by K. M. Hodge
“Damn,” Mulder cursed in an undertone that reached his ears.
He imagined her standing outside her front door, most likely with groceries and keys in hand and a false smile on her face. He visualised Mildred scooting across the road as fast as her arthritic legs would move.
“How ya going?” asked Mildred. She didn’t wait for a reply. “Any takers for the house yet?”
“No.” Mulder sighed, obviously resigned to the old biddy’s prying. “There’ve been a number of possibles, though none of them are prepared to pay what we’re asking.”
“Pity.” Regret tinged Mildred’s voice.
Despite her nosiness, she seemed genuinely concerned that this young couple get their price—that their plans went smoothly. Martin squatted, clippers in hand, and continued listening.
“We always knew it would take time,” said Mulder. “And it’s too soon to consider accepting a lower offer.”
Not normally inclined to spy on neighbours, Martin nonetheless felt a sudden urge to observe the couple outside Mulder’s house. He edged forward through the tangled shrubs until he found a position where he could see as well as hear. Mulder fumbled with her keys and stepped towards the door.
“You wouldn’t want that.” Mildred positioned herself between Mulder and the house, forcing the younger woman to remain outside. “How’s Jonathan, then? Haven’t seen his car around for a few days.” She thrust her head forward, as if checking Mulder’s reaction.
“Jon?” Mulder’s voice evinced surprise. “He’s taken a new job in Queensland. I’ll be moving interstate as soon as the house is sold.”
“Oh, I thought you must have... done away with him,” muttered Mildred, her tongue apparently overriding her good sense. Apparently she hadn’t expected this news, and it had thrown her. Whatever had been in her mind concerning Mulder and her husband, Scully taking a job in Queensland hadn’t been part of it.
Martin knew gossip drove Mildred’s life—gave it purpose. She lived and breathed it. She obviously had no axe to grind with these neighbours, but she hungered for a tasty morsel of scandal. She had nothing else left to fill the days and nights of what remained of her life. She’d probably begun to think Mulder and Scully were having marital problems, and he’d moved back home with his parents. Or something. A shift to Queensland didn’t leave room for juicy rumours.
Mulder appeared not to hear Mildred’s foolish comment. If she had, she chose to ignore it, treating it with the contempt it deserved.
“Better money, then?” Mildred asked, undeterred, probing for more details.
“Yes.” Mulder shot her a strange look. “I must rush now.” She stepped around the elderly woman. “I’ve a million things to do.”
“Yes, yes. Of course,” said Mildred. Martin was too far away to see the expression on her face, but disappointment sounded in her voice. “See you later. Maybe tomorrow, when you’ve got more time.”
“Yes,” said Mulder, her tone not promising anything of the kind. She entered the house and closed the door.
Mildred turned and strode down the drive towards her house with its perfectly manicured lawns, freshly weeded garden beds and sparkling windows. She cast her gaze in Martin’s direction, as if she could see him hidden in the shrubbery. For a brief moment, her eyes locked with his, then she looked the other way. With no one else to engage in conversation, she returned to her home.
Martin went back to trimming the bougainvilleas, wondering what had been the real purpose of Mildred’s visit.
***
Wanda Jean sat cross-legged in the centre of a pentagram, naked and surrounded by tall black candles. On the floor of the cave lay a series of photographs. Several depicted the same derelict building from different aspects. The other two were old snapshots of men.
She rocked from side to side, her eyes never leaving the collection of images. As she swayed, she mouthed arcane words, invocations to the demon spirits who assisted her in return for her service. “O l’esprit grans du faict antique... tous toun la vraie boucher la puissance da transcend temps... à loy le drowl sa du flamme... èse a noire du la stap et to hbiq... il crinde le laénne du sang....”
She raised a crude bowl to her lips and drank. The crimson liquid spilled from the corners of her mouth as she swallowed. It ran down her glistening skin to settle on her breasts. She placed the bowl to one side and raised her hands on a level with her face. “L’esprit grans... transcend temps... à loy le drowl sa du flamme....”
Over and over again, she repeated these words, smoke from the candles bending towards her. As it converged in front of her, she observed, as if through a gauze curtain, a world not of her time.
She peered into a crude building, bustling with activity.
Benches and shelves, stacked high with items of clothing and diving supplies, crowded the floor. The image was so real, so vivid, she could smell the unwashed bodies of the deckhands as they selected wares and handed over their hard-earned wages. Pearling masters, dressed in immaculate white suits and smoking large cigars, mingled with them, purchasing equipment and supplies for their next expeditions.
Abruptly, the scene turned to night-time. A globulous moon hung over the landscape. Inside the corrugated iron building, lanterns kept the darkness at bay.
At the back of the store, James Planter and Gilbert Newberry sat drinking and swapping tales. The tall, handsome Englishman rose from his seat and approached the fireplace. He knelt and prised one brick free. He took a wad of banknotes from his pocket and inserted them into the hole before replacing the loose brick. Throughout this procedure, James Planter watched silently, a glint in his eye.
The vision faded.
Wanda Jean sat cross-legged, alone in her cave, in the centre of her magical symbol. She smiled as she rose to her feet and stepped across the chamber.
***
The ancient building dated back to the days when mother-of-pearl ruled everyone who lived and loved in pre-war Broome. Once the heart of the town’s commerce, the centre of trading for both pearling masters and their divers, today the structure was little more than an eyesore against the backdrop of the neat parks and gardens typifying the modern-day township.
It sat neglected and forlorn, the corrugated iron roof and walls flaking and rusted. The tropical sun penetrated through myriad holes, laser-like lances that cut through the dimness and cobwebs within. The concrete floor and apron, stained from the spilled stomach contents and urine of countless present-day alcoholics, provided a resting place for dirt, grime, empty cigarette packets and crushed drink containers. Rust covered the iron framework.
Almost no one came here in daylight, certainly not the average tourist, more interested in luxury and comfort than in seeing history as it had been. Certainly not the locals, so used to the old building they drove past, pretending it didn’t exist.
Wanda Jean stood in the brilliant sunlight in front of this forlorn structure, letting her mind mull over what she’d learned. She formed a clear image of the building, visualising it as it had been in its heyday, when it had functioned as the fabled Captain Newberry’s Store.
Gilbert Newberry, with his fine manners and elegant speech, had attracted women in a celebrated way in the area around Broome, where legends abounded, as commonplace as pearl shell.
Wanda Jean also learned that, despite having survived until the nineteen fifties, James Planter had never left Broome. He’d grown enamoured of the lifestyle of the tropics and had continued his life of ease and simplicity, beachcombing or sitting idly, fishing on Streeter’s Jetty.
He hadn’t squandered all those fabulous pearls discovered in a derelict lugger in 1942, nor had the authorities managed to locate them. ‘Lucky Jim’ had reportedly hidden his treasure somewhere convenient—somewhere in Broome where he could get his hands on it whenever the need arose.
Wanda Jean emerged from her reverie and brushed non-existent fluff from her spotless, yellow dress as she stepped inside the shell of a building. As sure-footed as if
she’d been present when James hid his stash, she approached the hearth, which was chipped and stained with age. Her fingers clutched the precise brick and pulled. It came free, echoing the same noise it had made for Gilbert Newberry sixty years before. With absolute surety, she inserted her hand into the hole in the fireplace and extracted a Vegemite jar covered in dust and spiderwebs.
She rose and backed across the concrete floor, the white container clutched against her chest. She didn’t need to open it to know what it contained. Without a shadow of a doubt, it held the fortune left by ‘Lucky Jim’ Planter. At today’s prices, the pearls would fetch more than $3,000,000.
She smiled and strolled towards Matso’s and the bus stop. She planned on catching the town bus and taking a leisurely ride home. After that, she knew exactly how she’d extract the greatest benefit from these pearls.
---End of Special Sneak Preview of Broometime Serenade by Barry Metcalf---
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