Julian Corkle is a Filthy Liar

‘You think you’re funny, don’t you, Corker.’ O’Hare had gripped my shoulder and was digging his fingers into the flesh.

The other children were looking at me.

‘It’s Corkle, sir. I was just trying to—’

‘—be the class clown. Corker, you’ll stay here during lunchtime and write out the entire psalm.’

Paula squeezed my knee again as Brother O’Hare turned back to the blackboard. I twisted in my seat, ready to drive a pencil into her thigh, but stopped with my hand in mid-air. She had lifted her dress and pulled down her knickers. I was staring at a bare pink mound. I looked up at Paula’s face. She was smiling, oblivious to the frightening non-event in her underpants. It was bad enough watching men and women kiss on television but to have the Stromboli mound at my elbow was more than I could stand. I turned to the front and put up my hand, waving it about until I got the brother’s attention.

‘Yes, Corker.’

The class laughed.

‘It’s Corkle, sir.’

‘Yes, Corker.’

The class laughed again.

‘Brother O’Hare, can I swap seats with Ralph Waters?’

‘No you cannot.’ He turned back to the blackboard and resumed writing.

‘Excuse me, Brother O’Hare.’

‘What now, Corker?’

The class laughed again.

‘Can I swap seats with Robbie Skint?’

‘No. Now be quiet!’

‘Could I just stand then?’

Brother O’Hare marched up to my desk and pulled me out of my chair. ‘You want to stand? Then stand still now.’

He yanked out my hand and hit the palm six times with his wooden ruler. I sat back down cradling what felt like a throbbing baseball mitt at the end of my left arm.

Ralph Waters approached me at playtime. I would’ve run off but I was scraping the hundreds and thousands off a fairy cake and didn’t see him coming. Ralph was one of the toughest kids of my year. He was skinny and sinewy. His blond hair was cut extremely short with barber’s clippers and his nails were chewed to crumbs. Ralph spent the breaks playing with plastic soldiers under the white-painted tyres that some genius had half buried in the playground as a stepping-stone game. No one ever stepped on them because they were placed too far apart for primary-school children. The older kids never went near them because they were in the primary section of the school.

‘I know what you were doing. Thanks for that, Corky.’

I didn’t bother correcting Ralph. He was one of the few people I’d allow to mispronounce my name.

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Did you see her keyhole?’

Ralph was standing there smiling, waiting for me to confirm the sighting of Paula Stromboli’s thing. He’d never spoken to me before. I knew I had to prove something or I was going to be in trouble. Ralph was one of those who singled out boys and ridiculed them for being poofters. This was a regular sport at St Kevin’s. Gary Jings was a poofter and everyone knew it. He had a girl’s shiny pink pencil case and drew swirly things in art class. He even folded the hems of his shorts up like fancy trouser cuffs. Gary Jings paid for these crimes at lunchtime when he sat on his own near the caretaker’s shed pretending to read while kids circled and yelled things like ‘bum-kisser’.

I didn’t call Gary names. I watched others ridicule him and felt sick inside. It was fear and frustration. I felt drawn to and disgusted by Gary Jings. He should’ve known better than to display his poofterism. There were several boys who did it at St Kevin’s but we kept our activities to ourselves. There was a place for that sort of thing and that place was the nature reserve behind the bike sheds.

It wasn’t right the way Gary always bore the abuse. He sat passively with his knees pressed together, occasionally looking up with a dull smile and a faint spark of hope in his eyes. This only infuriated thugs like Ralph who would then administer a Chinese burn or half-Nelson. It was awful to watch the torture of Gary Jings. He never tried to run away. He just went limp and took it. He should’ve denied being a poofter and hidden his pencil case but he didn’t. The one thing I didn’t want to be in life was a Gary Jings.

Ralph narrowed his eyes. I had to prove I was as much a man as him. I looked down at the fairy cake and the hundreds and thousands that were stuck to my fingers. When I looked up, I met Ralph’s eyes with a piercing stare.

‘Yeah.’

Ralph smiled. It was a man-of-the-world smile. We understood each other. I was the sort of boy who regularly looked inside girls’ underpants. Ralph liked me and it felt good. I tightened the grip on my fairy cake.

‘Why did you ask old O’Hairs if you could stand up?’

The fairy cake collapsed in my hand, sending crumbs flying over the front of my shorts.

‘You know.’

‘Nah.’

‘I was just, ah, just trying to stir up old Hairsie.’

‘He was so mad. Did he hurt you?’

This was a stupid question. Ralph was only too familiar with O’Hare’s ruler. Being hit over the hand with a slab of wood was incredibly painful. It was a white pain that made your ears go silent with blood pressure.

‘Nah.’

‘Yeah, O’Hairs is too weak. He’s a big fairy. Brother O’Fairy. Ha, ha.’ Ralph bent his wrists like Kenneth Williams and paraded around in front of me. ‘You think he’s seen Stromboli’s keyhole?’

The idea of Brother O’Hare poking around inside Paula Stromboli’s underpants made me want to laugh out loud in Ralph’s face. I controlled myself. Ralph didn’t know a thing.

‘Yeah I bet he has.’

‘She’s a slut.’

I wasn’t going to argue with Ralph but I didn’t think Paula Stromboli was a slut. If anything, she was like me, an entertainer looking for an audience. She’d apologised after the bell went for playtime. She hadn’t meant to get me into trouble. ‘I was just trying to give you a look.’ I hadn’t refused when Paula offered to lend me her Cherish LP. I was a big fan of David Cassidy. He wore very tight trousers and had silky hair that stayed swished back even during vigorous dance moves.

My big day was coming up but like every year Carmel was going to cheat me out of the attention that was rightfully mine. I was a year younger than her but had the misfortune of being born on the day after her birthday. This gave my special day a definite second-best status. Carmel called her birthday the main event. Mine was the repeat performance.

On the morning of her tenth birthday, Carmel got a doll called Nancy. It was made of pony-coloured plastic and had movable limbs and long white synthetic hair. Nancy came with a vinyl make-up kit and an irresistible set of tiny pink hair curlers. I loved curlers and spent hours playing with the set my mother had received from her brother Norman. He’d also given her a portable hairdryer with a floral plastic cap. On the days when Mum had two hours to spare I was allowed to roller and set her hair.

Carmel finished unwrapping the doll with impatience. When she saw what was inside, she said ‘Ugh’ and put it to one side. I swallowed a mouthful of breakfast cereal and reached for the box.

‘Hands off, fat boy.’

‘I just want to touch her hair. It’s so long and shiny.’

‘That’s enough, Julian!’ My father was giving me his don’t-you-start look.

I felt tears building. Carmel poked her tongue out and made a chopper with her hand, a warning not to cross the invisible line between the doll and me. She moved on to the next present. It was a Nancy ‘Evening Fantasy’ outfit in a clear plastic tray. She let out another ‘Ugh’ and tossed it next to the doll. The urge to touch the little pink curlers was almost unbearable. Carmel sighed and felt the other presents through their wrappers. I knew she was looking for a cricket ball and I knew she wasn’t going to find one. At least her frustration was some sort of consolation.

Carmel left her other presents unopened on the dinette divan and went back to her rice puffs. As Daddy’s girl, Carmel was entitled to be ungrateful. My father gave her an indulgent smile, pushed his chair back and stood up.

It was now or never. It would be my birthday in less than twenty-four hours. I had to convince my parents to buy me something practical, a present I could actually use. I tugged Dad’s sleeve.

‘Dad, can I have a Nancy?’

‘No you cannot! Nancy dolls are for girls! You’re a boy and boys want Dinky toys.’

My father’s response was too fierce and too loud. Carmel snorted into her cereal, sending a shower of rice puffs and milk over the Aussiemica tabletop.

‘Not me. I want a Nancy.’ The tears had started and my voice was shrill. I didn’t want junk. I wanted a doll.

‘You’re not getting one and that’s final.’

Dad shoved his empty chair against the table and made a move for the door. I leaped off the divan and flattened myself on the floor face down. I started to kick and punch the lino, wailing.

‘Shut up, Julian.’ It was too much for my father. He hated displays, especially from boys.

‘It’s not fair. Carmel gets everything.’

I reached out and grabbed Dad around an ankle. He straightened his leg and tried to shake me off. I held tight, crying into his trouser leg.

‘For God’s sake, get off and stop being a cry baby.’ He swiped me over the head with the Punter’s Gazette and shuffled toward the door, dragging his leg with me attached.

‘I want a Nancy, Dad. Please, please, please.’ The words came out in shrieks between sobs.

Mum bent down and pulled me off. My father hurled himself out of the house and slammed the door behind him. I was still kicking and flailing my arms as Mum pulled me against her chest. I felt her turn her head toward Carmel.

‘Carmel, go wash your face.’

‘I’m not dirty, Mum. It’s my birthday.’ There was laughter in her voice. She’d been enjoying the main event.

‘Get out of this dinette right now, madam!’

‘It’s not fair. It’s my birthday!’ Carmel stormed out leaving Mum and me alone.

Mum whispered in my ear. ‘Julian, there’ll be a nice surprise for you tomorrow. But you’ll have to be a good boy and wait till dinnertime.’

My tears stopped abruptly. ‘What?’

‘Wait and see. It’s not going to be a stinky Dinky.’

I woke the next morning to a box of Shelby’s chocolates on the end of the bed. Yes, it was my birthday! In our house, a double-layer box of soft centres and a roast-chicken dinner were standard birthday issue. Presents were a different matter. Their quality depended on who chose them and the mood they were in when choosing. If it was Mum, we tended to get one thing of value among junk she bought to please my father. If Dad bought them, we’d get stuff that was completely useless. I had a Meccano set, a rugby ball and several Dinky toys in the bottom of my wardrobe. I knew by now Carmel would have thrown Nancy on top of the manicure set and necklace-making kit she’d hidden at the bottom of hers.

I knew exactly what went on inside everyone’s wardrobes. I monitored them on a regular basis, particularly my mother’s. She was the only one in the house with flair and quality fabric. I spent hours going through her drawers and trying things on. This could only be done when Dad wasn’t home. He didn’t think boys should like nice things and hit the roof if he saw me as much as finger the fabric of a dress my mother was wearing. I tried to explain that fashion designers earned a fortune but Dad didn’t want to know.

Carmel’s wardrobe was dangerous territory for another reason. I only ventured into her room when she was a good kilometre from the premises. It wasn’t worth getting caught. She could punch extremely hard and thoroughly enjoyed practising her Cassius Clay Royale. John and I were forbidden to thump her back, especially below the belly button. This mysterious zone was for making babies. Carmel was only too aware that the same protection did not extend to our testicles.

As soon as I opened the magnet collection, I knew Dad had chosen the presents. His self-satisfied smile told me everything I needed to know. He sat there every bit the happy sadist as I opened the Boy’s Own Annual, the cricket ball and the kit-set model of a German tank. Crap, crap, crap. The only thing I could use was the cricket ball. It would come in handy as a bargaining chip with Carmel. I said thank you through my teeth and turned to leave for school.

‘Hey, Stan McCabe, you’re not taking your cricket ball?’ Dad wore the crooked smile of an insane sports fanatic.

‘I wouldn’t want anyone to pinch it. Far too valuable.’ I spoke through a locked jaw.

When I got home from school, my mother was shoving bread and mixed herbs into the rear end of a defrosted chicken.

‘Where is it?’

‘What about hello?’

‘Hello, darling Mummy, where is it, please?’

Mum pointed to a package on the table.

My heart was thudding as I ripped it open. Inside was a cardboard box with a clear plastic cover. It was a doll and, according to the box, he was called Billy the Back-up Singer. I removed the cover and touched the miniature golden microphone wired to his hand. Billy was wearing a white shirt and black vinyl trousers. I would wait until I was alone before checking inside the vinyl.

‘He’s perfect, Mum.’

I put my arms around her waist and held her tight. She bent down to receive a kiss but I licked her cheek instead. I liked licking my mother. She tasted both chemical and floral.

‘Ugh, Julian. That’s disgusting.’

Mum giggled and wiped her face with the back of a crumby hand. She leaned against the sink and watched me remove Billy from his box. I put the doll up to my nose and breathed in the new plastic smell of his copper-brown synthetic hair. It was cut in a David Cassidy, just long enough to style with tiny doll curlers. Billy came with a change of clothes: a tiny pair of beach shorts and sunglasses. This was an odd outfit for a singer but I didn’t care. I’d make him something new to wear, a snazzy Liberace number for the spotlight. In my hands, Billy wouldn’t stay a back-up singer for long.

‘You know what to do, Julian.’ Mum laughed and ruffled my hair. ‘Go hide him in your wardrobe before your father gets home.’

4

‘Julian, have you seen the Companion?’ My mother was making her way down the hall toward me. She sounded irritated.

I was lying on my bed in my underpants and singlet reading a feature on Christiaan Barnard, the doctor who’d transplanted a heart into a grocer’s chest in 1967. The magazine had a photo of Louis Washkansky before he received the donor heart. He was smiling with a tube up his nose.

I knew the word ‘donor’ meant dead person and was fascinated. The heart would’ve been cold, like one of the defrosted chickens my mother stuffed on birthdays. I put my hand over my heart to make sure it was still beating. There was nothing happening. Panic knocked at the back of my throat as I moved my hand to the left side of my chest. My mother snatched the magazine from my hands and left the room.

Mum and I both enjoyed the Australian Ladies’ Companion. It didn’t have the glamour of Celebrity Glitter but it did keep us plugged into the Australian entertainment scene and even featured Tasmanian celebrities. Dick Dingle occasionally made it into the Companion for his work as patron of the state’s Little Aussie Rising Star awards. Mum told me to keep my eye on Dick Dingle. He was an impresario for talented young Tasmanians like me. The Little Aussie Rising Star was a stepping stone to the Golden Microphone which was an even bigger stepping stone to national television stardom.

Christiaan Barnard was a star even though poor old Washkansky had almost immediately died. The failed heart transplant intrigued me. I closed my eyes and tried to picture what was going on inside my skin. We were currently studying the human body at school. Brother Duffy had started at the top with the brain and was working his way down toward the interesting area. We’d got to the kidneys, which I knew were attached to the important bits. Duffy had more or less admitted this when he said the kidneys were responsible for producing urine. I understood what that meant and was looking forward to the next lesson.

I already knew how babies were born thanks to Ralph Waters. He’d led us into the Ladies’ toilet behind the Whipper Snapper fish-and-chip shop and pointed into the bowl where something brown and enormous was bobbing about in the water. It was three times the size of anything I’d ever produced.

‘The lady who dropped this A-bomb has had a baby.’ Ralph had raised one eyebrow and spoken with authority. ‘See the size of her floater. She’s stretched to buggery from giving birth.’

I hadn’t considered how babies got out from inside their mothers. If they used the same exit as number twos, they had to come out filthy. That meant I’d come out filthy. I asked Ralph the obvious question.

‘Don’t babies smell when they come out?’

‘Nah, they’re inside a kind of bag.’

‘Doesn’t it hurt the baby then?’ I knew nothing about the dimensions of ladies’ bum holes. Female bum anatomy had absolutely no appeal to me. This was not information I needed to share with the likes of Ralph Waters.

‘If it’s a lady’s first baby, the baby’s head gets squashed to the size of a lemon.’ Ralph cast an eye over our heads.

‘And if it’s the third baby?’

‘Normal shape and size.’ I let out a lungful of air. Ralph had two older siblings like me.

My brother was fixing a puncture on his bicycle when I got home. I stood for a moment examining him from behind. His head was definitely pointier than Carmel’s. He was trying to put the tyre back on his wheel by wedging two of my mother’s dinner spoons under the rim. A spoon fell out and clattered on to the concrete of the driveway. John cursed. As he turned to retrieve it, he noticed me. His mouth pulled downward in a sneer. John only had to look at me to get upset. There was something about the way I was put together that disgusted him. I suspected it was the same thing Ralph Waters felt about Gary Jings.

‘What are you looking at, poof?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Piss off then. Go and try on some of Mum’s pantyhose or something.’

There was no use explaining John’s condition. It would just alarm him. I went inside to examine my mother’s bottom.

The heart transplant article haunted me. I thought about it constantly. My version of the operation went something like this: I’ve had a major heart attack on Hollywood Boulevard. Christiaan Barnard is busy so they call in a trainee called Herb to do the job. Herb disconnects my heart before a donor can be found. He keeps the blood pumping through my body with a machine powered by a lawnmower engine, but time is running out. Still no donor can be found. Herb substitutes my heart with a defrosted chicken. The chicken refuses to pump. I regain consciousness with a Tender Choice broiler in my chest, still wet and cold from the defrosting process. Herb attaches electrodes to the chicken and turns on the juice. It jumps but flops back lifeless next to my lungs.

Dad regularly drank with a man called Herb. It was common knowledge that Herb didn’t wear socks. He simply blackened his ankles with shoe polish. This habit had been discovered when Herb crossed his legs and swiped the beige trousers of one of his neighbours. The owner of the trouser leg had then traced the origins of the black smudge back to Herb’s ankle. No one said anything about this habit, at least not to Herb’s face. They just gave him plenty of legroom in the public bar.

It was Herb’s socks that gave me the idea for the fishnets. I tried to tell my father this but he didn’t want to listen. He was too busy shouting at my mother about her brother Norman. I had performed the Olivia Newton-John show to cheer Mum up. Dad wasn’t even supposed to come home. It was race night at the pub. I was singing along to ‘I Honestly Love You’ into the handle of a hairbrush when he burst into the lounge and found me dressed in one of my mother’s frocks. It was when he noticed my legs that he started shouting. They were criss-crossed with ballpoint pen in the fashion of fishnet stockings.

I felt my heart again. It was still ticking, ticking like a time bomb. I could feel tiny ripples of pain each time a tick happened. I went to consult the house physician.

‘Mum, I think I’m going to have a heart attack.’

‘Really, Julian.’ Mum was peeling potatoes over the sink and didn’t turn round.

‘It’s got a funny tick. I think I’d better not do any phys. ed. tomorrow. Can you write a note?’

‘Physical Education is probably the best thing for a dicky heart.’

‘My situation is very delicate.’ My situation was that I hated sports.

‘All the more reason to build up your stamina.’

‘Ralph Waters says he’s going to smash my teeth in if I set foot on the rugby field. That sort of thing could ruin a stage and screen career. I’ll need a good set of teeth if I’m going to be a star.’ Ralph had done no such thing. He’d kept a respectful distance since the Stromboli incident but Mum didn’t need to know this.

‘Go find a pen and paper.’

5

My family generally didn’t do holidays. We didn’t own a caravan or tent and Dad didn’t want to rent a beach house. That would’ve been throwing good money away. My father liked to point out that there were plenty of decent beaches around Ulverston. He called our stretch of coastline the Tasmanian Riviera. If Ulverston’s sand was good enough for him when he was a kid, it was good enough for us. We could like it or lump it. Dad’s idea of summer fun was to get us throwing a cricket ball to each other while he drank beer and shouted from the back step. This was fine for Carmel and John who had an obscene attachment to balls but it was hell for me. Cricket balls made me carsick.

Summer holidays were difficult because they meant Dad was home during the day and this meant pressure to go outside and play. I was getting depressed about the post-Christmas period when he suddenly announced we were going to stay in a real holiday house on the east coast. Trevor Bland’s brother had a cabin and said we could use it for two weeks. We only had to pay for electricity. Mum was thrilled and began baking immediately. Even Dad got into the spirit of things. I overheard him telling Mum we should start getting used to candlelight.

The beach settlement had five cabins and a small shop that sold frozen and tinned food. Fresh milk and bread arrived every other day. Our cabin was a two-room wooden shack under gum trees. My parents put up camp stretchers in the main room and we took the bunks in the other room.

The beach was miles from the nearest town and didn’t have a sewage system. Our cabin had a septic tank for the kitchen waste and the run-off from the outside shower. The toilet wasn’t connected to the tank. It was a hole in the ground over which sat a small corrugated iron shed that could be moved when things reached maximum capacity. Inside was a makeshift bench seat with a hole to put your bum through. The stink of the shed would’ve been unbearable if the hole hadn’t provided such an interesting view of what was going on in the family.

Dad had recently stopped trying to make Carmel play with dolls and started encouraging her interest in cricket. The sports desk at The Bugle was seeing more articles on women’s cricket. Dad still relegated these to an obscure corner of the sports pages but he’d realised that it was now almost respectable for a woman to play the game. He’d bought Carmel a bat and a new set of wickets for Christmas. John and Carmel pulled this equipment out of the Holden Kingswood not long after we arrived and headed down to the beach. While they were off making fools of themselves, I made friends with the kids from the next cabin, Donna and Dean Speck.

I’d noticed their Holden Statesman as we arrived and wondered whether they might be my kind of people. The car was brand new and fitted with snazzy hubcaps. The Speck kids exhibited the same kind of style as their car. They wore new beach outfits and spoke with a posh Hobart accent. Dean did all the talking. He was a strange boy, loud and aggressive, but I decided to overlook these faults when he said his father worked on radio. Mr Speck had been reporting on the sheep trials in Ulverston that morning. Any fool knew that radio was television without pictures. Mr Speck was more or less a star, just the sort of contact I’d need in the future. The Specks were building a hut out of tea-tree sticks when I leaned over the wire fence. I loved building forts and asked if I could help. Dean shook his head in a final sort of way and suggested a more interesting game called Disease. I was flattered.