‘I don’t know how many times I’ve tried to discuss the menstrual cycle and facts of life but she won’t hear a word of it.’
‘Carmel won’t get pregnant.’ I wanted to make my mother feel better but I could hardly tell her the truth. ‘She’s not the type.’
‘But what are those things on her neck? In my day, they were called love bites.’
‘They’re not love bites.’ I waved a non-existent fly off the muffins and played for time.
‘What are they then?’
‘Bowler’s trophies. When a team wins, the girls beat their bowler around the neck with a wicket.’
‘That’s outrageous.’ Mum smiled despite herself. She wanted to believe the story. In her book, a friendly beating was better than an unwanted pregnancy.
‘It only happens to the best. They call Carmel “The Locomotive”.’
‘Dreadful.’
My mother was still smiling as I followed her into The Ensuite and watched her fill a toiletry bag with cosmetics. She was going to stay in Melbourne for the long weekend. Norman had promised to give her a makeover.
Mum had invited her brother to visit us in Hobart several times but he always refused. I could’ve understood this refusal if Dad had been around but we’d been irritation-free for six months. Norman hadn’t been to Tasmania for years. There was more to the story than Mum was telling. Roving reporter Julian Corkle decided to probe.
‘Why doesn’t Norman visit us?’
‘He doesn’t want to come back to Hobart.’
‘So it’s true what Dad said?’ Dad hadn’t said anything but he was excellent Mum bait.
‘Don’t listen to anything that man says about Norman.’
‘He seemed pretty convinced.’
‘He’s as bad as the other bigots. Norman made one mistake. He never deserved what happened to him.’
So Norman had done something bad. I imagined him shoplifting sunglasses or giving the police the fingers. I saw him being hauled off to jail. A thrill went through me. My uncle, the jailbird.
‘Not according to Dad.’
‘Poor Norman.’
‘What actually happened?’ I knew I’d given the game away as soon as I spoke.
Mum shot me a look and clammed up. She picked up the Dew Drops container and shook it. ‘Another empty bottle. Julian, what on earth do you do with this lotion?’
The four stars of the Dingo Hotel should’ve had enough pull for the likes of Mick Jagger and Rod Stewart but the big celebrities never ventured further south than Melbourne. Since I’d been at the Dingo we’d had a run of wool- and apple-buyers, three national sports teams and a newsreader from New Zealand. Dick Dingle hadn’t visited the hotel once.
The biggest thing to walk through its doors had been an American tourist called Cindy. The driver of the Pearl of Aussie Tours coach told me she’d entered the bus sideways and taken up two seats. ‘Gland trouble, of course.’ He’d called her a brave lady and bought her a drink at the hotel bar. From the porter’s station I’d watched her sip the cocktail in a girlie way and then dab her mouth daintily. Anne-Marie told me that Cindy later ordered three plates of chips and a chocolate sundae from room service. She warned me I’d end up like her if I didn’t pull my socks up.
‘A two-seater?’
‘A fat, lonely secret eater. You’re obviously stuffing yourself on the sly because I never see you eating the staff meals.’ Her eyes fell on my bottle tops. ‘That’s stupid when they’re free.’
‘I’m losing weight as we speak. I’m on the Maria Callas diet.’
‘You look exactly the same, only bigger.’
‘This job’s been helpful for gathering material but it’s time to relaunch my career. Small screen.’
I wasn’t on a diet and there was nothing to relaunch. I was simply avoiding Crabb and Nigel. The Dingo was a dead end. I hadn’t made any contacts or sniffed out any inside information. Worst of all, I couldn’t afford to leave. I had no savings, a time plan to pay and a list of things I needed. One of these was a new haircut. I badly wanted a Terrence Fig. The idea of a big fluffy woodpecker had taken hold and wouldn’t let go.
‘You need to up your fibre intake. One of the best sources is cabbage. Look at my new body.’ Anne-Marie put her hands on her fat hips and pulled in her stomach. She loved telling me what she was doing right and what I was doing wrong. ‘I went down another uniform size on the cabbage diet. My corns have disappeared. Less pressure inside the shoes.’
‘I’ve never had a corn in my life. I’m corn free.’ I cleared my throat, TV-anchor style. ‘You probably know that I had my own show on Abracadabra.’ Enough time had passed to safely mention my cub reporter debut.
‘You’re headed for corns.’
‘I’m in talks with an agent.’
Anne-Marie leaned over the booth and pointed to the packet of Tiffany biscuits I’d stashed behind the two-way radio. ‘That’s typical. Lonely people compensate.’
‘But you’re not lonely, Anne-Marie.’
‘I’m not fat. And I have plenty of friends, thank you very much.’ She snapped her rubber gloves for emphasis and walked off with the cleaning bucket over her arm like a handbag.
I watched her go and tore open the biscuits, stuffing two into my mouth, sandwich-style. Anne-Marie had hit a raw nerve. I didn’t have any friends and it was all Dad’s fault. He was the one who’d insisted on Hobart and messed up my life. I could’ve dealt with loneliness if my career was headed somewhere but I was never going to get on TV working as a porter. I needed a miracle or I’d be stuck in a hardboard booth for the rest of my life. The CB radio beeped.
‘This here’s the Rubber Duck. You got a copy on me?’
‘Kenny.’
‘We got ourselves a convoy.’ Kenny hooted. He was a country music fan as well as a CB radio buff. ‘Motorcade heading your way. Sir Bernie’s in town.’
‘Bernie Pouch?’
‘Copy.’
A thrill went through me. The former premier was a celebrity in Tasmania where a politician was condemned as a crook if he got caught and celebrated as a wag if he got away with it. Pouch had definitely got away with it. After the casino was built, he wound up his political career and moved to Melbourne to pursue murky business ventures. The media loved him for it. Pouch was often on TV and regularly featured in ‘Sir Bernie at Home’-type magazine articles. In the glossy photos he was just a normal Tassie man sizzling sausages on a family barbecue, only next to his barbecue was a mammoth swimming pool and next to the pool was a luxurious mansion. Pouch was given the run of the VIP suite whenever he came to Hobart.
The shuttle appeared first and led the way around the roundabout, followed by a black Toyota Crown with a small Australian flag on its aerial. Kenny gave the thumbs up and kept going as the Toyota pulled up at the kerb. I was smiling big and reaching for the door when Bevan Bunion suddenly appeared, waving me away like a fly on a muffin.
‘Welcome back, sir.’ He shook hands with Pouch. ‘Always a pleasure.’
‘Nice to be home.’ Pouch looked over the top of Bunion’s head and twitched a miniature version of his politician’s smile.
I watched Bunion lead him into the lobby and cursed under my breath.
‘Oy, dickhead!’ The chauffeur had stuck his head out of the window and was glaring at me. ‘You going to get the bloody luggage or just stand there like an eejit?’
As I removed the suitcases from the Toyota’s boot, I thought over my options. I could obey ridiculous orders and miss a Golden Microphone Moment or I could do the right and logical thing and make a key personal connection. It was time for a career relaunch. I’d just said so myself.
After depositing the luggage in the lobby, I made straight for the service bay where I knew a complimentary VIP fruit basket would be sitting on the duty manager’s desk, awaiting delivery. I had my hand on the wicker handle when the angry voice of Raymond Crabb resonated through the service bay.
‘It’s on the bastard’s desk!�
� The voice was headed my way.
I grabbed the basket and dived under the desk as Crabb’s heavy boots clomped across the floor.
‘Where the fuck’s it gone? I just put it here.’
I could hear him muttering despite the swirling pressure in my ears. He shuffled, sighed and shuffled again. I pushed my cheek against the floor and with one eye peered under the desk. The toe of his steel-capped boot moved away and then swung back rapidly, hitting the metal with a deafening clang. My body jerked. I stifled a cry.
‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!’ Crabb kicked the metal again and clomped back to the kitchen.
Jumping to my feet, I dashed to the stairs and took them two at a time. By the ninth floor, I was gasping for breath. I sat down on the stairs to rearrange the fruit which had jumbled inside the cellophane wrapper. Working quickly, I restacked the contents into a mound then topped it off with a banana wedged nose-up between two oranges. I then took out the ‘COMPLIMENTS OF THE DINGO HOTEL’ card and added ‘Personally Delivered by Julian Corkle’. There, Pouch would be impressed.
A plump blonde wearing too much make-up answered the door.
‘I was asked to deliver this to Mr Pouch. Personally.’ I tried to look into the suite but the woman moved and blocked my view.
‘He’s already gone to the gala.’ She yanked the basket from my hands. ‘I’ll take that.’
‘Gala?’
The door took me by surprise. I didn’t see it until it closed in my face. I stood there for a moment, dazed.
I spent the rest of my shift reworking the door scene in my mind. In the initial version, I wedged my foot in the crack and forced my way into the room. The woman came at me with a knife but I fought her off to save Bernie who was tied to a chair. By the time I finished work, I’d shot the woman with a small gun and was being hailed as a hero by the media.
I left the hotel with a new feeling of determination. Things had gone far enough. Julian Corkle deserved respect. He deserved to be stopped on the street and asked for autographs. That was the sort of attention Terrence Fig got and Terrence had a signature haircut.
The Brush Off was the trendiest hair salon in Hobart and catered to both men and women. I’d walked past it hundreds of times but never had the courage to enter. A thin girl with dark eye make-up raised her eyebrows as I pushed open the door and swaggered up to the counter. Her hair was coloured bright blue and styled into the shape of a fluffy bedroom slipper. She didn’t say hello.
‘I want a hairdo exactly like yours.’ Flattery was an excellent door-opener.
The girl rolled her eyes. ‘It’ll have to be next Friday.’
‘I have to wait a week to see the hairdresser?’
‘Sty-list. Hairsty-list.’ The girl rolled her eyes again. ‘Philippe is our top apprentice but he’s already very exclusive.’
‘Philippe? He’s French?’
‘More or less.’
‘Next week then.’
The telephone was ringing when I opened the door to the house. I ran to get it.
‘G’day, sunshine. How’s the Locomotive?’
‘It’s Julian.’
‘Oh. Carmel there?’
‘No, only me.’
‘Damn.’ Dad grunted. ‘Tell her I’m getting the flash new Holden next week. Electronic windows, cassette player, the works.’
‘What colour is it?’ I knew what the colour would be.
‘Brown. You can’t go wrong with brown.’
‘It’s the colour of dirt.’
‘I’ll never have to wash it.’
‘I made an appointment today.’ I knew I shouldn’t be telling Dad this but I couldn’t help myself.
‘It’s even got power steering.’
‘I’m going to get a flash new haircut.’
‘What?’ The phone went silent. Dad took a deep breath. ‘Not by one of those male hairdressers I hope.’
‘They’re called hairstylists these days.’
‘Jesus bloody Christ. You’d better not be dragging Carmel into this.’
My father had no idea. I never dragged Carmel into anything. She never did things she didn’t want to do. For the past couple of weeks I’d been begging her to stop practising cricket bowling against the back fence. She’d developed a habit of throwing empty beer bottles at the corrugated iron from the back steps. The glass exploded and flew everywhere. Mum never went down the back but Mr Neville from next door had complained to me about the shards he’d found in his lettuces. He told me the Japanese killed people with ground glass, that and bamboo shoots. He knew all about it from an uncle who’d been a prisoner of war in Malaya. The man had lost two thumbnails and half a metre of intestine. Mr Neville said the Japanese were swine, even worse than the Germans.
‘Carmel doesn’t care about hair, Dad. You’ve never noticed her legs and underarms?’
‘Just as bloody well. Keep away from those Norman types and all other rough trade for that matter.’
‘Plumbers?’
‘You know what I mean.’
The Dick Dingle Hour was just starting when I turned on the TV. Dick was standing on a stage in a large auditorium filled with people dining at round tables. Above him was a hand-painted banner: ‘Hobart Youth and Sports Re-education Centre’. Next to Dick Dingle was Bernie Pouch who was holding a large cardboard key. Dick Dingle spoke into the microphone.
‘Sir Bernie will now present the symbolic key of the new centre to a representative of Hobart’s sporting youth. The young sportswoman was chosen for her spirited contribution to Tassie sports.’
Music played as the spotlight moved to the audience where the sportswoman was winding her way between tables. I blinked and looked again. I knew that old tracksuit. And the short back and sides. I gasped and gripped the edge of the couch.
Carmel waved as she mounted the stage and was greeted with a fatherly pat on the back by Pouch. He took over the microphone.
‘I hear they call you the Locomotive?’
‘Yeah.’ Carmel smiled at the camera. The smile was crooked, a sure sign that she’d been drinking.
‘On behalf of the citizens of Hobart, I hereby present this key to the youth of the city.’
The diners clapped politely as Pouch handed over the key. The applause increased as my sister lifted it above her head. Someone whistled. Female voices whooped. Encouraged, Carmel slid the key to her hips and made a show of playing air guitar. Bernie Pouch laughed politely as the audience cheered, then he made a sign for people to settle down. He took the microphone again.
‘I’m sure you’ve got something to say on behalf of the youth of Hobart, young lady.’
She gave Pouch a wild look. ‘Is this live TV?’
‘It most certainly is.’
Carmel smiled one of her dangerous smiles and moved closer to the microphone. She held up a thumb.
‘Hubs, for better deals on wheels!’
25
It was a relief to have my mother home. She knew all the right things to say.
‘What a waste of a Golden Microphone Moment. Pouch and Dingle in one hit and all your sister could do was tout used cars.’
‘It was broadcast state-wide.’
‘You should’ve been up there on that podium.’ Mum shook her head. ‘You’re the one with small-screenability. Norman still talks about that cub reporter show. He says you were brilliant.’
Norman’s makeover had completely transformed my mother. He’d cut and restyled her hair into a fluffy Olivia Newton-John and done a Debbie Harry with her eye make-up. Mum’s shoulders had widened while her waist was pulled in tight with a large belt. Her nail polish and lipstick now matched her handbag and shoes. She could’ve been an air hostess for Air France.
‘You look like an air hostess, Mum.’ I squeezed the shoulder pads.
‘Thank you, honey. Norm’s a miracle-worker.’
‘He’s put ginger in your hair.’
‘They’re called highlights and the colour is caramel.’
‘Very nice.�
� I examined my own hair in The Ensuite’s mirrors. ‘Do you think I should get highlights?’
‘They’re all the rage in Melbourne. Norm says they completely revamp personal image.’
‘I’m looking forward to my revamp.’ I circled Mum, fluffing the back of her hair with my fingertips. ‘You’re going to cause a stir at the Wool Board.’
‘They were stirred before I left. Sheep have taken a dip. It’s the Common Market. Dezzie says the French are driving mutton prices down.’
‘I don’t see sheep in France.’
‘What do you think keeps those Frenchmen warm at night?’
I stopped fluffing.
‘Wool, Julian. The French are great wearers of wool. But they’ve overproduced. They’re dumping fleeces and meat. That’s what Dezzie says.’
‘Is your job safe, Mum?’
‘I make Dezzie’s tea, love.’
‘Good then.’
The receptionist did not look up when I entered the Brush Off. She was too busy painting her nails black to match her hair which was now black and white like a chequerboard.
‘You’ll have to wait. Philippe is busy with a client.’
The salon was empty and, apart from the faint tang of chemicals, there was no evidence of recent hairstyling activity. I walked over to a cutting chair and ran a hand over the scissors and combs in a utility tray. A thrill went through me. On the wall next to the chair was a photograph of a severe-looking man. I leaned forward and read the embossed metal name-plate: ‘Vidal Sassoon’.
Philippe wasn’t French despite his impeccable grooming. His eyebrows were two perfect tick marks and his hair was a fantastic construction in navy blue with red streaks. It rose in a column from the top of his head and exploded outwards like a mushroom cloud.
‘Love the red highlights, Philippe.’ I’d been wrapped in a plastic poncho and seated in front of a mirror. Philippe was standing behind me with scissors, studying my hair critically.
He rolled his eyes. ‘They’re called glimmers and they’re vermilion.’
‘Very nice. I think I’ll have exactly the same cut and dye.’
Julian Corkle is a Filthy Liar Page 18
