Julian Corkle is a Filthy Liar. D. Connell J.

Dick Dingle Hour is on soon.’ Colleen eyed her opponent over the baby’s head. ‘May as well give the boy his first taste of culture.’

       2

      I was born in Ulverston, a small town on Tasmania’s north coast. I know all about my arrival at Blue Gum Central Hospital from my mother. She even told me how I was conceived. I could’ve done without that information but there’s no way to censor Mum. She’s always known what’s best for me. Ours is one of those exclusive mother-son relationships. We even look alike. Mum says we’re Black Irish which means we’re more attractive than the rest of the family. We have thick dark hair and green eyes. Dad and my siblings are the other kind of Irish: gingery with freckles. It’s not a good look.

      It was Mum who bought me my first Celebrity Glitter magazine. It’s important to keep up, she says, star quality is not enough in the dog-eat-dog world of show business. Mum should know. She was the Tasmanian finalist in the Golden Microphone Contest and would’ve gone on to the nationals if disaster hadn’t struck. She still has the newspaper clipping in the back of her recipe book. Her hair is big and wide and she’s holding a bunch of dahlias next to a microphone. She looks beautiful – like Elizabeth Taylor, only thinner.

      Mum calls me the Songbird of the South and says I’ll win trophies one day. If it’s not the Golden Microphone then it’ll be the Tassie Wallaby which is the highest entertainment award on Tasmanian television. Dick Dingle has won the Wallaby twice. He’s our local television icon and does a lot to promote Tasmanian youth. Mum says he will be promoting me one day. She says I’ve got small-screenability.

      ‘One day we’re going to see your big face on the cover of Celebrity Glitter magazine, Julian. You’re my own little star. Twinkle, twinkle.’ The magazine in her hands had Liberace’s face on the cover.

      ‘Is my face big, Mum?’

      My father does not share my mother’s ambitions for me. I became aware of this at the age of four when I overheard a conversation from under our house in Kangaroo Crescent. We lived in a buff-coloured brick bungalow on a rectangular quarter-acre. The house sat on raised foundations which were hidden from view by a white weatherboard trim that skirted the bottom of the bricks. A trapdoor at the back provided crawling access to the area under the house. It was designed for plumbers and electricians but used exclusively by children.

      It was my neighbour Raymond’s idea to crawl under there. He was two years older than me and should’ve known better. He should’ve known not to leave our clothes beside the trapdoor for my brother John to find. John had immediately alerted my father to our whereabouts. Raymond and I were directly under the dinette. I could hear the transistor and muffled voices. Someone switched off the radio and the voices of my mother and father became audible.

      ‘Jim, for goodness’ sake, they’re just little boys.’

      ‘Little boys? Colleen, they are naked underneath this house, probably under our very feet.’

      I heard the shuffling of Dad’s leather-soled shoes on the linoleum above me.

      ‘I know exactly where this sort of thing leads and I don’t want a Catholic priest in the family. No thank you very much.’

      ‘Jim, he’s four years old.’

      ‘Exactly. We’ve got to put a stop to this right now. If it’s not a priest then we’ll have a hairdresser on our hands. Or a male nurse.’

      ‘A hairdresser would be handy.’

      ‘You know what I’m talking about.’

      ‘Hairdressing.’

      ‘No, your brother Norman. I don’t want his type fluffing up the cushions on my settee.’

      ‘Don’t be awful.’

      ‘The man’s as straight as a dog’s hind leg.’

      ‘Norman’s got a thriving salon in Melbourne. He’s not interested in our cushions.’

      ‘It would only start with the cushions. Next thing you know he’d be teaching our boys to play leapfrog.’

      ‘What’s wrong with leapfrog?’

      ‘There’s a lot wrong with it if you do it without trousers.’

      ‘Give it a rest.’

      ‘Not until I sort that Julian out.’

      I heard the door slam and then my mother’s footsteps cross the lino. My father’s voice boomed out near the trapdoor.

      ‘Julian. Come out immediately.’

      My father was a stout man but perfectly capable of squeezing under the house and dragging me out. Raymond and I scrambled to the trapdoor where Dad was waiting with our clothes. He handed them to us and stood with his arms rigid at his sides and his head turned away while we dressed. When we were done, he grabbed me by the elbow and pulled me toward him. The shorts I’d just put on were yanked down and I was smacked several times on the bum with his bare hand. Raymond didn’t get touched.

      I pointed to my neighbour. ‘What about Raymond?’

      Raymond’s lips parted in horror.

      ‘Shut up!’ Dad didn’t look at Raymond. His face was red and glistening with sweat.

      ‘But he’s older.’ I jabbed a finger angrily at Raymond who backed away.

      ‘Shut up!’ Dad reached out and smacked me again. ‘Never let me catch you with a naked boy again or there’ll be trouble.’

      He smacked me several more times. I nodded yes with each smack. I promised I would never ever let him catch me again as long as I lived.

      I managed to keep my promise until I was eight.

      

      Dad had built us a fort in the backyard out of some old timber and corrugated iron he’d been given by Trevor Bland. This was completely out of character and something he never attempted again. My father generally didn’t invest time in projects that weren’t directly connected to his personal comfort. He wasn’t the type of father to take his kids fishing or help us with homework. He did things like give us bottles of raspberry drink while we waited in the car outside the pub. This was one gesture I appreciated. Some kids weren’t given drinks. We’d poke out red tongues and wave our soft drinks at them while they died of thirst in their Holden station wagons.

      It was a war game that got me into trouble. The boys next door were the Allies and we were supposed to be the Germans. I told my brother John I didn’t want any part of it. I’d only heard bad things about Germans. They were swine.

      ‘I want to be a nurse.’

      ‘You can’t be a nurse, stupid.’ John sneered at me. ‘Nurses are girls.’ He laughed out loud and began dancing around me, chanting. ‘Julian’s a woolly woofter. Julian’s a woolly woofter.’

      The other boys sniggered.

      ‘I’m a nurse. I’ll do bandages in the hospital.’ I pointed to the fort. The boys turned to admire Dad’s construction. It was the only one in the street. Everyone loved our fort. It gave us the edge.

      ‘We need bandages if we’re shot.’ It was little Johnny Hawkins from next door. There were five Johns on our street. It was a very popular name in Ulverston.

      Eyes turned to my brother. He was the oldest.

      ‘OK, you can do bandages in the fort, but you’re a doctor.’ John was as proud of the fort as the next Corkle.

      ‘I’m a nurse.’ I shouted this over my shoulder.

      My first patient was my brother. He came inside grimacing and dragging his leg. ‘Za Brits shot me srew za knee.’

      I