Page 18 of A Wish for Jinnie
Ken started. ‘Sorry, Jo,’ he replied. ‘My head’s in a proper guddle. Another rough night with Mags, I’m afraid.’
It was just after eight, and there were no other customers in the café. Jo had been in since six, baking and prepping for the days ahead. She’d close up on Christmas Eve and re-open on the fourth of January. In the past she’d booked a short trip over the break — Belgium, Iceland, Tenerife for a bit of warmth — but she had nothing planned this year. With both her parents long gone, and friends scattered all over the UK, Jo knew she’d painted herself into a lonely corner. Whether by accident or design, she’d chosen a solitary existence. Her customers were often the only people she spoke to on a daily basis, apart from best friend Carole who’d gone to primary school with her —as well as Brownies, Girl Guides and the local pub that didn’t check their age when they ordered Pernod and blackcurrant. How they’d howled with laughter after flirting with a few blokes, only to realise their mouths were stained with inverted purple fangs! Carole lived in Somerset now, two husbands down and currently dating a former champion bodybuilder whose Facebook profile was filled with photos of him flexing various muscles. They chatted on FaceTime every few weeks, but hadn’t seen each other in ages.
‘I’m a good listener, if you want to offload,’ said Jo, fetching her mug of tea and sitting down.
Ken smiled wanly, picking the edge off his pastry. ‘There are days when I convince myself that Mags is better. Well, not exactlybetter, just not any worse. Then something else happens, and I know things will never be the same again.’
He related last night’s episode. He had woken at 3 am and found Mags's side of the bed empty. He’d checked everywhere, including the beer garden, but there was no sign of her. Eventually he heard footsteps overhead. Mags was in the attic, and had pulled the wobbly ladder up after her. It had taken all his powers of persuasion to get her to lower it for him to come up. He found her rummaging through ancient suitcases, looking for a dress to wear at Christmas.
‘God, it broke my heart, Jo. She was pulling out stuff from aeons ago. She found a dress, crushed purple velvet, that she wore for a photo portrait with Ed when he was little. She kept saying it was perfect; but it won’t fit her now. Then she got upset when I tried to get her to come down. She started screaming for Ed, and hitting me with her fists…’ Ken’s eyes filled up, and he bowed his head.
Jo patted his arm, unsure what to say. ‘If there’s anything I can do,’ she offered, aware how inadequate the words were.
‘Thanks, Jo.’ Ken produced a crumpled hankie from his pocket and blew his nose. ‘I know it sounds horrible, but there are times I need to escape, in case I lose it. I love Mags, but it’s like watching her gradually fade from view. And there’s nothing I can do to stop it.’
Jo had no personal experience of dementia, but Carole’s gran had suffered from it. Admittedly she’d been much older than Mags when diagnosed, and she had gone downhill very rapidly. Jo remembered, to her shame, the two of them giggling when the poor soul turned up at Carole’s wearing her bra over her blouse. There’d been other episodes, when she put house keys in the oven and dirty dishes in the cupboards. Later she became quite aggressive, and swore profusely — all the more shocking as she had been a sweet old lady, who thought ‘bum’ was a rude word.
Just then a couple of regulars arrived, and Jo hurried back behind the counter to serve them. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ken finish his drink and head for the door. ‘Wait a minute,’ she called, pushing the tray of coffees and scones towards the customers. She came out from behind the counter and approached Ken, suddenly nervous about what she planned to say. Not that she’d reallyplannedit; the idea had popped into her head.
‘Listen, if you need some space — not here, it’s too hard to chat properly — why don’t you come round to mine one evening?’ she said. ‘I could make supper, and we could talk about anything you like. Mags, the pub, why toast always lands buttered-side down…’
If Ken was surprised at the suggestion, he didn’t show it. Instead, he took Jo’s hand and gently squeezed it with his own warm, lightly calloused one. ‘That’s a lovely thought, Jo,’ he replied. ‘The problem is finding an excuse to leave the pub. Or rather, explaining to Mags where I’m going.’
Because it might seem a bit odd to say, ‘See you later, darling, just off to spend the evening with another woman’.Jo bit her lip, feeling like an idiot. But she wasn’t suggesting a date, for heaven’s sake. Just a chance for two people to relax over some food and a glass or two. And it wasn’t because she was lonely, or had feelings for Ken. Absolutely not…
‘Let me check the rota for the next few days,’ Ken said. ‘Ed’s hoping to come back soon and Jamie’s keen for extra shifts, so I might be able to bunk off. I’ll just say I’m meeting an old friend. Which we are. Excuse the “old” — I mean me, of course.’
Jo got out her phone and they exchanged numbers. A moment later, and he was gone.
Walking back behind her spotless counter and wiping it down again, Jo wondered what she’d set in motion…
Chapter 21
Dhassim had assuredher repeatedly that the WIFI was now functioning normally, and only wishes said out loud, in front of him, and which received a steady green light, would be granted. The only teeny, tiny problem was … what to wish for? Jinnie wished for things every day. Heck, people were always wishing for things.I wishthe ironing pile would disappear. I wish those extra pounds I gained over the holidays would melt away. I wish my boyfriend hadn’t dumped me for someone with a nicer nose.Wishes were, by and large, no more than a gripe about trivial matters. Unless you were talking about the big stuff. And Dhassim had already made it clear that his powers didn’t extend to solving world problems or making her rich beyond her wildest dreams. Anyway, Jinnie didn’t want to wish for money. Unless it was to help someone else —
‘OK, I’ve thought of a wish: a proper one, this time. Don’t get too excited — it’s a bit mundane — but I wish I could fly.’
There, she’d said it. The thought of boarding a plane filled Jinnie with skin-creeping terror. She’d done it once several years ago with the girls, who’d nagged and cajoled her into a boozy weekend in Magaluf. In the build-up to the trip Jinnie had had nightmares about bomb-touting terrorists, security staff frisking her and finding drugs secreted in places she hadn’t thought possible (not that shediddrugs, but still), and worst of all, the aircraft plummeting from the sky. She’d watched the movies and read the news reports.
Even the process of passing through an airport terrified her. Jinnie had taken some over-the-counter medication that was meant to calm you down before the flight. She’d checked and double-checked that her liquids didn’t contravene the rules (including a small flask of brandy Hannah insisted would take the edge off), and told herself repeatedly she was more likely to be hit by a bus than die in a plane crash. All to no avail. She’d snivelled and sobbed throughout the journey, and the supposedly fun-filled trip had been dominated by one thought:I have to do it all again.
‘Don’t they have planes for that these days?’ Dhassim flounced over to the TV, the picture freeze-framed on Rachel and her annoyingly bouncy hair. ‘Long tubey things with wings, and good-looking men and women who fetch you drinks and snacks?’
Jinnie had given up trying to figure out how Dhassim knew so much about the modern world. By all accounts he hadn’t escaped the lamp in over a century, yet he was remarkably up to speed on twenty-first-century life. Everything from politics to climate change, film stars and pop music. As well as his crush on Brad Pitt’s ex, he was possibly The Spice Girls’ number-one fan; proof that his taste in music was as bad as his singing ability. If Jinnie heard one more ‘zigazig ah’, she’d stuff Dhassim head-first into the bloody lamp.
‘Yes, they have planes. I wasn’t thinking of flapping my arms and hoping for take-off,’ she huffed. ‘I’m afraid of flying, and it’s a bit of a pain when my friends go off on holiday.’ As a concession to Jinnie’s phobia they’d taken the Eurostar a couple of times to Paris. That had been lovely, but Mark had been largely dismissive, saying her fear was irrational (weren’t all phobias irrational?), and suggesting she took a day-long course to get over it. She’d got as far as booking one in Edinburgh, then chickened out at the last minute.
‘Let me check my trusty gizmo,’ said Dhassim, giving Ms Aniston a last, lingering look before switching off the TV. He whipped out the WIFI, and instructed Jinnie to repeat the wish.
‘I wish I could fly,’ she intoned solemnly.
There was silence, then a series of jingles and chimes.
‘Bingo! We are good to go. Your wish is granted.’ Dhassim flashed one of his killer smiles that made Jinnie forgive him almost everything. But she didn’tfeelany different. And as she had neither the time nor money to fly anywhere any time soon, how would she know it had worked?
‘Ma chérie,’ — Dhassim was also a fan of all things French — ‘it’s a beautiful evening. And remember that for every one of your wishes, your genie extraordinaire gets a little something too.’
Jinnie frowned. If Dhassim thought for one second that she was going to book a romantic holiday abroad with him, he could think again. In any case, she was pretty sure he didn’t have a passport.
