Julian Corkle is a Filthy Liar

by D. J. Connell

  Norman examined my hands, shaking his head. The aloe had stopped the inflammation spreading but the fingers were still swollen. I had blisters on every fingertip.

  ‘Can you move your hands, hold a comb?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ I looked at the rubbery mess on the ends of my arms and tried to move my fingers. They felt enormous and stiff.

  Norman put a comb in my hand. It slipped through the fingers and fell on to the floor. The tears I’d been holding back began to flow.

  ‘I can’t do it. It’s not fair.’

  ‘But you can’t prove this Philip did anything.’ Dot put a warm hand on my shoulder. ‘The only way to beat him is to prove yourself.’

  ‘It’s still not fair.’

  ‘All’s not fair in love and hairstyling, love. If he did this to you it’s because you’re good.’

  ‘But…’ I took a ladies’ handkerchief from Dot and dabbed my eyes.

  ‘It’s never fair but we can’t let them get to us.’ Norman was standing erect, staring out of the window. His eyes were blazing. ‘Dick Dingle is a law unto himself. He had no authority to overrule the judges.’

  I looked at my hands. The two alien pink things didn’t seem to belong to me.

  ‘You’ve got the Hog.’ Jimmy’s voice was low and reassuring. ‘Don’t let anyone take it away from you.’

  Outside in the hall, people were taking their seats. Norman caught my eye and held my gaze. ‘That’s your public out there.’

  I thought of Mum and Dezzie in the front row. Trevor would be taking his seat, too. I imagined him making his way past seats marked with cardigans to a place at the back near the fire exit. I looked up. Everyone was staring at me, waiting for my decision. I looked down at my hands.

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘That’s the spirit!’ Norman took a clear plastic tube from his jumpsuit pocket and placed it in my swollen palms. ‘I think you’re ready for this.’

  The tube was unlabelled and just big enough for my hands to hold. I unscrewed the top and squeezed. A translucent gel appeared on the nozzle.

  ‘You hold the future of hair in your hands.’ Norman’s voice was hushed and reverent. He fluttered his fingertips against the side of his hair like a piano player. The sound was hollow like fingers tapping cardboard. ‘Hair gel. It holds like concrete.’

  Jimmy went to fetch my Cobber’s bag and I was left alone to prepare myself. Only I didn’t feel alone any more. Neither did I feel powerless. I wedged the tube of gel into the waistband of my jeans and thought of Clint Eastwood, armed and dangerous.

  A minute later, Jimmy was back. Taking a key from his pocket, he locked the door and then helped me peel off the jerkin and T-shirt. He removed the white blouse from the Cobber’s bag with a nod of approval. I’d taken it from Mum’s wardrobe before leaving the house.

  ‘I love the ruffles.’

  ‘It’s New Romantic.’

  Jimmy did up the buttons then looked me up and down.

  ‘I like the New Romantic you.’

  He leaned over the ruffles and kissed me hard.

  The other finalists were already on stage when I arrived and took my place behind a big girl called Noeline. Her face was large and covered in red spots but her hair was plentiful, a huge mass of dark curls. She turned and smiled up at me.

  I looked around at the other competitors and caught Philippe studying my shirt. He glanced down at my hands and smiled. The smile became a snigger when he noticed the new six-pack of Cobber’s hairspray next to Noeline’s chair. I drew the gel from my waistband, Dirty Harry-style, and the sniggering ceased.

  Dick Dingle walked across the stage. The microphone screeched. ‘Now, ladies and gentlemen, what you’ve all been waiting for—’

  ‘The chook raffle!’

  The shout came from somewhere in the audience and made people roar with laughter. A thrill went through me. The cavalry had arrived. Carmel was here.

  ‘Ha, ha, ha.’ Dick Dingle made a show of appreciating the joke before waving his hand for the audience to quieten down. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, Tasmanian hair has never been bigger! May the best apprentice win!’

  The gong sounded and I squeezed a dollop of gel on to my palm. It stung my skin and made my eyes water. My palms started to burn as I smeared it around the base of Noeline’s hair, sweeping upward with my fingertips. I took my hands away to refuel with gel and the hair remained upright. It hardened as I worked my way up the sides and around the back, encircling the mass of curls with a rigid fortress.

  When I paused to let the gel set, I realised the audience had stopped moving and talking. The only sound was coming from the blow-dryers of the competitors around me. I waved my hands and blew on them. My palms were on fire and I was losing feeling in my fingertips. They were swelling again. Some of the blisters had burst.

  Gritting my teeth, I applied more gel, reinforcing the fortress with firm upward strokes. Noeline’s hair was standing up like an exploded Christmas cracker. The base and sides were secured but the ends were refusing to go higher. My fingers were too swollen and ragged to penetrate the bushy interior mass of her hair. I flapped my hands and blew on my fingers again.

  ‘Go the Whole Hog, honey! You’re on TV!’

  I narrowed my eyes and could vaguely make out my mother’s silhouette in the front row. She was standing with her hands cupped around her mouth.

  ‘The Hog, honey. The Hog!’

  People started murmuring and moving in their seats. A voice I didn’t recognise called out: ‘The Hog!’

  Then another: ‘The Hog!’

  People began to clap their hands. They were chanting.

  ‘Hog, Hog, Hog…’

  I squinted at the audience and realised the entire front row was on its feet. I recognised Dot’s hair.

  The microphone screeched.

  ‘Settle down, people.’ Dick Dingle had returned to centre stage and was waving a hand.

  Someone whistled. A cheer went up. The chanting continued.

  The sensation in my hands had gone beyond burning. They were numb and disobedient as I picked up a can of hairspray. I pointed the nozzle into Noeline’s hair and sprayed, flicking upward with the pink bladder-like object that had replaced my hand. Before the hair could resist, I blasted again and teased it upward. I sprayed again and stretched.

  The mass of Noeline’s curls stiffened. The hair within the fortress expanded. I whisked in air and teased upward, taking the hair beyond Bee Gees volume and higher. It surpassed Dolly Parton and kept going, higher and higher. My hands had lost all feeling but I didn’t stop. The hair was standing impossibly high when I began running my fingers over the outside. I eased the construction forward and down, opening it out like a gramophone trumpet.

  Dick Dingle’s countdown began. ‘Ten, nine, eight…’

  Reaching into the trumpet, I rapidly teased its interior out into points.

  ‘Five, four, three…’

  The hair opened at my touch like an enormous cornucopia, spilling its riches out over the top of Noeline’s head.

  ‘Two, one!’

  The gong sounded and the blow-dryers stopped dead around me. The hairspray fell from my hands with a loud clang. The numbness had spread to my elbows. My hands were a ragged pink mess. I waved them in the air but couldn’t feel a thing.

  I heard a whimper and turned to find Philippe staring at Noeline. I glanced down at his volunteer. Philippe had taken her hair high but his construction was lifeless and uninspired. It was a clumsy asparagus spear that dwarfed the girl’s head and made her look foolish.

  I looked at the other two hairstyles. Neither of them went anywhere near mine. The Hog was a good 20 per cent higher and 50 per cent more alive than anything on the stage. Noeline turned in her seat and smiled up at me.

  ‘Everyone’s looking at me.’ There were tears in her eyes. ‘I must look beautiful.’

  She did look beautiful. The hair worked like an optical illusion, obscuring the size of her face and drawing
attention away from the acne.

  In the quiet of the hall I could feel the eyes of the audience on me. I didn’t dare look at the cameraman. No one moved or made a sound as Dick Dingle crossed the stage from the judging panel. He moved slowly, his suit trousers whistling as he walked. In his hands were the trophy and a white envelope. He stopped centre stage and waved the envelope at the cameraman before opening it with the slow motion of a showman. The microphone screeched.

  ‘And the winner of the Crowning Glory, Tasmania’s young champion of Big and High is…’ He looked down at the card and frowned. He shook his head. ‘It appears to be…Julian Corker.’

  My eardrums felt as if they were going to burst. I swallowed several times before they popped. I felt the thudding of the applause against my chest before I heard it. The audience was going wild, foot-stamping and clapping. My ears popped again. Julian Corkle was a winner! I raised my swollen hands like a boxing champion.

  My arms were still in the air when Dick Dingle abruptly left the microphone and returned to the judging panel. I brought them down. The clapping slowed. It stopped. Silence fell over the hall. All attention had turned to Dick Dingle who was talking to Norman in a harsh whisper, waving his arms about.

  ‘Nonsense!’ Norman’s loud baritone sent a tremor through the audience. People murmured and shifted in their seats. The air was electric. What happened next was totally unexpected.

  Dick Dingle’s hand darted across the judges’ table and slapped Norman on the face. The gesture was fast and underhanded like a fox-terrier nip to a postman’s leg.

  A woman cried out. People gasped.

  Within a split second Norman had leaped to his feet, throwing his chair back with a clatter. His attacker stepped away but not fast enough for my uncle who lunged across the table and gripped the top of his head, pinning him to the spot.

  Dick Dingle flailed his arms and tried to break free. He hit out at Norman but failed to make contact, flapping his arms furiously and grunting with the effort. The audience groaned with every swipe, growing more silent as Dick Dingle slowed and finally stopped. His shoulders sagged. He was panting. The hall was quiet. Norman held him for a moment longer, then released him.

  ‘You are a nasty, petty little man.’ Norman shook his head in a disgusted way.

  Dick Dingle sniffed and raised a hand to his head to adjust his hair. The toupee had twisted on its axis but held fast. With his eyes fixed on Norman, he took a step back and then spun on his heel, scuttling across the stage to the safety of the microphone. It screeched.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen…’ Dick Dingle’s voice had lost its gold. It was high and shaky. He took a silk handkerchief from his pocket and patted his forehead.

  People shuffled in their seats. Someone coughed.

  ‘…I regret to announce a revision to the earlier announcement.’

  ‘No!’ The cry came from the audience and set off a chain reaction of shouting.

  Noeline twisted in her chair and gave me a puzzled look.

  Dick Dingle waved his hand for calm. When the noise didn’t die down, he simply shouted into the microphone.

  ‘In light of his relationship with the visiting judge from Melbourne, Julian Corker has been disqualified. The award instead will go to Philippe Singer.’

  ‘That’s Singeur!’ Philippe’s voice was a vicious cry of triumph.

  I swayed and gripped the back of Noeline’s chair for support. I felt as if I was going to faint. My chin trembled dangerously.

  ‘That’s not fair.’ Noeline’s voice was a whisper.

  I heard Philippe whinny and was overcome by emotion. With my head down, I made for the side of the stage and the safety of the curtain.

  The microphone screeched but Dick Dingle’s voice was lost in the roar of the crowd. My ears were swirling and it took a moment for me to realise that the audience wasn’t cheering. The old defrosted chicken in my chest stirred. People were booing.

  I poked my head around the curtain and blinked at the lights. Philippe was standing side-on to the microphone with the Crowning Glory in his hands and a frozen smile on his face. Dick Dingle was waving his arms like someone trying to flag down a train. Noeline had turned in her seat and was looking at me. She raised her eyebrows.

  Something heavy and familiar hit me between the shoulder blades and propelled me forward on to the stage. The booing quieted. Someone whistled. Female voices cheered. I stumbled and was greeted by applause. Carmel removed her hand as we drew level with Dick Dingle and Philippe. They turned to us with the stunned look of freshly shorn merinos.

  Carmel didn’t need an amplifier. Her voice rolled over Philippe and out over the convention hall.

  ‘Bugger off.’ She gave him the look.

  Philippe blinked and swayed on his feet. His head swivelled from side to side. Carmel took a step toward him. Philippe retreated. Clutching the trophy to his chest, he turned and scurried off the stage.

  The audience cheered. Carmel waved.

  The microphone screeched.

  ‘Kindly leave, young lady.’ Dick Dingle’s face showed alarm but his pointing finger stabbed the air with self-importance. ‘This is semi-national television. You’re on Dick Dingle’s Tales of Tasmania.’

  Carmel shrugged comically and looked at the audience. ‘Dick by name, dick by nature.’ The people roared with laughter.

  ‘Who on earth do you think you are?’

  ‘I know exactly who I am. And the name’s Corkle not Corker.’ Carmel had stopped smiling. She squared her shoulders and gave Dick Dingle her bowler’s stare. ‘I don’t like you.’

  ‘You can’t talk to me like that. I’m Dick Dingle.’

  ‘But I am talking to you, Dick.’ Carmel moved toward him, pointing. ‘And I’m telling you, back off, chump. Exit, stage right.’

  Dick Dingle squawked and let go of the microphone stand. Sliding backward, he made a cutting motion across his throat. The cameraman either failed to notice or decided to take the law into his own hands. The camera followed Carmel as she advanced on Dick Dingle, shooing him off the stage with the wave of a hand.

  People were drumming their feet on the floorboards and cheering as she returned to yank Noeline out of her seat. Grabbing my forearm with her other hand, she pulled us forward into a theatrical bow. As I stood up, I could feel the clapping bouncing off my chest. Carmel pulled me down again for another bow. Then another.

  I didn’t remember leaving the stage or know how I got to the foyer. My chest was still vibrating long after the applause had stopped. When I became aware of my surroundings, I was sitting next to Jimmy who was gently massaging aloe into my hands.

  I looked up and noticed Trevor Bland standing in the shadows near a sculpture made from coat hangers. He was looking at me with a smile. I smiled back. He nodded and turned away. A moment later, Norman walked into the foyer with Sandy at his heels.

  ‘That was quite a show.’ Norman smiled. ‘Old Dick must glue that rag to his head with Japanese technology.’

  ‘He’s a fake.’ I felt a thrill go through me. Criticising Dick Dingle was like saying that God didn’t exist.

  ‘I suspect his days on semi-national TV are numbered.’ Norman laughed and ran a hand over his hair. ‘In the end it’s not about winning. It’s about looking good.’

  ‘He didn’t look good.’

  ‘I just had a talk with the crew. Abracadabra wants to do a follow-up feature on the boy wonder.’

  I blinked at Norman.

  ‘You.’

  ‘My own feature?’ A thrill went through me. Jimmy squeezed my forearm.

  ‘You bet.’ Norman turned to survey the foyer.

  ‘Are you looking for Trevor?’

  He nodded. ‘He was very kind to me once.’

  ‘He just left.’ I pointed to the doorway.

  ‘I’ll try to catch him. Be back in a minute.’ Norman left with Sandy.

  I turned to Jimmy. ‘Any news about your father?’

  ‘They’ve taken him out of
the lung. He’s in an oxygen tent but stable.’

  ‘Thanks for everything, Jimmy. I couldn’t have done this without you.’

  I was about to tell him that I loved him but a crowd of women suddenly burst through the swing doors. They were laughing and talking in high voices. Dot led them over to where we were sitting. I recognised clients from the salon as they fanned out around us, gushing and congratulating me. Dot hung back, her eyes full of pride.

  The crowd parted for Mum and Dezzie. My mother slipped into the seat beside me and put an arm around my shoulders. She whispered in my ear, ‘Isn’t that my blouse you’re wearing?’

  ‘It’s New Romantic, Mum.’

  ‘So you’re a New Romantic now.’

  ‘I love the ruffles.’

  She laughed and straightened my collar.

  ‘You’re a star, Julian. Twinkle, twinkle.’

  Acknowledgements

  I humbly thank my publisher Patrick Janson-Smith and my agent Sophie Hicks for their wonderful support. To Christoph Kim, my appreciation and gratitude. Sincere thanks to Michael Lyons and my writing mates Jennifer Anne Donnelly and Laura Angela Bagnetto. A tip of the hat to Tomoaki Murakami, Martin Breiter, Terry Malone and Brian O’Donnell. Warm thanks to Julie Davies. To my family and those friends who never lost faith in me – you know who you are – thank you.

  About the Author

  D.J. Connell was born in New Zealand and has lived and worked in various countries, first as a writer for a newspaper then for a non-profit organisation and later for advertising. The humour of Julian Corkle is a Filthy Liar reflects the writer’s background of growing up in a large, noisy family. D.J. Connell is a British national.

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