Page 7 of A Wish For Jo
Heading downstairs for a cuppa, Jo's thoughts drifted back toAll Rise. She imagined herself in the distinctive chequered apron, wiping away tears of joy as she lifted the coveted trophy above her head. Admittedly, the trophy, which resembled a hand whisk, wouldn't win any prizes for aesthetics. Still, as the kettle boiled, Jo fantasised about her fifteen minutes of fame.
CHAPTER8
Jinnie and Samhad got back from their holiday the previous day. Out for a stroll, Jo had dodged out of sight when she spotted them unloading the car. They looked tanned and very much in love, Jinnie cheekily patting Sam's bottom as he bent over to wrestle a suitcase from the depths of the boot. Her heartstrings twanged with sadness at the look of adoration that passed between them. When had a man ever looked at her like that? Well, there had been one. Sadly, he wasn't the one who got away, but the one who could never be. Graham, her ex-fiancé of many years ago, had reserved such looks for a full Scottish breakfast or a Rangers win at the football.
Back at the café, Jo nodded at Aaliyah, who was serving a harassed young mum trying to placate a screaming toddler. To Jo's surprise, her normally haughty assistant got down to the child's level and pulled a series of ridiculous faces worthy of a world gurning champion. The little boy, scarlet-faced and snotty, eyed her with bewilderment.
Jo held her breath. Would the wee lad be traumatised for life? No: he chuckled in that delicious, infectious way only small children can, and the mum handed over a generous tip for the green tea, diluted juice and shortbread she'd ordered.
'Nice work,' said Jo, hanging up her jacket. 'I think you've found a new vocation as a children's entertainer.’ Aaliyah harrumphed and stomped off to the back room.
Jo would have followed, but new arrivals meant that she needed to hold the fort. As she poured, sliced and chatted, she pondered how to approach Jinnie, and when. Good manners probably meant leaving it a day or two, but Jo's patience with the whole genie/wish situation was wearing thinner than filo pastry. She needed to find out what had transpired between Jinnie and Aaliyah's one-time beau, and she needed some guidance: a handbook would be nice. But that could wait until she'd given Jinnie a gentle bollocking for keeping shtum about the lamps' occupants.
Alison Gale entered the café, dressed to the nines as always. Alison had been widowed in her early sixties, and her local boutique, Gale Force, had certainly blown away the cobwebs of its tatty predecessor — so much so that customers travelled from Edinburgh to snap up her reasonably priced, effortlessly classy wares.
'Hiya, Alison,’ said Jo. 'How's business? Did the move go OK?’ Having lived in the tiny flat above the boutique for several months, Alison had recently purchased a three-bedroom property on the same street as Brae Cottage, Jinnie's former home before she moved in with Sam.
'All good, Jo,' replied Alison, unwinding a stunning scarlet scarf shot with gold from her elegant neck. ‘I've sold three divine jackets, and one woman snapped up every cashmere-blend cardigan I had in stock. As for the move… Stressful, but I don't need to rush. The hardest part is going through Drew's stuff and deciding what to keep and what to throw away. I feel guilty binning anything, as if I'm erasing him from my life and putting memories in black bags. It's not easy.'
Jo nodded sympathetically. Not that she'd been widowed, but she remembered the gut punch of emptying her parents' house after they had died just six weeks apart. She'd sobbed over so many things: the fitted grey wool coat her mother wore on high days and holidays, her father's collection of vinyl records going back decades, and the boxes of Jo's childhood toys and clothes, down to her first pair of patent leather shoes. Stupidly, she'd kept them, tucked away in her wardrobe next to an embroidered bag containing some of her mum's make-up and toiletries. From time to time, Jo would take it out and inhale the fading scent of face powder and perfume, her sadness tinged with fond recollections of happier times.
'If you need a hand…' Jo smiled as she reached for Alison's favourite lemon verbena tea.
Alison shook her head, her auburn curls bouncing on the shoulders of her autumnal-hued coat. 'That's very kind, Jo, but I can manage. Ruairi, my eldest, is taking time off work to come and sift through his dad's bits, including the files crammed with ancient receipts and bank statements. Honestly, who needs to keep a record of a toaster and kettle bought in the early ‘80s?'
Alison took her tea and a buttered scone to a quiet corner — not that the wee fella was creating a scene any more. Taking advantage of the peace, Jo sought out Aaliyah. Instead of prepping sandwiches and paninis for the lunchtime crowd, she was curled up like a cat next to the industrial-size oven, positively purring, eyelids fluttering, oblivious to the hardness of the floor.
Jo stood over Aaliyah, her foot itching to give her a prod. Instead, she banged two pot lids together.
Aaliyah leapt to her feet, hissing like a tabby with its tail on fire. 'What's your problem? Can a girl not have a wee nap, seein' as you treat me like a slave?’
Jo let out a derisory snort. 'You have free accommodation, all meals included, and your toughest task is shelling hard-boiled eggs. Slave is a bit of an exaggeration, don’t you think?’
'Whatever.' Aaliyah curled her lip and began slicing bread with unnecessary force. 'Was that the boutique lady I heard coming in? Has she got new stuff for me to check out?'
How Aaliyah knew who'd come in, considering her state of slumber, was anyone's guess. 'Yes, it was, and no, she hasn't. Alison's got a lot on her mind. She’s clearing out her late husband's stuff.'
'Crikey, that's a bit brutal,' said Aaliyah, slathering butter on the bread. 'If the poor geezer's lost track of time, surely junking his possessions is a bit OTT?'
Not for the first time, Jo wondered how Aaliyah could be so streetwise and modern in some ways, yet fail to understand a simple expression. 'I didn't mean that kind of late,' she explained. 'He died, so she needs to sort out his things. You know, clothes and papers and … things.' Jo's eyes welled up, her thoughts back in her family home.
‘Aww, pet, did you ken him well?' Aaliyah put down the knife and patted Jo's shoulder hesitantly, as if Jo might crumble at her touch.
'I didn't know him at all. It just reminded me of losing my parents — not in a "they've gone missing” kind of way, in case you were wondering…' Jo took a steadying breath.
Aaliyah's hand kneaded Jo’s shoulder as if it was a stubborn lump of dough. 'I ken what that means,' huffed Aaliyah. 'Mind you, I never had parents, so nowt to grieve over. Although I did have a hamster once— Well, my master did. Loved that wee guy pedalling like fury on his wheel. I cried buckets when he climbed into the tumble dryer one day and ended up dead. Very fluffy, like, but definitely dead.'
Thanking Aaliyah for her concern, Jo nipped to the loo to splash water on her face. A quick scan of the café revealed no new customers: Alison was still sipping her tea and the mum and toddler were engrossed in a picture book. Staring at the mirror, she saw her parents' genes in her reflection: her dad's cheekbones and chin dimple, her mum's hair colour (until her mum turned grey and refused to dye it). She recalled the photo albums crammed with pictures of her growing up: with bucket and spade, on family holidays to the seaside; blowing out the candles on her birthday cake; shy infant with oversized blazer; sulky teenager with self-pierced ears and lashings of lip gloss.
Jo had never considered how genies came to be. Did they just manifest from thin air and take up residence in a random lamp? The thought added another layer of sadness to Jo's melancholy mood. She'd been so loved: the only child of older parents who'd dedicated their lives to her happiness. Not rich in the material sense, but abundant in wisdom and generosity, they had instilled Jo with a true sense of self-worth. What she'd give for one more day with them, to thank them and say all the things you never do until it's too late.
CHAPTER9
'Aaliyah?'
It was Sunday morning, and Jo had just surfaced after an unexpected but much-needed lie-in. For several years she'd opened six days a week (closed Mondays), rising at the crack of dawn to deal with deliveries and prepare food for the day ahead. What was the old saying again?Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise. Jo had no health worries, but she certainly wasn't rich, and seriously doubted that anyone would seek her out for her wisdom.
'Aaliyah!' Jo raised her voice as she walked barefoot down the hallway. Her snap decision last night to open at midday today had gained her several hours of extra sleep, although waking from her deep slumber had taken some time. Thoughts of her mum and dad had swirled around her head, both their voices as clear as if they were in the room with her. Like any dream, though, the details faded quickly. All that remained was a familiar feeling of comfort mixed with loss, the two emotions jostling for supremacy in Jo's muddled mind.
