Julian Corkle is a Filthy Liar

I worked my way through the first plate of savouries and then went back for another of crumbed chicken pieces and spaghetti. By the third round I was feeling gassy and hot. The SlimQuik was tight inside my clothes. Carmel heard domes pop as I got up a fourth time. She pinched her nose and made a waving motion with her other hand. ‘Ugh, not in the public sphere.’

I filled the fourth plate with beef curry and rice. It was a ridiculous choice. I didn’t like beef curry any more than I liked Irish stew. I ate it anyway.

Little rivers of sweat were running from under my arms when I started in on the apple sponge and chocolate cake. By now the suit had ripped open underneath my clothes. I didn’t care. I just had to make enough room for a chocolate éclair and a helping of pavlova and then I’d be done.

I swallowed the last spoonful of pavlova and put the bowl on top of the stack of empty plates in front of me. I felt bloated and carsick. Complete calm was the only cure. I just wanted it all to end and to go home.

The family was still eating when a man came up to the table and spoke to Dad. ‘I’d like to have a word with you, sir, away from the other paying customers.’

Dad got up and followed him. When he returned, his face was an angry red grimace. He didn’t sit down.

‘What’s the matter, Jim?’ Mum was brushing crumbs off the tablecloth in front of me.

‘We’re going. Some family discount they have here! That idiot just asked me to pay full price for Julian.’

Dad’s eyes fell on me. I tried to sink lower in my chair but the interior of the sweat suit was slick with sweat. The suit and my clothes remained upright on the chair while I slipped down inside them. The suit made a squeaking sound as my skin rubbed against the plastic. Carmel aimed an elbow at my ribs but hit my shoulder.

‘He said Julian ate four plates of mains. I told him to shove his buffet up his bum. Come on, let’s get out of here.’

‘But, Dad, I haven’t had dessert yet and it’s my birthday.’ John’s voice was a sickening whine.

Dad shook his head. We were leaving. John shot me a dangerous look. I knew by the look that I’d get hell later but I was in too much discomfort to care. I burped and tasted pavlova and beef curry in the back of my mouth.

As soon as we got home, I rushed into the bathroom and locked the door. I tore off all my clothes and removed the SlimQuik. It had ripped from the crotch to halfway up the back but I didn’t care. It felt wonderful to be free of it. I pulled out the bathroom scales and stood on them naked, holding my breath. I’d been wearing the damned suit for an entire day and deserved some weight loss as compensation. The scales indicated I was two and a half kilograms heavier. I got off, wound back the little arm a few notches and then got back on. There, I was just under my regular weight.

8 (#ulink_7dd64c42-3184-558d-a671-581394ec9d99)

It was one thing to have love handles bulging over the top of my shorts but it was quite another to overhear my father referring to me as a podge. Podge? I stopped in my tracks. I’d been on my way to the fridge to get cheese for a sandwich.

‘That little podge eats like a horse and watches too much TV. It’s not natural for a boy of his age. He should be outside playing not watching Dick Dingle on the box.’

Dad was sitting in front of the box talking to Mum as she ran a duster over the porcelain. He couldn’t see me in the dinette because his eyes were fixed on the All Blacks who were getting pounded into mincemeat by the South Africans. The New Zealand rugby tour of apartheid South Africa had stirred up a hornet’s nest on the pages of The Bugle. Dad didn’t want to miss a minute of it.

‘When was the last time you did any physical exercise?’ Mum’s hand had stopped moving. Her duster was hovering over the Royal Albert teapot.

‘I’m not eleven years old.’

‘No, you and that Trevor Bland act more like five-year-olds.’ Mum let the duster fall and put her hands on her hips. ‘Not all boys were made for sports. Julian has other talents. He’s sensitive and original.’

‘I’ve heard that before about you-know-who.’

‘Leave Norm out of this.’ She leaned over and waved a hand in front of Dad’s face, forcing him to look at her. ‘You know what you are, James Corkle? A big, fat, bigoted, beer-swilling sports dag.’

‘Sports dag? You can’t call me a sports dag.’

I should’ve left the dinette right then but I was riveted by the scene that had just unfolded before me. As Dad stood to confront my mother, he noticed me out of the corner of his eye. I heard him yell as I scurried for the back door. When he caught up with me I was near the plum tree. His face was red and his eyes were blazing. I knew he wanted to wallop me but he didn’t have a justifiable crime, especially with Mum watching from the back step.

His eyes narrowed and a smile appeared. The next thing I knew, he’d put Carmel’s cricket bat in my hand. It wasn’t fair but no court of law in Tasmania was going to convict a father of cruelty for making his son play cricket. Mum gave a sympathetic shrug and went back inside.

I was made to stand with my back to the tree and told to hit hard and high. Dad rubbed the ball on his trouser leg, put it to his lips, blew on it, and then bowled it in my direction. The next thing I knew I was on my back gasping for air. The cricket ball had hit me in the middle of the chest and thrown me on my back.

‘Did you just close your eyes?’ Dad was standing over me.

‘Yes.’ Honesty was the best policy when it came to my father.

‘You idiot.’

‘I mean no.’ I changed my mind. Honesty was definitely not the best policy. Flattery was. ‘You throw just like Stan McCabe.’

‘I can’t believe your stupidity. I could’ve killed you.’ Dad cared. He really did.

‘I mean I did close them.’

‘Your mother would have had a fit. Why in God’s name did you close your frigging eyes?’

‘The ball was blurry.’ For some insane reason, there was the truth again.

Dad’s head tilted to the side. He was paying attention. It encouraged me.

‘You, too, Dad. When you stand over there by the fence, your edges go all fluffy like Doris Day on TV.’

This description had an immediate impact. I was grabbed by the shoulder and marched into the kitchen where my mother was peeling potatoes. She looked at me and frowned. ‘What’s happened?’

‘Colleen, the boy’s afflicted. His eyes are buggered. I’ll have to see old Dent.’

Dr Dent was one of my father’s co-drinkers. They met nearly every night down at the King’s Arms with Trevor Bland to hash over meaningless topics like cricket and football. Dent was Dad’s idea of good medicine. The doctor had a speech problem which prevented him from asking too many questions or giving much medical advice. His small, unpopular practice was located above the Whipper Snapper fish-and-chip shop in the centre of town.

My mother held up three fingers. ‘How many fingers, Julian?’

‘Two.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with his eyes. Apart from their gorgeous green colour.’

This was my mother being funny. She smiled at me. I almost smiled back but stopped myself. I’d always wanted glasses and couldn’t allow humour to jeopardise this opportunity.

Yves Saint Laurent wore glasses and he was an actual French fashion designer from France. Everyone recognised Yves by his thick dark glasses. They were his signature, and all the big stars had a signature. Elizabeth Taylor had the Cartier diamond. Gladys had her icebreakers and Liberace, who had made another dazzling tour of Australia, had his candelabra.

Dent must’ve been a real doctor at one stage because he had a brass plaque on his door. The grubby waiting room was furnished with three vinyl chairs and an Aussiemica table. The ashtray on the table was full. There was no receptionist and obviously no cleaner.

‘G-g-g-g’day, Jim.’

Dent held out his hand to my father. He was a short man with an oily scalp encircled by a strip of grey hair. I immediately thought of Louis Pasteur. Pasteur’s discovery of bacteria and its destruction by boiling was one of Brother Duffy’s favourite subjects. Dent’s lab coat had grime around the buttonholes and along the pocket edges. It was asking to be boiled.

‘G-g-g-g’day, Dent.’ My father copied his friend’s stutter and then laughed at himself.

Dent didn’t seem to mind. He listened to Dad with a vacant smile before going ahead with the examination. After putting me through the eye chart, he brought over a huge pair of black test frames and told me to put them on. The eye circles were like cogs and had numbered notches around the edges. Dad spluttered with laughter.

‘Don’t I know you? You’re Brains from Thunderbirds. No, hang on, you’re Mr Magoo.’