Page 41 of A Wish for Jinnie
Jinnie watched Angela’s retreating back. She vanished in a throng of people, and Jinnie sat back with a sigh. Shredding the remainder of her buttie, she tossed the crumbs to a handful of delighted pigeons. If only she could help, but Jinnie wasn’t living the champagne lifestyle herself. More fur coat and nae knickers, as Wilma would say.
She experienced a brief moment of panic when Dhassim wasn’t where she’d left him. Relief kicked in when Jinnie spotted him two doorways further along, chatting animatedly to a homeless man swathed in manky blankets. A well-groomed dog of indeterminate breed languished at his feet — or rather, foot, since he had one leg missing.
‘Jinnie, this is my new friend, William,’ Dhassim said, beaming broadly. ‘He lives here, which is strange, but no stranger than living in a lamp, I suppose.’ William grinned and saluted Jinnie, his other hand rotating a finger beside his head in the universal ‘got a screw loose’ sign.
‘Nice to meet you, William.’ Jinnie patted the dog, its tail beating a tattoo on the pavement. Digging out some small change, she placed it in the tin box in front of William. ‘Sorry, but I need to take my, erm, charge back to his … facility. Care in the community, and all that.’
Dhassim leapt to his feet, producing his woolly hat from his pocket, and with a flourish, he tipped its contents into William’s tin. Several one and two-pound coins landed with a clatter. ‘I do not know why people gave me money, Jinnie, but there is much I do not understand in your world. Goodbye, William!’
Seated on the train, Jinnie rested her head against the window and closed her eyes. Poor Angela. Jinnie wished she could do something. And a seedling of an idea sprouted in her mind…
Chapter 38
‘How’s Mags?’
It was good to open with a question about Ken’s wife. It set the tone, cleared the air. Nothing could be misconstrued; a boundary was clearly marked out between them.
‘Up and down,’ replied Ken, hanging his coat up, then passing Jo a bottle of wine. ‘She had a good couple of days, then this afternoon she got agitated about going to see her sister Eileen.’
‘Wouldn’t that be a good thing?’ asked Jo, peeling cling film off a tuna and bean salad she’d made earlier. ‘Maybe spending time with family might trigger some happy memories. Not that I’m an expert, or anything.’
Ken rummaged in the drawer for a corkscrew — he knew his way around Jo’s kitchen now — and opened the bottle. He poured two glasses, and raised his in a toast. But there was nothing celebratory about his expression.
‘Eileen died over twenty years ago in a car accident, Jo. I tried to get Mags to understand, but she burst into tears. Then she went looking for her old address book to find Eileen’s number.’
‘Oh.’ Jo didn’t know what to say. She stirred the salad, her heart aching both for the loss of Mags's sister and the fact she believed she was still alive. Looking up, she felt the familiar internal somersault as Ken watched her, his eyes filled with pain.
‘Should you be here?’ Jo knew her tone was brusque, but she was angry at herself. Angry at the way her body was reacting, while her brain was screaming at her to call a halt to it all. ‘If your wife is upset, shouldn’t you be with her?’
Ken slumped in a chair and massaged his scalp. Jo noticed for the first time that his hairline was receding just a little, creeping back above each temple. ‘Her friends Lindsay and Ruth are with her. They’re going to watch some TV, play cards, or something. And no, I probably shouldn’t be here, Jo. But I’m not a saint, and I certainly don’t have the patience of one.’
The two of them picked at the food. Jo put on the radio, and ‘Don’t You Forget About Me’ by Simple Minds drifted over the airwaves. Jo loved the song, but it added an extra layer of poignancy to the evening. Bit by bit Mags was forgetting, her memories slipping away and unlikely ever to be retrieved. Jo had often wondered which would be worse: being physically incapacitated, or losing one’s mental faculties. On balance, she thought the latter. Becoming frail was one thing; becoming increasingly confused, distressed and unable to function was another. If Jo made it to a ripe old age she hoped she’d still be sharp as a tack, even if her body was crumbling.
‘This is delicious,’ said Ken, as the music switched to a jollier number. ‘What’s in the dressing?’
As Jo listed the ingredients — garlic, lemon juice, tarragon and mustard — she wished things had turned out differently all those years ago. Not that she had gone ahead and married Graham, and gained the mother-in-law from hell, of course. No, Jo wished she’d met someone else and they’d shared a life together, both good times and bad. That they were sitting here now, eating quietly, in that way of couples who were comfortable with each other. Just as she and Ken were doing, without the long, shared history. Was that partly why she was drawn to him?In less than five years I’ll be fifty. Fifty, and probably still single.The thought had never really bothered her before. ‘Gettin’ old is better than the alternative, hen,’ Janette from the corner shop had sagely told her on more than one occasion. But maybe deep down Jo hankered to be with someone after all.
‘Ed’s packed in his job.’ Ken’s voice broke Jo’s reverie. She looked up, aware she’d hardly touched her meal. ‘Handed in his notice yesterday, apparently.’
‘Do you think he’s made the right decision?’ Never having had kids, and unlikely to do so now, Jo wondered if parents ever stopped fretting about their children’s choices. Ed was probably in his thirties now, but she could see how they both doted on him. He was a nice boy — man — and had a girlfriend. No, he’d been dumped, Jo recalled.
‘Who knows?’ Ken refilled the wine glasses and looked questioningly at Jo’s almost-full plate. She nodded, and he tipped the contents on to his own. ‘He’s young, free and single at the moment, so I guess he can please himself.’
‘Do you think he’d be interested in an older woman?’ Time to lighten the mood, get back to the joking and good-natured joshing that was their trademark.
‘If you’re thinking of Janette again, I really can’t picture them as a couple.’ Ken laughed and Jo joined in.
‘Actually, I was thinking more of myself. I’m only, what, five years older than Ed —’
Ken laughed harder. Jo stood up, and swatted him with a tea towel, but he grabbed the end and pulled her closer. She stumbled, and Ken caught her. They were inches apart, the air between them charged and terrifying. Jo wasn’t drunk, so she couldn’t blame what happened next on alcohol. She couldn’t blame it on anything, other than a longing that left her dizzy with desire.
‘Jo.’ She didn’t want to hear words, didn’t want to think about what was happening. They were achingly close, the stubble on Ken’s chin grazing her cheek. Jo turned her head, her lips touching his, and they remained like that for what seemed minutes. Just touching, Ken’s eyes boring into hers. Who would instigate the next move?
The answer came swiftly. Jo pulled away, hot shame replacing the yearning that had turned her briefly into the kind of person she knew she could never be.
‘Jo.’ Ken spoke again, and this time Jo listened. ‘I want to kiss you. There’s nothing I want more right now. But I can’t. You know that. We both know that.’ The longing she’d seen mirrored in his eyes was replaced with sadness and regret.
‘And I want to kiss you.’ Jo took Ken’s hand and scrutinised it. Solid, warm and slightly calloused from years of lugging beer kegs. His wedding ring needed a polish, she noted. ‘In another world, in different circumstances, there’s nothing I’d like more.’
