Debra Fig had stopped in the middle of the room and was gazing at the wall of kitchen cupboards. ‘Jeezus, the kitchen’s got a telly.’
‘That is a Miele oven. I use it to grill lean meats.’ I ran a finger along the marble bench top and pointed to the silver fridge. ‘Icemaker. Once you get used to crushed, you find the cubes repellent.’
‘You would, you pretentious ponce.’ Debra snorted. ‘I find fly spray repellent.’
I sniffed and followed the girls into the parlour. Debra made for the mantelpiece and started touching things.
‘Please, don’t touch anything!’ I got as close to Debra as I dared. ‘They belong to Dick Dingle.’
‘That’d be right.’ Debra had a naked porcelain cherub in her hand.
Outside the girls were shrieking and splashing about in the pool. I looked to Carmel for help but she’d plonked herself down on the curly sofa next to Solange. She swung her feet on to the table.
‘Bloody ugly footstool.’
‘It’s part of a Greek column, thousands of years old. An authentic, priceless antique from Greece.’
‘Greek my bum. Bet it’s Bunyip sandstone.’ Carmel reached over and gave Solange’s belly a tickle. The dog rolled on to its back and opened its hind legs shamelessly.
‘That’s priceless!’
We all turned. The hoarse whisper was hurled from the doorway and aimed at Debra who was holding the Dang figurine to her nose, smelling its bottom. Prudence had appeared from nowhere. Her face was waxy white and her turban was askew.
‘I…I do not understand.’ Prudence looked at me. ‘There are naked girls in my swimming pool. Big girls…with big arms.’
‘It’s not what you think, Mrs Jipper.’ I took the figurine from Debra’s hand and replaced it on its stand.
Debra screwed up her nose. ‘That thing smells like dung.’
Carmel snickered from the sofa. Prudence looked her way. Her eyes fell on the dog.
‘Solange! How could you!’
The Afghan rolled off the sofa and slunk out of the room with its tail between its legs. My sister watched it go and then stood with her big arm outstretched.
‘Prudential, I’m Julian’s sister.’
‘Prudence.’ Prudence sniffed and refused Carmel’s hand. ‘Jipper to you.’
I moved back. It was never wise to refuse my sister.
Carmel’s face hardened. ‘Jipper it is then.’
Prudence drew breath sharply. ‘I want you all to leave immediately or I’ll call the authorities.’
‘The port authorities?’ Carmel winked at Prudence.
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘Down at the docks.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘The docks, your old trawling ground.’ Carmel winked again and gave me a shove toward the door.
‘Get out!’ Prudence thrust a bony finger in the direction of the back door. The tendons of her neck were standing out like fingers.
‘We’re leaving anyway. We’ve got other fish to fry.’
Prudence glared at me as I was pushed past. Her lip curled. ‘You’re fired!’
‘And you’re a fish-gutting gold-digger!’ I gave her one of Carmel’s winks.
Prudence gasped.
‘I don’t know who’s the bigger bitch, you or Solange.’
A cheer went up as we appeared at the front of the house. The girls had climbed in the back of the ute and were drinking beer. I thought of the Mod Squad as I got into the cab between Carmel and Debra. I was part of a team, and even if it was only a girls’ cricket team, it still felt good. I pulled the novelty hula girl out of my pocket and stuck it to the dashboard.
The wheels of the ute spun over the lawn, chewing up turf and spraying garden soil over the parked Jaguar. George sat rigid in his driver’s seat with his hands clenching the steering wheel. A thrill went through me as Carmel rolled down her window. The bottle she threw landed expertly at the feet of Prudence who was standing like a marble statue on the lawn in front of the terrace.
31
It didn’t take long for the triumph to wear off and reality to sink in. Carmel and Mum left for work each day like normal citizens while I stayed at home, ate and worried about the TV being repossessed. Not only was I jobless and friendless, but I had no money and my mother was being courted by an unknown factor called Dezzie. The more I thought about the philanderer, the more upset I became. Anyone with a name like Dezzie had to be a bastard. Dezzie, Dazza and Bazza were nicknames of a certain type of man. They were the types that hung around the pub watching football and drinking Tickworth lager. These were ridiculous pastimes but that’s what passed for normal in Tasmania and normal was supposed to be good. If you weren’t normal you were a foreigner or a poofter.
At least my father didn’t have a ‘za’ name. James never got turned into Jazza. It was hardly a consolation but he had very little else going for him. Dad was typical in every other way and thought he was superior because he passed for normal. It didn’t make sense.
I’d agreed to spend Easter Monday at his place after a disastrous Sunday morning at home. I should’ve suspected foul play when I found three large Easter eggs in my mother’s wardrobe. Three? Naturally, I thought Mum had bought me two. I was at home more often than Carmel and a lot nicer to have around. I deserved two.
Mum knew that Easter Sunday was important to me. We’d spent nearly sixteen of them together. It should’ve been the best Easter yet. We didn’t have to share chocolate with Dad or put up with the sickening Sunday afternoon hum of sports programming.
When I carried the tray of tea and toast into Mum’s bedroom, I was prepared for a perfect Easter. Bygones were bygones. We’d drink tea together like old times and break open some chocolate eggs for Jesus. She sat up in bed smiling and patted the bed beside her.
‘Happy Easter, honey.’ Mum handed me a single chocolate egg.
‘Where’s the other one?’
‘What other one?’
‘There were three in your wardrobe.’
‘What were you doing in my wardrobe?’ Mum replaced the teacup in its saucer with a clatter. Her face hardened.
‘Looking for a Band-Aid. I cut myself preparing your dinner.’
‘You were looking for a Band-Aid in my wardrobe?’ Mum crossed her arms over her chest. ‘You have no place going through my things, Julian. How many times do I have to tell you?’
‘You bought it for Dezzie, didn’t you?’ Two could play at self-righteousness. I stood up and looked down at her with my hands on my hips, Dolly-style.
‘Yes I did, as a matter of fact.’ Mum’s face flushed. ‘I’m having lunch with him today.’
‘Well, you’d better not spoil your appetite then.’
I snatched the tray off her lap and hurried out of the room with tears pricking my eyes.
Later that evening I began preparing for Monday by sifting flour into a bowl. Mum had left in a huff before lunch and still hadn’t come home. We’d had words when I told her I was going to Dad’s for lunch the next day. She’d called me foolish and slammed the door on her way out. I would’ve been upset about her gallivanting if I wasn’t so angry. The thought of Dezzie eating chocolate that rightfully belonged to me made my blood boil.
Hot-cross buns were a Good Friday treat but we’d never eaten them on a Friday at our house. Dad had always insisted on buying them a couple of days later when he got more buns for his buck. The way to my father’s heart was definitely through his stomach. Fresh hot-cross buns was a gesture he’d appreciate. It was Corkle family legend that his mother had made them every Easter.
The secret to making a good hot-cross bun was to leave the dough overnight to rise. I was pouring yeast granules into warm water when the fly screen creaked and John poked his miserable head inside the door. He looked at me and sneered.
‘Jesus Christ, what happened to your hair?’
I glanced back down at the box of yeast. It was empty. I couldn’t remember
how full it had been but now wasn’t the time to worry about details. My plans for an Easter détente were in jeopardy. John was my father’s golden boy. He was supposed to be in Melbourne where he was now a student.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘It’s Easter.’ John took in my satin pyjamas and Mum’s apron tied around my waist. He sniggered. ‘Joan Collins.’
‘Don’t you have bodies to cut up?’
‘Fuck off, Joan.’
John heaved his suitcase through the door and headed for Carmel’s old bedroom. I watched him bump his way down the hall and considered my options. The Joan Collins comment was not only vicious but it was also completely wrong. The satin pyjamas and sweep-over fringe were very Bryan Ferry. The Christian and Easter thing to do was turn the other cheek. Then again, John deserved a little heat. I waited until the shower was running and then turned on the cold tap.
Feeling a lot better, I emptied Mum’s currant jar into the flour and added cinnamon and sugar. The yeast was bubbling when I added it to the dry ingredients. I rolled the dough into balls, placed them on a tray and blessed them with sugar-water crosses. As I did it, I muttered Ralph Waters’ version of the sign of the cross: ‘Spectacles, testicles, wallet and watch.’
I could smell the sweet fatty odour of grilled sausages as the Hubs ute pulled into Trevor’s drive. Cursing under my breath, I prayed that Dad had had the sense to also buy steak. A barbecue wasn’t worth its firelighters without steak. It was like a birthday without a cake. I followed Carmel and John into the kitchen where we found Trevor stirring Tucker Box gravy on the stove.
‘Your Dad’s on the new deck. He’s fired up the barbie for a mixed grill.’
Carmel and John disappeared out of the back door. Trevor removed the pot from the element and shook my hand. ‘Hope you like lamb’s fry and black pudding. He’s got a good pile of sausages, too.’
‘I like steak.’ What sane person liked animal organs and blood? Sausages were edible but only as a back-up to a good steak, preferably fillet.
‘Just like your dad.’ Trevor lifted the tea towel covering the beer crate I’d placed on the table. ‘What’s this?’
‘A hot-cross loaf.’
When I’d opened the hot-water cupboard in the morning, I’d found a lumpy tray of swollen dough. The buns had tripled in size overnight and joined together. Since I didn’t have the ingredients or time to remake the dough, I’d put the tray in the oven and hoped for the best. Twenty minutes later I’d removed a monstrous pillow of bread pock-marked with currants and X’s. The loaf looked like a three-dimensional game of noughts and crosses.
‘It’s very artistic. I’ve never tried the loaf but I’m a big fan of the buns.’
‘It’s a traditional Irish recipe from County Cork. The loaf came before the bun, a bit like the chicken and egg story.’
‘That’ll make a lovely dessert. Go out and say hello to your dad. I’ll put it on a platter.’
I stifled a wave of carsickness as I walked out on to the new deck. Carmel and John were setting up wickets on the lawn below. Dad was surrounded by smoke, busily tonging sausages on the grill. He was wearing a plastic barbecue apron printed with ‘I’m with stupid’ and an arrow. I approached him from the blunt side of the arrow.
‘It’s a very nice deck, Dad.’ From experience, I knew the best way to warm up my father was to congratulate him on something.
‘Of course it’s a nice deck. It cost enough.’
‘But worth it.’
‘You can say that again.’ Dad smiled proudly as if I’d just congratulated him for scaling K2. ‘We’ve put the telly on wheels and sit out here of an evening with a bucket of ice and Tickworths. You can’t beat a game of footy and a decent Australian sausage. Why I ever married and had kids, I’ll never know.’
Dad picked off several sausages and added them to a mound of barbecued meats. I eyed the stack of rump steak and told myself to keep calm. Everything was going to be all right.
A trestle table had been set up on the deck. As we took our seats, I made sure to sit as far from John as possible. The plate of meat was in front of Dad. I watched him take the biggest steak, a couple of sausages and a kidney. John and Carmel followed suit and passed the tray to Trevor. When the tray was passed to me all the steak was gone. I probed under the sausages and cooked offal and then double-checked everyone’s plate. There was no mistaking it. We were definitely one steak short. Dad coughed and held up his glass of beer to John.
‘It’s great to have you home for Easter, son.’ Dad was an expert at making meaningless toasts. ‘I never expected this. A lovely surprise.’
I gritted my teeth. We were one steak short because of John’s selfishness.
‘Thanks, Dad.’ John put down his cutlery as if he was about to make a speech. ‘I’ve got some news.’
Dad lowered his glass. ‘You’re not quitting medical school, I hope.’
‘No. I’ve met a girl from Devonport. I’m driving over there tomorrow to meet her parents.’
‘A nice Tassie girl. Now there’s a spot of luck. What does she do?’
‘She’ll be a gynaecologist in a few years.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Dad frowned. Gynaecology wasn’t real science to men like my father. It was something indecent, definitely not the sort of thing to discuss over sausages. ‘But she’ll be a doctor all the same?’
‘A specialist.’ John had noticed Dad’s reaction and wanted to convince him of the profession. ‘They make a lot more money than GPs.’
‘Now you’re talking.’
‘What’s her name?’ My question was aimed at John but everyone looked at me in surprise as if they’d forgotten my presence.
‘Susan.’ John shot me a dangerous look.
‘John and Susan. Now there’s an original combination of unusual names.’
‘It’s better than Julian and Cecil.’ John sniggered into his steak.
‘I don’t know anyone called Cecil.’ It was true. I’d never met a Cecil in my entire life. It was a very unpopular name in Tasmania. ‘Cecil sounds like the name of a gynaecologist.’
‘Enough of that talk!’ Dad glared at me as if I’d just said ‘bastard’.
The conversation went back to the cricket World Series and everyone relaxed. Everyone except me. The sausage in my mouth had turned to tasteless rubber. I chewed my way through its gristle and cursed myself for coming.
With a belch, Dad pushed his plate away, a signal that the meal was coming to an end. Trevor stood and took the meat tray to the kitchen and returned with my loaf on a large roasting dish. He placed it in the middle of the table with a ‘Ta-dah’ and then discreetly took his seat. Carmel and John stared. Dad leaned forward and frowned, prodding it with a finger.
‘It’s a hot-cross loaf.’ I hurried to name it before Dad said something I’d regret. ‘Just like Nana used to make.’
‘Your grandmother was a lady.’ Dad snorted out a laugh. It was his free-and-easy Tickworth laugh. ‘She never made anything vulgar.’
He laughed again. John sniggered.
‘I put in lots of currants.’
‘I can’t eat another thing right now. I’m as full as a cattle tick.’ Dad pushed his chair back and patted his stomach. ‘Right, who’s ready to work off their steak?’
John smirked and walked off to the wickets in the garden. I watched Dad take a seat on the step as Carmel picked up the bat and took her place in front of the other set of wickets. It was just like old times. All we needed was the television on wheels screening sports programmes and the nightmare would be complete. John turned the ball in his hands and winked at Dad.
‘I’ll do an Uncle Norman.’ Instead of bowling the regular way, John tossed the ball underarm. It looped up in a weak parabola and fell at Carmel’s feet.
Dad laughed and slapped his knee.
‘Wanker.’ Carmel kicked the ball back to John. She didn’t joke around when it came to cricket. ‘Throw the bloody thing properly or I’ll wrap this bat a
round your head.’
When I turned back to the table, Trevor was helping himself to a slice of the loaf. The interior of the bread was full of holes and looked like lacework. Trevor smiled and took a bite, chewing slowly.
‘Very tasty. Unusual.’
‘Trevor, what happened to Norman?’
‘Your uncle?’
I nodded.
‘It was a long time ago.’
‘But something happened.’
Trevor winced.
‘Please, Trevor.’ My voice was a whine. ‘He’s my uncle and everyone knows except me.’
‘He got into a spot of trouble when he came to Hobart.’
‘What sort of trouble?’
‘It’s old news, mate.’
‘Please.’
‘There was some nonsense inside a public lavatory.’ Trevor glanced over at Dad and lowered his voice. ‘Down at the docks.’
‘He got caught?’
‘With another gent.’
‘By the police?’
Trevor nodded. ‘They couldn’t prove anything in court but once his name got in the paper, he was done for.’
My body felt boneless and electrical. My heart was pumping but my limbs had lost power. All the blood was going to my head, which felt like it was going to shatter. I looked over at my father and John and tried to control the nausea that had stiffened my jaw. They weren’t funny or original. They were just normal and normal was dumb and mean-spirited. Mum wasn’t normal like them but she’d still betrayed me. She should’ve told me about Norman. We were a team and team-mates didn’t keep secrets. Now I understood why my uncle had fled Tasmania. What kind of life would he have had after such a scandal?
I sat completely still. The electrical feeling had travelled up my spine and spread to the outer edges of my body. I felt as if the membrane separating me from the rest of the world was dissolving. I knew Trevor was going to pat me on the back before I felt his hand. The touch made me feel solid again.
Julian Corkle is a Filthy Liar Page 24