D. Connell - Julian Corkle is a Filthy Liar

Don’t worry about being a little on the big side. You’re the world’s best ambassador for big people because you’ve still got a beautiful face and anyway, you could be a lot bigger. So don’t worry. You’re a big star, big and shiny like a real star in the sky.

I just wanted to tell you that.

By the way, is the Cartier diamond heavy? Sixty-nine seems a lot of carats even for a big diamond like the Cartier. Those carats must be heavy. That’s what I think anyway.

Liz, you and I have a lot in common. I’m sure we’ll be good friends after I move to America. I just have to win the Golden Microphone or equivalent trophy. Mum says it’s a sure thing. I first have to win the Little Aussie Talent Quest but I can’t enter this until I’m fifteen. So you will have to be patient. In the meantime, why don’t you visit Ulverston? You can stay at our house. Our couch is a four-seater so it should be big enough.

Love from YOUR BIGGEST FAN,

Julian Corkle

The Songbird of the South

There, that would make her feel better. I licked the envelope flap several times and pushed it flat. It curled up again. The sticky tape was in the dinette where Mum was entertaining our neighbour, Roslyn Scone. Roslyn was a sharp woman with a pinched face and limp blond hair that sat on her head like wet seaweed. She could have done something to remedy her looks but Roslyn wasn’t the type to invest money in something important. She was proudly describing her husband’s new Ford Escort when I entered the dinette. The Royal Albert tea set was out and a cake plate with three chocolate Tiffany biscuits was sitting in the middle of the table. I loved Tiffanies almost as much as I loved Shelby’s chocolate. My idea of happiness was sharing a packet of Tiffanies with Mum while I did her hair and she talked about my career. This we could do only when Dad and John were off the premises.

I sat down next to Roslyn with a crackle. She didn’t look in my direction or even acknowledge me. Roslyn didn’t like me and it was all Carmel’s fault. The papers and television had been making a lot of noise about a Scottish stripping sensation touring Australia called Gladys McGinty. Gladys had enormous breasts that sat on her chest like two Russian icebreakers. The media referred to her as Gladys Maximus and got a lot of mileage out of jokes about her massive tartan bagpipes. According to Carmel, our neighbour Roslyn had a sunken treasure chest with grains of sand for breasts. One day I was sitting with my sister behind the hedge when she called out, ‘Roslyn Minimus, the scrawny tart and bag!’ Carmel had run off and left me to my fate. I was cowering behind the hedge, smiling foolishly, when Roslyn found me. She hadn’t forgiven me.

‘Mum, can I have a Tiffany?’ I took a biscuit as I asked.

‘Just one, Julian, then go outside and play.’

‘I need some sticky tape.’

‘You know where it is.’

I got off my chair and found the tape in the drawer. I sealed the envelope and returned to the table, crackling as I sat down. It was getting hot inside the suit. I could feel sweat tickling down the backs of my knees. I reached out and took another Tiffany as swiftly as possible. The suit crackled again. Roslyn looked at me suspiciously.

‘What’s that rustling sound? The boy’s got something in his trousers.’

The sweat was now running down my legs. Roslyn made me nervous but I couldn’t leave while there was still a Tiffany up for grabs. If I let the biscuit slip through my fingers, it would haunt me all afternoon.

‘Everything inside my trousers is normal, Mum.’

‘Colleen, young boys are pleasure-seekers. He’s got something alien down there.’ Roslyn folded her arms over her two grains of sand. She wanted war.

I wanted the Tiffany. I decided to offer her an olive branch. ‘Mrs Scone, I bet you’re an expert on carats. Women love them. The bigger the better and all that.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Roslyn gave me a horrified look. She obviously didn’t read the right magazines.

‘Carats. You know, the big ones. You’ve got to have them if you’re a glamour puss. Film stars can’t get enough of them.’

Roslyn made a high-pitched whistling sound as she sucked air past her dentures.

Mum rattled her Royal Albert teacup in its saucer. ‘That’s enough, Julian! Get outside.’

I grabbed the last Tiffany and slipped off my chair with a crackle. I heard Roslyn whistle-gasp as I made for the door. Outside, I squatted down and waddled like a duck until I was directly below the open dinette window.

‘You want to watch that boy, Colleen.’

‘For goodness’ sake! He’s wearing a sweat suit to lose weight.’

Mum’s statement was followed by the clatter of plates. She was clearing the table and being rough on the Royal Albert. This was out of character for Mum. The tea set was the nicest thing we owned and only made the voyage from the lounge mantelpiece to the table when there were guests to entertain or impress. She’d bought the porcelain with her Golden Microphone prize money.

‘Boys shouldn’t wear sweat suits.’

‘Roslyn! Julian is a good kid and I don’t appreciate you implying otherwise. He’s got a lot of talent and will go places one day.’ More china rattled.

‘I wasn’t finished with that cup of tea.’

‘I think you were.’

‘Well, I know when I’m not wanted!’

‘At least you know that.’

A chair scraped. The door slammed. I watched Roslyn’s rigid back as she marched down our driveway. She turned at the gate and saw me crouched under the window. I thought of Carmel and gave her the fingers.

The family was going out to the King’s Arms and had dressed up for the occasion. I was wearing my new maroon stretch trousers and gingham check shirt. Mum had on her knee-length apricot skirt and cream twin set. I’d spent hours curling and setting her hair and she looked just like Bobbie Gentry. The dinner was Mum’s idea. We were going out to celebrate John’s sixteenth birthday in a grown-up way at the hotel’s new Sunday Family Buffet. Dad didn’t like family outings but had been won over by the pub’s all-you-can-eat deal.

I’d never been to a buffet and wanted to make the most of it. The three Tiffany biscuits I’d eaten in the afternoon had been digested hours ago. I was starving and keen to get going. Dad must’ve felt the same way because he was the first in the car. I followed John and Carmel into the back seat with a crackle. Carmel made a face and slid away from me. John gave me a disgusted look and wound down his window. I leaned over to talk to Dad.

‘Can we really eat as much as we like?’

‘What?’ Dad was occupied with counting the one- and two-dollar notes in his wallet.

‘Can I really eat until I’m full, without stopping and all that?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Can I fill my plate and go back again for seconds? And are the desserts and drinks included?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What if all the food’s gone when we get there?’

‘It won’t be. We’ll be there at opening time. That’s the Corkle way.’

‘But a rugby team might turn up. Or a herd of sheep farmers.’

‘Ulverston’s got fish-and-chip shops for that sort of thing.’

‘Do you think they’ll have chips?’

‘Probably, they’re cheap to make.’

‘That’s all right then.’ If I could eat as much as I like, and if the buffet had chips and dessert, then everything would be fine.

Dad was right. We were the first family to arrive and had to wait ten minutes for the staff to finish laying out the buffet. Trestle tables had been set up in the lounge bar under a banner: ‘Caterers’ Choice Brand. Mouth-watering cuisine made from home-style recipes’. It was like something out of Celebrity Glitter . The stainless steel and porcelain shone under the fluorescent lights and the food steamed inside the bains-marie. There were fancy dishes like beef curry and macaroni and cheese alongside normal Tasmanian food like chips and sausage rolls. Mum led us to a table as Dad paid. He followed us over scowling.