Page 56 of A Wish For Wilma
‘That’s right.’
‘Babies generally don’t sleep well. They cry, they fill their nappies and they make a right hash of your life. Everything you know is turned upside down. You’re terrified you’ll kill them, either by squashing them in bed or in a fit of temper when nothing you do works. I’m amazed Rob made it to adulthood.’
‘I bet you were a great mum.’ Gus sipped his coffee and scraped rock-hard butter over his toast. ‘And you’ll be a great great-grandmother.’
Wilma considered his words. At eighty-seven, she could look back and marvel at all she’d achieved. The history, the memories — now fuzzy round the edges — and the sense of it all tying up into a neat parcel. The gift of life.
‘I did my best, that’s all I can say. Now, get on with your breakfast — I’ve people to see and things to do. The world doesn’t revolve around you, believe it or not!’
* * *
After Gus had left,Wilma settled down with her laptop to look at mini-break options. Perhaps Lisbon or Barcelona? She quite fancied Amsterdam, too. Nice and flat, and she knew that coffee shops there offered a lot more than coffee. They could sample space cakes and get pleasantly high together.
Bookmarking a few possibilities, Wilma checked into Twitter. Tempted as she was to update her followers on her status —In a relationship! Hoping for the long haul (though long might be stretching it)— she scrolled through the feed and liked a few posts.
Visiting the loo, Wilma tutted at the last remaining sheets of toilet paper. She usually bought multipacks on offer when she placed an online order, but couldn’t recall when she’d last stocked up. Oh well, a trip to Sadiq’s would stretch her legs and distract her from the tingling excitement linked to the thought of seeing Gus again. That would probably be after Christmas, although she was tempted to ask Rob if he could join them. Considering the volume of food Kath and Rob produced, one more bum on a seat wouldn’t make much difference. But something held her back: a tiny niggle. A vision of Shirley wafting around in her diaphanous nightwear, hell-bent on dragging Gus back into her life.
‘Wilma.’ Sadiq finished packing another customer’s groceries and granted her a smile. ‘You look like someone with the burden of the world on their shoulders.’
‘Do I?’ Wilma flexed her shoulders, which were slightly painful and tighter than a drum.
‘Isn’t it always the case that the supposed happiest time of the year brings unnecessary stress? We are bombarded with TV adverts that suggest certain things will fulfil us, but what does it really mean?’
Wilma shrugged. ‘I don’t know, Sadiq. Life baffles me. I get nearer the end and I still haven’t figured it out. You’d think that with eighty-plus years in the bag I’d be a whole lot wiser.’
Sadiq wiped away a sticky smear on the counter. ‘They say age provides us with wisdom, but let us flip that around. What if we are wise at the beginning — pure and untainted — and it is age that grinds away the wisdom? The years and years of cynicism and lack of fulfilment? Not everyone, of course, but many of us.’
Crikey, I only came in to buy bog roll!Wilma grabbed a four-pack of Andrex. Did she need anything else? Smokes? A wine box? No: those were things she fancied, but didn’t need.All you need is love.Aye, John, Paul, George and Ringo, but love didn’t help when it came to wiping.
‘I will wish you a very merry Christmas,’ said Sadiq. ‘Forgive my mawkishness. My mother died on Christmas Day and it will always be a mixed bag of emotions.’
Wilma counted out loose change for the toilet rolls. Sadiq scooped the coins into the till and slammed it closed.
‘Sadiq…’ Wilma paused. ‘I’m sorry the day brings back sad memories, but all we can do is try to create new and happy ones. Merry Christmas.’
Back at home, Wilma put the radio on as she did some light dusting and cushion-plumping. Thumping one into shape on the chair where she’d first plonked baby DJ, she wondered how he was getting on. ‘It’s awfy quiet without you around,’ she muttered. ‘Mind you, having time with Gus wouldn’t be an option if you were.’
Bored with the inane chatter of the radio host, Wilma turned on the TV and flicked through the channels. She found one that featured shows from the sixties and seventies and scrolled through the options.I Dream Of Jeannie.She’d loved that show despite its daft premise. An astronaut, played by Larry Hagman, finding a bottle containing an actual genie!Not so daft now.Though Wilma couldn’t imagine that a show featuring an octogenarian granny hooking up with a shape-shifting baby genie would be a hit.
And it all comes back to wishes. Sipping a tepid cup of tea, Wilma tried to dredge up a wish. Any wish would do. She knew that both Jinnie and Jo had come up with some corkers, but she didn’t need perfect hair or a baking-contest win. A few more years added to the clock? No: Wilma firmly believed that when her time was up, she’d exit peacefully. Preferably in her own bed, not some hospital or old folks’ home that reeked of death and disinfectant. She sighed.It’s coming up to Christmas and you’re outdoing Scrooge on the misery front. Watch TV and remember how you used to lust after Larry Hagman.
Wilma found an episode ofDallasand freeze-framed Larry looking rather tasty. Fetching herself a dram of whisky, she recalled how she’d loved the dastardly JR Ewing and his evil machinations. Stetsons and skulduggery — what more could you ask for?
Wilma dozed off for a while, then was woken by her phone pinging. She checked it. A message from Jinnie, saying that they were definitely spending Christmas Day at Rob and Kath’s. A message from Gus, wishing her the sweetest of dreams and promising to make them eggs Benedict when he found a recipe that didn’t hurt his brain. And another message, from an unknown number.
I’d wish you a fun festive season, but I’ve already had my gift and I don’t think you’ll like it. Keep your support stockings on and accept that Gus is mine. He always has been, whatever nonsense he might have shared the other night. Enjoy being a great-granny. I’ll be enjoying the great sex. Shirley.Attached was a blurry selfie of Shirley and Gus puckering up under a sprig of mistletoe.
Wilma gripped the phone so hard that it threatened to snap in her hand. She shut down the message, reopened it, and read it again. If gloating was an art form, Shirley deserved a gold star. Or a punch in the face.
She’s lying.
Gus wouldn’t do that to her. He’d said it himself:We are not getting back together.Wilma knew she should give him the benefit of the doubt. Why would he message and wish her the sweetest of dreams if he’d been getting it on with shameless Shirley?
Doubt is an insidious thing, though. Once the seed is planted, it sprouts. Gus hadn’t said what he planned to do over Christmas and Wilma hadn’t asked. She’d been dithering about inviting him to spend it with her family, waiting for Jinnie to confirm that was the plan. And she’d assumed that Shirley was off the scene because she had believed Gus’s reassurances.
You're dumber than Dhassim at his dumbest, and that’s a stretch.
Wilma wanted to scream and shout and wish for Shirley to vanish on a permanent basis. Vaporised, with nothing left but a chalk outline on a pavement. But she couldn’t do it.
