Julian Corkle is a Filthy Liar

Unaware of our presence, Dad took another swing with the sledgehammer, knocking chunks of wall flying in all directions.

Mum raised a hand to her mouth like a megaphone and shouted, ‘Oy! Dumbo!’

Dad turned, removing a pair of sound-absorbing ear muffs that he’d obviously borrowed from someone. The muffs were clean and professional-looking. All Dad’s tools and equipment were old or rusty.

‘What’s all this?’

‘I’m converting the sunroom into a bedroom. The boys need separate rooms.’

I stood up straight. I was getting my own room! Dad did care.

‘John needs his own space for study.’ He flashed a small-toothed smile. It was his stupid lop-sided après-pub smile. Dad could be uncharacteristically generous and optimistic when he was pissed.

‘My Royal Albert is covered in dust.’ Mum pointed to the tea set on the mantelpiece.

Dad was leaning on the sledgehammer, still grinning. ‘Colleen Corkle, there are two frozen chickens in the deep freeze. Won the chook raffle tonight.’

Dad was a winner. The two chickens made up for the hole in the wall and the dust on the tea set. They gave their relationship hope.

‘Why the hole?’

‘That’s the new doorway to Julian’s room. I’m going to block the side by the dinette.’

It was true. I was getting my own room. Dad should’ve won the chook raffle more often. We definitely needed a colour television.

‘How long is this going to take?’

‘It’ll be all done in a week. Mark my words.’

It took over a month and a concerted effort on the parts of John and myself. It was the only time we’d ever worked as a team. We were both relieved when Dad finally put down his paintbrush and told us to wash it and put the tools away.

I finally had my own space. No more dirty football boots and no more of my brother’s foul personality. John never hit me; my mother made sure of that. But enduring his constant jibes and sullen moods was worse than taking a punch from Carmel.

My new room was going to be spotless and decorated in grand fashion. The first thing I needed was curtains. The sunroom’s large picture windows were nice but privacy was essential. Mum said she could get polyester off-cuts from work and run me up curtains on her Bingo sewing machine. I suggested I pay half and we buy real fabric from the Blue Gum Plaza department store. I wanted proper drapes with a bedspread to match. My decorating efforts at the club had sparked an interest in interior decor. If my stage and screen ambitions didn’t pan out, interior designer was an excellent back-up career.

The fabric department was one of the most inspiring places in Ulverston. It was stacked with bolts of multicoloured material and managed by a well-groomed man in tailored clothes. Every woman worth her Bingo bought her dressmaking supplies from Des. He had shiny white satin for confirmation frocks and large bridal gown patterns for last-minute weddings. Local women treated Des like a god in his fabric department and then walked out and gossiped about him behind his back. Most agreed he was one of those. This annoyed my mother who liked to point out that Des was married. The more malicious gossips would then remind Mum that Des didn’t have children. I observed the goings-on with a wary eye and didn’t add fabric floor manager to my list of back-up career possibilities.

I’d seen Des a few times and knew for a fact that he was one of those. He wore colourful shirts and a gold signet ring on his marriage finger. I recognised a kindred spirit when Mum took me to select the fabric for my bedroom.

‘How can I be of service today, Colleen? I see you’ve got a new man in your life.’

Mum laughed as he kissed her French style on either cheek and told her she looked as beautiful as ever. I’d done her hair before leaving home and matched her handbag and shoes. Des was wearing a silky kingfisher-blue shirt that was open at the collar. I noticed the glint of a medallion. Mum put a hand on my head and ruffled my hair.

‘Julian’s choosing fabric for his curtains and bedspread.’

‘What kind of theme do you want for your chambre de lit?’ Des looked directly into my eyes, something adults tended to avoid doing. ‘Are you a space traveller, a cowboy or a dandy, young man?’

I’d never had a grown-up ask my opinion before, especially not the French Way. Adults generally told me off or told me what to do.

‘I’d like something…’ I looked at Mum and then at Des. They were actually waiting to hear what I had to say. ‘…something silky. You know, something that fluffs out in the wind.’ I moved my arms in a billowy way. There, I’d said it.

Des smiled. ‘Wonderful. You’re a gentleman like myself. We have some lovely jersey silks over here.’

He pointed to a shelf with bolts of soft David Bowie leotard material. I’d recently discovered David Bowie and decided he was the most beautiful man in the world. The jersey silk had a silvery gloss on one side. Mum coughed.

‘Julian, let’s not get your father started.’

‘But, Mum, it’s just right. David Bowie’s a big fan of this stuff and he’s famous. He’s got a feature in Celebrity Glitter.’ I knew she was right, of course. My father would have a fit.

Des must’ve seen a bit of this in his fabric department.