Julian Corkle is a Filthy Liar

by D. J. Connell

  I waited until the door clicked shut then prepared myself with lemonade and biscuits. When I’d finished the lot, I lay back with the Monthly. It was easy to find Jimmy. His photo was on page one, a head and shoulders shot with the caption: ‘Ulverston’s rising star of wool and whatnot, management cadet James Budge.’ His mouth was closed and he was trying to look serious but I could see the old Jimmy. His hair still had the adorable cow’s lick and his perfect nose made a perfect line in the middle of his perfect face. He was more beautiful than ever and, according to the article, he was doing very well at the Wool Board.

  I laid the magazine over my chest and closed my eyes. I thought of the Jimmy I knew on his bike, in the pool, in the club. He could run faster and bike faster than me. He was better at French and at smoking filterless cigarettes. Jimmy was perfect. I’d never find anyone like him ever again. I began to cry and didn’t try to hold it back. Tears were running around my ears and soaking into the pillow when I fell asleep.

  I was looking for Jimmy behind the school hall when the doorbell rang. I tried to stay in the dream and track him down but the bell rang again. The ding-dong was loud and insistent. The caller was pressing the button with force.

  I should’ve noted the size of the silhouette behind the frosted glass before turning the lock. The last person I wanted to see was Aunt Dolly. She shoved forward as I opened the door and swept into the house like a tidal wave. I followed her into the lounge.

  ‘What’s this, an Irish day off? If you were stupid enough to leave school then you should be working.’ Her small bull-terrier eyes took in the bedding, lemonade bottle and empty plate. She was looking for faults, evidence of failure. Her eyes fell on the damp spots on the pillow. Her mouth hardened.

  ‘I’ve had an accident.’ I was feeling miserable. The dream had gone and I’d never reconnect with Jimmy.

  Dolly swung her critical searchlights on me, scanning my body from head to foot. Her eyes narrowed. She was going to say something and it was going to be unkind.

  ‘The only thing wrong with you, boy, is that hair. It looks like a fumigation bomb has exploded on your head.’ She ho-ho-ho’d at her stupid joke. ‘You should be at work.’

  I had nothing to gain from taking the bait. It was better to take the moral high ground, hold my tongue and keep the peace. Then again, Dolly deserved a response.

  ‘I didn’t know you had a job, Dolly.’

  ‘I’m a housewife. That’s work enough.’

  ‘Dad never thought so. Mum had to work and be a housewife.’

  ‘Some women are never satisfied. They trap a man into marriage and expect a flash home and fancy appliances. With that kind of woman, it’s always spend, spend, spend.’ Dolly ran a finger over the TV and examined it for dust. ‘Your father has different priorities.’

  ‘The pub and the races.’

  ‘Jim is a leading expert on sports.’

  ‘He certainly watches enough of it.’

  Someone knocked on the back door. Dolly spun on her heel and raced me to get there first. It was Frank and he was dressed in a tight-fitting blue suit with gold buttons. He could’ve been a Mormon except for his new sideburns.

  ‘Just in the area, thought I’d call in.’ Frank entered without being asked and didn’t bother saying hello. ‘Who’s the lovely lady?’

  ‘Dolly. I’m his father’s sister.’ Dolly elbowed me to the side to shake Frank’s hand. With her other hand, she touched her hair. ‘Just popped in for a visit. Family duty.’

  ‘Always good to keep up with family.’ Frank placed a briefcase on the dinette table. ‘I might have something that interests you, Mrs Dolly. You’re obviously very family-spirited.’

  ‘I do what I can. Always thinking of others.’

  ‘Ever wondered what would happen to your loved ones if you died?’

  ‘No.’ Dolly’s voice wavered. Her hand fell on her chest between the curtains of her open cardigan.

  ‘It’s probably time you did. You never know when you might pop your clogs.’ Frank pulled out several brochures for Sunshine Life Insurance and spread them on the table. ‘It could be a bus. It could be a bad chicken leg. Then, of course, it could be cancer. Our motto at Sunshine is: “Hope for the best, prepare for the worst, and leave behind a legacy.” The keyword is legacy. May I ask if you have life insurance, Mrs Dolly?’

  Dolly was shaking her head as the front door bell ding-donged yet again. A man in white overalls was waiting on the step. I recognised Eric from the electrical appliance shop. He didn’t smile. ‘I’ve come to repossess the television.’

  ‘But I’ve never missed a payment.’

  ‘You didn’t tell us you’d lost your job. You need a job for the time plan. It’s in the contract. Written in black and white.’

  ‘I only lost it yesterday. How on earth did you find out?’

  ‘I don’t write the rules. I just enforce them.’ Eric nudged me aside and started down the hall. He met Dolly and Frank coming the other way. ‘You must be his mother.’

  ‘I most certainly am not!’ Dolly shook her head vigorously and pointed to the lounge. ‘It’s in there for the taking.’

  I watched in numb horror as Eric unplugged the TV and rolled the wires into neat bundles. Not only was I losing the best thing in my life after my mother but I was also losing it in front of the worst possible audience.

  ‘Don’t lift that by yourself, my friend.’ Frank went over and took one side of the TV. ‘You’ll give yourself a hernia and end up in a wheelchair.’

  ‘Occupational hazard, mate.’ Eric led the way, backing out of the door. ‘The fridge-freezers are the worst.’

  ‘You’re a candidate for supplementary health insurance. Always good to be prepared. I’ve got some brochures that might interest you.’

  I followed them out of the house and watched them slide the swamp-walnut box into the back of the van. It was like watching a coffin being put into a hearse. I was overwhelmed by grief and loss. Eric waited for Frank to get the brochures before driving off with a toot. My mother swerved to miss him as she pulled into our driveway. She mounted the steps shaking her head.

  ‘What was all that about?’

  ‘The TV’s been repossessed. Dolly’s out the back with Frank. They saw everything.’ My chin was trembling.

  ‘Has that woman been saying things to you?’

  ‘She said my hair needs fumigating.’

  ‘Right! Wait here!’

  Mum straightened her shoulder pads and marched down the hall in a determined way. I heard raised voices and a shriek. The fly screen slapped against the back of the house; then I heard someone walking very fast down the path. Dolly appeared and crossed the lawn at a clip. Her head was down and she was holding the two sides of her cardigan together over her chest like a shield. She turned when she reached the footpath and pointed a saveloy finger at me. Her face was blotchy with anger.

  ‘Sharon’s a Little Aussie Rising Star finalist!’ She nodded her two chins for emphasis. ‘Put that in your pipe and smoke it you, you popinjay, you!’

  Popinjay? I was considering what this could mean when Frank coughed behind me.

  ‘That’s a shame. I almost had a new client.’ He frowned as Dolly drove off with a screech. ‘Want to come for a spin in my new Ford Escort, have a chat about your future?’

  ‘I don’t have a future.’

  ‘Everyone has a future. The trick is to be prepared.’

  ‘I’ll have to check on Mum first.’

  My mother was sitting in the dinette examining Frank’s brochures. ‘I see your friend’s left school. He’s just tried to sell me life insurance.’

  ‘I’m not sure he’s a friend. Are you all right, Mum?’

  ‘Fantastic. I gave Dolly an earful. It’s done me the world of good.’

  Before I got near the yellow Escort, Frank warned me to keep my hands off the chrome. He was taking Christine out later and didn’t want smears. He used his indicator as he pulled away from the kerb and drove
slowly, stopping at ‘GIVE WAY’ signs and using his handbrake on slopes.

  ‘I heard about a job that’s going. One of Dad’s clients is looking for a manservant.’

  ‘I’m not a servant, Frank.’ The lemonade I’d consumed had now descended to my bladder. I gritted my teeth and hoped there was a toilet where we were going.

  ‘Just trying to help. The lady’s got more money than sense. She’s divorcing that dick from TV.’

  ‘Dick Dingle?’ My chest tightened. I forgot about my bladder. ‘Not the society woman?’

  ‘Prudence Jipper-Dingle. I wouldn’t mind showing my policies to that lady. We’re talking top-of-the-line life insurance.’

  ‘A manservant? I think you mean butler. A society woman would want a butler.’ I knew all about butlers from Family Affair. Being a butler was the next best thing to being a personal assistant and Prudence Jipper-Dingle was the next best thing to Dick Dingle. My hands tingled. Things were looking up.

  Frank stopped outside a milk bar and bought me an ice cream on a stick. I would’ve preferred a cone but he hadn’t asked and I could hardly look a gift horse in the mouth. He made me stand away from the car while I ate it. He hadn’t bought one for himself.

  ‘You might want to think about making preparations for your death.’

  ‘I’m only fifteen.’

  ‘You’re never too young to start a policy. The earlier you start, the bigger the legacy you leave behind.’

  ‘No one deserves a legacy except Mum and chances are I’ll outlive her.’

  ‘So you’re basically not interested.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’d better get going then.’ Frank shut the passenger door with his backside and made for the driver’s seat.

  ‘You’re not giving me a ride back?’

  ‘Sorry, mate. I’m meeting Christine in Rosetta. Can’t keep the little lady waiting.’

  Frank didn’t say goodbye and drove off with his indicator flashing. I licked the stick clean and looked around me. I was on an unfamiliar suburban street in the middle of nowhere with a bladder full of lemonade. I had to find a public toilet, fast.

  Walking as quickly and lightly as possible, I retraced our route to the main road where I found a sign for the botanical gardens. Half an hour and an aching abdomen later I was inside the garden’s toilets. The feeling of relief was sensational. Urinating had to be one of the most pleasurable activities known to man. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the release of pressure.

  When I opened them again I realised that I was standing in front of graffiti. ‘Sean Doyle for pleasure’ and a phone number had been scratched into the grimy plaster above the urinal. I zipped up feeling a post-urination high and took the house key from my pocket. The message I carved into the wall was twice the size of Sean’s and ran along the top of the urinal like a banner: ‘BEVAN BUNION SUCKS’. I was scratching in the number of the hotel when someone wolf whistled from inside a cubicle.

  Brother Duffy had told us that the wild pig was the fastest animal off the mark, even faster than a cheetah. Julian Corkle was definitely more wild pig than cheetah. I was off the mark and out of the toilets in record time. I didn’t stop running until I reached the main road. My hands were on my knees and I was gasping for breath when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I spun around and experienced the sort of fear a victim must feel in front of a firing squad. Wayne Hopper was standing less than an arm’s length from me.

  ‘Ahhh!’ I stepped back to avoid a blow.

  ‘Thought that was you running out of the Gents.’ Wayne smiled. ‘Hardly recognised you with the ginger hair.’

  I didn’t correct Wayne about the colour. He was even bigger and more manlike than his school version. His shoulders had expanded and his shaving stubble was serious.

  ‘Just signed up for the army. Start training in a week.’

  ‘Congratulations.’ I couldn’t understand how any sane person could voluntarily sign up for the army. It was like signing up for prison and the chain gang.

  ‘It’s a great wicket. They give you everything free: meals, clothes, a bed. Don’t forget the gun. There aren’t many jobs where you get a gun.’

  ‘There’s rabbit killing.’

  ‘You even get to travel overseas when there’s a war.’

  ‘Bonus.’

  ‘You know what the best thing is?’ Wayne winked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘There are no bloody women!’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Too bloody right.’

  ‘I should get going, Wayne.’

  ‘Take my advice, mate. Stay the way you are.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Keep away from the sheilas. A barge pole, mate.’

  27

  The idea of being Prudence Jipper-Dingle’s butler thrilled me. I was going to be Sebastian Cabot, only younger and a lot better looking. I’d watched Sebastian in every episode of Family Affair at least twice and could even remember some of his dialogue. I’d had plenty of opportunity. Abracadabra liked to rerun popular TV shows at least three or four times. Dad said the TV station got a lot of mileage out of each show.

  Family Affair had taught me some important facts. Only the filthy rich or foreigners had butlers. The butler wore a dress suit and was called the family retainer. He not only announced dinner and opened doors for VIPs but also solved problems and held the family together in times of crisis. Prudence Jipper-Dingle was going through a celebrity divorce crisis. I’d be there retaining in her hour of need and happily opening doors for VIPs along the way.

  I called ahead and arranged an interview at the Battery Point mansion. Following Sebastian’s example, I dressed in my old pinstriped suit. I then gave my hair a lift with Mum’s Cobber’s hairspray.

  A distinguished man in a subdued blue blazer met me at the door. He glanced at my hair and nodded solemnly.

  ‘You must be Julian. My name’s Ritz.’ He had a posh English accent and a cultivated emotionless air. There was no trace of welcome on his face.

  ‘Just like the hotel! Lucky you got a five-star name. You could’ve been called Tasmania’s Own.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’ His nod was serious, as if I’d just said something profound.

  ‘Then again, if you got a job at the Ritz, you’d be Ritz at the Ritz.’

  Ritz didn’t laugh. He led me to a lounge room called the parlour and settled me on a couch called the sofa. It was a pale French-style room with ornaments, curly furniture and tasselled cushions.

  When Prudence Jipper-Dingle burst through the twin mirrored doors half an hour later, I’d already turned over every porcelain object and verified makers’ names. I was standing next to the marble fireplace with a dirty terracotta thing in my hand.

  ‘Just admiring your knick-knacks.’

  ‘You’re holding a figurine from the Tang Dynasty. It’s priceless.’

  ‘Dang Tynasty, just what I thought.’

  Prudence Jipper-Dingle swooped on me and swiftly took the object from my hands. She placed it back on its pedestal with a gasp of relief.

  ‘Your table’s a stunner.’ I pointed to the sheet of glass sitting on a lumpy piece of rock. Like the figurine, it looked obscene in a room furnished with real antiques.

  She sniffed with obvious pride. ‘That is the base of a Greek column.’ She spoke with the same English accent as Ritz.

  ‘Wasn’t sure whether it was Greek or Roman.’ I injected a little Prince Charles into my voice. ‘Ritz let me in. Shame to lose a genuine English butler like him.’

  ‘Ritz is not a butler and he’s not English. He’s a German and a friend, a gentleman caller if you like. You passed his house on the hill.’

  ‘The one with the tennis court?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the pool?’

  ‘The very one.’

  Prudence Jipper-Dingle pointed to the sofa and motioned for me to sit down. She settled herself on one of the curly chairs, moving her bony white legs to one side with an authorita
tive rustle of pantyhose. She was a freeze-dried woman in her late forties with a pinched expression and a permanently down-turned mouth. Celebrity Glitter would’ve described her hairstyle as Buckingham Palatial. It was a stiff helmet with two Elizabeth Windsor puffs near the ears. She was dressed in a rose-pink skirt and jacket with matching shoes and fingernails.

  Inhaling through her nose and exhaling through her mouth, Prudence gave me an overview of the domestic situation. Assuming a low, confidential tone, she explained that her present life was a trial. She was divorcing a certain person and this certain person was making her life very difficult. He’d taken the manservant and certain personal items and was now trying to take her house. She looked into the distance and sniffed. ‘Pure greed.’

  ‘You’re talking about Dick Dingle?’

  Prudence Jipper-Dingle tightened her lips. When she replied it was in the plural. ‘Naturally, we expect discretion on the part of a manservant. Privacy is cherished in the Jipper household. We’re looking for someone we can trust. There’s the media.’

  I smiled sympathetically and reminded her of my close personal friendship with her accountant. ‘Family friend and all that.’

  ‘My last manservant catered to my every need. I require the personal touch of a professional. Have you experience?’

  ‘I’ve just finished a stint at the Dingo and I can tell you, the manager was very sorry to lose me. I was his right hand, old Right Hand Corkle.’

  ‘Dingo, the hotel?’

  ‘All four stars of it. I was never out of that VIP suite, especially when Sir Pouch came through. High-profile people thrive on the personal touch.’

  ‘Bernard was in town? The naughty man didn’t even call me.’

  ‘He had to attend some ridiculous sports gala. I had my work cut out for me.’

  ‘You can start on Monday.’

  ‘Monday it is, Mrs Prudence Jipper-Dingle.’

  ‘Please, just Jipper.’

  ‘Jipper it is then.’

  ‘Mrs.’

  ‘Mrs.’

  ‘Someone of your calibre, Julian, I’m assuming you cook.’