mother was shoving bread and mixed herbs into the rear end of a defrosted chicken.

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘What about hello?’

  ‘Hello, darling Mummy, where is it, please?’

  Mum pointed to a package on the table.

  My heart was thudding as I ripped it open. Inside was a cardboard box with a clear plastic cover. It was a doll and, according to the box, he was called Billy the Back-up Singer. I removed the cover and touched the miniature golden microphone wired to his hand. Billy was wearing a white shirt and black vinyl trousers. I would wait until I was alone before checking inside the vinyl.

  ‘He’s perfect, Mum.’

  I put my arms around her waist and held her tight. She bent down to receive a kiss but I licked her cheek instead. I liked licking my mother. She tasted both chemical and floral.

  ‘Ugh, Julian. That’s disgusting.’

  Mum giggled and wiped her face with the back of a crumby hand. She leaned against the sink and watched me remove Billy from his box. I put the doll up to my nose and breathed in the new plastic smell of his copper-brown synthetic hair. It was cut in a David Cassidy, just long enough to style with tiny doll curlers. Billy came with a change of clothes: a tiny pair of beach shorts and sunglasses. This was an odd outfit for a singer but I didn’t care. I’d make him something new to wear, a snazzy Liberace number for the spotlight. In my hands, Billy wouldn’t stay a back-up singer for long.

  ‘You know what to do, Julian.’ Mum laughed and ruffled my hair. ‘Go hide him in your wardrobe before your father gets home.’

  4

  ‘Julian, have you seen the Companion?’ My mother was making her way down the hall toward me. She sounded irritated.

  I was lying on my bed in my underpants and singlet reading a feature on Christiaan Barnard, the doctor who’d transplanted a heart into a grocer’s chest in 1967. The magazine had a photo of Louis Washkansky before he received the donor heart. He was smiling with a tube up his nose.

  I knew the word ‘donor’ meant dead person and was fascinated. The heart would’ve been cold, like one of the defrosted chickens my mother stuffed on birthdays. I put my hand over my heart to make sure it was still beating. There was nothing happening. Panic knocked at the back of my throat as I moved my hand to the left side of my chest. My mother snatched the magazine from my hands and left the room.

  Mum and I both enjoyed the Australian Ladies’ Companion. It didn’t have the glamour of Celebrity Glitter but it did keep us plugged into the Australian entertainment scene and even featured Tasmanian celebrities. Dick Dingle occasionally made it into the Companion for his work as patron of the state’s Little Aussie Rising Star awards. Mum told me to keep my eye on Dick Dingle. He was an impresario for talented young Tasmanians like me. The Little Aussie Rising Star was a stepping stone to the Golden Microphone which was an even bigger stepping stone to national television stardom.

  Christiaan Barnard was a star even though poor old Washkansky had almost immediately died. The failed heart transplant intrigued me. I closed my eyes and tried to picture what was going on inside my skin. We were currently studying the human body at school. Brother Duffy had started at the top with the brain and was working his way down toward the interesting area. We’d got to the kidneys, which I knew were attached to the important bits. Duffy had more or less admitted this when he said the kidneys were responsible for producing urine. I understood what that meant and was looking forward to the next lesson.

  I already knew how babies were born thanks to Ralph Waters. He’d led us into the Ladies’ toilet behind the Whipper Snapper fish-and-chip shop and pointed into the bowl where something brown and enormous was bobbing about in the water. It was three times the size of anything I’d ever produced.

  ‘The lady who dropped this A-bomb has had a baby.’ Ralph had raised one eyebrow and spoken with authority. ‘See the size of her floater. She’s stretched to buggery from giving birth.’

  I hadn’t considered how babies got out from inside their mothers. If they used the same exit as number twos, they had to come out filthy. That meant I’d come out filthy. I asked Ralph the obvious question.

  ‘Don’t babies smell when they come out?’

  ‘Nah, they’re inside a kind of bag.’

  ‘Doesn’t it hurt the baby then?’ I knew nothing about the dimensions of ladies’ bum holes. Female bum anatomy had absolutely no appeal to me. This was not information I needed to share with the likes of Ralph Waters.

  ‘If it’s a lady’s first baby, the baby’s head gets squashed to the size of a lemon.’ Ralph cast an eye over our heads.

  ‘And if it’s the third baby?’

  ‘Normal shape and size.’ I let out a lungful of air. Ralph had two older siblings like me.

  My brother was fixing a puncture on his bicycle when I got home. I stood for a moment examining him from behind. His head was definitely pointier than Carmel’s. He was trying to put the tyre back on his wheel by wedging two of my mother’s dinner spoons under the rim. A spoon fell out and clattered on to the concrete of the driveway. John cursed. As he turned to retrieve it, he noticed me. His mouth pulled downward in a sneer. John only had to look at me to get upset. There was something about the way I was put together that disgusted him. I suspected it was the same thing Ralph Waters felt about Gary Jings.

  ‘What are you looking at, poof?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Piss off then. Go and try on some of Mum’s pantyhose or something.’

  There was no use explaining John’s condition. It would just alarm him. I went inside to examine my mother’s bottom.

  The heart transplant article haunted me. I thought about it constantly. My version of the operation went something like this: I’ve had a major heart attack on Hollywood Boulevard. Christiaan Barnard is busy so they call in a trainee called Herb to do the job. Herb disconnects my heart before a donor can be found. He keeps the blood pumping through my body with a machine powered by a lawnmower engine, but time is running out. Still no donor can be found. Herb substitutes my heart with a defrosted chicken. The chicken refuses to pump. I regain consciousness with a Tender Choice broiler in my chest, still wet and cold from the defrosting process. Herb attaches electrodes to the chicken and turns on the juice. It jumps but flops back lifeless next to my lungs.

  Dad regularly drank with a man called Herb. It was common knowledge that Herb didn’t wear socks. He simply blackened his ankles with shoe polish. This habit had been discovered when Herb crossed his legs and swiped the beige trousers of one of his neighbours. The owner of the trouser leg had then traced the origins of the black smudge back to Herb’s ankle. No one said anything about this habit, at least not to Herb’s face. They just gave him plenty of legroom in the public bar.

  It was Herb’s socks that gave me the idea for the fishnets. I tried to tell my father this but he didn’t want to listen. He was too busy shouting at my mother about her brother Norman. I had performed the Olivia Newton-John show to cheer Mum up. Dad wasn’t even supposed to come home. It was race night at the pub. I was singing along to ‘I Honestly Love You’ into the handle of a hairbrush when he burst into the lounge and found me dressed in one of my mother’s frocks. It was when he noticed my legs that he started shouting. They were criss-crossed with ballpoint pen in the fashion of fishnet stockings.

  I felt my heart again. It was still ticking, ticking like a time bomb. I could feel tiny ripples of pain each time a tick happened. I went to consult the house physician.

  ‘Mum, I think I’m going to have a heart attack.’

  ‘Really, Julian.’ Mum was peeling potatoes over the sink and didn’t turn round.

  ‘It’s got a funny tick. I think I’d better not do any phys. ed. tomorrow. Can you write a note?’

  ‘Physical Education is probably the best thing for a dicky heart.
’

  ‘My situation is very delicate.’ My situation was that I hated sports.

  ‘All the more reason to build up your stamina.’

  ‘Ralph Waters says he’s going to smash my teeth in if I set foot on the rugby field. That sort of thing could ruin a stage and screen career. I’ll need a good set of teeth if I’m going to be a star.’ Ralph had done no such thing. He’d kept a respectful distance since the Stromboli incident but Mum didn’t need to know this.

  ‘Go find a pen and paper.’

  5

  My family generally didn’t do holidays. We didn’t own a caravan or tent and Dad didn’t want to rent a beach house. That would’ve been throwing good money away. My father liked to point out that there were plenty of decent beaches around Ulverston. He called our stretch of coastline the Tasmanian Riviera. If Ulverston’s sand was good enough for him when he was a kid, it was good enough for us. We could like it or lump it. Dad’s idea of summer fun was to get us throwing a cricket ball to each other while he drank beer and shouted from the back step. This was fine for Carmel and John who had an obscene attachment to balls but it was hell for me. Cricket balls made me carsick.

  Summer holidays were difficult because they meant Dad was home during the day and this meant pressure to go outside and play. I was getting depressed about the post-Christmas period when he suddenly announced we were going to stay in a real holiday house on the east coast. Trevor Bland’s brother had a cabin and said we could use it for two weeks. We only had to pay for electricity. Mum was thrilled and began baking immediately. Even Dad got into the spirit of things. I overheard him telling Mum we should start getting used to candlelight.

  The beach settlement had five cabins and a small shop that sold frozen and tinned food. Fresh milk and bread arrived every other day. Our cabin was a two-room wooden shack under gum trees. My parents put up camp stretchers in the main room and we took the bunks in the other room.

  The beach was miles from the nearest town and didn’t have a sewage system. Our cabin had a septic tank for the kitchen waste and the run-off from the outside shower. The toilet wasn’t connected to the tank. It was a hole in the ground over which sat a small corrugated iron shed that could be moved when things reached maximum capacity. Inside was a makeshift bench seat with a hole to put your bum through. The stink of the shed would’ve been unbearable if the hole hadn’t provided such an interesting view of what was going on in the family.

  Dad had recently stopped trying to make Carmel play with dolls and started encouraging her interest in cricket. The sports desk at The Bugle was seeing more articles on women’s cricket. Dad still relegated these to an obscure corner of the sports pages but he’d realised that it was now almost respectable for a woman to play the game. He’d bought Carmel a bat and a new set of wickets for Christmas. John and Carmel pulled this equipment out of the Holden Kingswood not long after we arrived and headed down to the beach. While they were off making fools of themselves, I made friends with the kids from the next cabin, Donna and Dean Speck.

  I’d noticed their Holden Statesman as we arrived and wondered whether they might be my kind of people. The car was brand new and fitted with snazzy hubcaps. The Speck kids exhibited the same kind of style as their car. They wore new beach outfits and spoke with a posh Hobart accent. Dean did all the talking. He was a strange boy, loud and aggressive, but I decided to overlook these faults when he said his father worked on radio. Mr Speck had been reporting on the sheep trials in Ulverston that morning. Any fool knew that radio was television without pictures. Mr Speck was more or less a star, just the sort of contact I’d need in the future. The Specks were building a hut out of tea-tree sticks when I leaned over the wire fence. I loved building forts and asked if I could help. Dean shook his head in a final sort of way and suggested a more interesting game called Disease. I was flattered.

  ‘You’ll love it. It’s really exciting.’ Dean said this with confidence as he picked up the long, wooden pole his mother used to prop up her washing line.

  I followed him to the back of their cabin and watched as he poked it into the hole of their toilet.

  ‘Now run for your life or you’ll catch the disease!’ Dean had a violent smile on his face when he spun around, waving the damp end of the pole in the air.

  Donna must’ve played the game before. She immediately disappeared inside the Speck cabin and slammed the door. I turned and ran as Dean charged at me, holding the pole in front of him like a jousting lance. I didn’t want anything to do with a game called Disease and headed straight for our cabin and the safety of my mother. As I rounded the corner of the fence, I slipped on the sandy soil and fell hard on my chest. I was face down struggling for breath when I felt the wet end of the pole poked under my chin. Dean was laughing.

  ‘Now you’ve got the disease. Ha, ha.’

  I decided to avoid the Speck kids after that. There had to be a cleaner way to get on television. I washed my neck with the hose and went off to see how Carmel’s bowling arm was developing. It was the same arm she used for punching.

  Mum had been talking to other mothers and discovered that the beach was located close to a scenic national park with a waterfall. One morning Dad told us the family was going to see some real Tassie bush. By the way he spoke, I knew it was the last thing he wanted to do. Neither was he happy about having an extra passenger in the car. John had invited his new best friend to come along. Dean Speck and John had a lot in common. They loved throwing balls and both got sadistic pleasure out of calling me names. Their name of preference was ‘poof’. I didn’t like them making a Gary Jings of me and made a point of keeping my distance. This was difficult in the back seat of a Holden Kingswood but at least I had Carmel as a buffer. I also had Mum in the front seat if push came to shove.

  It was already hot when we arrived at the nature reserve. Dad parked under a tree and walked off to urinate behind some man ferns. It was a three-kilometre hike to the waterfall. I decided to retain all fluids until we reached our goal. Brother Duffy had described what dehydration did to the Australian soldiers in North Africa. I didn’t want old sneakers for kidneys.

  I kept a wary eye on the boys as they prepared for the hike. John obviously looked up to Dean. He let him carry the cricket bat while he lugged the wickets. They ran on ahead with Carmel while I kept pace with Mum, Dad and the plastic picnic bin, silently agreeing with Dad as he griped about every step. It was the most physical activity I’d ever seen him do. My father was a sports maniac but only when other people played the game. I felt my heart at regular intervals to make sure it was still ticking.

  At the base of the falls, we laid out the picnic on a wooden table and then ate while brushing flies off our egg sandwiches. When Carmel pulled out a cricket ball after lunch, I decided to do some exploring. I didn’t want to be roped into a ball game with a thug like Dean.

  The track to the top of the falls was well marked and Mum said I was allowed to venture off on my own. I followed it for ten minutes until I reached the large pool above the waterfall. The picnic table was somewhere beneath the treetops below. The thrill of absolute power guided my hands to my fly. I was the source of the Ganges, the spring of Lourdes, the piddling bronze boy of Belgium. I urinated into the river with pride and calculated how long it would take to flow past my parents. I imagined my father scooping a plastic picnic cup into the stream and taking a drink.

  As I descended, I could hear a strange noise filtering through the bush. It sounded like the high-pitched wail of an injured animal. I imagined a wombat being torn apart by a Tasmanian devil and hurried down the track to the picnic area.

  My mother was standing next to the picnic table hunched over Dean. She was pressing a damp cloth to his forehead with a worried look. Dean’s face was red and wet with tears. He was crying openly like a girl. Dad was packing up the picnic bin with his lips in a hard line. John was looking at his friend in an embarrassed, disappointed way. Only Carmel was smiling. Her eyes were on Dean but her hands wer
e busy with the cricket ball. She was tossing it expertly from one hand to the other.

  I was the first to be diagnosed with hepatitis A. Carmel followed within a week and a few days later Dad came down with the disease. We were told not to leave our house in Ulverston for four weeks. Dad wasn’t allowed to go to work or the pub and was forbidden to drink alcohol. He spent his days feeling sorry for himself in front of the television, swiping flies with the Punter’s Gazette. The disease wasn’t pleasant but it did have one very shiny silver lining. We were forbidden to engage in any physical activity. Television was out with Dad hogging the set so Carmel and I took up board games and poker. These we pretended to play while kicking each other under the table.

  Mum and John miraculously didn’t get the disease. They were told to be very careful and to wash their hands with special soap after handling us. John held his nose and flattened himself against the wall whenever he met me in the hall. He even got a room on his own after Carmel and I were shunted in together. This was a temporary arrangement but a vast improvement on life with John. Carmel punched hard but at least she made me laugh. She also had imagination. Her eyes lit up when I suggested forming a singing duo.

  ‘You’d make an excellent back-up singer.’ Carmel had a keen eye for natural talent. ‘We could be the next Carpenters. We just need the charm of Val Doonican with the staying power of Andy Williams.’

  I felt a glow of pride in the defrosted-chicken department of my chest. Carmel knew what she was talking about. She’d seen me perform often enough. Mum and I had been working on my voice since I was old enough to say Dick Dingle. I performed for my mother whenever she got something mysterious called her period. These unhappy periods occurred quite regularly and entailed tears and hot-water bottles. My job was to sing into the handle of a hairbrush and dance until she smiled and remembered where the family block of Shelby’s fruit and nut was hidden.