D. Connell - Julian Corkle is a Filthy Liar

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.’

It was awful to be teased by my father because I was forbidden to retaliate. I could’ve come up with some extremely funny names for him, like Phar Lap or Lassie, but name-calling was a one-way street with Dad.

The frames had grooves on the sides for inserting test lenses. Dent selected two lenses with his nicotine-stained fingers and slipped them into the grooves.

‘H-h-h-how’s that?’

‘Still blurry.’

He added more lenses.

‘B-b-b-better or w-w-w-worse?’

It wasn’t only better; it was brilliant. The lower letters on the eye chart had clearly defined edges. A thrill went through me. It was like finding a ten-dollar note on the footpath.

‘B-b-b-better.’ I should’ve turned around before I tried any funny business. The Magoo glasses would’ve provided an excellent view of my father striding across the room towards me. The smack across the back of my head made the lenses rattle inside the frames.

‘That’s enough.’

‘But you talked like—’

‘I said that’s enough!’

Dent put a hand up. ‘J-J-J-James, your boy’s sh-sh-sh-short-sighted. H-h-h-he probably can’t r-r-r-read the blackboard at sc-sc-sc-school.’

The doctor wrote out a lens prescription and arranged to meet Dad at the pub later. We drove in silence to the optometrist. Dad must’ve been thinking about what Dent had said and was unusually kind when we reached the shop. He told me I could choose any pair of frames I wanted. It was like being told I could have the best callipers money could buy. I trawled the racks several times, finally narrowing the choice down to two models. My heart said yes to a pair of blue frames with gold rivets on the sides. These were the signature candelabra of fashion frames. Another part of me, the part that read Celebrity Glitter , said yes to simple black plastic frames, not unlike the signature spectacles of Yves Saint Laurent. I showed Dad the two options.

He raised his eyebrows and jabbed a finger at the blue frames. ‘Put those back on the ladies’ rack, right this minute!’

Mum said I needed a signature tune to go with my trademark frames. I sang her Frank Sinatra’s ‘My Way’ as we drove to the optometrist to pick up the glasses, stretching out the last ‘waaaaay’ until my voice disappeared for lack of air. We were both excited about my new style accessories. Mum agreed they’d give my face a certain something. I told her that certain something was ‘ Je ne sais quoi ’. That’s what all the stars had, according to Celebrity Glitter .

The woman behind the counter was chewing something when we entered the shop and seemed irritated by our arrival. She located my glasses on a shelf under the counter and jerked them out of their case. As she handed them to Mum I realised with horror I’d made a big mistake. They were not Yves Saint Laurent. The frames were too circular and chunky for Yves. The lenses were thick and convex. The overall effect was like a party novelty, the sort of thing that went with a plastic nose and moustache.

‘Mum, my eyes have cleared up. I think we should get our money back.’

‘What? Now you’d prefer a white stick or Labrador?’ She laughed and elbowed me.

I didn’t smile back. The situation was critical. I couldn’t accept novelty glasses. I wanted to be a celebrity, not a clown.

‘I didn’t want to tell you this, Mum, but last Sunday I looked at the statue of Mary in Our Lady of Miracles. She was crying real tears. Then suddenly I could see everything perfectly. Even those little hairs inside Father McMahon’s nose.’

My mother shuddered. ‘Why don’t you just try them on, Julian.’

The woman behind the counter sniffed with impatience. She wasn’t interested in Christian miracles. She was as hard as they came, probably Protestant. I was going to tell my mother as much as soon as we got our money back and left the premises.

Mum slipped the glasses over my nose and tucked the arms behind my ears. I blinked and gasped in surprise. A rack of Albert Tatlock frames came into view. So did a poster behind the woman. It wasn’t a scene of Japanese maple leaves but an aerial photo of the Disney castle in Bavaria. Turning, I looked out of the shop window and saw a small dog lift its leg against a tyre. A woman walked past pulling a wailing child by the arm. It was magic. I could see everything in detail. I looked back at the saleswoman and noticed a wiry mole on her neck. On the bench behind her was a half-eaten sandwich. In the mirror, I could see someone in a shamrock-green T-shirt wearing big black glasses. It was me and I looked like Nana Mouskouri. My heart sank.

‘So, do they make a difference?’ My mother had her hands extended in front of her. She did this when she was going to adjust my shirt or give my hair a ruffle. Her head was tilted to one side.

‘Not one bit.’ I tapped the lens with a fingernail. ‘Total waste of money.’

The saleswoman snapped the glasses’ case closed and handed it to my mother with the prescription. ‘We don’t do returns on prescription glasses. A lot of work’s gone into grinding those lenses.’ She pointed to me. ‘Very necessary with the sort of eyes your boy’s got.’

My mother’s head jerked back to upright position. ‘There’s nothing wrong with my son’s eyes.’

It was a ridiculous response but my mother did this when I was under threat. It was one of the things I liked most about her. Mum’s hand landed between my shoulder blades and I was propelled out into the real world, a world that suddenly had shapes and textures. I left the glasses on as we drove home. They made me feel disoriented and dizzy, but the thrill of being able to see was worth the carsickness. I could read names on letterboxes and see merchandise in shop windows.

‘You know who those glasses remind me of?’ Mum knew I was disappointed.

‘I hate myself and want to die.’

‘Roy Orbison.’

‘That cheers me up.’

‘Sammy Davis Jr has black frames, too, and he’s part of the Rat Pack.’

‘He’s the smallest member.’

‘Don’t forget Rolf Harris.’

‘You’re not cheering me up.’

‘Norman had glasses when he was your age.’

Mum pulled up at traffic lights next to the Whipper Snapper fish-and-chip shop. I was looking at people waiting in cars when my heart skipped a beat. Elizabeth Taylor was sitting in the passenger seat of an orange Chrysler Valiant! There was even something sparkly around her neck. It had to be the Cartier. I waved. She waved back. The lights changed and my mother put her foot down. I was about to tell Mum when I saw David Niven heading toward us in an old Vauxhall. I took the glasses off and rubbed my eyes.