Page 6 of A Wish for Jinnie
Jinnie’s nose tickled as she fought back a full-blown howling session.Is this what parenting’s all about, she thought.Even in your sixties, fretting and scrimping to protect your darling children?Should I just get my tubes tied and save decades of worry and strife?She wondered if she would ever be fit to be a mother, seeing as she could barely look after herself at the moment.
‘Don’t be daft. I’m coping, and Mark is ancient history. Anyway, you never really liked him, did you?’ On the handful of occasions they’d visited as a couple, Jinnie knew Mark had looked down his perfectly proportioned nose at her humble family home. Yes, he’d always been polite, but still gave off an air of superiority: the lord of the manor gracing his servants with an appearance. In contrast, his parents had welcomed Jinnie with warmth and genuine affection. His snobbery had not been inherited from them.
‘I … well … I just never thought he was good enough for you, love. Despite his money and his fancy ways. And his eyebrows were too close together. As Wilma always says…’
Beware of those whose eyebrows meet, for in their hearts there lies deceit.Jinnie knew the line well, one of many spouted by her gran. Complete codswallop. She should write her own modern version —Beware of he who writes on cups, for he will be a total twat.OK, poetry would never be her thing, but the sentiment was valid. And speaking of cups…
‘I’ll skip pudding, mum, if that’s OK, but I’ll just dollop some into a dish and take it round to Gran’s.’ Again, Jinnie felt the pull of getting home as strongly as a magnet.
In the hallway, after kissing her dad goodbye and yelling upstairs to Archie with no response, Jinnie accepted the bag of home-baked goodies proffered by her mum. On top was a dog-eared paperback entitledBe Careful What You Wish For.
‘Found it in the local charity shop. It’s about following your heart, but never losing sight of what’s important,’ said Kath, tucking a loose strand of Jinnie’s hair behind her ear. ‘Don’t forget that you’re number one, love, and we’re always here for you.’
Plodding down the road, damp-eyed and lost in thought, Jinnie realised the straps of the laden carrier bag were cutting painfully into her fingers. She put it down to change hands, and the book slid out and tumbled on to the pavement. A fifty-pound note fluttered from its pages, and Jinnie trapped it with her foot before it blew away. ‘Thanks, Mum,’ she whispered, before turning the corner to Gran’s house.
Chapter 9
‘Jinnie! What a sight for sore eyes!’roared Wilma, backing into the hallway to allow Jinnie in. This was no mean feat, as the walls were stacked high with old magazines, vinyl records and dog-eared books. Wilma was a hoarder and proud of it, her bungalow so crammed with oddities she would soon be forced to camp out in the postage-stamp-sized garden.
‘How are you doing, Gran?’ asked Jinnie, pecking her on a heavily powdered cheek. She sidled towards the kitchen, following Wilma who muttered a few expletives under her breath.
‘Ach, I’m not bad, except for this stupid gout and a bit of a chesty cough.’ Wilma filled the kettle and sat down, gesturing for Jinnie to do the same. She immediately pulled her tin of tobacco and papers towards her, and began rolling a cigarette. Jinnie placed the dish of crumble on the table, and resisted the urge to comment on the wisdom of smoking when poorly. Anyone who dared to mention Wilma’s roll-ups or fondness for wine boxes received an ear-bashing. ‘I’m eighty-six, and if giving up my vices means I’ll be dribbling in an old folks’ home waiting for a telegram from the Queen, you can bugger right off!’ was her usual response.
Wilma’s laptop, a present from Jinnie’s parents a few years ago, was open, showing her Twitter feed. Despite, or possibly to stick two fingers up at, her advancing years, Jinnie’s gran had embraced social media with frightening fervour. She posted photos on Instagram, rude cartoons on Facebook, and had over 3000 followers on Twitter. Why people would be interested in an octogenarian ranting on about the price of tobacco, the folly of tattoos and how she still thought about sex at least once a day was anyone’s guess. And she still persisted in talking about hagtashes, which in Jinnie’s opinion was much better than the actual word.
‘Right, let’s get this brew sorted, then I’ll read your leaves.’ Wilma spooned tea into the pot and poured on hot water. She swirled the pot around a few times, nodding to Jinnie to fetch cups and saucers. Teabags were an abomination in Wilma’s eyes. She had been known to snip them open when visiting friends, always scoffing about their inferiority to the loose stuff.
‘More to the point, how areyou? Found yersel’ a new fella yet?’ Wilma poured the tea, sparking up her roll-up at the same time.
An acrid plume of smoke drifted across the table, making Jinnie’s eyes water. She sloshed some milk into her cup and took a sip. ‘Nope, and I’m not looking either,’ she said, putting her cup down. ‘So don’t think you can go fixing me up with so-and-so’s grandson.’ Jinnie mock-scowled at her gran, who responded by blowing a perfect set of smoke rings.
‘Ach, you’re well shot of that monobrowed moron,’ Wilma said. ‘In fact, all you need is a good vibrator and something decent on Netflix. Come to think of it, there’s a crackin’ site I saw on the web the other day. Free delivery, and returns if not fully satisfied. Mind you, cannae imagine anyone having the nerve to send one back already used!’
Jinnie giggled, well used to her gran’s outspokenness. To avoid being subjected to an onscreen array of sex toys, she drained her cup, leaving a teaspoonful of liquid at the bottom. ‘OK, Gran, let’s see what the future has in store for me.’ Well-versed in the ritual, Jinnie took the cup in her left hand and swirled it counter-clockwise three times. She carefully inverted it over the saucer, then turned the cup the right way up, revealing a random pattern of leaves stuck inside.
‘Hmm, what do we have here? Pass it over, sweetie.’ Wilma gazed into the cup, still puffing away on her cigarette. It was a miracle she could see anything through the fug of smoke. She brought it closer to her nose, using her saucer as an ashtray. ‘Looks a bit like … an umbrella.’
Jinnie peered, unable to detect anything more than a shapeless blob. She knew better than to comment, however, as Wilma took her readings very seriously.
‘What does an umbrella mean?’ she asked, visions of torrential rain and leaking roofs flashing through her brain. Brae Cottage wasn’t in the best of shape, and heavy downpours were a year-long feature of the area.
‘A new lover,’ Wilma replied, eyes flashing with mischief. Jinnie shook her head, determined to steer away from that topic.
‘Fine, fine. Let’s have another look. While I’m at it, stick that pudding thing in the microwave and we can have a wee slice after.’
Jinnie dutifully peeled off the foil lid and put the crumble on to heat. As she rummaged in Wilma’s shoebox-sized freezer drawer for ice cream, a triumphant whoop made her jump. ‘Got it!’ cried Wilma. ‘Clear as day, now I’ve had another gander. Here, look yersel’, Jinnie.’
As the microwave pinged, Jinnie leaned over her gran’s shoulder. Nope, still a shapeless blob, although it might just be — ‘Erm, is it a tadpole?’ she asked, then instantly regretted it. Judging by the jubilant expression on Wilma’s face, she was about to announce that it was a sperm and that Jinnie would be ‘up the duff’ — another of her gran’s favourite sayings — in a matter of months. And that would certainlynotbe happening.
‘No, ye daftie! It’s a kite. There’s the pointy top bit, and the trailing string with a wee bow on it. Can ye no’ see it? Never mind, dish up some of that crumble. My tummy’s rumbling like the furies.’
With bowls of pudding and ice cream before them, Jinnie and Wilma munched contentedly, the cup’s contents temporarily forgotten. Jinnie chatted between mouthfuls about her new job and the cottage, leaving out any mention of Sam lest Wilma go off on another new-man rant.
‘Best crumble ever,’ Wilma declared, dabbing at her furrowed lips with a tissue. ‘My Rob made a smart move, marrying your mum. The way to a man’s heart and all that. Do you do much cooking yersel’, Jinnie?’
Reluctant to discuss her entry-level cooking skills, Jinnie picked up her cup again and gazed into it. ‘Right, so it’s a kite, which means —’
‘A wish coming true. If you had one wish right now, what would it be?’ Wilma coughed heartily, eyed her tobacco tin wistfully, then picked up a glass and leaned towards a box of Cabernet Sauvignon perched at the edge of the table. ‘One for the road?’
