Julian Corkle is a Filthy Liar

by D. J. Connell

  I walked past Mum’s bedroom door with a smile. Who needed The Ensuite when there was a perfectly good family bathroom down the hall? I’d washed and was working the toaster when someone coughed politely behind me.

  ‘Top o’ the morning, Dez.’ I turned to face him, smiling big. I could afford to be generous. Julian Corkle was a winner. Smiling was also an excellent skill for Dick Dingle’s television camera. ‘Buttery toast and a cup of tea?’

  ‘That would be very nice, yes.’ Dezzie smiled hesitantly and kept his distance. ‘You’re up early.’

  ‘The early bird gets the worm, Dez.’

  ‘That’s what I tell my cadets.’

  ‘You must be like a father to them.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far.’ Dezzie shrugged modestly. ‘I just try to give them a solid grounding in the wool trade.’

  ‘Wool, now that’s a fascinating subject.’

  ‘Yes.’ Dezzie seemed to relax. He was warming to the subject. ‘Did you know that mankind has been wearing wool for thousands of years? They say the first knitted sock dates back to before the birth of Christ.’

  ‘Fancy that. That’s probably where the Germans get it.’

  ‘What would that be?’

  ‘Socks and sandals. Jesus was probably a role model.’

  ‘I’m not saying Jesus himself wore socks with his sandals.’

  ‘I suppose Jerusalem must’ve been hot even then.’

  ‘I’m not sure where the first knitted sock was worn. It may have been in Siberia. I was just saying that it appears to have been worn before or possibly around the time of Jesus.’

  ‘Jesus never went to Siberia.’

  ‘No.’

  Dezzie and I were getting on like a house on fire. He was a lot more intelligent than he looked, certainly an improvement on my father, whose only areas of expertise were ball games and beer. Dad also liked the sound of his own voice too much to engage in rewarding two-way conversation.

  I watched appreciatively as Dezzie cut the crusts off Mum’s toast and took a cup of tea to the bedroom. Breakfast in bed was not a service my father ever provided. He’d hardly provided enough money for food and clothing. Mum certainly dressed a lot better since Dezzie had arrived on the scene. These days, her bra and underpants always matched. It was a comfort to know she looked good under her clothes.

  I left the house feeling fantastic and whistling ‘Old Durham Town’. As I turned the corner of Echidna Avenue, I stopped whistling. My footsteps slowed. An ominous brown Holden station wagon was parked under an acacia tree on the side of the road. Dad tooted his horn and wound down the driver’s window.

  ‘I hoped I’d catch you.’ He patted the passenger seat. ‘Jump in.’

  I didn’t want to enter an enclosed space with my father, especially not an enclosed space belonging to him. I hadn’t seen or heard from him for months, not since his Easter barbecue. He hadn’t called and I certainly hadn’t wanted to talk to him. I bent down to get a good look at his face. He was smiling. Reluctantly, I climbed into the passenger seat.

  ‘So how’s life treating you?’ His mouth was stretched tight. It wasn’t his Carmel smile. This one looked like hard work.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘I heard about this job of yours.’ Dad’s face loosened into a more natural hard-done-by expression. ‘You could’ve told me. I had to hear it from a third party.’

  ‘I didn’t think you cared.’ I knew who the third party was. Dolly wasn’t so much a third party as a party of three crammed into one big nasty busybody.

  ‘Of course I care.’

  Dad cared? Something loosened inside me. ‘It’s an apprenticeship. I’m learning a trade.’

  ‘That’s what I’m worried about.’ Dad took a deep breath and pressed his lips together. ‘I don’t think you know what you’re getting yourself into.’

  ‘There’s nothing to worry about.’

  ‘You’re my son. A father worries.’

  Despite myself, I felt a warm tingle in my chest. Dad had just admitted I was his son. He’d never said anything so intimate before. It was almost like saying ‘I love you’.

  ‘Didn’t I give you a Meccano set?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And a cricket ball.’

  ‘That too.’

  ‘And we practised your bowling out the back under the plum tree.’ The smile disappeared. Dad’s face clouded. ‘Until we found out your eyes were buggered.’

  ‘But I got fashion frames.’ I tapped my new glasses.

  My father blinked. His eyes watered. ‘Where did I go wrong?’

  Dad’s reaction took me by surprise. His normal modus operandi was to attack and disable. He’d never blamed himself for anything in front of me before. It was confusing. I could deal with his anger but was defenceless against his disappointment. I found myself feeling guilty and wanting to cheer him up.

  ‘I’ll be meeting Dick Dingle, Dad.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  Dad had taken a tatty handkerchief from his pocket and was wiping his eyes. My own eyes felt moist. It was like a touching father-and-son scene from television.

  ‘The hair show’s going to be televised live.’ Norman had told Mum that Abracadabra was doing a special Tales of Tasmania programme. ‘I’ll be back on the box.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s a state-wide competition with a trophy and everything. The apprentice with the best big hair wins.’

  ‘Oh my God.’ Dad’s eyes had dried. He gave me a fierce look.

  ‘The trophy’s called the Crowning Glory.’ I was trying to impress Dad but rapidly losing ground. ‘I’ll have to make the hair really big and high. Fluffing and all that.’

  ‘Fluff…’ Dad’s voice trailed off into a gurgle. He steadied himself against the steering wheel. His knuckles were white.

  ‘Hairstyling, that’s the technical name.’

  ‘Do you realise your sister’s just been chosen for the Tassie team?’

  This was news to me but I nodded anyway. I didn’t like the colour of Dad’s face. It had gone from vague pink to mauve.

  ‘That girl’s worked very hard for this. We all have.’

  I nodded again. A dangerous crimson flush was spreading upward from his shirt collar.

  ‘We can’t let anything get in the way of this.’

  A bomb exploded in my chest. Heat surged through my bloodstream. I suddenly felt like smashing the brown Holden to bits and battering my father to death. I’d been duped. Dad didn’t care about my career or even my happiness. He just wanted me to give up hairdressing. The idea that my job jeopardised Carmel’s cricketing prospects was insane. It wasn’t about Carmel. It was about Dad. He didn’t want a hairdresser for a son. He was ashamed of me.

  I didn’t look at his face because I knew what I’d find. His I-know-best look, the one he always used to get his way. I willed myself to calm down. When I found my voice it was a low Peter Grubb growl.

  ‘I’m pleased for Carmel.’

  ‘So you should be. That girl’s done us proud.’

  ‘She’s done you proud.’

  ‘You can say that again.’

  The red of my anger scaled down to amber. My pulse rate slowed. I looked over at my father. He’d taken his hands off the steering wheel and was fidgeting with the car keys, eager to be done with this talk and get going. He wasn’t even looking at me. He’d said his piece and expected me to accept it.

  ‘Dad, Carmel doesn’t give a toss what I do.’

  ‘She’s got more important things on her mind. It’s the state team. She’ll be representing Tasmania.’

  ‘I’m not quitting my job.’

  Dad’s body jerked as if he’d been jolted with a cattle prod.

  ‘I’m a hairdresser.’

  ‘You can’t be serious.’ His head twitched in my direction. I had his full attention.

  ‘I like hair. I’ve always liked it. I love running my fingers through it and making it fluff up.’ I made flouncy movements with
my hands. ‘I hate ball games.’

  ‘That’s not natural.’

  ‘And another thing, I don’t like girls. It’s boys I like.’

  Dad made a strange choking sound in the back of his throat.

  ‘Uncle Norman’s coming back to Tasmania for the show and I can’t wait to meet him. He’s an inspiration.’ I turned the door handle and swung a leg out of the Holden. ‘You can watch us on TV. Dick Dingle. State-wide. We’ll do you proud.’

  I must’ve taken the bus to the salon but I completely blanked out the journey. When I came to, Dot was lighting a menthol for me in the garden. It was the warmth of her hand on my arm. I was suddenly crying and choking on the cigarette as I told her about Dad. She listened, shaking her head and tut-tutting in all the right places. Her warmth had spread to my fingers and toes by the time I finished.

  ‘You can choose your friends but you can’t choose your family.’ She nodded sagely and lit another menthol. ‘It cuts both ways, love. Your dad’s lumped with you, too.’

  I imagined my father sitting in front of the Rentascope watching Norman and me at the hair show. Dad’s hands were gripping the vinyl armrests and his face was grim. Next thing I knew, I was laughing. It was a high, violent laugh, more like a spasm than a sound. Dot patted me on the back until it passed. I had to sit still for a moment to collect myself but the outburst had a strange effect on me. My body felt lighter, as if a brown station wagon had been lifted from my shoulders.

  The lightness stayed with me and the day passed without the niggling self-doubt that usually accompanied a confrontation with Dad. My mind was free to focus on the more pressing problem of how I looked. I now realised that my white shirt made me look enormous and my stone-washed jeans were too short. The jeans rode up when I bent my knees, exposing my orange socks. Only golfers and fools showed their socks. Why had I worn an orange pair? Even my hair wouldn’t sweep over properly.

  ‘Are you vain or is that a tic in your neck?’ The elderly woman huffed as she got off the chair. She pointed to the mirror. ‘You keep craning.’

  ‘It’s a tic.’

  ‘Get an injection for that, boy. You don’t want it turning into the palsy.’

  ‘What’s the palsy?’

  ‘It’s like rigor mortis, only once you’ve got the rigor you wish you were dead.’ The woman narrowed her eyes and shook her head at the front window. ‘Get a load of that bloody outfit! He must’ve galloped in from the Melbourne Cup.’

  My body temperature soared. Jimmy was standing in front of the salon dressed in straight-leg bottle-green trousers and an oversized stone-washed denim jacket. He had a red bandana tied around his neck and an American baseball cap on his head. The cap’s peak was turned to the side, rock-star style. Jimmy lifted his hand and waved. The woman’s eyes widened.

  ‘What the hell’s that jockey waving at?’

  ‘Me.’ I beckoned him inside. ‘He’s my friend.’

  I wanted to tell Jimmy how good he looked but couldn’t risk drawing attention to my own clothes.

  My heart sank when we got to the movie theatre. Jimmy had already bought the tickets and I didn’t have the heart to tell him I hated war movies. They were Dad’s second-favourite TV programme after sports. Hollywood gunfire made me carsick.

  I was wedged down in the cinema seat, ready to close my eyes at any blood, when Mark Lee appeared on screen. I sat up straight. Mark Lee was a beautiful young man, almost as beautiful as his co-star, Mel Gibson. I sat up straighter and started paying attention. But of course! Gallipoli wasn’t a war film at all. It was a love story of two gorgeous young men. By the final scene, I was crying openly. Mark had gone over the top of the trench to certain death, unaware that Mel was sprinting through enemy lines to save him. Mel’s thighs were pumping and I was on the edge of my seat praying for his life when I felt Jimmy’s thigh push against mine. I pushed back and felt my body relax.

  I left the theatre feeling as if I’d just lived a lifetime. Jimmy must’ve felt the same way because he kept bumping against me as we walked.

  The Queen’s Head had recently converted its lounge bar into a cocktail lounge. I’d never been inside a bar but I’d seen how it was done plenty of times on television. Cocktail lounges were more upmarket and safer than pubs. They were quiet places where women wore short skirts and drank fancy stuff out of straws. I led Jimmy up to the bar and signalled the barman, a large pink-nosed man with receding hair and big rubbery ears.

  ‘Two piña coladas.’ I pronounced the pubic hair over the n, Spanish style, and winked at Jimmy.

  ‘You what?’ The barman shook his head.

  ‘It’s a cocktail with coconut milk.’ Julian Corkle knew his cocktail onions. ‘You have to shake it.’

  ‘You see any bloody coconuts here?’

  ‘What kind of cocktail bar is this?’

  ‘A bloody normal one.’ The barman narrowed his eyes. ‘How old are you anyway?’

  ‘Almost twenty.’

  ‘Twenty my bum. Show us your licence.’

  ‘I don’t drive.’

  ‘Well, you can take a walk then.’

  ‘Let’s go.’ Jimmy tugged my arm. ‘I’ve got wine at my place.’

  The barman turned to Jimmy, taking in the baseball cap, bandana and fancy denim jacket. He sniggered. ‘The stupid poof’s probably got a lovely bunch of coconuts, too. Ha, ha.’

  ‘He’s not a stupid poof!’ My voice was high and very loud. Heads turned. Mark Lee had gone over the top. Mel was sprinting to save him. ‘He’s a very clever one!’

  Jimmy yanked my arm and pulled me out of the bar. Suddenly we were running, legs pumping and laughing hysterically, just like old times. People were looking but it didn’t matter. I was with Jimmy and he was fantastic.

  35

  The Hemi Pacer screeched into our driveway, setting lace curtains twitching all over Echidna Avenue. Mum hadn’t told me that Norman had a Hemi Pacer, especially not a red-hot one with tinted windows and racing stripes down the sides. I should’ve been excited about this development but when I’d woken that morning an icy hand had reached inside my chest and gripped my heart. It was the day of the hair show and the icy hand was fear.

  I had good reason to be scared. I was going to compete against fancy apprentices from real hairstyling salons and make a fool of myself in front of Dick Dingle and the entire state of Tasmania. I thought of Philippe and felt like crying. I wanted to pack my bags and run away to Phoenix, Arizona. Only I couldn’t go anywhere. Jimmy was counting on me. So was Dot. Mum and Dezzie were going early to claim seats in the front row.

  I watched my uncle get out of the Hemi Pacer and run a hand over his large thatch of blond hair. He seemed a lot smaller than the teenager I remembered in terry towelling. I opened the front door with a smile, reminding myself that good things came in small packages.

  ‘Julian?’

  ‘Mum’s just popped out to get some butter.’

  Norman looked good considering he’d just spent a night on the Melbourne car ferry. His hair was a perfect oval of blond fluff that rose high from his head and tilted forward over a polished nut-brown face. His fitted leather trousers were cinched in by a studded belt but the best part of his outfit was his shirt. It was made of a soft white fabric and had a huge floppy collar with ruffles down the middle.

  ‘Love the shirt. Very Three Musketeers.’

  ‘New Romantic.’

  ‘That’s what I meant.’ I’d vaguely heard of New Romanticism but it had yet to arrive in Hobart, where the platforms and mullet cuts of Glam Rock were still favoured in certain quarters.

  ‘I’d better wake the diva.’

  ‘Diva?’ An image of Joan Sutherland flashed through my mind.

  ‘Norm. I let him sleep to rest up.’

  A thrill went through me as my tall handsome uncle emerged from the car. He was dressed in virtually the same clothes as the first man only his ruffles were bigger and his belt had larger studs. Norman strode toward me, running a hand over his hug
e cushion of black Irish hair.

  ‘Julian. I see you’ve met Sandy.’ Norman grabbed me by the shoulders and cheek-kissed me, French-style. ‘Thank goodness you took after our side. You’re the spitting image of your mother.’

  ‘So are you.’ I felt my face redden. ‘I mean…you look very New Romantic.’

  ‘It’s a bit old hat but I love ruffles.’

  So did I. I also loved the matching red suitcases on wheels. Even the Americans at the Dingo didn’t have wheeled suitcases. I helped Sandy unload the car and led him to Mum’s bedroom, which had been prepared for Norman’s arrival. Mum had moved to Carmel’s old room.

  I watched Sandy put two toilet bags in The Ensuite and didn’t know what to say. He obviously thought he was sharing the bedroom with Norman. I didn’t know what Mum was going to think. Neither did I have the heart to tell him about the laws in Tasmania. I left him unpacking.

  Mum had returned from the shop and was laughing when I entered the dinette. The Royal Albert was out and she was pouring tea for Norman.

  ‘Here’s my little star.’ She ruffled my hair. ‘Twinkle, twinkle.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Colleen, get your hands off his hair! You’ll flatten it.’ Norman gave me a conspiratorial look. ‘Ready for the show?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Of course I wasn’t ready. I’d never be ready. The thought of Dick Dingle made me carsick. The Hog wasn’t good enough and would never be.

  ‘I’m looking forward to seeing this hog of yours.’

  ‘It’s nothing special.’

  ‘What product do you use?

  ‘Hairspray.’ I didn’t bother adding that I used the cheapest supermarket brand available.

  ‘A purist.’ Norman swivelled and bellowed down the hall. ‘Sandy! The Kit!’

  Sandy materialised like a magician’s assistant with a large leather carrying case. The interior was crammed with bottles and jars. None had labels.

  ‘Your products don’t have labels.’

  ‘Professional secrets.’ Norman winked and sat Mum down on a kitchen chair. Within minutes he’d whipped her hair into something massive and ornamental.

  ‘That’s very big big hair.’ My voice was a whisper. Norman was an inspiration.