Julian Corkle is a Filthy Liar

by D. J. Connell

  Not long after we moved in, Dad’s older sister Dolly paid us a visit. Dolly had lived in Hobart for years and was the closest thing we had to family in the city. She was older than Mum and had Dad’s bulbous nose, small mouth and tiny teeth.

  Mum had put out the Royal Albert and I’d done her hair in a flick-back Farrah Fawcett for the occasion. I trailed after her as she showed Dolly around the house.

  ‘It’s a very big house but comfortable for a family.’ Mum was using her Celebrity Glitter voice. It was gushy and nasal.

  ‘Housing Commission, wasn’t it?’ Dolly ran a hand over the bar and examined her fingertips.

  ‘It’s been a private home for some years. The previous owner was a wool buyer. A very successful man.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He chose a quality carpet and made very tasteful alterations. We’ve now got two lounge rooms, that’s one up here and the rumpus room below. Quite handy for entertaining.’ Mum was standing at the top of the spiral staircase and tapped the rail with a fingernail. We never entertained but that wasn’t the point.

  ‘These staircases catch the hip. I won’t descend.’ Dolly pulled in her chins for emphasis.

  ‘The spiral can be difficult if you’re big.’ Mum pulled in her chin for emphasis.

  Dolly was certainly a substantial woman. Mum said she was trying to eat her way out of an unhappy marriage.

  ‘Let me show you the kids’ bedrooms.’ Mum moved her hand backward in a graceful follow-me manner.

  ‘Oh my God! This must be Liberace’s room. Look at those curtains!’ Dolly was standing in the doorway of my beautiful new bedroom pointing at my dragon brocade.

  I stared at the floral synthetic of her frock and felt anger surge through me. The fabric was stretched to capacity across the large rectangle of her unhappy arse. From behind, she looked like a gift-wrapped Land-Rover.

  ‘Those were hand-picked by Des at the Blue Gum Plaza.’ Mum had stopped using her restaurant voice. Her tone was unfriendly.

  ‘That old Ulverston queen. No wonder the place looks so gaudy.’ Dolly chortled. ‘Do the boy a favour and run up some proper drapes. Something with a pop group or spaceships.’

  ‘Des is a happily married man and Julian likes these curtains just as they are.’ Mum had her hands on her hips. ‘They suit his artistic temperament.’

  ‘Is that what you call it? Best to nip that sort of thing in the bud. James told me all about your brother.’ Dolly put her hands on her hips, blocking all movement in the hall in the direction of the bedrooms. ‘And that Des never had children. There’s something queer going on there.’

  ‘Des is a fabric expert and you know nothing about my brother. Norman runs a thriving hair-care business in Melbourne. He does the permanents of very prominent people.’

  Mum fully extended her elbows, blocking all hall flow toward the kitchen. Dolly was effectively cornered in the bedroom section. She pursed her lips and gave Mum a sour look.

  ‘And we’ve got no worries about Julian, Dolly. Mark my words, this boy will go far.’

  Dolly turned to examine me. I knew what she was thinking: I was a Norman tint and permanent away from Elizabeth Taylor.

  Mum didn’t wait for Dolly to contradict her. ‘I hope Sharon has settled down after all that trouble.’

  Dolly sagged a little.

  ‘It was in Cobber’s supermarket, wasn’t it?’

  ‘It was just a little make-up kit and she said it fell into her pocket by accident.’ Dolly turned her head to examine the wallpaper.

  ‘Wasn’t there something else?’

  ‘Just a comb.’

  Satisfied, Mum pushed past Dolly and led the way to the master bedroom.

  ‘This, Dolly, is The Ensuite. It’s very handy in the mornings, let me tell you.’ Mum’s voice was hushed and reverent again. She opened the door and stood with her arm rigid and outstretched like a game-show host presenting a prize fridge.

  ‘Mirrors are very difficult to keep clean.’ Dolly frowned and pushed past Mum. Kneeling down, she ran a thumbnail along the metal trim and then held her thumb up to the light. ‘Body grime! A good scrub will get rid of that.’

  I don’t know what I would’ve done without The Ensuite. Its mirrored shower gave me a morning dose of glamour before I set off each day for the drudgery of Waratah High. The teachers of Waratah didn’t beat students like the Christian Brothers had done but they were just as uninspired and miserable. The one exception was Mr Snell who taught French and wore his shirts ironed, with a silk cravat and cufflinks. His hair rose from his forehead in a tidy wave and his sideburns and eyebrows were neatly trimmed. He was very small for a human being but his devotion to appearance made him seem taller than his actual one metre fifty.

  Mr Snell believed in teaching the modern way and had us do role-plays to practise dialogue exchange. Ordering in French at a restaurant came naturally to me. I was paired with Duncan Bacon, an irritating clever boy who wore gold-rimmed glasses with light-sensitive lenses and a digital watch with a fancy flip-up leather cover. Duncan was top in French and intended to stay there.

  ‘Are you the waiter or the customer?’ Duncan click-clicked the button of his Deskmaster ballpoint pen with impatience.

  ‘I’m the customer.’ I held in my stomach and imagined myself in Paris, France.

  ‘Qu’est-ce que vous voulez manger, monsieur?’

  ‘Le boeuf bourguignon.’

  ‘Mr Snell said it’s a fish restaurant. You can’t order beef.’

  ‘But there would be something on the menu for people who can’t eat fish.’

  ‘But why would such people go to a fish restaurant?’

  ‘They might be on holiday at the seaside.’ I didn’t like Duncan. He had no imagination.

  ‘But why wouldn’t they eat fish?’

  ‘They might be allergic.’

  ‘Can’t we just pretend you like fish so we can practise the vocabulary?’

  ‘What’s the French word for oysters?’

  ‘You’re supposed to be ordering fish.’

  ‘They’re both from the ocean.’

  ‘So is a sea sponge, stupid. I doubt you’ll be ordering sponge à la crème.’ Duncan sniggered.

  ‘À la crème? Sounds delicious. How’s progress?’ Mr Snell had been discreetly roving around the class listening to dialogue. His size enabled him to do this without being noticed.

  ‘Mr Snell, I’d like to order oysters but I don’t know the French word. Duncan here thinks it’s stupid to order oysters in a French fish restaurant.’

  ‘Duncan! The French love oysters.’ Mr Snell shook his head and then turned to me with a smile. ‘The word is huître, Julian.’

  Duncan’s face darkened. We locked eyes as the teacher patted me on the shoulder.

  ‘Garcon! Je prends des huîtres, si’il vous plaît.’ I flashed a large faux smile at my opponent.

  ‘Bravo, Julian!’ Mr Snell pursed his lips like Valéry Giscard d’Estaing and gave Duncan a severe look. ‘Monsieur Bacon, do some revision on the dining habits of the French. You’ll need to work if you want to stay at the top.’

  I was still flushed with victory when I reached the edge of the cricket pitch. It was Friday and I wouldn’t see the likes of Duncan Bacon for another three days. The boys were lined up along the fence under the gum trees passing a bottle of wine back and forth. Jackaroo was a supermarket brand and came with a convenient screw top.

  ‘Where’s Wayne?’

  The boys jostled each other and laughed, bouncing up and down on the fence wire. I waited for them to settle down before repeating the question.

  ‘He’s getting a blowie, I reckon.’ Paul Lamb’s comment set off his friends again.

  The boys were still laughing when Wayne appeared from behind the gum trees. He was walking stiffly and winked at them. Behind him was Christine Kandy. She was adjusting her skirt and brushing grit off her knees. Wayne took a swig of the Jackaroo and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He handed me
the bottle.

  ‘How’s the French?’

  ‘Très bien.’ I tipped the bottle back and filled my mouth. The wine was both sweet and vinegary. Warmth flooded my chest.

  ‘What the hell do you mean?’ Wayne was looking at me hard.

  ‘Bonza.’ My mouth went dry. ‘Très bien is French for bonza.’

  ‘Tray bee Ann.’ Wayne relaxed. ‘I’ll have to learn some French, ha, ha.’

  The boys on the fence started to laugh along with Wayne but stopped when he went silent again. ‘Nah, on second thoughts, that fucking French dwarf is a poof.’

  I looked at the ground and rummaged in my pockets for my cigarettes. This was no time to come to Mr Snell’s defence.

  ‘Those girl’s undies he wears round his neck are a dead giveaway.’ Wayne bent his wrists and wiggled his bum.

  ‘You’re barking up the wrong tree, Hopper.’ Christine Kandy’s voice was cool and confident. ‘Snell’s normal.’

  ‘Yeah, fuckin’ normal all right.’ Wayne put his hands over his bum and grimaced. This provoked another round of laughter.

  ‘He’s married, you wanker.’ Christine was deadly serious.

  ‘I bet he doesn’t have any kids.’ Wayne turned away from her and focused on me again. ‘I’d watch your fat little arse, Corker. Bums to the wall if you value your hole.’

  The boys on the fence bounced up and down. Christine Kandy shrugged and looked over at me. Her face was a hard mask of foundation and heavy mascara but her eyes were soft and intelligent. I liked Christine. She was the only one of the group with anything resembling panache. Underneath all the muck she caked on her face was an uncanny resemblance to Margaux Hemingway. I would’ve loved to redo her make-up and sort out her hair but this wasn’t the time or the place. I hung around until the Jackaroo was finished and then headed for home.

  Early evening was a lonely time at Echidna Avenue and I never hurried back to the house. Carmel was always at cricket or hockey practice and my mother didn’t get home until seven. Mum had found herself a job at the Boomerang Biscuits factory a month after arriving in Hobart. It was hot, noisy work. She came home every night smelling like sugar and looking frazzled and worn. Dad had settled back into his old routine of going to the pub after work with Trevor Bland. My parents were too preoccupied and miserable to notice that I often had alcohol on my breath.

  I leaned on the gatepost as I opened the letterbox and pulled out a handful of letters with windows. An envelope fell out of my hands and landed with a flutter on the path. It was pale blue with a hand-drawn image of a bird under the address. I could feel my heartbeat in my throat as I picked it up and turned it over. It was addressed to me. I ripped it open.

  Dear Julian,

  How’s Hobart? Ulverston is fine. Dad says Hobart is colder than Ulverston. It must be cold then.

  The big news here is that Ralph Waters was expelled. He broke into the school at night and was caught by Brother Dooley in the music room. They think he might have been doing it for a while. They didn’t tell us anything but I know for a fact that he pissed into that big horn thing you once tried. I think it’s called a tuba. Dad heard all about it from Father McMahon. The police came and everything.

  How’s French? Parles-tu français encore?

  I’m thinking of leaving school next year. I might try the Wool Board. Dad says they have good jobs. He says you’re in the arms of Jesus when you work at the Wool Board. It’s the best kind of job to have, especially for a school-leaver. What about you?

  Anyway, I have to go now. Will you be visiting Ulverston soon? I hope so. I miss you.

  Love,

  Jimmy xxx

  Jimmy lit up in my mind’s eye like a fireworks sparkler. He was smiling, riding his space-blue Pacer bicycle with a clacker in the spokes. The feelings I’d been bottling up for months burst out of me in a painful sob. I began crying uncontrollably as I put the key in the door. Tears were coming out in jerks, making my cheeks hot and slimy. I stumbled into my bedroom and threw myself on to the bed, curling into a tight ball, crying until it was too painful to swallow.

  We were never going back to Ulverston and I’d never see Jimmy again. I was stuck in Hobart and it was hell. Nothing worked in Hobart. I was a nobody and had no panache. I had to forget Jimmy or I’d never survive Wayne and the rest of the louts. No, Jimmy, I’m not going back to Ulverston. I’m not going back anywhere. I can’t be that any more.

  My head was thumping and my eyesight was hazy when I walked over to the window. Taking the matches from my pocket, I lit the corner of Jimmy’s letter. Flames were licking my fingers as I threw the burning sheet of paper out of the window. I looked down at the garden below. A small, unburned piece of paper lay on the soil. The word ‘Love’ was still visible.

  15

  I spent my lunchtimes in the shade of the gum trees at the edge of the cricket pitch and drifted back there after school to smoke cigarettes and drink wine. All my pocket money went on these items but Paul Lamb and the other louts never bothered me when there was a bottle of Jackaroo. These bribes entailed no small sacrifice on my part. I couldn’t buy new clothes or LPs and never did anything on the weekends. Waratah had destroyed my panache but at least I’d made it through half a year without any new scars.

  Trevor Bland told my father that Cobber’s Super Central was looking for schoolboys to stack shelves and pack boxes. Without consulting me, Dad visited the supermarket and put my name down. He’d never done anything like this for John or Carmel. They played sports and in his mind deserved their pocket money. Dad didn’t like me being idle. Neither did he like forking out for me every week. He thought he was teaching me a lesson but he did me a wonderful favour. Cobber’s was a glamour job. The store was big, bright and colourful. The checkout girls wore make-up and nail polish and the deli counter stocked anchovies and capers from Europe. The supermarket even sold my new brand of cigarettes, John Player Specials.

  I wasn’t the only Waratah boy at Cobber’s. Frank Burger worked the boxes on the express lane and was renowned for his high-speed packing technique. The checkout girls called him Fast-hand Frankie and gave him packets of broken biscuits to take home. Frank was part of an elite club at Waratah. He was a prefect and wore his prefect’s jacket everywhere, even on the express lane. Prefects were elected by the students who naturally went for good-looking athletes. The most beautiful of these was a high-jumper called Terrence Fig. He was not only head prefect but also worked as a DJ on Youth Hour every Friday at Hot Rocking Radio Hobart. When Terrence strolled around the school grounds looking for smokers or kissers, he may as well have been riding in a golden chariot. Students stopped what they were doing to offer him sandwiches and tinned drinks. The bolder ones asked about his radio work. I would’ve thrown rose petals at his feet but never dared move a muscle in front of Wayne.

  Frank didn’t have Terrence’s panache but he was still handsome in a clean-cut, normal sort of way. These pleasant features plus the jacket made him look older than fifteen which was very helpful for purchasing alcohol. Frank agreed to buy Jackaroo for me as long as I paid him 20 per cent commission. This was steep but Frank had an enterprising nature. The other box boys said he got tips from ladies, something unheard of in Tasmania. After a month of packing boxes together, he invited me to his house. I was delighted.

  Frank lived in a brick bungalow on a tidy street with late-model Holdens in the driveways. The family was well off by Waratah standards and had a Holden Monaro in the garage. It was green with a yellow racing stripe down the side. Its steering wheel even had a leather cover with little air holes to absorb racing sweat. Mr Burger was the sort of man my father called flashy. He ran his own accountancy firm, which employed the very flashy-looking Mrs Burger as a receptionist. Dad didn’t like accountants. He blamed one for bankrupting his father. He said the accountant had fiddled the books and caused Granddad to lose the pub.

  Mrs Burger was cooking something foreign with rice when we walked in. She had blond blow-waved hair an
d wore a lot of make-up for a mother. Frank led me to the source of the television noise in the lounge. I froze in the doorway. His sister was watching Pretty Pony Pals in colour on a glorious twenty-six-incher. Frank came from one of the lucky families. We knew who they were at Waratah. The arrival of a colour TV was announced and discussed. Those who didn’t have one kept quiet and prayed for a miracle. Frank hadn’t said anything and I’d assumed he was one of us.

  ‘You want to watch some telly, Julian?’

  ‘You’ve got a colour TV? Didn’t even notice.’

  ‘Had it for a while.’

  ‘Yeah, we’ve had ours a while, too.’ I’d never be able to take Frank back to our house now. The Ensuite would have to remain a family secret.

  ‘Infinitely better than a black-and-white set.’

  ‘I try not to watch the box.’ I watched television whenever possible and followed weekly programmes like Pop Stop with fanatic dedication. I sat through cartoons, soapy serials, family programming, police shows and old movies. I watched The Dick Dingle Hour every night and never missed his Sunday Tales of Tasmania feature. I sat in front of anything with movement and sound with two exceptions: sports programmes and war movies.

  ‘You got your own room, Frank?’

  ‘Well, yeah, I’d hardly be sharing with my sister, would I?’

  Frank’s bedroom was a bitter disappointment. Not only did his curtains have a pop-group pattern, but his bedspread was covered with little spaceships. Above the bed was a larger-than-life poster of Suzi Quatro squatting in leather hot pants. Photos of footballers and car stickers desecrated the other walls. It could’ve been John’s room.

  I made an excuse and set off for home, passing Mrs Burger on my way out. She was standing next to the rubbish bin, folding up cardboard packaging. The cardboard had come from a big-ticket item, something with a width of at least twenty-six inches.