Julian Corkle is a Filthy Liar

by D. J. Connell

  ‘Our Super Fine’s fetching record prices.’

  Super-fine merino wool was called Our Super Fine by Tasmanians. Grown men sat up straight and looked serious when Our Super Fine was mentioned. The papers called it White Gold when it sold for world-record prices.

  ‘We had a little celebration tonight. The boss bought Chardonnay.’ Mum giggled. ‘It was very nice.’

  ‘Look at the colour of that border collie, Mum.’

  ‘It’s black and white. They’re always black and white.’

  ‘Black and white against a green background.’ I couldn’t stand it any longer. ‘Mum, I bought a new colour TV. It’s swamp nut from England. There’s an AM radio and you can play Roger Whittaker on the record player. I thought you’d be pleased.’ I humphed and crossed my arms over my chest.

  ‘Oh, honey! Sorry!’ Mum leaped off the couch and ran a hand over the walnut. ‘What a big screen.’

  ‘A full twenty-six inches. Six more than the Rentascope. It’s top of the line and all that. There’s even a remote control and once I buy batteries we’ll be able to sit on the couch and switch between the two channels just like Americans.’

  ‘Look at the colour of those fleeces. Julian, I’m proud of you.’

  ‘Dick Dingle will be on soon, Mum.’

  ‘The poor man’s going through hell with that divorce. They say that society woman is taking him to the cleaners.’

  ‘Let’s see how he’s taking it. You get a lot more expression in colour.’

  23

  A tour bus from Mildura had arrived and a herd of pensioners was milling about on the pavement. I had thirty suitcases to move. The persistent drizzle of Hobart didn’t make my job any easier.

  ‘Wet enough for you? Ha, ha.’

  The elderly man flashed his large false teeth and rocked back on the heels of his white canvas shoes. He was dressed in new beige trousers, a powder-blue shirt and camel-coloured windbreaker. Golfing apparel was very popular with the older holidaymaker set. I hated the clothes almost as much as I hated the sport. Golf made me carsick. The famous players never did anything interesting with their money on or off the greens.

  ‘Sir, you should’ve been in Hobart yesterday. Not a cloud in the sky.’ This was a lie but I was carrying two Little Swags and the retiree was blocking my way. ‘The rain’s probably settled in for good.’

  ‘No worries, mate. I’m here for the roulette table.’ He patted his pocket. ‘Just sold the peach orchard. I might give you a tip if you play your cards right. It’ll have to be poker. Ha, ha.’

  ‘Shame about the orchard.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’ve missed the boat, sir. They say stone fruit is going for gold this year. I just saw a documentary. In full colour, of course.’

  Bunion gave me a fierce look as I manoeuvred the suitcases around the pensioner. He’d been standing behind the potted Tasmanian man ferns and observed the entire exchange. Bunion seemed to be everywhere these days. I couldn’t do anything without him popping out of the foliage. His constant surveillance effectively ruled out the ninth floor for me. My only hope of meeting a VIP was to stick around the porter’s station and keep my eyes peeled for a limousine.

  The station was not a glorious post but at least it provided some shelter from Hobart’s freezing winds. The cramped chest-high booth was furnished with a bench, stool, telephone and two-way radio. It would’ve been deadly to spend time in this tiny space if it hadn’t backed on to the plate-glass windows of the meet-and-greet area. This position had proved particularly helpful during the annual general meeting of the Tasmanian Caledonian Society when the lobby and bar were packed with men in skirts. Virtually none of the kilt-wearers had been taught to sit in a ladylike manner. When they sat on the armchairs, they did it with their legs open. I only needed to tie a shoelace to make the most of the Scottish disregard for underpants. My shoelaces got a lot of attention that day and the experience left me with a greater respect for Presbyterians.

  Hobart was not a dream destination but when foreigners did visit, they tended to stay at the Dingo Hotel. The Japanese generally arrived in large groups and followed the flag waved by their tour guide. They didn’t speak enough English to make requests. Americans were friendly and generous with tips but wanted too much bang for their buck. They asked for extra towels and complained about the lack of blow from the hotel blow-dryers. Europeans were by far the best dressed but obviously didn’t believe in enjoying themselves on holiday. The Germans had two holiday modes, sour or drunk. Australians from the mainland were easy but indoor staff often complained about missing linen and cutlery.

  Guests arriving by plane were picked up at the airport by the hotel shuttle. This minibus was driven by a citizen-band radio enthusiast called Kenny who employed the roger-over-and-out style of speaking and codenamed everything. The hotel entrance was Checkpoint Charlie and guests were graded in terms of size: ‘Five Jumbo, nine Economy and a German proceeding to Charlie. No Family Size aboard.’ Americans were Jumbo, Australians were Family Size and Japanese were Economy. Germans didn’t have a code.

  Kenny had just called to say that five Germans were on their way when I saw Nigel dart across the lobby and then out of the front door. He headed straight for the porter’s station.

  ‘Hide me!’

  Without waiting for a response, he squeezed in through the side entrance of the booth and ducked down. The flimsy hardboard construction rocked as he wedged his back against the stool I was sitting on.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Hiding from Crabb.’

  A cold electrical feeling ran up my legs. The last person I wanted to deal with was Raymond Crabb. He was only a kitchen hand but wielded the power of a head chef. Whenever I saw Crabb’s shaved head approaching I went the other way. His skin was a road map of souvenirs from the various prisons he’d inhabited: wobbly handmade tattoos of cobwebs, skulls and daggers. His knuckles didn’t have the ‘LOVE’ and ‘HATE’ of regular thugs. He’d gone for ‘DEAD’ and ‘MEAT’, the last words seen by anyone foolish enough to tangle with him.

  Fear had already gelled the lower half of my body when Crabb emerged from the lobby. He made a beeline for me.

  ‘Where’d that poof go?’ Crabb grabbed the booth with both hands and rocked it back and forth. Nigel’s head thumped against the hardboard under the counter and whip-lashed into my lap. The back of his head nestled against my groin. Warmth flooded my thighs. To my horror, I felt the stirrings of an erection.

  ‘Which poof?’ My voice was a squeak.

  Crabb narrowed his eyes and curled his lip. ‘The other one.’

  ‘Beg pardon?’

  A wave of heat and humidity radiated outward from my loins. The synthetic of my uniform prickled against my legs. Nigel pressed harder into me and rolled his head against the erection. I tried to wiggle back on the stool but his head moved with me.

  ‘There’s you and then there’s the other one.’

  Crabb lifted his top lip in a sneer. His gums were bright gingivitis pink. What was left of his teeth were small dark stubs. My erection wilted.

  ‘I’m a porter.’

  ‘You’re a pooftah. Only a poof would wear those things.’ Crabb pointed to my glasses and sneered again. ‘Girl’s glasses.’

  ‘They’re designer fashion frames.’ Pride overrode my survival instinct. I’d just forked out an entire pay packet on my new raspberry-red glasses. According to Celebrity Glitter, red was the new black.

  ‘They’re pooftah headlights and I should punch them out for you.’

  Crabb raised his left fist to my face. ‘DEAD’ was written in wiggly blue-green lettering across the knuckles. I leaned back and felt Nigel’s head move with me. My groin stirred again. I tried to swallow but my throat refused to cooperate and my tongue bucked against the roof of my mouth. The top half of my body was fighting for its life while the lower half wanted to party.

  ‘Germans!’ I pointed to the roundabout. I’d never
been so happy to see a minibus full of misery.

  Crabb lowered his fist. He looked over at the minibus and his lips unfurled into what passed for a smile.

  ‘Duty calls.’ I drove my knees into Nigel’s back and sidled out of the booth, pulling my jacket down over the top of my trousers.

  ‘You’ll keep.’ Crabb gave me one last sneer before making for the side entrance of the hotel. As he passed the shuttle, he clicked his work boots together and gave a straight-arm salute. ‘Hi Hitler!’

  A big blonde woman with Ronnie Corbett glasses was the first to emerge. She stepped on to the kerb shaking her head. ‘This Australian humour is not funny!’

  I shook my head in sympathy. ‘I’m not laughing, madam.’

  ‘This man is not correct.’

  ‘He is very incorrect. The German nation deserves respect.’ I stopped shaking my head and gave her a grim smile. ‘The Mercedes is a very nice car.’

  She blinked.

  ‘Make a formal complaint, madam. The man’s name is Crabb, Raymond Crabb, spelled like the crustacean but with a double B.’

  The brush with Crabb rekindled the fears I thought I’d left behind on the Waratah cricket pitch. I came home feeling shaky and vulnerable. Mum and I had arranged to watch The Curse of Camelot: Who’s Killing the Kennedys? together but despite the glorious full-colour of the TV, I found it difficult to concentrate. We’d seen all four episodes and had been looking forward to watching the final together. I felt for Marilyn Monroe and her Kennedy love child but Crabb now seemed a lot more menacing than the FBI. Carmel arrived from cricket practice as Jackie was marrying Aristotle Onassis. The camera zoomed in on Caroline and John looking unhappy in the back of a black car. As it drove away, the narrator wound up the series. ‘Do these little ones carry the curse? Only time will tell.’ The credits rolled to the sound of a ticking clock.

  ‘What a load of rubbish.’ Carmel was unlacing her shoes in the dinette.

  ‘Don’t leave your gear in there.’ Mum didn’t need to look at Carmel to know what she was doing. ‘Your chops are in the oven.’

  ‘I’m going out.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Debra Fig’s. Her brother’s having a party.’

  My ears pricked up. A dose of Terrence Fig would definitely lift my spirits. Terrence now had his own late-night radio show on Saturday called Sounds From Underground and favoured obscure musicians like Lou Reed, Leonard Cohen and Patti Smith. He was one of Hobart’s beautiful people.

  ‘Can I come?’

  ‘No.’ Carmel’s shoe landed with a thud against a table leg.

  ‘Please. You wouldn’t even notice I was there.’

  ‘No.’ Another shoe hit the floor.

  ‘Carmel, pick those shoes up immediately.’ Mum still had her back to her. ‘Why can’t you take your brother to the party?’

  ‘He’d do something stupid. That’s why.’

  ‘No I won’t. Promise. Promise and hope to die.’ I crossed my fingers. ‘Sort of.’

  I had to shell out for a six-pack of Tickworth premium lager before Carmel would agree to take me anywhere. She drank it all before leaving home and threw the bottles at the back fence. It took over an hour to walk to the party with her stumbling and repeating ‘Fucking hell’ all the way.

  All the lights were on and the doors were open when we arrived at the Fig house. The Pretenders were playing at full volume. Carmel stopped at the door and held me back with her arm. She screwed up her nose.

  ‘Boring!’

  The party was anything but boring but there was no use arguing with my sister. Her idea of a good party was girls’ arm-wrestling and a keg of lager. From over her shoulder I took in the make-up and big untidy hairdos of the party-goers. The young men and women were dressed alike in tight jeans and flouncy shirts. No one was smiling. Terrence Fig was dancing in the middle of everyone in a strange minimal way to Chrissie Hynde’s ‘Tattooed Love Boys’. His eyes had been darkened with kohl and his white-blond hair was teased high into a fluffy woodpecker. He was hardly moving to the music. His hunched upper half held steady while his feet made small circles on the carpet.

  ‘Bloody unisexuals!’ Carmel growled and shook her head. She made a chopper with her arm and cleared a path through the dancers.

  I followed her to the kitchen where Debra was drinking tequila over the sink. She was doing it the authentic Mexican way by licking and sucking lemon wedges with salt.

  ‘Old Magic Fingers Corkle. Didn’t think you’d make it.’ Debra put an arm around Carmel’s neck from behind and tightened it until her face turned red. Debra was as drunk as my sister. She fell back against the sink with a clunk when Carmel drove an elbow into her ribs.

  ‘Fucking Fig. How many times do I have to tell you? Never choke a Corkle.’ Carmel snorted out a laugh and pulled her friend to her feet. They wandered off down the hall with their arms around each other.

  Left alone, I drank the rest of the tequila the Corkle way, by tipping my head back and gulping it down. Inspired by Carmel, I threw the empty bottle out of the window and gave my hair a thorough fluffing. I hunched my shoulders and shuffle-danced into the lounge, nudging my way through the crowd and circling my feet as I went. Progress was slow. Minimal dancing was a lot harder than it looked.

  I did a circuit and then stopped against a wall to see what kind of impression I’d made. Nobody smiled or even acknowledged me. Hunching lower, I circled harder, cutting diagonally across the room and breaking up knots of dancers. I clipped Terrence with an elbow but he didn’t look up or even apologise.

  It had to be my hair. It needed more lift.

  A pleasant Mexican recklessness had already taken hold of me as I went outside into the cool night air. Near the washing line was a flowerbed. I scooped out a handful of damp soil and worked it into the base of my hair, feeling it stiffen under my fingers. I worked in another handful, mulching it from the scalp to the tips.

  ‘Urghhh.’

  I jumped.

  The groan had come from under the windowsill. I squinted into the shadows but couldn’t see a thing. Whatever it was groaned again. I bolted back inside.

  Terrence glanced over as I entered the room and raised his eyebrows. The dirt trick had worked. Hunching my upper body, I started circling towards him. I was a barracuda going for an anchovy, a Tasmanian devil honing in on a rodent. I was halfway across the carpet when a greasy man in a dirty denim outfit stumbled into the room clutching the top of his head. Blood was trickling between his fingers and dripping on the carpet. He was cursing loudly.

  ‘Some fucking arsehole threw a bottle out of the window! I’m going to kill the fucker.’ The sleeves of his denim jacket had been ripped off biker-style and his forearms were thick and hairy. ‘The fucker’s wearing a red shirt. I’m going to find him and when I do, he’s going to die.’

  I leaped behind a big woman with red frizzy hair and mirrored her movements as the dancers parted for the intruder. We were near the door when she started brushing her shoulders. ‘Where did all this dirt come from?’

  The biker looked over and locked eyes with me. ‘Red fucker!’

  He lunged and the woman screamed but I was out of the door and running before he could touch me. I didn’t stop running until I reached the waterfront. Gasping for air, I collapsed on to a large metal bollard with my head between my knees.

  When my breathing finally slowed, I sat up and realised I was outside the public toilets my father had warned me about. The small building loomed out of the dark and seemed to beckon me. The tequila in my bloodstream responded.

  I entered the Gents with my heart thumping against my ribs and made for a darkened cubicle. Next door someone was shuffling. Light was coming through a hole in the partition between us. I knelt down and put my eye to it. The shuffling stopped. I was looking at a wiry man without clothes. I swallowed and blinked the dirt out of my eyes.

  The man was seated on the toilet, stroking an enormous erection. He was looking at my eye, rubbing him
self furiously. He bent closer, his voice a hoarse whisper.

  ‘Ready to ride the big pony, boy?’

  Fumbling for footing, I wrenched open the door and scrambled out of the toilet. By the time I reached Echidna Avenue, I could taste blood in the back of my mouth. I was shaking all over. My heart felt as if it was going to burst.

  I flopped against the letterbox and thought of Jimmy Budge. I didn’t want a strange man in a public toilet. We should never, ever have left Ulverston.

  24

  Carmel left school without telling anyone and had been working for several weeks at Hubs Better Deals on Wheels before Mum found out. By that time, Carmel had already passed her driving test and been given a Hubs utility vehicle to use. My sister drove the Holden ute the same way she rode her bicycle: hard and fast. When she pulled up to the house, she skidded into the kerb. If someone got in her way, she tooted and saluted with two fingers. My mother said Carmel was a worry.

  ‘I don’t want her getting into trouble.’ Mum waved a fly off a plate of muffins and sighed.

  Bran muffins were being touted in Tasmania as the new health wonder. They contained the same amount of butter and sugar as cup cakes but experts said the fibre content made all the difference. High-fibre cereal had been around for a while but most people I knew still ate white toast and butter for breakfast. My father liked to tell the story of a miner in Broome who’d found a human finger in a box of bran flakes. ‘That finger must’ve contaminated millions of flakes.’ He said he wasn’t going to take the risk.

  ‘She does like the accelerator, Mum.’ I waved the fly away again. Tasmanian flies were known for their persistence. Tourists often complained that they couldn’t eat a sandwich in peace.

  ‘It’s not her driving I’m worried about. It’s those young mechanics at Hubs. I don’t want her getting in the family way and ending up with a deadbeat like your father.’

  ‘You don’t need to worry, Mum.’ Carmel now wore a chunky silver charm bracelet. There was only one charm attached, a silver cricket ball with DEB engraved on the back.