Julian Corkle is a Filthy Liar

by D. J. Connell

  18

  Abracadabra told me the shoot would be aired in a week. I couldn’t wait. It was going to be the most compelling programme of the Cub Reporter series. Mum agreed. Before leaving for Melbourne to spend a week with Norman, she told me I would be the next Dick Dingle. Dad didn’t say anything about my television debut. He was disappointed I hadn’t covered a real sport like cricket or football.

  I didn’t know what to feel about my parents. Mum’s trip to Melbourne was called a trial separation. They were talking about winding down the marriage and living separately. I felt numb when I thought of Mum and Dad living in separate places. The only strong feelings I had concerned our belongings. I worried about the division of cars and furniture. Knowing Dad, he would take the Valiant, Relaxator Recliner and Rentascope. Mum would get us, the Royal Albert, Torana and The Ensuite. The thought of going back to a black-and-white set made me carsick.

  I was relieved when Dad left Hobart with Trevor Bland for a weekend of fishing. Carmel didn’t want to talk about our parents, which was just fine with me. She’d never been a cuddly, teary sister. Carmel’s way of expressing herself was vigorous physical activity. She’d recently taken to pounding the back fence with a cricket ball. The sheets of corrugated iron had lost most of their corrugations but Carmel said her bowling technique was all the better for it.

  It was a special weekend in Hobart. The USS Enterprise was anchored off the city and Hot Rocking Radio Hobart was running a friendship campaign for the aircraft carrier. The radio was asking families to invite members of the crew back for a home-cooked meal. Carmel called and gave our address and our mother’s name.

  We didn’t get a lot of Americans in Tasmania but we knew plenty about them from television. They had a lot more money and nicer clothes than Australians. They also had Hollywood and Malibu. Julian Corkle’s star was on the rise. Contacts in America were essential.

  My heart sank when Carmel opened the front door on Saturday afternoon. The two sailors were dressed in ironed khaki trousers and white shirts and didn’t look particularly American or rich. Seen from a neighbour’s window, they could’ve been two dairy-farming cadets from New Zealand. Their hair was razor cut to their pink scalps and their shirts were buttoned to the top. The tallest one did the introductions.

  ‘Hello, ma’m, my name’s Conrad and this is Calvin. Your parents home?’

  ‘No, but they gave us strict instructions to be good ambassadors for Hobart. We’re just following orders.’ Carmel gave a salute before leading them into the lounge and seating them on the couch. ‘Would you like a glass of Jackaroo?’

  ‘We are not supposed to drink liquor, ma’m. We are nineteen years old.’

  ‘It isn’t liquor. It’s Jackaroo. Anyway, you only have to be sixteen to drink in Tasmania.’ Carmel was an inspiration.

  ‘That so? What would your ages be?’

  ‘I’m twenty and he’s the same age as you. He’s short for his age because he smokes cigarillos.’

  ‘Just how old do you have to be to smoke them cigarillos, ma’m?’

  ‘Thirteen.’

  ‘You’ve got the strangest laws in this state.’

  ‘Sex with animals is also illegal in Tasmania.’ Everyone turned at my comment. The sailors seemed startled by the information. They looked at me as if I was a lawbreaker.

  ‘It’s just one of the laws and all that.’ I shrugged. ‘You’re also not allowed to steal car radios.’

  ‘Steal?’ Conrad’s eyes widened. ‘We cannot do that back home either.’

  The sailors were both looking at me with suspicion.

  ‘I’m a cub reporter.’ I needed to assert myself and establish some credibility. ‘Got my own TV show.’

  ‘I find that hard to believe.’ Conrad’s focus shifted to my Nana Mouskouris. He shook his head.

  ‘I just did an exposé on the local gun club. They say I’ll win a Tassie Wallaby for it.’

  ‘Gun club?’ Conrad smiled for the first time. ‘Is that like the National Rifle Association?’

  ‘A lot bigger.’ I had no idea what the National Rifle Association was but I wasn’t about to let some sailor one-up me.

  Carmel returned from the kitchen with four of Mum’s party glasses on a tray. She poured the Jackaroo and made a toast. ‘To the Starship Enterprise!’

  Calvin opened his mouth to say something then closed it again and took a sip. While his mouth was open, I’d noticed two rows of huge Marie Osmond teeth.

  ‘You’ve got very big teeth.’ I pulled my lips over mine as I spoke. ‘I mean, they’re nice, but in a big way.’

  ‘I was five years old when I saw my first orthodontalist.’ Calvin smiled. He looked proud.

  ‘But you wouldn’t have had your grown-up teeth.’

  ‘They can do a lot with the gums, sir. I had intensive fluoridide treatment and Mom gave me plenty of them supplementations.’

  ‘And that made your teeth big?’

  ‘No, the die-mentions are genetical. Mom says she don’t need no reading light when I smile. I just light up the whole wide world.’ Calvin laughed. The room brightened.

  ‘You take teeth seriously in America.’

  ‘You’re right about that, sir. Our dog wore an orthodontalist brace for a year. He had these long canines. Lordy, did they stick out.’

  ‘Isn’t that kind of normal for a dog?’

  ‘Yeah, but it didn’t look no good when he smiled.’

  The tooth conversation seemed to relax the sailors. Conrad and Calvin sat back on the couch and drank their Jackaroo. They took pride in their teeth and it showed.

  I left them with Carmel and went to the kitchen where I removed a frozen chicken from the freezer. I ran hot water over its back and left it to thaw in the sink. When I returned to the lounge, Conrad was explaining how he came from a long line of military men. He’d grown up with a gun cabinet in something called the den and had been given a lifetime membership in the National Rifle Association by his father. He and his brother had used squirrels for target practice when they were kids.

  ‘Pow! Those little critters just pop.’ Conrad’s face lit up like John’s.

  I returned to the kitchen feeling queasy and checked the chicken. It was still rock solid inside. I took a knife and tried driving it between the body and a drumstick. The blade pierced the skin and then came to an abrupt halt. I got a rusty screwdriver and hammer out of my father’s toolbox. Placing the tip of the screwdriver in the middle of the chicken’s back, I brought the hammer down fast. The screwdriver drove into the frozen flesh up to the handle and lodged there like King Arthur’s sword. It was stuck fast.

  I had one last trick up my sleeve, a trick I’d seen performed on a coconut by Ralph Waters. I went outside where I raised the chicken above my head and threw it as hard as I could against the side of the house. The chicken didn’t behave like Ralph’s coconut, which had exploded on impact. Instead, it ricocheted off the corrugated iron and hit Rusty, shattering the windscreen into a spider’s web of glass cubes. If I hadn’t drunk two glasses of wine I might’ve had a heart attack there and then. The ugly old Valiant was Dad’s pride and joy.

  I decided to worry about the car later as I got down on my hands and knees to search for the chicken. After bouncing off the windscreen, it had hit the wall again before rolling under the car. I located it sitting under the muffler looking a great deal the worse for wear. Its breast had caved in and the drumsticks were loose. The screwdriver fell out as I retrieved the carcass and dusted it off against my jeans. I took it inside and began rendering the semi-frozen flesh into a cacciatore. While it was cooking, I fried chips and made carrot rounds with parsley, the Australian Ladies’ Companion way.

  Conrad stopped talking about his father’s service in Vietnam when I put the food on the table. The Americans were hungry but still insisted on saying grace with their eyes closed before launching into the food. I was taking a second helping of chips when I heard a loud crunch. Calvin coughed and spat out a mouthful of ha
lf-chewed food into his hand. He removed a cube of glass and half a tooth and placed them on the tablecloth.

  ‘Lordy, that’s my tooth.’ His face was white.

  ‘That’s just half a tooth.’ I nudged the piece of glass aside and pointed to the broken piece of tooth.

  ‘Just half a tooth?’ Calvin’s voice was a whimper. He opened his mouth and fingered the bottom row of his teeth.

  ‘Is it a bicuspid or a molar, Calvin?’ Conrad looked serious.

  ‘That ain’t no bicuspoid, Conrad. It’s a God-damned molar.’

  ‘It couldn’t be a wisdom tooth.’ I felt compelled to state the obvious.

  The sailors ignored me, determined to make the worst of the situation.

  ‘Man, that’s a root canal right there and probably some bridge work. Maybe even a crown. That’s gonna cost you, buddy. The medical plan don’t cover no fancy stuff.’ Conrad was doing his bit to calm Calvin down.

  ‘Lordy, lordy.’

  ‘Are you sure that piece of glass wasn’t somewhere in your mouth before you started scoffing the cacciatore?’ I had to ask. It was a natural enough question.

  ‘Watch it, pal!’ Calvin shot me a dangerous look. Blood had collected in the corner of his mouth.

  ‘It’s illegal to hit a minor in Tasmania.’

  I jumped up from my seat and stood behind Carmel. She’d been observing the turn of events in silence with a fascinated smile.

  ‘You’re nineteen years old. I have the legality.’

  ‘You’re a minor until you’re twenty-five in Tasmania.’

  ‘I’m gonna break the law.’ Calvin lunged at me but was restrained by his friend who stood up abruptly, wiping his hand on the tablecloth.

  ‘Man, let’s get outta here.’

  ‘You better not steal the car radio on the way out.’ I was holding Carmel in front of me like a shield and pulled her backward as Calvin lunged again.

  Conrad bundled his friend out of the door.

  From the dinette window, I watched them stop in front of Rusty. Calvin gestured at the shattered windscreen and rubbed his jaw. He let out a yelp as Conrad tugged him away. I ran to the front of the house and opened the lounge window to monitor their progress.

  ‘We lucked out, man. It’s a God-damned cab.’ Conrad pointed to a Tip Top taxi outside the house. It was a very strange place for a taxi to be parked.

  ‘Did you see that khaki Chrysiller? It was God-damned windshield glass in that chicken o’catcheetoray. I’d bet a bicuspoid on it.’ Calvin was still rubbing his jaw.

  The light went on inside the taxi and I recognised the unhappy driver. He turned and began talking to the sailors as they climbed into the back seat. I saw him nod at Calvin who pointed to his mouth. Carmel’s voice suddenly rang out in the night air.

  ‘If you do not leave immediately, I’ll call the police, the Starship Enterprise and Tip Top Taxis.’ She was standing by the letterbox with a cricket bat in her hand. ‘I’ve taken down your number plate, Mr Tip Top. So piss off!’

  The inside light went off and the taxi’s engine started. As it moved off, I saw Carmel raise her right hand and give them a two-finger salute.

  ‘Dad, I can explain everything.’

  ‘I don’t want to hear one of your stories, Julian.’ Dad was running his hand over Rusty’s windscreen. He bent down and picked up his screwdriver.

  ‘I’ll tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God.’ I crossed my fingers. ‘And Jesus, of course.’

  ‘You watch too much TV.’

  ‘Funny you should say that because I was watching the footy when all this happened. You should’ve heard the bang. I came outside to find the Valiant’s windscreen shattered and a coconut lying on the ground. A car drove off at high speed.’

  ‘Shut up or you’ll pay for the new windscreen.’

  ‘It was a Tip Top taxi.’

  ‘Enough!’ He held his hand up like a stop sign. ‘I’m moving out tomorrow. Trev’s got a bachelor flat out the back of his place. It’s furnished.’

  ‘Does it have a TV?’

  ‘No, I’ll be taking the Rentascope.’

  ‘And the recliner.’

  ‘You’re not as stupid as you look.’

  Mum called to say she was sorry we couldn’t watch the Abracadabra show together. She was staying on at Norman’s until Dad moved out. ‘It’s for the best. Once we get rid of him we can start getting back to normal.’

  She talked as if we’d had a normal family life at some point. From what I gathered from television and other Tasmanian families, normal was comfortable and harmonious. Our family life had never been either of these.

  I was relieved that Carmel wasn’t home for my big Abracadabra night. She would’ve made things difficult with a running commentary on my performance. Carmel had hockey practice on Tuesday evenings. She usually came home late after a sauna with her team-mates at the YWCA. Mum didn’t understand the appeal of the sauna. ‘I’d rather have a needle in the eye than sit naked with twenty girls in a steamy sweat box.’

  I was prepared to watch the programme alone when I heard the fly screen slap against the back-door frame. My heart sank. The show was starting as Dad walked into the lounge with a parcel of fish and chips under his arm and a bottle of beer in his hand. He parked his bum on the Relaxator Recliner with a vinyl whoosh and opened the packet on his knee.

  The screen showed Joe and me walking toward the pens. A narrator’s voice was heard over our muffled conversation. ‘The musket enthusiasts of Hobart put safety before everything. Their weapons may be antiques, but they’re still capable of killing a man.’ The camera cut to my side profile.

  ‘Look at that shiner on your forehead. It’s glowing like a miner’s lamp. No, it looks more like a fluorescent golf ball.’ Dad laughed and stuffed a handful of chips into his vicious little mouth.

  I could’ve told him how stupid he looked from the side, even without a bump, but I bit my tongue and concentrated on the television. At least I was watching myself in colour. I prayed that Jimmy Budge was watching me, too.

  The camera pulled back to show Joe and me talking. I was holding the gun over the edge of the barrier, very Gregory Peckish. Our voices became audible.

  ‘They are safety glasses you’re wearing, aren’t they?’

  ‘No, they’re just normal glasses.’ My voice sounded oily and squeaky at the same time. Valerie had messed up the sound.

  ‘I’ll be damned. I thought they were safety glasses. Hang on, come to think of it, they’re more like those things that Greek lady singer wears.’

  My father started laughing, the sort of laughter that involved rocking on the cheeks of his bum.

  ‘Well, they’re not!’

  The tone of my voice made Dad laugh harder.

  ‘It’s a pity they’re not safety glasses because you’ll have to put some real ones on before you shoot that gun, son.’

  ‘Can’t I just wear these? The lenses are quite thick.’

  My father had stopped making noise. The laughter was caught somewhere between his lungs and his cake hole. He was wriggling on the vinyl with his eyes bulging.

  The camera zoomed in on my face. I was wearing the safety glasses and leaning over the fence. I squinted and shot the gun. The next scene was a montage of two moving images: a sheep running toward a fence and me running toward the van. My voice sounded more like a howl than a victory hoot. The two scenes were shown again and again. It was intended to be funny. It wasn’t. The programme was all wrong. I prayed that Jimmy wasn’t watching.

  ‘Look at your arse.’ Dad was pointing at my moving image on the screen. ‘You and that sheep could be related.’ His joke was too much for him and he started the silent rocking again.

  The next scene was something I didn’t remember. It was of Joe talking earnestly to the camera. He was wearing a pressed business shirt and standing in front of a row of spades and garden rakes.

  ‘A musket is not a toy. This is something we try
to drum into the likes of your young cub reporter. I don’t blame the boy for running like he did. It’s a frightening weapon and not everyone is ready for that kind of power.’

  The montage of the sheep and me was shown again as the credits rolled. I hoped the Budge television set had exploded by this point and the electricity to the house had been cut off. The programme was a complete disaster. I would never be able to show my face in public again.

  ‘That’s not what happened.’ My throat was tight and sore. I felt the pressure of tears behind my eyes. ‘I didn’t run away because I was scared.’

  ‘No, you were racing that sheep to the shearing shed.’ My father was moving about on the chair again. ‘Rattling your dags.’

  ‘They cut out all my questions. That Joe’s a bastard.’

  ‘That’s enough! There’ll be no language in this house.’ Dad stopped laughing and sat up straight with a self-righteous look.

  I hated it when he did that. I was glad he was going and he could take his high horse with him. The phone rang.

  ‘Twinkle, twinkle. You were fabulous. Norman says you’re a natural comedian.’

  ‘Mum, they cut out all my questions. They made me look scared.’

  ‘Scared? Don’t be ridiculous. You were brilliant. A real star.’

  ‘I wasn’t a star. I was a real dag.’ I hated myself and wanted to die.

  19

  Cherie stopped me at the main entrance to Waratah. She said it was a matter of life or death; my life or death. I hadn’t been to school since Dad moved out. I couldn’t face the cricket pitch or the supermarket. The Abracadabra show was supposed to have been my small-screen triumph, a leg-up to a dazzling career. Instead they’d turned me into a laughing stock. It wasn’t fair.

  In the chaotic aftermath of the separation I’d been avoiding school and hanging around home but things had definitely not gone back to normal. Mum had quit her job and spent her evenings crying in front of the old black-and-white set. During the day she lay on her bed with the door to The Ensuite open, looking at her bedraggled image in the mirrors. It should’ve been wonderful to have her to myself but she was too unhappy. Dad was the biggest mistake of her life, she said. She’d wasted her youth on a dud marriage. I did my best to cheer her up but most days I had to work like a drover’s dog just to get a single ‘Twinkle’.