Page 38 of A Wish For Wilma
At one point Wilma had taken refuge in the airing cupboard. There, surrounded by shelves filled with threadbare linen, past-their-best towels and other junk, she wondered how it had come to this. An octogenarian hiding in a cupboard because a pain-in-the-bahookie genie couldn’t keep his trap shut.
‘DJ, if I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a hundred times. I don’t know what to wish for.’ In the relative comfort of the kitchen, Wilma opened a tin of corned beef and made sandwiches for both of them.
‘It’s not that difficult,’ huffed DJ, scrutinising a jar of sweetcorn pickle. ‘I know you can’t wish for things like turning back your body clock — I checked my WIFI — but you can go back in time. Briefly, like Jo. Jinnie told me.’
Did Wilma want to go back in time? She could revisit happy days with Eric, or even her parents. Tempting, but Wilma believed the past was best left alone. She lived for the here and now, despite its challenges and disappointments.
She’d dreamt once of being an actress and treading the boards à la Judi Dench, an ethereal Ophelia in a production ofHamlet. Instead, she’d ended up doing a secretarial course and immersing herself in the less glamorous world of touch-typing and mastering shorthand. She still prided herself on being able to write Twitter posts without looking at the keyboard.
‘I don’t want to go back in time. I just want however many days I have left to be happy ones. Can that be my wish?’
DJ added a spoonful of pickle to his sandwich. ‘You have to be more specific. Look!’ He thrust his WIFI in Wilma’s face. The screen displayed a series of thumbs-down emojis.Bugger.
‘I think you have a soft spot for the man in your life. Gus, right?’ DJ’s eyes twinkled as he cut his sandwich in half. ‘An unusual name. Does it stand for Gustav, or Gusto?’
Wilma chortled. ‘It’s an abbreviation of Angus, which is a very Scottish name. And we’re friends — good friends — so don’t be getting any mad ideas in that genie brain of yours.’
‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much.’ DJ gave her a languid wink before shovelling half the sandwich into his mouth. He chomped for a moment, a stray piece of sweetcorn dribbling down his chin.
‘Quit the Shakespeare and tell me what I need to do!’ Exasperation flooded Wilma’s weary bones. She’d found the perfect spot in the hallway for the castle print and she desperately wanted Gus to come over and hang it. She knew exactly how she felt about him. What she didn’tknow was how he felt about her. If limbo was a place, she’d made a reservation and was dangling there on a very fine thread.
‘Invite him over. Don’t panic, I can make myself scarce. Or invisible.’ DJ winked again. ‘Pick up the phone and get that man here, pronto!’
Gus answered on the second ring. ‘All OK, Wilma?’ Hardly the opening line of a romantic play, but at eighty-seven what did you expect?
‘All good, Gus. I just wondered if you had a wee moment to come and hang my print? No rush, mind. If you’re busy, it can wait.’
A long, excruciating silence followed. Wilma wondered if she’d got it all horribly wrong. Perhaps she was nothing more than a mild distraction in Gus’s life. He probably had women panting while he painted, all keen to flaunt their relative youth as he screwed things into place.
‘Erm, something’s come up.’ Another pause. ‘Nothing major, but I could swing by yours tomorrow. Say late morning?’
In the background, DJ did a weird dance, rolling his arms around and swaying from side to side. If Wilma had paid more attention toStrictly Come Dancing, she might have guessed the routine. As it was, it barely warranted a six.
‘Great. See you around eleven?’
Ending the call, Wilma pushed aside her sandwich. She wanted nothing more than a big glass of wine and a smoke outside, away from DJ and the thoughts that niggled at her and jiggled in her brain, giving her a headache. She poured herself a glass. She’d binned the last packet of ciggies and vaping didn’t hit the spot any more.
‘What are you doing, wumman?’ Wilma looked at the full glass. It offered no answers, only the ability to numb her feelings and push the problem on to another day.
Another day.
She carried the glass to the sink, poured the wine away, and went to join DJ for an episode ofGogglebox.
* * *
‘Why the long face?’Wilma greeted a glum-looking Gus, toting his toolbox. OK, she didn’t expect him to grin like the Cheshire Cat, but he seemed distinctly down in the dumps.
‘Oh, nothing for you to worry about, Wilma,’ he replied. ‘Just a wee bit of news I wasn’t expecting.’
He didn’t elaborate as he followed Wilma into the hallway. Clearly it wasn’tgoodnews, but she had no intention of sticking her nose in where it wasn’t wanted.
‘So, I was thinking of here.’ Wilma halted suddenly and Gus clunked the back of her legs with the toolbox. ‘Ouch!’
‘Sorry. Are you OK?’
Wilma rubbed her leg a little over-dramatically. Might as well milk the moment, seeing as Gus still looked less than thrilled to be here. ‘I’ll live. What do you reckon? Should we hang the print here?’ Wilma pointed to a blank piece of wall that had once displayed an uninspiring still-life of tulips in a vase.
‘Maybe a bit closer to the front door. That way, it’ll catch some light from the glass panel in the daytime and be illuminated by the table lamp at night.’ Gus picked up the castle print from its resting place by the skirting board. He held it against the wall, looking at Wilma for approval.
