by Robert Gott
As they walked out of Daylesford through cleared gullies towards Candlebark Hill, Tom continued to flesh out the character he’d created. Joe even heard him make snide little asides about what he considered to be Joe’s half-hearted, if genuine, commitment to the politics of Australia First.
‘Pardon me,’ Tom said, ‘Australian Patriots. Joe’s with us, Mitch — don’t get me wrong. But just between you and me, it’s more of a hobby with him — know what I mean?’
Magill nodded and said that he knew exactly what he meant, but that the party needed everyone it could get.
‘You’re right about that,’ Tom said. ‘I just wish he was a bit tougher about the cause.’
‘The cause?’
‘That’s what I call it. It’s my cause anyway. One flag, one people, one government — that was Australia First’s motto, and it’s mine, too. This government’s doing nothing to stop the communists and Jews from eating away at this country from within. Look at the number of reffos coming here. The way I see it, it’s time someone did something about that.’
Joe was walking behind Mitchell and Tom, so he couldn’t see the expression on Mitchell’s face. He noticed, though, that Tom’s rant had put a spring in Magill’s step.
The walk to Candlebark Hill wasn’t too demanding, despite the increasing heat. After thirty minutes they turned off a gravel road onto a track that was sign-posted as Coate’s Road. Magill led them up it to a small house, built close to the track and bordered by cleared paddocks. A majestic manna gum, a remnant of the forest that these now empty, hungry paddocks must once have supported, grew close to the gate. They passed through it and followed an avenue of young eucalypts to where the land fell gently away towards another house with three modest outbuildings nearby — structures that were invisible from the road. They sat on the edge of a copse of trees that extended for some distance to the left and right, and crept up the incline on the far side of a small, dry creek. Magill waved his hand over the scene.
‘Wherever you see trees, that’s my land. This used to belong to my father. He planted all this back in the 1920s.’
‘Big effort,’ Tom said.
‘The people round here thought he was nuts. Waste of good paddocks, they said.’
As they walked towards the house, three figures emerged and came towards Magill and his two companions. One of them, blond and lean, was shirtless. The other two were in shirtsleeves, with dark sweat-stains in their armpits.
‘This is Arthur’, Magill said as they met. Arthur shook their hands. The remaining two stood away from him, as if not wanting to be associated with his flabby, sweaty lack of condition.
‘This is Ptolemy,’ Magill said. Jones inclined his head to indicate that he was the Ptolemy in question, but made no move to shake hands. There’s a body that any self-respecting fascist thug would be proud to own, Joe thought. His name was strange, as Tom undiplomatically made clear.
‘Ptolemy? Is that your real name, mate?’
‘Ptolemy is the name my parents gave me.’
His accent had had the working-class edge taken off it, but wasn’t the product of the schools that had produced Mitchell and Arthur. Joe was instinctively wary of him. Taken separately, his features were regular, but in combination they somehow conspired to make him plain — a fact not helped by the static ugliness of his expression. It was impossible to miss the words ‘Arguement 7’ tattooed in an arc under his navel. The misspelling made the tattoo ridiculous, and the phrase itself was meaningless to Joe and Tom. Ptolemy, Joe thought, looked like a man who’d last smiled at the drowning of a kitten.
‘And this is Fred,’ Magill said. The third man nodded at the sound of his name. He was dark — Ptolemy was the blond one — about the same age as Ptolemy, and, like him, he carried no excess weight. His face was clouded by a dark beard-shadow. There is nothing happy about this little group, Joe thought. The air was tense. Magill pointed to one of the outbuildings.
‘You can leave your things in there, and join us in the house for a cup of tea.’
Magill and the three men headed towards the house, and Joe and Tom entered the outbuilding. It wasn’t large, but it had been divided into three rooms, with bunk beds in each room. There was no evidence that anybody else was staying there, so both Joe and Tom assumed that the trouble Magill had mentioned must have led to quite an exodus.
‘I’d say,’ said Tom, ‘that whatever happened here had something to do with that Ptolemy character and his furry friend. I don’t like the look of them one bit. What the hell does “Argument 7” mean, and who doesn’t check the spelling on a fucking tattoo, for Christ’s sake? He’s like a Nazi from Central Casting.’
‘You should think about acting as a career, Tom. You’re bloody convincing.’
‘This isn’t fun anymore, is it? I’m suddenly very nervous about what I’ve got myself into. The two skinny ones probably don’t have great senses of humour.’
‘This retreat has turned pretty sour, obviously, and that Ptolemy bloke would scare off anyone who was here for a quiet weekend of frolicking. Let’s go in.’
Tom and Joe let themselves into the house. It was well furnished — not at all the rustic retreat they’d been expecting. Arthur’s wife, Margaret, and Magill’s friend, Peggy Montford, were introduced to Tom, and Margaret was introduced to Joe. Joe thought that seeing her clothed was far superior to the prospect of seeing her naked. They sat in comfortable chairs in the living room, except for Magill, who stood proprietorially by the fireplace, his arm resting on the mantelpiece. Several chairs — four single-seaters and a three-seater — were arranged around a low, circular table, and hugged the fireplace quite closely. On the wall above the mantelpiece was a large triptych of four naked women.
‘Very nice,’ Tom said. ‘Nice-looking sheilas.’
His gracelessness was rewarded by a delighted laugh from Peggy.
‘I’m glad you like it,’ Magill said. He took a postcard from the mantel and passed it to Tom, who looked at it and passed it on to Joe. The image was of a living room in Germany, which Magill had approximated with the paintings and their furnishings, and their placement in his own room at Candlebark Hill.
‘Adolf Ziegler did the original of this picture. I think I’ve done it justice.’
‘You painted that?’ Tom asked.
‘Mitchell painted all of the pictures in this house,’ Peggy said. ‘He’s handy with a brush.’
‘It’s bloody brilliant,’ Tom said. ‘Hey, the one in the centre — that’s you, isn’t it?’
Peggy Montford moved her head to resemble the pose.
‘Yes, that’s me. All of me.’
‘It’s called The Four Elements,’ Magill said, ‘and Herr Hitler has a copy of it in his house in Munich.’
Joe noticed that Ptolemy looked at the painting when Magill said this, but the expression on his face was one of distaste, and perhaps incomprehension. The aesthetics of National Socialism were of no interest to him — probably, Joe thought, because he wasn’t intelligent enough to engage with them, even though they were bland, sexless, and embarrassingly shallow. The other man, Fred, didn’t look at the painting. He was watching Tom Mackenzie, his face expressionless.
‘Are you interested in art, Tom?’ Magill took back the postcard and replaced it on the mantel.
‘I am if the subject matter is like that.’
Joe began to worry that Tom was shifting his character into caricature. Magill didn’t seem to notice.
‘The human body should never excite shame,’ he said.
‘I’ll make some tea,’ Peggy said, and Margaret was quick to join her. Magill began to warm to his theme, and his tone suggested that his remarks were pointed criticisms of Ptolemy and Fred.
‘Freikörperkultur, free physical culture. This was the corner-stone of the movement in Germany. Sadly, the
National Socialists have lost their way in this area — largely, literally, because Herr Goering is fat. He issued an edict banning naturism, absurdly claiming that nudity was one of the greatest threats to German culture and morality. A cultural error, he called it. He’s a fat fool, of course. The only error is the amount of food he sticks in his mouth. The Fuhrer’s taste in art certainly suggests he disagrees with him. German art celebrates the purity and glory of the body.’
‘But they’re not realistic, are they, those bodies?’ Tom said. ‘I mean, who actually looks like that?’ He indicated the three other nudes that hung in the room.
‘Who really looks like that?’ Magill repeated. ‘That’s an unimaginative, ill-informed question, Tom, if you don’t mind me saying so.’
‘I like them,’ Joe said. ‘Realism is lazy, I think. It hits you between the eyes, but doesn’t linger in the mind. It’s visceral and pointless. These seem to express something moral, permanent. These are proud women; look at them. Priestesses, vital.’ He paused. ‘Fertile.’
Magill was impressed.
‘You’ve given this some thought,’ he said.
‘Are you familiar with Breker’s and Thorak’s sculptures, Mitchell?’
‘Of course I am. Magnificent.’
Ptolemy stood up, irritated by the conversation. He stretched, and a whiff of soap reached Joe’s nose. He thought it rude that this surly creature hadn’t bothered to put on a shirt, especially in someone else’s living room. Given, though, that under normal circumstances nobody would have been wearing anything, he didn’t suppose that Magill took offence.
Peggy and Margaret returned, and the five men joined them at the dining-room table. Arthur, who’d said very little, asked Tom what had brought him and Joe to Candlebark Hill.
‘The same as you, mate.’
‘Really, and what brought me here?’
His vaguely nasty literalism was a reminder that it was a mistake to imagine that any of these people were benign. Tom returned fire.
‘I’m assuming you’re here because you have certain political beliefs that are currently, and disastrously, unpopular. If I’m wrong, and you’re here to stare at women’s tits, then perhaps Joe and I should leave you to it.’
Arthur nodded.
‘I didn’t mean to offend you, Tom.’
Tom, having put him on the back foot, wasn’t prepared to rebalance him.
‘Whether you meant it or not, you managed it, mate.’
With this exchange, Tom wiped away any sense in the others that he could be dismissed lightly. Magill moved to ease the tension, even though the presence of Ptolemy and Fred ensured that a constant level of it remained.
‘I must say, Joe, it’s a pleasant relief to talk to someone about painting. I’d like to show you something after we’ve had tea. I think you’ll enjoy it.’
The conversation turned to inconsequential matters, and Tom resumed his uncomplicated, easy manner, which gave some respite from the heavy, threatening presence of Ptolemy and Fred. Fred said nothing, and Ptolemy made some effort to offset the brutish air that hung about him by uttering an occasional urbanity. Tom took every opportunity to allow the group small glimpses of the ugly persona he’d begun to inhabit. Each sour little remark about communists, or snide aside about Jews, elicited nods of approval and agreement.
As the morning wore on, the group’s previous discretion about politics fell away completely until the conversation centred on Australia First and its untimely demise.
‘We were on the verge of forming a successful party,’ Magill said. ‘We were for king and country. We are for king and country.’
‘It’s a shame that the wrong king’s on the throne,’ Ptolemy said. ‘His brother was sympathetic.’
‘So what happened to Australia First?’ Tom asked.
‘There were elements who were indiscreet in their partisan-ship,’ Margaret said. ‘They should have kept their powder dry, and read the general mood more accurately. Zealots are useful when things are up and running; otherwise they tend rather to frighten the horses.’
‘Great patriots are always seen as traitors by toadying governments,’ Ptolemy said. Fred grunted his assent to this claim. Joe said, ‘Well spoken,’ and Ptolemy shifted his pale gaze in his direction. There was no sign of gratitude for Joe’s show of support in those disconcerting eyes; Joe thought that Ptolemy’s emotional range probably didn’t accommodate such feelings.
‘A short walk would be good,’ Arthur said, and hauled his portly body to its feet. With only a few hours left before he and Tom needed to leave to catch the train back to Melbourne, Joe decided the time was right to speak to the two women, who looked like they intended to stay put. Tom, who’d made such a success of proving his credentials, could get information out of the men. Joe made an excuse about not wanting to get sunburnt — an excuse that produced a derisive little snort from Fred — and sat back down again. The rest of the men headed for the door, with an admonition from Margaret to watch out for snakes and holes in the ground.
‘This place is riddled with old gold diggings,’ she said.
The women were glad to have Joe for company as they set about preparing for lunch. Margaret let slip that she found Ptolemy and Fred a bit creepy.
‘His name is Jones,’ she said. ‘Can you believe that? Ptolemy Jones. I don’t know Fred’s last name — maybe it’s equally exotic, but in reverse.’
‘You don’t sound like you know them very well,’ Joe said.
‘None of us do. We met Fred for the first time yesterday, and Mr Jones arrived for lunch on Christmas Day. That was the first time we met him.’
‘I don’t like him at all,’ Peggy said. ‘Jones, I mean. He’s scary, if you ask me. Not my sort at all.’
‘Is he the reason that everyone else left?’ Joe asked.
Peggy and Margaret exchanged glances, and decided that there was no reason to be coy.
‘Yes,’ Margaret said. ‘I think they found his political commit-ment a little, well, overwhelming.’
‘They come for tits and arse,’ Peggy said. ‘Let’s face it. They weren’t expecting to be bullied about National Socialism.’
‘And you don’t mind?’ Joe tried to sound nonchalant.
‘God knows I’m used to Mitchell going on about his vision for Australia, but this Jones creature makes Mitchell sound like a decadent liberal. Mitchell is the cerebral type. He works hard at what he believes in, but he’s an artist, a thinker. He doesn’t even have a single hair on his body — and do you know why?’
‘He has a disease?’ Joe offered.
‘Don’t let him hear you say that. No. He rips every hair out. He’s changing the world, one follicle at a time. It’s about purity — purity of purpose, written on the body. He doesn’t like to think of himself as an animal. He sees himself as a sort of animated sculpture. He says you have to aspire to an ideal of some kind. It’s symbolic. National Socialism is big on symbols.’
‘It would take a team of people, working in relays, to defoliate my Arthur,’ Margaret said.
‘Would Mitchell call himself a National Socialist?’
‘Yes, he would.’ Peggy said this without hesitation.
‘You don’t hear that expression, “National Socialism”, very much in polite society these days, do you?’
‘Well, with your help, Joe, and with the help of your lovely friend, perhaps we can change that. As you can see, we’re not all like Ptolemy Jones. Some of us are quite nice. National Socialism isn’t the least bit frightening once you learn about it. It’s perfectly sensible.’
‘Well, that’s why I’m here, to learn.’
The subject of politics wasn’t explored much further. Joe felt that he’d learned a great deal already, and that if he pressed the women any harder he’d appear to be fishing. He went along with
their complaints about the prices of goods on the black market, and pretended interest in Margaret’s detailed account of the recipe she’d followed to produce the lunch they’d soon be eating. It had the unpromising name of piquant mock ham, and was The Women’s Weekly’s solution to the shortage of pork. A leg of lamb, pumped and salted, boiled with a small amount of pickled pork, and coated in breadcrumbs, was expected to pass unnoticed as a Christmas ham. Margaret had high hopes for it. All Joe could think about was that the dish’s complicated preparations might well have been undertaken in the nude, and that this didn’t marry well with his notions of food hygiene. Jones had done them all a favour by discouraging this weekend of freikörperkultur. It was some consolation, anyway, that a lot of boiling was involved.
The air at Candlebark Hill was heavy with the smell of peppermint gums. As the men walked among the trees, Magill drew their attention to members of the various bird species that darted about. The other men — except for Fred, who stopped at one point and ostentatiously pissed against a sapling — pretended to be interested. It was Ptolemy Jones who drew them back to the purpose of their being at Candlebark Hill. He began by saying, ‘I don’t like the name “Australian Patriots”. It’s a mouthful.’
Magill replied in a measured voice, ‘Did you have something in mind?’
‘ “Our Nation.” ’
Jones’s voice had now lost every trace of urbanity and charm. His tone brooked no opposition.
‘ “Our Nation,” ’ Magill said. ‘That’s not bad. I’ll put it before the others and get their opinion, but I think you’ll find they’ll want to stick with “Australian Patriots”.’
They’d been walking slowly, crunching through bone-dry leaf litter. Jones took a few quick steps forward, stopped, and turned to face Magill. Tom examined Jones from head to foot. His was a hard body, a stranger to self-indulgence; a body more suited to intimidation than seduction. That strange, misspelled tattoo was still raw around the edges of the letters, as if it was a recent adornment.