Page 1 of A Wish For Wilma
CHAPTER1
‘Ach, shut your cake hole.’Wilma pressed the mute button of the remote control with ferocity. She couldn’t abide that wee woman with her helmet hairdo and interchangeable coloured suits, banging on about Scottish independence again.
‘And what’s with all the fishy names?’ Wilma watched Nicola Sturgeon mouthing away silently. ‘First that lardy-faced Alex Salmond, then her. What next, Harry Haddock?’
Wilma flung down her knitting in disgust. Faced with mounting pressure from her family to quit the cigs and vaping, she’d ordered a knitting starter kit online. Something else to do with her hands, which itched and twitched for a smoke.
The ball of yellow wool skittered off the sofa and trailed across the carpet. Wilma gave it a kick with her slippered foot and it ricocheted off the skirting board.
‘Jinnie’ll no’ mind if I buy the bairn stuff instead,’ she muttered. The half-finished bootie dangled forlornly from its needle, a reminder that knitting and Wilma didn’t get along.
Over the moon didn’t cover how excited Wilma had been when Jinnie and her fiancé, Sam, popped round to deliver the joyful news. Now at the six-month mark, her beloved granddaughter glowed with good health. She was happy to see the back of the early days when, as she so eloquently put it, ‘I up-chucked morning and night.’
Neither Jinnie nor Sam had mentioned marriage — not that couples nowadays bothered too much with weddings and all that palaver. Still, Wilma hoped they’d tie the knot eventually. She’d already bookmarked a fetching peach dress-and-jacket ensemble with a matching hat for the occasion. Assuming she lived long enough to see it.
‘Eighty-seven next week. How the heck did that happen?’ Wilma switched off the TV and shuffled into the kitchen. She suffered the odd bout of gout and her hips didn’t so much lie as scream obscenities when she sat down for too long, but all things considered, Wilma felt blessed. Jinnie came over frequently, and her parents — Wilma’s son Rob and his wife, Kath — lived round the corner and kept a close eye on her. Jinnie’s younger brother, Archie, didn’t visit often, but his burgeoning career in the music industry meant a healthy income. He’d given her an early birthday present: a new, state-of-the-art laptop. She spent many happy hours on Twitter, regaling her followers with helpful tips on growing old (dis)gracefully and maintaining that thoughts of sex didn’t evaporate when you got your bus pass.
Wilma made herself a brew and checked the time. Half an hour until the handyman arrived to fix the leaky dishwasher and put up some shelving for her collection of books. Arguing that she and her growing bump wouldn’t be able to navigate the piles of books, magazines and records stacked in Wilma’s hallway, Jinnie had insisted on a clear-out. A sad day, as classic Val Doonican and Max Bygraves albums were bundled up for dumping, along with copies ofWoman’s Realmpacked with purse-friendly recipes, zodiac predictions and adverts for ‘the best leakproof sanitary wear.’
Wilma had stuck to her guns concerning the books: her beloved Judith Krantz and Jackie Collins bonkbusters, the entire early works of Jilly Cooper and a well-thumbed copy of theKama Sutra. A few feminist tomes about equality and bra-burning also made the cut. Wilma wholeheartedly agreed that women got the short straw but drew the line at torching her bra. Some things needed lifetime support.
Wilma had no idea who the handyman was. Jinnie said he came highly recommended by a friend’s mother, who knew him through a mutual liking for spending Sundays at Homebase, the alternative place of worship for those disenchanted with organised religion. She found it much more fulfilling to kneel at the altar of power tools and plumbing accessories than listen to some minister droning on about redemption.
Wilma sipped her tea and nibbled on a Jammie Dodger. Normally she’d give herself a tea-leaf reading, but her interest had waned in recent weeks. Her latest passion was crystals, after reading an article on their healing and calming powers. Apparently, Adele always clutched one on stage, while Victoria Beckham swore by them for positive energy at her fashion shows. Some other star — Wilma forgot who — kept one stuffed in her knickers. Wilma liked her simple collection of rose quartz, citrine, amethyst and black tourmaline, but drew the line at tucking one into her capacious pants. Who knew where it might end up?
Clearing away her cup and plate, Wilma hoped the handyman would finish the jobs quickly. She’d promised Rob and Kath that she’d pop round to discuss birthday plans: either a birthday tea at their house or a slap-up meal in Edinburgh. Wilma favoured the former. Less hassle, and Kath always came up trumps on the food front. The last time they’d treated her to a meal in the city, Wilma had protested at the minuscule portions and stupid drizzles of coloured gloop. If Wilma wanted to eat like a mouse, she’d stay home and nibble cheese.
Just as she’d settled down on the toilet for a wee, the doorbell rang. Sod’s bloody law. People always turned up on the doorstep when you’d settled down for a nap or your bladder needed emptying. Maybe that was just an old-person thing.
After washing her hands, grateful that no errant crystal had lodged somewhere it shouldn’t, Wilma hurried to the door. She wrestled with her glasses — perched on her head — then the lock and safety chain.
‘Mrs Cooper?’ The man stared at her, his blue eyes quizzical. A flicker of recognition scurried across his face. At exactly the same time, Wilma gasped in disbelief.
‘Well, knock me down with a feather. It’s you, isn’t it?’
The handyman dropped his tool bag on the doorstep, its contents clanking loudly. ‘Aye, it is, Wilma.’
She’d expected a stripling of a lad, lanky of limb and nursing a smattering of chin hair that aspired to be a beard when it grew up. Instead…
‘Gus Brown. Well, it’s been a very long time. Come on in.’
CHAPTER2
‘So,where have you been hiding for the last thirty-odd years?’ Wilma stood over Gus as he writhed on the floor, cursing as the dishwasher panel refused to budge.
‘Pass me the screwdriver,’ he replied. ‘And a brew would be nice once I’ve got this beggar sorted.’
Wilma handed over the screwdriver. She couldn’t help noticing Gus’s muscular physique, his taut abs straining under his polo shirt. Not half bad for a man well into his seventies. ‘The kettle’s on, and you haven’t answered my question.’
Gus gave a little fist pump as the panel came loose. ‘Milk, no sugar, please. I’ll give you a blow-by-blow account of my thrilling life to date once I’ve wet my whistle.’
After much grunting and fiddling around with pliers, Gus heaved himself upright. He gratefully accepted his mug of tea, raising an eyebrow at its colourful inscription:Still Hot At My Age. Wilma blushed, something she couldn’t recall doing since her twenties. Heck, she’d be fanning herself with a tattie scone in a minute!
‘Perfect.’ Gus took a swig and smacked his lips appreciatively. ‘A wee biscuit would be nice too, if it’s no bother.’
Wilma rooted around in the cupboard for a packet of chocolate bourbons. She had fancier biscuits, ones with fruity bits, but kept those for Jinnie’s visits.
‘Take the weight off.’ Wilma gestured at a chair and Gus sank into it. She sat opposite him, squeezing the bourbons onto a plate.
