Julian Corkle is a Filthy Liar

by D. J. Connell

  ‘I do a fabulous muffin.’

  ‘Thank you, mais non. There’ll be no call for anything foreign or fatty. They’re the two forbidden Fs in the Jipper kitchen. Delicate constitutions run in the family.’

  ‘They’re full of fibre.’

  ‘Non.’

  Prudence Jipper didn’t look as if she ate much of anything. Her translucent skin was pulled tight over the inner workings of her body, exposing blue veins and white protrusions of bone around her wrists and ankles. She made a clicking noise when she folded her joints.

  ‘You will be required to prepare a simple yet nourishing daily meal for Solange.’

  ‘Solange?’ Dick Dingle had a child? This was news to me.

  ‘You’ll meet her shortly.’

  Prudence led me through the dining room, past a long marble table encircled by twelve curly chairs. I imagined Dick Dingle reading National Geographic magazine and eating toast at the table. He was wearing a bathrobe with a towel around his head.

  With a majestic twist of the hand, Prudence turned the light dial and brought the crystal chandelier to life. The matching candlesticks on the marble mantelpiece sparkled in response. She waved her arm, saying she’d had a few things sent over from the Continent.

  ‘You have a lovely house, Mrs Jipper. I bet your bathroom’s a beauty.’

  ‘You will not be seeing the bathroom. Out of bounds. My personal chambers are private.’ Prudence sniffed. ‘There’s a servants’ salle de bains off the back vestibule. Naturally, you’ll be responsible for its cleanliness.’

  I wanted to be upset about the bathroom but couldn’t maintain disappointment for long. The kitchen was a marvel of stainless-steel and glass and had large French windows that gave on to a landscaped garden. The floor was tiled with shiny marble and the stainless-steel fridge looked like a silver rocket ship. I imagined Dick Dingle boiling eggs in the kitchen. He was still wearing his bathrobe but had now removed the towel from around his head.

  I tapped a large black screen set into the wall of stainless-steel cupboards. The kitchen even had a colour television.

  ‘That, Julian, is a Miele. It is the oven you will be using to grill Solange’s lean meats.’

  ‘Does it microwave?’

  Prudence sniffed and ran a finger along the marble bench top as she led me out of the back door to the lawn. She pointed to a pine shed done up like a Swiss chalet. ‘That’s where Solange spends her days.’

  ‘In a shed?’

  ‘It’s a chalet with its own amenities.’ Prudence obviously thought she was a good provider. ‘Solange! I want you to meet someone!’

  Blond hair flashed past one of the chalet windows. I heard an excited yelp and then the tiny door creaked and opened outward like a flap. Something large and hairy poked its head out. Its eyes fixed on me and narrowed.

  ‘Solange is a dog?’

  ‘A pedigree Afghan hound. Best in show, countless times.’ She beckoned the dog. ‘Solange, come to Mumsy.’

  The flap creaked and the dog shot out with its teeth bared. It was enormous, the size of a Welsh miner’s pony. I ducked behind Prudence as it lunged for my thigh.

  ‘Don’t be silly. Solange is only playing.’ Prudence held the dog by a sparkly pink collar and rubbed its hairy ears. ‘Babykins lubs a wubba dubba dubba.’

  I took an immediate dislike to the Afghan. There was something unnatural about its small head and oversized body. Its long blond hair gave it an uncanny resemblance to Rick Wakeman. My brother John loved Rick Wakeman.

  ‘So I only have to prepare lean meats for Solange?’

  The dog was still glaring at me.

  ‘That and grooming. Solange is a champion on the dog circuit.’

  ‘She doesn’t seem to like me.’

  ‘She doesn’t like many people. It’s her star’s temperament. Take no notice.’

  ‘Star?’ Here was my cue. ‘I’m something of a star myself. I did a stint on TV a while back. Perhaps your husb—’

  Prudence cut me off with a wave of the hand and addressed herself to the dog. ‘We have only one star in this household. Thanks to a certain person I’ve had quite my fill of TV stars.’

  ‘Mr Dingle?’

  ‘We do not use the D name in this house.’

  ‘We’re outside the house.’

  Prudence frowned.

  I was going to have to work hard to make the Dick Dingle connection but at least I was standing on his lawn and would soon be cleaning his pool-filtration system. Prudence informed me that I’d be doing quite a lot of cleaning. I was also to dust and polish daily, buy groceries and cater to Solange’s every need. What I wasn’t allowed to do was answer the door or the phone. I wasn’t even going to wear a dinner suit. My uniform was to be blue bib-and-brace overalls and I had to buy them myself.

  ‘Given the current financial circumstances, a little belt-tightening is in order.’ Prudence glanced at my waist and frowned. ‘Naturally your salary will fall below the recommended minimum.’

  ‘Isn’t the minimum wage set by the law?’

  ‘Don’t quibble. I’ll pay what I can but you must understand my situation.’

  I understood it all right. I was to receive very little money from a very rich woman. It was daylight robbery, the sort of thing the Queen of England did to her staff at Buckingham Palace.

  I looked around the grounds. It was definitely one of the nicer houses in Hobart and Prudence was still legally married to Tasmania’s one and only mega-star. I thought about the kitchen and the curly furniture. At least I didn’t have to pay to work there.

  I stopped at George’s Electrical Emporium on the way home to reclaim the swamp walnut. Eric was unimpressed with my new job.

  ‘That’s your wage?’ He pointed to the sum I’d just written down on the new hire-purchase form. ‘Pitiful! By rights I shouldn’t let you take the TV.’

  ‘I’m working for Dick Dingle’s wife.’

  ‘She must be as tight as a duck’s arse.’

  ‘She’s going through a divorce, belt-tightening and all that. The press are all over her. I’ll be fighting off cameramen. You’ll probably see me on TV.’ I raised an eyebrow. ‘It won’t be the first time. I used to have my own show on Abracadabra.’

  ‘Take my advice and get yourself a decent job, mate. Something in sales. Start putting money away. One day you’ll want a wife and family.’

  ‘No I won’t.’

  ‘You should get into life insurance like your mate. There’s a job with a future. Excellent sales potential in the sick and dying. It’s all about psychology.’ Eric tapped his temple. ‘If you convince people they’re going to get cancer, they’ll sign anything. Earn yourself a commission and buy yourself a tidy little Ford Escort.’

  ‘I don’t drive.’

  Eric looked at me as if I was insane and shook his head. ‘You can’t help those who won’t help themselves.’

  He removed the ‘GOOD AS NEW’ sign and ran a sleeve over the swamp walnut. I didn’t offer to help as he carried it out to the delivery van. He could help himself if he knew so much.

  Eric deposited the TV on the front step of our house and left without saying goodbye. I struggled with it into the lounge and was setting it up when I realised the batteries had been removed from the remote control. I was still cursing when Mum came in all dressed up. She was going to a wine bar with people from work. This was news to me. Mum never went to wine bars and she never forgot to do up the top button of her blouse.

  I followed her into The Ensuite. ‘Your button’s undone, Mum.’

  ‘I know.’

  I studied her face in the mirror but saw no trace of shame. She was boldly putting on silvery eye shadow with a fluffy stick.

  ‘I got the job, Mum. I start tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s wonderful, Julian.’ Mum’s mirror reflection smiled at me and continued applying the make-up. ‘I’ve got good news, too.’

  ‘The pay’s a bit low. That’s the only thing.’

  �
�How low?’ Mum stopped applying the eye shadow.

  ‘Lower than the minimum.’

  ‘That’s illegal, Julian.’

  ‘But she’s Dick Dingle’s wife.’ My voice was a whine. I wanted Mum to be happy for me. I had enough doubts of my own, especially about the dog. ‘I’ll probably never get another chance like this.’

  ‘Of course you will. You’re a star, Julian. That woman must be loaded. It’s not right.’ Mum meant business. She didn’t turn around or smile at me in the mirror. I hated it when she did that.

  ‘Mum, what are those pills in your nightstand?’

  ‘You have no business going through my things.’ Her reflection gave me a hard look. ‘What were you doing in there?’

  ‘Looking for aspirin. I had a very sore head after the clam incident.’ I didn’t need a headache to poke around in my mother’s things. I was always going through them. ‘It’s not the Pill?’

  ‘Since you ask, yes it is.’

  ‘You’re on the Pill?’ My voice was shrill.

  ‘To regulate my hormones. You know very well that I went to a doctor for women’s business.’

  ‘That’s all right then.’

  I didn’t understand female hormones and didn’t need to know. The important thing was that Mum wasn’t on the Pill for the wrong reasons. The oral contraceptive got a lot of bad press in Tasmania, especially within the Catholic community where it was talked about in the same breath as heroin. According to good Catholics like Dolly, the Pill made randy girls even randier and set them loose on married men. Girls on the Pill had irresponsible sex for pleasure because they never had to worry about the consequences. Dolly had firm opinions about these girls. ‘Disease never stopped a loose woman. They need the threat of pregnancy to rein them in.’

  ‘Let me give your hair a fluff.’ I ran my fingers through her hair and gave it a squirt with Cobber’s hairspray. ‘You said you had good news.’

  ‘I’ve been promoted to manageress of the Board’s cluster refreshment facilities.’ Mum slipped on her high heels and looked at her legs in the mirror.

  ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘Thanks, honey. Dezzie’s taking us out to celebrate.’ A horn tooted. ‘That’ll be him.’

  I went to the bedroom window and pulled back a curtain. An old Ford Cortina was parked in the driveway. It was too dark to see details but I could tell there was only one person in the car. ‘But you’re going out in a group?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘It’s a Ford Cortina.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Surely a Wool Board executive should own a tidy little Escort.’

  ‘Don’t wait up for me.’

  28

  Prudence had a way of getting what she wanted and her method had a lot to do with a sense of entitlement and brute force. She never questioned what she did and no one was allowed to doubt her judgement. She knew best and when she didn’t, she quoted an expert.

  ‘As Wallis Simpson says, “A woman can’t be too rich or too thin.”’ Prudence pointed a bony finger at the steak I was preparing for Solange’s dinner, a mixed grill of fillet steak, veal cutlet and chicken breast with carrots julienne. She’d shelled out more on the dog’s dinner than I’d earn in two days.

  ‘Remove all the fat before grilling.’

  ‘My mother says you need a little fat for flavour.’

  ‘Where do you people get these ideas?’

  ‘From my mother, like I said.’

  ‘That’s why people like you are fat.’ She whispered the last word as if it were an obscenity.

  I pulled in my stomach.

  Prudence drew air in through her nose slowly and released it sharply through her mouth.

  ‘It is my observation that the further one ventures away from Battery Point and out into the suburbs, the larger the human being. The less money people have, the more recklessly they spend on food. If they simply controlled themselves at the supermarket, they’d have money for shoes and handbags and look a lot better for it. As Coco Chanel said, “Elegance is refusal.”’

  Refusing Prudence was not an option. She stood over me as I cut every particle of fat off the fillet steak. She’d done a lot of standing over me since I began working for her. Everything had to be done a certain way and the cheaper it was done, the better. Vacuum cleaner bags were emptied and reused. The windows were washed with vinegar and newspaper and Cobber’s bags were recycled as rubbish bags. Prudence never entered supermarkets but she knew they gave away bags to pack groceries. I was instructed to load up when I did the shopping.

  Prudence was like no one I’d ever met. She wasn’t just authoritarian and stingy. She was completely unselfconscious about it. Nor did she care that her bullying and penny-pinching made life difficult for me. She was above all that. Her selfishness both upset and thrilled me. I’d never encountered anyone so profoundly self-centred. Each day she upped the ante. Her imperialism had no bounds.

  ‘Julian, I expect you to wear a clean uniform every day.’

  ‘You mean overalls, Mrs Jipper?’

  ‘Uniform.’

  ‘Overalls.’

  The overalls were a sore point with me. I could only afford one pair and these I had to secretly wash and iron dry every evening before Mum got home. I did this to avoid confrontation. Mum referred to Prudence as a shameless profiteer and told me she hadn’t raised a brilliant son to clean other people’s homes for peanuts. I couldn’t fault her logic, but then again, I was desperate to hitch my wagon to something and Prudence was as close as I’d ever come to a celebrity. She was married to the biggest star in Tasmania and rubbed shoulders with movers and shakers. I just had to be patient and keep my eye on the ball. A Golden Microphone Moment was bound to come my way.

  In the meantime I had to juggle to survive. The miserable salary barely covered the TV payments and left virtually nothing for necessities like cigarettes and chocolate. I badly needed a haircut but I could hardly ask Mum for money. Every morning I carefully restyled my hair with Cobber’s hairspray but it was impossible to hide the dark band of regrowth which now gave my head the multicolour effect of desert camouflage.

  Prudence ran a critical eye over my hair and overalls. Her eyes settled on the grimy overall bib. ‘Surely you people have a washing machine.’

  ‘I just cleaned out your fireplace. It’s fire dirt.’

  ‘I hope you polished the brass. There’s nothing quite as disagreeable as a dull firedog.’

  I could think of two more disagreeable things, Prudence and Solange, but I wasn’t employed to point out the obvious. My job was to kowtow and, while I was down there, kindly wash the floor. Prudence was selfish and disagreeable but Solange had the bigger teeth. The dog made me paranoid. It watched me constantly and had a nasty habit of leaping out of hiding places, teeth bared.

  ‘Where’s Solange?’

  ‘I shut her outside. She tried to bite me again.’

  ‘Piffle.’

  ‘She chased me.’

  ‘Rubbish. Let her in. It’s time for her coiffure.’

  Dog grooming was one aspect of the job I truly despised. Before every dog show, Solange was washed and conditioned, dried with a hairdryer, trimmed and brushed into a pavlova of fluffy blond fur. The grooming took hours. My only consolation was that Prudence handled the end of the dog with teeth.

  I was on my knees, trimming the fur around the dog’s bum with a pair of nail scissors, when the doorbell rang. Prudence dropped the muzzle and, without a care for my well-being, flounced out of the kitchen. Solange immediately turned and glared at me. She growled. My trimming hand froze. I was alone and on my knees before the evil empire.

  The only dog-handling trick I knew had come from a TV programme on training guard dogs. The show had started with a warning that it contained violence unsuitable for children under twelve. An instructor in a padded trainer’s outfit had explained in a slow, educational manner that dogs naturally went for the open, vulnerable parts of the human body. He then a
pproached a dog enclosure and encouraged viewers to watch closely as he threw a shop-window mannequin to an untrained German shepherd. The hard plastic body had barely left his hands before the dog latched on to its crotch and began eating its way to the collarbone. At this point the instructor had performed a manoeuvre called the ‘jaw release’. Using a broom handle with a tea towel tied to its end, he gave the dog’s bum hole a poke. The German shepherd’s jaws opened like magic and released the mutilated mannequin. The camera moved off the dog as it began to throw up bits of pink plastic. The jaw release was a handy trick to know but I needed a broom handle and more distance from Solange. Nail scissors didn’t cut it.

  The dog growled again.

  I clamped my thighs together and gripped the scissors.

  ‘Now where were we?’ Prudence sailed back into the room smiling. Her cheeks bore two small pink dots.

  ‘You were holding the dog by its head.’

  ‘Her name is Solange and she’s a blue ribbon champion! She’s going to win best in show today.’ Prudence patted her chest. ‘Stand up for Mumsy if you want a treat.’

  The Afghan leaped up and threw its forepaws on to her chest. I jumped to my feet and backed away. Raised on its hind legs, the dog was taller than an American basketball player.

  From her pocket, Prudence produced a rabbit soft toy. She waved it in front of the dog’s nose. Solange took it gently in her mouth before resuming the four-legged position and tail-wagging like a normal dog. This good-doggy routine didn’t fool me. I’d discovered a graveyard of soft toys behind the azaleas. They’d all been gutted and ripped to pieces.

  ‘That was Harrison at the door. We’re leaving in fifteen minutes.’ With a practised flick of her fingers, Prudence tied a ribbon around the dog’s chignon. ‘I hope you’ve done a decent job of the tail feathers. Solange’s rear always gets a lot of attention.’

  ‘Another gentleman caller?’ Flattery was an excellent way to handle Prudence.

  ‘I’m afraid so.’ She glanced at her reflection in the door of the Miele. ‘A certain person didn’t know how lucky he was.’

  ‘Your husband?’