Julian Corkle is a Filthy Liar

‘The name has religious significance.’

‘We’re not religious.’ The woman unfolded her arms and took the baby from Colleen. ‘He’s a heavy little thing.’

‘He’s a healthy boy. Boys are more robust than girls. You should hear his lungs.’

‘His lungs disrupted my Debbie’s crowning. They couldn’t get him to pipe down. The sister was at her wits’ end.’

‘Frank Sinatra has fantastic lungs.’ Colleen crossed her arms.

‘Sinatra’s more of a crooner than a screamer.’

‘That’s just voice training. Julian’s got the right lungs. Lungs and personality. My boy’s got star quality.’

‘What a shame.’ The woman pointed to the baby’s mouth.

Colleen’s eyebrows shot skyward. ‘What a shame, what?’

‘He’s got a cupid’s bow.’

‘He’s a good-looking baby.’

‘Brigitte Bardot has a cupid’s bow but it’s a curse on a boy.’ The woman sucked air between her teeth. ‘Odd really. The father’s not French?’

‘My husband’s one hundred per cent Australian, a real man’s man. This is my second son. Two healthy boys.’ Colleen pointed to the baby’s top lip. ‘That’ll come right once he’s off the bottle.’

‘I doubt it.’

‘He’s really taken to the bottle. He’s a very strong sucker. All the nurses say so.’

‘I suppose that’s one good thing.’

‘Let me take him off your hands. Boys are heavy.’ Colleen reached out for the baby.

‘He’s quite pretty.’ The woman hesitated. ‘Like a little girl, really.’

‘That face is made for the small screen.’

The woman looked doubtful. ‘Possibly, but you’ll be forking out a fortune on voice training.’

‘Here, pass him over to me.’ Colleen yanked the baby out of her arms. ‘You need to rest up for your big operation on Tuesday.’

The woman gave a start.

‘I’m heading down to the TV room. The 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 (#ulink_ab00b814-7653-5e3b-856c-f3a86ab5494b)

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.