Page 15 of A Wish For Wilma
Sadiq tutted and pointed to the newborn selection of nappies. ‘These are much more suitable.’ He moved to switch the packages.
Wilma blocked him with her arm. ‘We breed big babies in our family,’ she said, with an apologetic smile. ‘My Rob was a whopper; giving birth to him was like squeezing a bowling ball out of my nostril.’
Scratching his thinning grey hair, Sadiq wandered off as another customer entered the shop. Wilma quickly added a carton of milk and a box of Cabernet Sauvignon to her basket.
Her shopping bagged and paid for, Wilma headed home. What she really wanted was a sit-down, a cuppa (wine later) and a chance to gather her thoughts. What she expected — and dreaded — was an otherworldly creature hogging the TV and demanding her undivided attention.
‘Ah, Gus, what I’d do right now to have you with me,’ she muttered. ‘A voice of reason in a world gone absolutely raving bonkers.’
CHAPTER13
‘Happy birthday to you,happy birthday to you…’ Wilma’s family sang loudly and not entirely in tune. A hip-hop beat provided by her grandson Archie didn’t go well with the traditional anthem. The bass reverberated through Wilma’s chest, her heart stuttering and fluttering alarmingly. Or did that have more to do with the extra guest at the feast? They’d devoured dinner an hour earlier, cooked to perfection by her daughter-in-law.
‘Happy birthday, Wilma.’ Gus raised his glass, along with Rob, Kath, Jinnie, Sam and Archie. ‘Here’s to many more years of you being you, with bells and whistles on.’
Wilma accepted all the hugs, the kisses, and the stack of presents wrapped with varying degrees of precision. She’d never been much of a wrapper herself, renowned for recycled paper, hair-covered sticky tape and labels chopped from old greetings cards. Waste not, want not. Especially when you hit eighty-seven: every minute and every penny mattered. Frivolity was for the young. Frugality crept up on you with weary joints, memory lapses and a sense of time trickling down the plughole — unless you were filthy rich and none of that mattered. Wilma had no desire to be filthy rich. Not even slightly muckily rich. She just wanted to reach the end of her days with those who mattered close to her.
Wilma opened Rob and Kath’s present first. ‘That’s exactly what I wished for!’ Their present was a gizmo for clipping toenails when your arms refused to cooperate with the distance involved. It looked like an instrument of torture, but practicality outweighed glamour once you reached a certain age.
‘That one’s ours,’ said Jinnie, pointing at a pretty package tied with a striped ribbon.
Wilma gave due respect to the packaging and opened it carefully. She gasped in delight at the butter-soft cashmere jumper. Mauve was one of her favourite colours and the jumper from a brand she coveted but couldn’t afford on her pension.
‘Thank you, sweetheart. And you, Sam.’ She held it against her, stroking it like a devoted cat lover petting a beloved feline.
Archie’s gift was next. A set of ear buds, which to Wilma looked like regular ones with the wire chopped off, but they’d come in useful for listening to audiobooks. Not that she ever got to the end of one: she was out like a light within minutes.
‘And this is from me.’ Gus fiddled in his pocket and produced a book-shaped gift.
‘I’ve already readSixty Shades of Grey,’ joked Wilma, earning a disapproving look from her son.
‘It’s actuallyFifty Shades of Grey,’ Gus replied, his eyes fixed on Wilma’s. ‘Not that I’ve read it, for the record.’
Wilma had. She had been singularly unimpressed with the storyline and felt she was as likely to indulge in bondage as attempt bungee jumping. She took the gift, curious as to what it might be. She stripped away the unassuming wrapping and revealed a poetry collection by Emily Dickinson.
‘I hope you like it.’ Gus gently took the book from Wilma, flipped through the pages, and read out loud:
The heart asks pleasure first,
And then, excuse from pain;
And then, those little anodynes
That deaden suffering.
‘That’s, erm, lovely,’ said Kath, who’d returned with the birthday cake. Not with eighty-seven candles: just an individual eight and seven and a liberal sprinkling of Smarties.
‘I’m not sure I quite get it,’ said Wilma, ‘but I’m always up for pleasure and not a fan of pain. Thanks, Gus. I need a bit of culture in my life. Hanging around with this lot does little to broaden the mind.’
Amidst howls of protest, Rob lit the candles. Wilma inhaled deeply, coughed loudly and blew them out at the first attempt.
‘Did you make a wish?’ asked Gus.
Wilma took in the pained expressions on Jinnie and Sam’s faces.Ha!She knew they knew, but they didn’t know thatsheknew. Now she was confusing herself. Being old wasn’t a bundle of laughs at the best of times. When you tossed genies into the mix, any remaining brain cells ducked for cover. ‘I’ll keep my wish for later,’ she said enigmatically.
With the cake sliced and distributed, the gathering indulged in more champagne, the noise levels increasing in proportion to the drinks consumed. Gus stuck to beer, as did Archie, while Jinnie sipped cranberry juice with a pained expression.
‘Wilma said you’d spent time in Majorca running a bar,’ said Sam, doling out more cake for Jinnie. ‘What brought you back here? Surely not the fantastic Scottish weather!’ Right on cue, a gust of wind rattled the window.
