Page 29 of A Wish For Wilma
Brushing her teeth — a few missing at the back, but still intact otherwise — Wilma popped a Gaviscon. Too much rich, greasy food gave her occasional heartburn. A good reasonnotto indulge, but a little of what you fancy does you good. She’d be in the queue for the Pearly Gates soon enough. Not that Wilma believed in all that. She had no truck with organised religion, but respected those with faith. And if therewasa queue, she’d have stern words with anyone who tried to jump it.
* * *
‘As I said before,I’m ashamed to have seen so little of my country. Right here, on the doorstep, and I’ve barely explored any of it.’
Wilma gazed through the car window, her mouth agape at the majesty of her surroundings. It felt surreal, like a film set. LikeBrigadoon, where two strangers stumble upon a village that only appears once every hundred years. Complete Hollywood tosh, with iffy Scottish accents and clichés galore, but Wilma had adored it. Now, two not-so-strangers drank in every haggis-and-heather inch of it. If a piper appeared right now, gliding through the hazy mist, she’d die a happy woman. Not that she planned on dying just yet.
‘I think most of us are guilty of not looking around us.’ Gus pulled into a lay-by and consulted his map. ‘I read an article the other day on world populations. Scotland has a population of around 5.5 million. The US, around 327 million. I’d wager many people in the US have travelled little further than their own backyard, and certainly not overseas. Scots aren’t so different, despite being a minnow in comparison. We get stuck in our ways, reluctant to poke our noses beyond the familiar.’
Wilma nodded. She’d been stuck for a very long time. Going through the motions, pretending everything was hunky dory. Another year gone. Another birthday marked. Another silly pastime taken up — tea-leaf reading, crystals, knitting — but to what avail? The calendar of life flipped over with uncaring ease. Time stopped for no one, but what did you do with the time you had left?
‘We should grab life by the short and curlies and live like there’s no tomorrow. Dance till our feet hurt, sing till our throats ache and embrace every single sodding second of our existence,’ said Gus.
He twiddled with the car’s sound system and ‘Sex Bomb’ by the indomitable Sir Tom blasted out. Wilma had never considered herself a sex bomb — more a spluttering sparkler, who had enjoyed sex but considered a cuddle with the man she loved more important. She’d bought silly books — Jinnie had seen them and probably cringed at them — but the bottom line was—
‘Look, Wilma!’
Shaken from her reverie, Wilma looked. A family of red deer huddled in the grass, haughtily regarding the interlopers who dared to encroach on their land. Gus pulled into a lay-by and snapped a few shots. Wilma remained still, watching nature at its finest. Animals in their natural habitat, getting on with it. No need for social media, one-upmanship, or a fervent desire to be the best.They justwere. It made Wilma’s heart skip a beat, and wonder if she should delete her Twitter account.
They continued their journey through breathtaking hills and glens, stopping occasionally to take photos. Finally, they arrived at their destination. The magnificent thirteenth-century Eilean Donan Castle loomed in front of them, a majestic sight perched on an island where three lochs meet.
‘It’s been rebuilt in various ways over the centuries,’ said Gus. ‘Then it lay in ruins until the early 1900s, when it was painstakingly restored.’
‘Thank goodness for that.’ Wilma breathed in the atmosphere of their surroundings, history seeping through her pores. ‘It’s so sad when grand old buildings crumble and no one’s willing or able to preserve them.’
They took more photos, and Gus obliged when a young Japanese couple asked him to take one of them in front of the castle. A wave of tiredness swept over Wilma and she shuffled to a wooden bench. She might not be a crumbling old wreck, but ageing meant reduced energy levels. Ageing, plus a stodgy, calorie-laden breakfast and a large whisky last night.
‘Are you OK?’ Gus joined her on the bench, draping his arm over the back. ‘We can head back now and chill at the hotel, if you’ve had enough.’
Wilma shook her head. ‘I’m fine: just weary old bones. A coffee — I rarely drink the stuff — will do the trick.’
They made their way inside and found a table in the very nice coffee shop. Gus went to the counter to order and returned with two cappuccinos and a couple of slices of shortbread.
‘More food?’ Wilma tutted. ‘I don’t think I’ve an inch of space left in my stomach.’
‘But you’ll give it your best shot, right?’
Wilma did, devouring every crumb of the buttery Scottish classic. Feeling better, they wandered round the visitor centre. Gus picked up a framed print of the castle, dramatically shrouded in mist. He paid for it and handed it to Wilma. ‘A wee souvenir for you. I’ll hang it up for you in your hallway, or wherever you like.’
‘Thank you.’ Wilma browsed a shelf of knickknacks and stroked a fluffy keyring in the shape of a Scottish thistle. With Gus on the other side of the shop, she took it to the till, then presented him with it. ‘And this is for you. I noticed you carry your keys in your pocket. This way, you can keep them all together in a bunch.’
Without hesitation, Gus pulled out his house and car keys and carefully clipped them onto the keyring. ‘Perfect. Thank you, Wilma. I’ll think of you every time I open or lock a door.’
Wilma nodded off on the journey back to the hotel. She jolted awake, and realised she’d been sleeping. Glancing at Gus, she saw the corners of his mouth twitch in amusement. ‘You were away with the fairies, Wilma. Just a few more minutes, and we’ll be there.’
To their delight, the cosy bar now boasted a roaring log fire. They settled as close to it as possible, the snap, crackle and pop of the wood adding to the ambience.
‘We didn’t have any lunch, so what do you fancy eating?’ asked Gus. ‘And don’t say you’re not hungry because I won’t believe you.’
Wilma eyed the bar-food specials on a blackboard. ‘I’m not ravenous, but a bowl of Cullen Skink would do the business. All that yummy fish-and-potato goodness, mopped up with a bread roll.’
Gus laughed. ‘Believe it or not, my dad called me Skink as a kid because I was so skinny. You can’t say that nowadays.’
‘Ach, you’re a fine figure of a man, Gus Brown, so don’t go fishing for compliments.’
‘You’ve fish on the brain, woman! And I could keep the theme going by saying you’re quite a catch yourself.’
Wilma bent over to tie a shoelace that didn’t need tying. She needed to hide the flush spreading across her cheeks: a flush brought on increasingly by Gus’s words and presence.
