D. Connell - Julian Corkle is a Filthy Liar

Christiaan Barnard was a star even though poor old Washkansky had almost immediately died. The failed heart transplant intrigued me. I closed my eyes and tried to picture what was going on inside my skin. We were currently studying the human body at school. Brother Duffy had started at the top with the brain and was working his way down toward the interesting area. We’d got to the kidneys, which I knew were attached to the important bits. Duffy had more or less admitted this when he said the kidneys were responsible for producing urine. I understood what that meant and was looking forward to the next lesson.

I already knew how babies were born thanks to Ralph Waters. He’d led us into the Ladies’ toilet behind the Whipper Snapper fish-and-chip shop and pointed into the bowl where something brown and enormous was bobbing about in the water. It was three times the size of anything I’d ever produced.

‘The lady who dropped this A-bomb has had a baby.’ Ralph had raised one eyebrow and spoken with authority. ‘See the size of her floater. She’s stretched to buggery from giving birth.’

I hadn’t considered how babies got out from inside their mothers. If they used the same exit as number twos, they had to come out filthy. That meant I’d come out filthy. I asked Ralph the obvious question.

‘Don’t babies smell when they come out?’

‘Nah, they’re inside a kind of bag.’

‘Doesn’t it hurt the baby then?’ I knew nothing about the dimensions of ladies’ bum holes. Female bum anatomy had absolutely no appeal to me. This was not information I needed to share with the likes of Ralph Waters.

‘If it’s a lady’s first baby, the baby’s head gets squashed to the size of a lemon.’ Ralph cast an eye over our heads.

‘And if it’s the third baby?’

‘Normal shape and size.’ I let out a lungful of air. Ralph had two older siblings like me.

My brother was fixing a puncture on his bicycle when I got home. I stood for a moment examining him from behind. His head was definitely pointier than Carmel’s. He was trying to put the tyre back on his wheel by wedging two of my mother’s dinner spoons under the rim. A spoon fell out and clattered on to the concrete of the driveway. John cursed. As he turned to retrieve it, he noticed me. His mouth pulled downward in a sneer. John only had to look at me to get upset. There was something about the way I was put together that disgusted him. I suspected it was the same thing Ralph Waters felt about Gary Jings.

‘What are you looking at, poof?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Piss off then. Go and try on some of Mum’s pantyhose or something.’

There was no use explaining John’s condition. It would just alarm him. I went inside to examine my mother’s bottom.

The heart transplant article haunted me. I thought about it constantly. My version of the operation went something like this: I’ve had a major heart attack on Hollywood Boulevard. Christiaan Barnard is busy so they call in a trainee called Herb to do the job. Herb disconnects my heart before a donor can be found. He keeps the blood pumping through my body with a machine powered by a lawnmower engine, but time is running out. Still no donor can be found. Herb substitutes my heart with a defrosted chicken. The chicken refuses to pump. I regain consciousness with a Tender Choice broiler in my chest, still wet and cold from the defrosting process. Herb attaches electrodes to the chicken and turns on the juice. It jumps but flops back lifeless next to my lungs.

Dad regularly drank with a man called Herb. It was common knowledge that Herb didn’t wear socks. He simply blackened his ankles with shoe polish. This habit had been discovered when Herb crossed his legs and swiped the beige trousers of one of his neighbours. The owner of the trouser leg had then traced the origins of the black smudge back to Herb’s ankle. No one said anything about this habit, at least not to Herb’s face. They just gave him plenty of legroom in the public bar.

It was Herb’s socks that gave me the idea for the fishnets. I tried to tell my father this but he didn’t want to listen. He was too busy shouting at my mother about her brother Norman. I had performed the Olivia Newton-John show to cheer Mum up. Dad wasn’t even supposed to come home. It was race night at the pub. I was singing along to ‘ I Honestly Love You ’ into the handle of a hairbrush when he burst into the lounge and found me dressed in one of my mother’s frocks. It was when he noticed my legs that he started shouting. They were criss-crossed with ballpoint pen in the fashion of fishnet stockings.

I felt my heart again. It was still ticking, ticking like a time bomb. I could feel tiny ripples of pain each time a tick happened. I went to consult the house physician.

‘Mum, I think I’m going to have a heart attack.’

‘Really, Julian.’ Mum was peeling potatoes over the sink and didn’t turn round.

‘It’s got a funny tick. I think I’d better not do any phys. ed. tomorrow. Can you write a note?’

‘Physical Education is probably the best thing for a dicky heart.’

‘My situation is very delicate.’ My situation was that I hated sports.

‘All the more reason to build up your stamina.’

‘Ralph Waters says he’s going to smash my teeth in if I set foot on the rugby field. That sort of thing could ruin a stage and screen career. I’ll need a good set of teeth if I’m going to be a star.’ Ralph had done no such thing. He’d kept a respectful distance since the Stromboli incident but Mum didn’t need to know this.

‘Go find a pen and paper.’

My family generally didn’t do holidays. We didn’t own a caravan or tent and Dad didn’t want to rent a beach house. That would’ve been throwing good money away. My father liked to point out that there were plenty of decent beaches around Ulverston. He called our stretch of coastline the Tasmanian Riviera. If Ulverston’s sand was good enough for him when he was a kid, it was good enough for us. We could like it or lump it. Dad’s idea of summer fun was to get us throwing a cricket ball to each other while he drank beer and shouted from the back step. This was fine for Carmel and John who had an obscene attachment to balls but it was hell for me. Cricket balls made me carsick.

Summer holidays were difficult because they meant Dad was home during the day and this meant pressure to go outside and play. I was getting depressed about the post-Christmas period when he suddenly announced we were going to stay in a real holiday house on the east coast. Trevor Bland’s brother had a cabin and said we could use it for two weeks. We only had to pay for electricity. Mum was thrilled and began baking immediately. Even Dad got into the spirit of things. I overheard him telling Mum we should start getting used to candlelight.

The beach settlement had five cabins and a small shop that sold frozen and tinned food. Fresh milk and bread arrived every other day. Our cabin was a two-room wooden shack under gum trees. My parents put up camp stretchers in the main room and we took the bunks in the other room.

The beach was miles from the nearest town and didn’t have a sewage system. Our cabin had a septic tank for the kitchen waste and the run-off from the outside shower. The toilet wasn’t connected to the tank. It was a hole in the ground over which sat a small corrugated iron shed that could be moved when things reached maximum capacity. Inside was a makeshift bench seat with a hole to put your bum through. The stink of the shed would’ve been unbearable if the hole hadn’t provided such an interesting view of what was going on in the family.

Dad had recently stopped trying to make Carmel play with dolls and started encouraging her interest in cricket. The sports desk at The Bugle was seeing more articles on women’s cricket. Dad still relegated these to an obscure corner of the sports pages but he’d realised that it was now almost respectable for a woman to play the game. He’d bought Carmel a bat and a new set of wickets for Christmas. John and Carmel pulled this equipment out of the Holden Kingswood not long after we arrived and headed down to the beach. While they were off making fools of themselves, I made friends with the kids from the next cabin, Donna and Dean Speck.