Page 59 of A Wish For Wilma
Leaving Sam to chat with Rob and Kath, Wilma made her way to the kitchen. Every available surface groaned under the weight of food. There was enough to feed an entire street, with leftovers to last well into January. Jinnie stood by the hob, stirring frantically and groaning a little herself.
Wilma noticed the beads of sweat on Jinnie’s brow and her occasional wince. ‘Pet, are you all right?’
‘Oh, Merry Christmas, Gran!’ Jinnie ditched her wooden spoon and threw herself into Wilma’s arms. ‘I’m so glad we decided to celebrate here. How are thingsback home?’ She lowered her voice. It was unlikely that anyone would hear, with the double oven working overtime and festive music filling the airwaves, but they had to be careful.
‘I told them something that put their wee genie noggins in a spin, but not to worry. Though I’m worried about you.’
Jinnie grimaced. ‘The baby’s not due yet. I think I’m having Braxton-Hicks contractions or whatever they’re called. Oh bollocks, the bread sauce is bubbling over.’
As Jinnie turned down the heat on the pan, Wilma felt something in her own gut: a sense of the day not going according to plan. Little in her life seemed to be going to plan. Everything was bubbling over, about to create a sticky, impossible mess.
‘By the way,’ Jinnie added, ‘we have to tread carefully with Archie.’
‘Has he released another piece of music that makes people’s ears bleed?’ Wilma didn’t know her hip-hop from her rapping (not the gift kind). What passed for a tune nowadays made her despair. Give her some classic crooners and she knew where she was. Dean Martin, Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett. Only the latter was still alive making Wilma feel positively youthful.
‘No, Gran. It’s a bit, um, sensitive.’
Incoming: stuff Wilma had no real desire to know. In your eighties, the important things sagged under the realisation that you might not wake up the next day. That someone might find your cold, stiff body and say, with all sincerity, ‘She had a good innings.’ Wilma hated cricket and had always vowed to haunt anyone who used that phrase.
‘Better tell me, then. Your dad will be in here soon sticking a thermometer in the turkey, and if Kath’s parsnips aren’t roasted to her liking, there’ll be hell to pay.’
Jinnie sank into a chair. ‘Archie’s come out as non-binary.’
May the saints preserve us from all this new terminology.Wilma frowned and took over stirring duties once the bread sauce had simmered down.
‘Gran, please pay attention. Archie’s not identifying as a man or a woman.’
Wilma kind of knew what Jinnie meant. After all, she readThe Daily Mail.
Jinnie rubbed her bump and groaned. ‘Oof!’
‘Sweetie, you don’t think you might be in early labour?’
Jinnie shook her head. ‘No, although I think my bump’s dropped a bit.’
‘Pet, babies don’t always follow the rules. If they’re ready to come out of the oven, out they come. Now, explain what non-binary means before I put my foot in it with Archie.’
‘Well, he doesn’t want to be called “he” now. He prefers “they”. Only I’ve just referred to him as “he” because it takes a bit of getting used to.’
Archie sloped into the kitchen. ‘Whassup, Gran,’ he said, tugging his slouchy trousers down so far that Wilma could see more of his underpants than she cared to. ‘Oh yeah, Merry Christmas and all that jazz.’
‘Merry Christmas, Archie.’ Wilma hesitated. ‘Are they happy to be home?’
Archie frowned, then caught Jinnie’s eye and chuckled. ‘My sister’s been putting you in the picture. Nice one, Jinnie. Gran, don’t get hung up on the personal pronoun stuff. I know who I am and the rest is just jizz.’
Not keen to know what jizz was, Wilma gave a little cheer as Sam appeared, followed by Rob and Kath. She cheered again at the delicious pop of a champagne cork and the satisfyingglug-glugas liquid poured into a glass.
‘Turkey’s coming along nicely,’ announced Rob, probing the bird with ferocity. ‘Kath, love, can you bash the spuds around ready to go in the goose fat?’
‘I’ll do it,’ said Archie. ‘Mum, take a pew and get some of that fizz down your neck. Über Jean gave me a case to celebrate our latest release. Two hundred smackeroonies a bottle.’
Wilma, Sam and Jinnie gawped at Archie in awe, partly at his unheard-of desire to do something culinary and partly because three bottles of the champagne roughly equalled the average weekly wage in Scotland.
‘That’s obscene!’ Jinnie slammed down her glass, heavily diluted with orange juice.
‘What’s obscene, oh self-righteous one, is the size of your belly. Are you sure there’s only one in there?’ Archie snorted and Kath whacked him on the head with a tea towel.
‘Get on with the potatoes and less of your cheek, lad,’ she admonished. ‘Now, I’ve gone a bit experimental and made leek, butter bean and chorizo soup to start. I’ll pop it on a low heat and we can crack on with opening the pressies.’
