Page 58 of A Wish For Wilma
Wilma had a sudden vision of Shirley being mown down in a hail of bullets or fitted with a pair of concrete shoes. Not entirely unappealing, but she had morals. Gus had made his bed and invited Shirley back into it. Not that she’d gone into detail. She’d kept it brief, simply saying that Gus and his ex were making another go of it.
‘The lady’s not for turning.’ Dhassim eyed Wilma mournfully. ‘Stubborn as a mule. A little like you, my darling Aaliyah. A mountain that cannot be moved. A “force majeure”, as they say in French. You are so alike, yet so very—’
‘Different in every single way,’ snapped Wilma, impatient to get on with the festivities and put all thoughts of Gus out of her tinsel-wrapped head. She hadn’t had the heart to dress up as she usually did: no Santa outfit or cheeky elf ensemble today. ‘And I am not changing my mind. Unlike Miss Fickle Pants, Aaliyah, who blows more hot and cold than a dodgy hair dryer.’
‘But why?’ The genie collective regarded her with bafflement. Wilma had said the unthinkable. But she’d thought long and hard about it during her restless nights and it made perfect sense. To her.
‘I have everything I could wish for.’Small lie alert, but wee fibs didn’t count.‘I have my son, my daughter-in-law, my grandchildren and better health than I deserve. I’m soon to be a great-grandmother — yes, the jury’s out on the actual wording — and I had a taste of something that few women of my age get to experience. It didn’t work out, but no regrets.’
‘Eww, did you and the old fella get jiggy with it after all?’ Aaliyah pulled an appalled face and mimed being sick.
‘No, we did not.’ Wilma scowled, banishing all thoughts of tender kisses and cuddles from her mind. ‘Now, we’re trusting you lot to behave yourselves. Jinnie said there’s plenty of festive food in the fridge and enough Christmas stuff on the TV to keep you entertained.’
‘But we have not resolved the wish conundrum,’ said DJ. ‘My WIFI tells me it must be granted, otherwise we will be trapped on earth for all eternity.’ DJ stared despondently at the screen, stroking his barely there Mafioso moustache.
Wilma didn’t have time to consider the ramifications of three genies hanging around long after she’d popped her clogs. Not now, anyway, though Jinnie and Sam certainly wouldn’t want them bunking up indefinitely. She left the three of them squabbling and paid a quick visit to the guest toilet. Staring at the mirror, Wilma reckoned several more wrinkles had appeared overnight. She applied lipstick and put on a pair of reindeer earrings she’d shoved in her cardigan pocket at the last minute.
Returning to the hall, she heard continued bickering, sprinkled with words likeungrateful, senile,and from DJ, something about another WIFI hiccup. Whatever next? ‘I’m ready,’ she called upstairs.
‘All quiet on the western front?’ asked Sam, as Wilma settled herself into the passenger seat. He’d turned on the heater thing, which tugged Gus firmly into the foreground of Wilma’s thoughts. Or her bottom.
‘Not really.’ Wilma fought with the seat belt until Sam helped clip it into place. ‘I told them something they didn’t want to hear.’
‘That they should leap back into their lamps and wreak havoc elsewhere?’ Sam’s voice was laced with amusement, but also a tinge of sadness.
‘I don’t think that’s an option, seeing as I told them I didnae want a wish. Talk about throwing the cat among the pigeons!’
Sam swivelled in Wilma’s direction. ‘What do you mean? OK, if you don’t want a wish, that’s your choice, but—’
‘Keep your eyes on the feckin’ road!’ Wilma put her foot on an imaginary brake as Sam’s car veered off course. She hated when actors did that in films. Kept staring at their companion, as if guardian angels would protect them from oncoming traffic.
‘Sorry.’ Sam gave a cheery wave to a fellow driver who was honking his horn and gesticulating with his middle finger. ‘Wilma, we know I’m not a Djinn, so my role in all this is one of an observer. I have as much knowledge as you do about how this all goes down, but I fear it’s not going down terribly well.’
Wilma nodded. ‘I had a strange dream the other night. I was controlling one of those — what do you call them — grabby toy things at a fairground.’
Sam grunted assent, his gaze super-glued to the road ahead.
‘I kept manoeuvring the grabby bit till I was sure I’d pick up the prize. Left, right, up, down, positioned perfectly. Not a sausage. Grasping thin air every time. I kept trying, but the stupid prize eluded me. And it wasn’t even a worthwhile prize.’
‘Was it a Pokémon toy? Or a troll? I remember Sean getting upset when he kept missing a Pikachu. Spent a fortune on the cards, too. Erm … is there a point to this dream?’
Was there?Wilma gave it some thought. Then some more thought, until her thoughts flailed around hopelessly and failed to land anywhere logical. ‘Sam, it was just a dream. Maybe it’s a metaphor for life. Scrabbling around to collect things that don’t matter, instead of holding tight to the things that do.’
‘Like Gus?’
Wilma gave a noncommittal grunt. As the saying went, there’s no fool like an old fool.
‘OK, let’s concentrate on having a very merry Christmas,’ said Sam, cranking up the radio to blast out ‘Fairytale of New York’. ‘Jinnie’s already there, helping Kath make stuffing and bread sauce. Although…’
‘What? Is Jinnie not well?’ Wilma turned down the volume as Kirsty and Shane hurled insults at each other.
‘She’s fine. At least, I think she is. Anyone who spends most of Christmas Eve scrubbing vague spots in the carpet and ironing every T-shirt and pair of knickers they own can’t be poorly, can they?’
On arrival at Rob and Kath’s, Sam and Wilma unloaded their bits from the car. With hugs from her son and daughter-in-law and a faint holler of greeting from Archie upstairs, they took off their coats and arranged Wilma’s presents under the tree.
‘You’ve outdone yourself this year, Mum,’ said Rob. ‘Never has so much paper and Sellotape been more horribly abused.’
‘I pride myself on my ability to create unusual and eye-catching packages,’ retorted Wilma. ‘Anyway, it’s the thought that counts. Now, where’s my darlin’ granddaughter?’
