Julian Corkle is a Filthy Liar

by D. J. Connell

  It was difficult enough to walk with my injuries let alone with a bent trombone and bike whose front wheel didn’t turn. I had to carry the trombone under my one good elbow and drag the bike behind me.

  The band stopped midway through its third practice number when I opened the door of the hall. Neville Turtle pulled his cornet away from his mouth and pointed in my direction. Mr Turtle turned and took two squeaky steps toward me.

  ‘Mr Turtle, I’ve had an accident.’ My swollen lip muffled the words.

  ‘The trombone…It’s…’ Mr Turtle’s voice was shaky.

  ‘Buggered!’ The comment came from somewhere in the band.

  ‘It was an accident, honest.’ I was fighting back tears.

  ‘Julian, I’m very disa…’ Mr Turtle couldn’t finish his sentence.

  ‘Pissed off.’

  The voice belonged to Ralph Waters. He had not been a member of the band for very long and been put in charge of the triangle and xylophone. Ralph wasn’t band material but the Christian Brothers thought music therapy might do him some good. Mr Turtle had tried his best but when that failed, he removed all but five bars from the xylophone. Ralph’s job was to hit the remaining bars on time and ding the triangle every now and then. He smirked at me and made a cutting motion across his neck with a finger.

  I had blood streaming down both legs and elbows dripping red on the parquet. I ran my tongue over my huge, swollen bottom lip. Some dry blades of grass fell from the side of my face. Mr Turtle squeaked the remaining steps over to me and took the trombone from my one good hand, cradling it like a baby. ‘I’m afraid your musical career is finished, young man. I’m very, very disappointed.’

  A tear escaped. I loved the band, with its shiny brass horns and pretty wooden string instruments. I thought of Tania from Geelong and turned away to hide my tears. She’d won the Golden Microphone award for her trombone medley of Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass tunes.

  Mum was going to be disappointed. So was Jimmy.

  12

  The club was falling apart and I’d lost the trombone but at least I still had Jimmy Budge. Jimmy and I liked the same TV programmes and read the same magazines. We shared the same taste in music, fashion and celebrities. What I liked, Jimmy liked. Our latest obsession was Maria Callas, who was basically Elizabeth Taylor with the voice of an angel. She was not only beautiful and talented but she was also tragic and formerly plump. Her heart-breaking affair with Aristotle Onassis fascinated me. So did her wealth and glamour. It was Maria Callas who inspired me to get to work on my vocal cords. Jimmy said the Songbird of the South would be good to go in six months. I just needed to master the warble.

  It was Sunday night and I was in the kitchen warbling to my mother while she fried sausages when Dad came in and announced we were moving. He’d landed the sports editor’s job at the Hobart Star. Trevor Bland had recently transferred to the paper and put a word in.

  ‘It’ll do the family the world of good.’ Dad had the confident grin of at least four Tickworth lagers.

  ‘But Carmel and Julian will have to change schools.’ Mum turned the hotplate off and placed a hand on my forearm. ‘All their friends are here.’

  ‘Hobart’s the state capital. They’ll make new friends.’ Dad didn’t care that he made no sense. ‘It’s a step up the ladder. I’ll be making more money.’

  ‘I don’t know, Jim. It’s all so sudden.’

  ‘Too late now. The deal’s done.’ He gave Mum a hard look. It was like an accusation. ‘I thought you’d be pleased. We’ll be closer to John.’

  John was already living in Hobart where he was a first-year student at Wattle University. He had a room in the university dormitories.

  ‘But you’ve got two other children.’

  ‘You don’t think I’ve thought of that?’ Dad smiled triumphantly. ‘Hobart’s got a brilliant women’s cricket team.’

  That was it. The family was moving. We had two weeks to say our goodbyes and prepare for a new life on the other side of the island. Dad put our house on the market and went on ahead to start the job and find us somewhere new to live.

  Everything I knew about Hobart had come from school lessons and TV. It had Tasmania’s state government and Mount Wellington. It also had a floral clock and a harbour big enough for a luxury liner and fleet of fishing trawlers. The Abracadabra television studio was based in Hobart along with at least five radio stations. It was home to the state’s politicians and celebrities. Dick Dingle lived in a big fancy mansion in Battery Point.

  I couldn’t imagine leaving Ulverston, or, more to the point, I couldn’t imagine life without Jimmy Budge. My mind had flashed to him when Dad made his announcement. I would’ve immediately dashed over to the Budge house but Jimmy wasn’t there. His father had taken him to Devonport for the sheep trials. The next time I’d see him would be Tuesday morning for the paper round.

  Monday was almost unbearable. I trudged around the grounds at St Kevin’s on my own feeling numb. The school didn’t have the smart brick buildings of Pendergast or the swimming pool of a state school but I knew every student and teacher by name. I was passing the old half-buried white tyres when Ralph Waters called out, ‘Hey, Four-Eyes!’ It was a friendly enough greeting and I smiled. I’d started school with Ralph and watched him grow from delinquent into full-fledged thug. Ralph had never thumped me despite his flair for violence. Our early discussion about the Stromboli mound had established a code of honour between us. I watched him rap his knuckles on the back of Thomas Owen’s head and realised I’d miss him. I’d miss Thomas, too. He’d joined the band and taken up the trombone after I’d been given my marching orders. The repaired instrument bore two small dents on the metal arm but Thomas didn’t seem to mind.

  By Tuesday morning, I was a bag of nerves. I looked over at Jimmy rolling papers and felt the weight of something hard and heavy in my chest.

  ‘Jimmy, we’re going to Hobart.’ I kept my face down and shoved rolled papers into my saddlebag.

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Jimmy kept rolling.

  ‘I mean we’re leaving Ulverston.’ I looked at him.

  ‘For good, like?’ Jimmy stopped rolling. He looked at me, sitting very still.

  I felt a trickle of sweat under one of my armpits. It was hot in the office. My jaw stiffened and my mouth flooded with saliva. I felt like being sick. ‘Dad’s got a new job.’

  ‘In Hobart?’

  ‘He says Hobart’s good for his career, and what’s good for his career is good for the family. It’s a career move. He’ll make more money.’

  ‘What about your mum? She’s got a good job at Tassie Textiles.’

  ‘She says Dad’s having a mid-life crisis, and what’s a crisis for him is a crisis for the family.’

  ‘But your father could find another job in Ulverston. There’s always the Wool Board. Dad says they get paid a whack at the Wool Board. It’s criminal how much they make off the sheep’s back.’

  ‘Dad’s already gone to Hobart to sort out a new house.’

  ‘When are you leaving?’

  ‘In thirteen days.’ My voice was a whisper. ‘You going to the club after school?’

  Jimmy looked down at the papers. He took a long time to answer. ‘Nah, can’t today. I’m helping Dad with the pigeons.’

  I realised then that he was very upset. Jimmy never said no.

  Something rearranged itself inside my chest. It felt like a heavy stone tied to a piece of string. It swung painfully against my ribs.

  13

  Hobart

  I knew we were in trouble at Waratah High School as soon as Dad drove off in his old dinged-up Chrysler Valiant. At least he hadn’t tooted the horn. The kack-coloured car was a source of shame for Carmel and me. We’d named it Rusty after one of Dad’s big kack-coloured sisters and tried to avoid all contact with the car. My father had bought it second-hand before leaving Ulverston and was proud of its horsepower. He said there was nothing wrong with a Valiant; we should be so lucky. When he was a
kid, he’d walked everywhere in bare feet. On our last day at St Kevin’s, he’d stopped at the main entrance and given the horn a couple of toots to make sure all the kids were looking. My father could be difficult sometimes.

  As we crossed the courtyard to report to the main office, Carmel and I became aware that we were the only ones wearing school uniforms. Waratah High was a state school. It had a swimming pool but no uniform.

  ‘Hey, it’s the Girl Guides!’ A big blond boy was standing in a shaded corner of the courtyard between two girls. ‘Rub a couple of sticks together. Earn yourselves some badges. Ha, ha.’

  Carmel stopped walking and held out her arm to prevent me from going further.

  ‘We’ve got plenty of badges already. IQ tests.’ She gave him her squinty-eyed cricket bowler’s stare. ‘But that sort of thing’s probably over your head.’

  The boy jerked his head and snorted.

  ‘You deserve a badge for that pig snort.’ Carmel sniggered.

  ‘Lesbian!’ The boy’s voice was high and angry. One of the girls had laughed at Carmel’s comment.

  ‘I’d rather be a lez than a porker.’

  I was stunned by my sister’s recklessness. Girls weren’t supposed to admit to the possibility of lesbianism. It was like admitting you had a black-and-white TV. Her response left the boy with nothing to say.

  Waratah High was a rough inner suburban school populated by tough boys who did wheel stands on bicycles and girls who wore short skirts and fiercely plucked their eyebrows. The most dangerous of these inhabitants hung out under the gum trees at the edge of the cricket pitch.

  The first week of school was dreadful, especially lunchtimes when my lack of friends was most obvious. I used the hour to observe the other students, trying to understand their hierarchy and social rules. I was also looking for the familiar but found no one like Jimmy or me. There was no colour or panache at Waratah. The boys were all dressed alike. Despite the free clothing code, nearly everyone wore Levi jeans and T-shirts. As soon as the lunch bell went, they scattered to take their places on the school grounds. The athletic kids charged off to the sports field while the Thomas Owen types drifted to the benches near the office. A handful of Gary Jings unfortunates sat on the fringe of this group or went to the library to read books. The sight of these loners made me carsick.

  By the end of the week, I’d moved up benches from under the office window to one near the playing fields. From here I watched the group at the edge of the cricket pitch.

  I’d just eaten a Vegemite and lettuce sandwich and had closed my eyes to deal with its digestion. I hated Vegemite and lettuce but Mum had made my lunch and this was her idea of something healthy. I’d felt so depressed on the bench that I’d eaten it along with the apple she’d supplied.

  ‘Poof!’

  My eyes flicked open. Two thugs were standing in front of the bench. I was suddenly very aware of my magenta shirt and lime-green corduroys. At least I wasn’t wearing Nana Mouskouris any more. Mum had agreed to new John Lennon frames before leaving Ulverston.

  ‘We want a word with you.’

  ‘I didn’t do anything.’ The voice of the boy beside me was high and fearful. His eyes darted wildly from the boys to the office and then to me. He’d never make the office and I was clearly no Carmel Corkle.

  ‘What are you looking at, Pink Boy?’ The taller of the thugs, a boy with sandy hair and spotty cheeks, had swung his attention to me.

  ‘Nothing.’ Blood pumped inside my ears. I looked down at the sandwich wrapper and prayed they’d leave me alone.

  I stayed frozen to the bench as they grabbed the boy. There was a scuffle and his T-shirt ripped. I heard him protest then a slap. The boy cried out but I kept my eyes on the wrapper. When I finally looked up, he was being frog-marched across the cricket pitch. He glanced back at me and flashed a desperate look before they disappeared behind the gum trees.

  For the next two days, the scene played over and over in my head. I’d never felt so frightened or alone in my life. I spent the weekend in my bedroom on the safety of my bed. The boy’s parting look haunted me. The fear and shame it provoked in me overrode the loss I felt for Jimmy and Ulverston. It was as if a heavy woollen blanket had been thrown over me. The weight made it hard to breathe or move. The blanket reduced everything to the grey of an overcast day.

  On Sunday evening, after The Dick Dingle Hour, Mum cornered me. ‘What’s up, honey? Missing Jimmy Budge?’

  ‘No.’ I couldn’t tell her about the boy. I was too ashamed. I’d watched him walk to his doom without lifting a finger.

  ‘Change is difficult. Just give it time.’

  I was holding back tears and didn’t say anything.

  ‘You need some new friends. Just make a little effort. Take a few risks. You’ve got to show them how special you are.’ She reached out and ruffled my hair. ‘Twinkle, twinkle.’

  On Monday morning I dressed in a pair of Levi jeans and one of John’s old Rolling Stones T-shirts. Mum’s pep talk about risks had prompted me to make a decision. I couldn’t risk staying on the benches. They were far too dangerous. There was only one safe place at Waratah High.

  When the lunch bell went, I threw my sandwiches into the bin and with a thumping heart crossed the playing field to the edge of the cricket pitch. Smoke was rising from the boys sitting along the fence under the gum trees. They looked at me as I pulled out a packet of Gauloises and lit a cigarette.

  ‘The Girl Guide!’ It was the big blond boy from the courtyard.

  The boys next to him laughed on cue.

  ‘Ha, ha.’ I made a show of laughing at myself then took a very French drag on the cigarette. It was now or never. ‘I’ve never been a member of any organisation apart from the Gun Club of Ulverston.’

  ‘You belong to a gun club?’ The boy stopped smiling.

  ‘Belonged. My father was president and sharpshooter. I was an auxiliary member.’

  ‘What’s that?’ The boy moved his bum on the fence, sending ripples along the wire under the other bums.

  ‘I handled the bullets.’

  ‘What are you smoking?’

  ‘Just a French brand. Want one?’

  He examined the cigarette for a filter then gave up and shoved an unfiltered end in his mouth. I struck a match and leaned over to light the cigarette. The air flew out of my lungs as he shoved me backward with brute force.

  ‘What are you, a pooftah or something?’

  The other boys stopped jiggling on the fence. My body froze.

  ‘I was just lighting your smoke.’ I could feel my heartbeat in the back of my throat. ‘It’s the French Way.’

  He snatched the matches and lit the cigarette, inhaling deeply and holding the rough unfiltered smoke in his lungs. His eyes watered and his cheeks bulged. I could tell he was bursting to cough but he gritted his teeth and managed to resist. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Julian Corkle.’

  He spluttered. It was the cough he’d suppressed plus a nasty laugh that bubbled up his throat. The fence squeaked as the other boys joined in.

  ‘His name’s Wayne Hopper. I’m Christine Kandy. This is Cherie.’

  I recognised the girls. They’d been in the courtyard with Wayne. It was Christine who’d laughed at the porker comment. She was a well-developed girl with a pretty face.

  ‘Should be Christine Chastity Belt. That’s what she needs.’

  With a snort, Wayne leaned forward from the fence. He lifted Christine’s skirt to expose a pair of pastel pink underpants. She slapped his hand away, a playful slap without menace.

  Wayne Hopper had magnetic animal confidence. His body was solid and muscular and his chin bore the stubble of a precocious shaver. He went everywhere with his two thuggish lieutenants, Ross Gibb and Paul Lamb, but was often surrounded by four or five boys. His appeal wasn’t based on brains or charm. It was all about power.

  Wayne was the man but it was his followers I had to watch. They were eager teenage boys competing for hi
s approval. I knew they would go to any lengths to prove their loyalty. The dumbest yet most dangerous of the group was Paul Lamb. He was the thug who’d called me Pink Boy and it was he who watched me the closest, waiting for a mistake. Waratah was no place to be a Gary Jings. Neither was it safe to have panache. I had to forget about Ulverston and everything I’d left behind.

  I willed myself to stop thinking about Jimmy Budge. Thoughts of Jimmy opened something vulnerable in me and I couldn’t have that. When memories arose, I crushed them before my imagination could seize on them and add colour. I did the same with feelings about other boys. When something stirred, I squeezed my eyes shut and thought of Carmel in cricket shorts.

  I focused my attention on David Bowie and made free with my mother’s Dew Drops lotion. This relieved the urgent feelings of desperation but it didn’t dull the ache in my chest. Not even David Bowie did that.

  14

  Life would not have been worth living if Dad had chosen an ordinary house but through some miracle he’d bought the best thing on Echidna Avenue. The house had started life as a simple Housing Commission home and undergone several flashy alterations. The backyard featured a pebbled barbecue area while the lounge was decked out with a fancy cocktail bar and fluffy stools. My father was particularly keen on the bar. It had black vinyl panels and a wood-grain Aussiemica top. The house was carpeted throughout with speckled Merino Dream shag pile and decorated with embossed wallpaper. There was even a Brady Bunch style rumpus room in the basement. To access this converted garage, a hole had been cut in the lounge floor and a spiral staircase had been installed.

  For the first month in Echidna Avenue, Mum and Dad seemed almost happy. The move had shaken things up and made room for hope in their relationship. Their new bedroom helped. It had its own bathroom with mirrored shower doors and a row of mirrors over the basin. It was called The Ensuite and was the most beautiful thing we’d ever owned after the Royal Albert. Its mirrored shower was also excellent for masturbation purposes.