Page 12 of A Wish For Wilma
‘Speaking of plumbing, do you think Wilma’s been sucked down the loo? She’s been gone a while.’ Sam looked at Jinnie, who hefted herself upright just as Wilma strode in, coat on and handbag clutched to her chest.
‘Right, Gus, it’s time we were off. I’ve two episodes of that mass-murderer documentary to catch up with and a piece of haddock that needs battering.’
With a flurry of thank-yous, goodbyes and hugs, Wilma and Gus departed in his white van. Wilma waved from the passenger seat, as regal as the actual Queen.
‘That went well,’ said Sam, stacking plates and china. ‘Apart from LampGate, of course.’
Jinnie stuck her tongue out and Sam made a calm-down gesture. ‘They did leave rather abruptly. I’d like to have learned more about Gus. Maybe your gran had a bit of an upset stomach.’
Jinnie scoffed. ‘Gran has the constitution of an ox. Barring a minor health wobble a while back, she’s tough as old boots.’
Assuring Sam that she was happy to wash up while he got on with some writing, Jinnie took the dirty dishes into the kitchen. She placed them in the sink and filled it with soapy water. Feeling parched, she went to the fridge for some chilled water. Then she noticed something out of place. Or rather, something conspicuous by its absence.
‘Where’s the bloody lamp?’
Jinnie glared at the toaster as if it might be responsible for the lamp’s disappearance. She moved it from side to side, checking behind the kettle and utensil holder as well. Nope, definitely not there. Had Sam put it back in the cupboard? No. He hadn’t been in the kitchen, which left only one possibility.
‘Oh, Gran. What have you done?’
CHAPTER10
What have I done?
Wilma stared at the little lamp sitting on her side table, next to the abandoned knitting. Now she could add theft to her list of misdemeanours, after the breaking and entering episode.
She’d visited the guest toilet, where a quick scan of the mirror had confirmed that she looked presentable, though sadly not twenty years younger. Sucked in by another online advert for a miracle face cream, she’d slapped it on religiously, figuring that not even a heartfelt prayer would turn back the clock.
As she left the loo, her feet guided her on a detour. As if pulled by a strong magnet, she felt herself drawn to the kitchen, and not just because some unfinished fizz beckoned. No: something — or someone — wanted her to go there. Before she knew it, she’d bundled the lamp into her handbag and come up with some lame excuses for leaving straight away.
‘Anybody in there?’ Wilma tapped the side of the lamp, aware how demented she sounded. Tea leaves and tourmaline were one thing; this was a whole new level of nuttiness. Not that Wilma considered her interests nutty, but many others did. She held no truck with seances and Ouija boards, figuring that if her long-deceased husband was able, he’d have come back to haunt her.
‘You could do with a wee touch of Brasso,’ she murmured, relieved that Gus had taken his leave after dropping her home. He’d promised to drop by soon to fix a droopy wardrobe door and figure out why her vacuum cleaner sounded like a jet plane taking off.
‘There you go,’ Wilma crooned, using a cloth to massage the cream into the lamp’s surface in circular motions. Admiring her handiwork, she turned the lamp around to tackle the other side, and—
‘What the—?’ Wilma gasped and dropped the polishing cloth. The lamp, still clutched in her other hand, vibrated, emitting a low-pitched hum. She tossed it across the room, where it came to rest under the TV stand. The hairs on Wilma’s forearms stood to attention, and she gave an involuntary shudder.
‘Mama!’
While Wilma’s hearing had declined over recent years and she point-blank refused to consider hearing aids, she knew what she’d just heard. It was swiftly followed by a louder ‘Papa’.
Her heart thumping so fast that she feared instant cardiac arrest, Wilma tiptoed towards the lamp. It continued to judder and shake, the humming now replaced by a hiss. Did it contain some kind of snake? Not unless it was a Disney snake with the ability to speak.
‘Who are you?’ Wilma scooped up the lamp, groaning as her lower back twanged. Rob’s frequent reminder,Bend your knees when you bend over, came to mind, though as always too late. ‘Or rather,whatare you?’
In response, a fine mist appeared. It shimmered and grew in intensity, its shadowy quality taking on a more solid form. A tiny form, barely reaching the top of the TV stand. A little person, with chubby arms and a cherubic face, wearing a jewelled nappy.
‘You’re not my Mama.’ The person — baby — scowled and its bottom lip quivered. ‘I want my Mama.’
At a loss for what to do, Wilma held out both arms. When had she last comforted a baby? When Jinnie’s arrived, she planned to be the crème de la crème of great-grannies, even if the jury was still out on the terminology. But this creature, for want of a better word, defied all logic. This couldn’t be happening. Take impossible and multiply it a million times. It made no sense, it— Oh God, what was that smell?
Lifting the baby, Wilma’s nostrils retracted at the foul stench coming from its bottom. The nappy might be haute couture, but the odour certainly wasn’t.
‘I want my Mama.’ The baby’s voice grew louder, either because he (or she) resented being held by a stranger or because the contents of its nappy threatened to spill onto the carpet.
‘Ach, let’s get you cleaned up.’ Wilma held the baby closer, keeping one hand firmly on the drooping nappy. She scuttled into the kitchen, looking around for something to use as a changing mat. She settled for an ugly plastic tray she’d picked up in a charity shop years ago. Sliding the baby onto it, Wilma pondered what to use as a nappy. A tea towel would do the trick, but what to fasten it with? Luckily, she located a large safety pin in the kitchen drawer reserved for miscellaneous useless bits and bobs.
Tearing off a large handful of kitchen roll and dampening it under the tap, Wilma braced herself. She unpeeled one side of the nappy, then the other. The smell intensified and Wilma wished she had a gas mask to hand. Gingerly, she dabbed at the baby’s bits — definitely a boy — and decided another tea towel was needed to mop up the worst of the mess.
