Page 27 of A Wish For Wilma
The hotel Gus had booked was small but pretty, built of whitewashed stone and sitting close to the harbour. The girl on reception welcomed them warmly and handed over the keys to their rooms — numbers two and three, next door to each other on the ground floor. ‘I hope you have a lovely stay,’ she said. ‘If you need me to book somewhere for dinner, let me know. Breakfast here is included.’
‘I hope they have kippers,’ said Wilma.
‘For dinner?’ Gus hefted the two suitcases towards the rooms.
‘For breakfast, no’ that I’d say no to them any time. Or a full-on Scottish breakfast with white pudding. Now we’re talking!’
After wrangling over who got which room, Wilma settled into the marginally larger one. Having gallantly placed her suitcase on the bed and retreated to his own room, Gus instructed her to meet him at seven.
Wilma unpacked carefully, hanging what needed to be hung and storing the rest in the chest of drawers. She chortled at the Tunnock’s tea cake and can of Irn Bru by the bedside — two Scottish dietary treasures she’d save for later.
On the receptionist’s recommendation, they’d booked a table for dinner. Choices in such a small place were limited, but they both agreed it had to be fish and chips.
‘The best I’ve tasted in a long time,’ declared Wilma, cutting into the light, crispy batter.
Gus nodded in agreement, liberally dousing his chips with malt vinegar. ‘I’ve a chip shop near me, Rapido, and never has a place been more badly named. It takes an eternity to get served, and I swear they change the cooking oil once a year.’
‘I used to make my own chips, double-fried and fluffy in the middle, until Rob and Kath got concerned I might burn down the house. And DJ—’ Wilma dabbed at her chin with a paper napkin. She’d nearly blurted out DJ’s obsession with oven chips.
Gus paused, a chip in mid-air. ‘Sorry, what were you about to say?’
Wilma carried on cutting up her battered haddock. ‘Ach, nothing important.’
After dinner they strolled along the waterfront, admiring the stunning views of Loch Carron. Gus fished out a tourist leaflet he’d picked up at the hotel. ‘What do you fancy doing tomorrow, Wilma? A spot of hiking, or maybe a wee go at kayaking?’ His face was a picture of innocence apart from the devilish twinkle in his eyes.
‘Away with you, Gus,’ tutted Wilma. ‘Iwashoping for a wild-water swim but I forgot tae pack my costume.’
‘Me too.’ Gus linked arms with her. ‘So how about a drive around to see more of the area and a visit to Eilean Donan Castle?’
‘That sounds perfect. Now, as there’s a nip in the air, shall we adjourn to the hotel bar for a nightcap?’
Nursing a crystal balloon filled with Talisker single malt produced on the nearby Isle of Skye, Wilma tried to recall when she’d felt so at ease. The snug bar, the chatter of locals and fellow visitors, the undivided attention of the man sitting opposite. Who knew what madness lay around the corner? For now, though, in this little pocket of Highland heaven, happiness filled her from head to toe.
When Wilma let out a yawn — certainly not through boredom — Gus put down his glass and suggested they retire to their rooms. ‘It’s been a long day. And I need my beauty sleep, that’s for sure.’
Wilma swirled the remains of her whisky around the glass, admiring how it clung to the sides. ‘I’m not that tired, and we haven’t finished our whiskies. And I’d need more than eight hours’ kip to qualify for a beauty pageant.’
Gus hesitated. His cheeks flushed, and he gave Wilma a look she couldn’t decipher. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but why don’t we finish the evening and our drinks in my room? I’ll be on my best behaviour, promise!’
For a split second, Wilma pictured the two of them snuggled up on Gus’s bed.InGus’s bed. She shook off the thought as quickly as it had arrived. She was eighty-seven, for goodness’ sake, and as likely to engage in carnal activities as go kayaking. ‘You’re on.’
Wilma got to her feet, cursing ageing yet again as several body parts refused to cooperate. Her knees, back and shoulders had formed an evil coalition of contempt for her advanced years. She huffed and puffed, aware of Gus’s relative agility. But he was younger and more active, the physicality of his job keeping him in good shape.
‘Here, I’ll take your glass.’ Gus picked up Wilma’s whisky and they left the bar, saying goodnight to the punters digging in for a few more hours of drinking and socialising.
Gus’s smaller room mirrored Wilma’s in many ways. Basic but clean, with a tartan throw draped over the end of the bed, a single wardrobe and a bathroom with an over-the-bath shower. The bathroom was Wilma’s first port of call, not that she needed to pee. Instead, she checked her reflection in the mirror. Sadly, she hadn’t miraculously discarded a couple of decades. The face she saw spoke of a life well-lived. Not perhaps the healthiest one, but Wilma had few regrets on that score. Regrets were as useful as salad spinners — pointless, and usually consigned to a drawer with other gadgets that had once seemed like a good idea.
After splashing her face with cold water, Wilma returned to the bedroom. Gus sat on the side of the bed, twiddling with his phone and a cylindrical speaker. ‘I think it’s time we cracked out the emergency Tom Jones,’ he said. He plugged in the speaker and ‘It’s Not Unusual’ filled the air.
‘How did you know I’m a fan of the foxy Welsh man?’ Wilma’s feet couldn’t help themselves. They tapped along to the rhythm and her shoulders swayed to the music.
‘Because most women with taste love Tom Jones. And he still blows the house down with his vocals at eighty-two.’
‘A mere child.’ Wilma chuckled. If someone came into the room right now, what would they see? Two people with a combined age of over 160. Some might tut with disapproval. Others might high-five them. Not that Wilma was into all the hand-slapping stuff. She inevitably missed when Archie tried it.
‘Did you ever see him live?’ Gus passed over her glass.
Wilma thanked him and took a sip. ‘I did, back in the seventies when women tossed their underwear on the stage. I hate to think what his older fans would throw nowadays. Incontinence pants?’
