Page 2 of A Wish For Wilma
‘It was your water supply line that needed tightening,’ he said, taking another swig of tea.
‘There’s a lot needs tightening around here,’ joked Wilma. ‘Are you any good with saggy jowls?’
Gus laughed. ‘I can fix a shoogly shelf no problem, but plastic surgery’s way out of my league. Not that you need any, mind.’ It was his turn to blush.
‘Right, you’ve got the tea and biscuits and the shelves can wait.’ Wilma fixed Gus with her finest ‘spill the beans’ face. Jinnie called it her ‘speak now, or face the wrath of Wilma’ face. Either way, most people crumbled at her laser stare.
‘Well, I haven’t been hiding as such. Moved to Majorca in the eighties with my wife, Shirley, and set up a wee bar business. Nothing fancy, just basic British grub and pints to please those with an allergy to paella and tapas.’
Now she thought about it, Wilma vaguely recalled hearing that Gus had skipped Scotland for sunnier climes. She’d watched enough TV shows to admire those who did the same, but never been tempted herself.Hameldaeme.It sounded like a picturesque village or a Gaelic expression, but translated to ‘home will do me’. Like Dorothy inThe Wizard of Oz, there’s no place that can match it.
‘But you’re back here now, doing odd jobs for old dears like me. What’s the story?’
Gus rubbed a hand across his stubbled face. His eyes, still aquamarine blue, met Wilma’s. A whisper of loss tainted their sharpness.
‘Shirley kicked me out two years ago. We never had children, always said we were enough as a couple. Then Shirley got bored with being a couple and I realised the spark had gone. I felt like I’d shrunk to a pale imitation of myself. So I left Shirley with the business, moved to a wee town a mile away, and set up as a handyman. It’s a hobby, to be honest, but it keeps me from sticking my head in the oven.’
‘If it’s an electric one, all you’ll do is singe your hair.’ Wilma aimed for light-hearted, then berated herself for being glib.
‘You’re still sharp as a tack, Wilma.’ Gus chuckled. ‘Ah, the good old days when the crew hung out together, behaving badly. I hope you’re still behaving badly.’
‘I do my best,’ said Wilma. ‘I’m trying to give up the smokes — bloody torture — but I enjoy a wee tipple now and again.’
As Gus excused himself to visit the bathroom, Wilma’s mind skittered back through the years. She and her husband Eric enjoying nights out with friends, Gus usually part of the group, with a different woman hanging on his arm every time. Eric and Gus knew each other from work: both were mechanics at a local garage. Wilma had had a soft spot for Gus. Any woman with a pulse and good eyesight had a soft spot for the man. His good looks, coupled with an easy charm, made him a target for all the single ladies (and a few married ones).
‘You’d trample over my freshly dug grave to get to Gus,’ Eric used to joke. Wilma had retorted that adding arsenic to his morning porridge hadn’t done the trick. When Eric died, though, days before their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, Wilma had vowed never to look at another man. Well, maybe a sneaky wee glance if the man warranted it, but nothing more.
‘I was so sorry when I heard about Eric,’ said Gus as he returned to the kitchen. ‘I meant to send a card or give you a call, but…’ He shook his head and sighed. ‘No excuses. Just a crap friend sucked into the sun, sea and sangria lifestyle and too busy living it up to keep in touch.’
‘Ach, I’m not one to hold grudges. As we both know, time doesn’t so much march on as gallop like a horse with a rocket up its rear. One minute you’re in denial at turning sixty, the next… I’m eighty-seven next week and not exactly jigging with joy at the prospect.’
‘I’ve always liked an older woman,’ said Gus, as Wilma topped up his tea. ‘Shirley is five years my senior. We met in a bar where she was trouncing a local at pool. With a Guinness in her hand and a devilish glint in her eye, she potted me in a heartbeat.’
‘That’s lovely, Gus. To be honest, I never thought you’d settle down. Jack the Lad, we called you. Not to your face, mind.’
Gus shrugged. ‘I had all the sticking power of a soggy plaster, but when you meet the right person, it all falls into place. Shame it all fell apart. And speaking of older women, isn’t Judi Dench about the same age as you? Helen Mirren too, maybe. Both stunning ladies.’
Wilma hadn’t a clue, although she suspected Helen was younger than Judi. ‘Most of those older actresses go down the plastic surgery route. They end up looking like they’ve had their cheeks hitched up and stapled behind their ears.’
Gus chortled. ‘True, that. It’s a crazy world where the pursuit of youth makes women do daft things. Men too, to be fair. I wasn’t averse to pinching some of Shirley’s face cream when I felt a bit crinkly.’
‘I’ve thought about running the iron over my wrinkles, but I dinnae think it would do much good.’ Wilma laughed, but a little voice in her head whispered,You’re flirting, for goodness’ sake!Wilma didn’t flirt: she was far too old for that nonsense. Yet their easy banter gave her a tingling feeling she hadn’t experienced since she plugged in a dodgy set of heated hair rollers.
‘Right, I’ve wasted enough of your time gassing,’ said Gus. ‘Show me the shelves and where you’d like them.’
Wilma pointed him towards the shelves and their various brackets and screws. ‘My son offered to do it, but he’s not famed for his DIY skills. The last time he built an IKEA bookcase, it collapsed under the weight of three paperbacks and a Delia Smith cookbook.’
Leaving Gus with his measuring tape and spirit level, Wilma picked up her abandoned knitting. She ignored the siren call of a ciggie and contented herself with listening to Gus hum an unfamiliar tune.
CHAPTER3
Sam Addin staredat the large box in front of him. Another house clearance find: a collection of Poole Pottery retro pieces including trinket dishes, vases and colourful bowls. A worthwhile purchase, guaranteed to be snapped up by a discerning shopper.
‘At least there’s no danger of anything weird happening with these,’ he mumbled, removing bubble wrap from a pretty ocean-blue vase. If he ever came across an oil lamp again, he’d outrun Mo Farah in his haste to get away.
Almost six months had passed since the genies, Dhassim and Aaliyah, slithered back into their lamps. They had been ordered to do so by Sam, who had discovered that he was an all-powerful Djinn. He still couldn’t get his head around the whole insane episode. If Jinnie and Jo hadn’t been present, he might have written it off as a hallucination. Not that Sam dabbled in drugs, unless you counted paracetamol, and the only mushrooms he ingested came from the supermarket.
‘Aww, these are lovely.’ Jinnie appeared by his side, hunkering down to admire the hand-painted trinket dishes. ‘Can I keep one for my earrings?’
