A children’s choir begins to sing Jerusalem and people dance around the maypoles in their costumes. Green fields, maids and village cricket being played. The boy’s voice so sharp and golden, I have to turn away in case he plucks a tear from my soul. It’s as though he’s addressing me directly rather than thousands of others inside the stadium. I recover in time to see Isambard Kingdom Brunel walk out as he recites Shakespeare’s The Tempest with Elgar playing the background.
‘Kenneth Branagh that is…’ says the man next to me.
‘Yes I know, someone told me he was appearing…’
I regret it the moment it slips out of my mouth – but that’s what Jerusalem and little boys do to me. The man turns and looks at me. He folds his arms and gives me a knowing smile.
‘I thought this ceremony was supposed to be a secret,’ he says. ‘Are you one of those volunteers’ relatives then? Those performers down there?’ He points just in case I don’t understand the question. ‘They probably tweeted everyone during rehearsals.’
‘No, I’m not a relative or a performer…’
I hope it’s the end of the conversation – but he presses on.
‘You’re not his mother are you?’
‘No, I’m not Kenneth Branagh’s mother.’ I sigh and realise there’s no way out of this unless I come clean. ‘I’m a volunteer – and I start work tomorrow. My team leader, who’s got his ear to the ground, told me that one of the actors had dropped out a few weeks ago – and Kenneth Branagh was taking over. He knew my husband was a big admirer of Branagh so that’s why he probably told me.’ I glance across at the man. ‘Now, can we watch the ceremony please?’
‘Yes, but why isn’t your husband here if he’s such a big admirer?’
The man stares at me as Brunel’s recital ends. I glance at the couple in the seats to my right. I’d hardly noticed them because they were almost facing each other, knees touching, holding hands and, generally looking like they were completely besotted with each other. If only nosey parker to my left would be like them.
‘Because you are…’ I say.
He nods and seems taken aback by my answer. I feel much better as it’s the first time I’ve asserted myself since Donald and I had dinner in a Thai restaurant – and the main course didn’t turn up. It doesn’t affect him for long though.
‘Oh here are the drums,’ he says, standing up and doing a little jig to the pounding drumbeat. ‘Industrial Revolution time; I’m loving this.’
He sits down after a few minutes – a bit out of breath – and gets his phone out. He raises it in the air and starts recording as soon as the chimneys start rising from the ground. Many other people do the same. It’s an awesome sight. Music and image are in such harmony that I feel the whole stadium is vibrating. Then the Suffragettes come out. Would I be here without them? No, but the old struggle feels like the same one for me. Who’ll fight for me now?
‘Danny Boyle’s racing through this part, isn’t he?’ says the man, trying to cock his neck round while still trying to keep his mobile steady. ‘The Beatles, Windrush, the Chelsea Pensioners, I hope to see Zeppelin soon…’
I don’t answer as I’m transfixed by the momentum of the Industrial Revolution sequence. It all comes to a spectacular climax as five Olympic rings are formed in the sky – and then shower their golden light onto everyone below. I didn’t expect to be so moved by it. The conversion of the harsh, heavy chimneys to the bright glow of the Olympic symbol rings is breathtaking. Oh Donald, why couldn’t you be here to see this? It’s euphoric and epic. You can forget your Greeks and your Egyptians.
The man shakes his head in disbelief and then switches off his phone and sits down. ‘Man, that was something else; electric. Phew, Danny boy, you’ve given the pretenders a hell of a beating.’ He looks at me and raises his palm above his head, probably thinking I didn’t have a clue what he’s up to. I smack his palm hard with my own.
‘Whoa, you know what a high five is,’ he says. ‘Absolute mint.’
‘There were a lot of young people at our Games training,’ I say, wiping my palm after its heavy duty. ‘I pick up things quickly.’
He looks at me again – and nods as though he’s acknowledged a deep character trait about me.
‘I’m sorry that I asked about your husband,’ he says. ‘That’s private. I’m Marcus. I’ve come all the way down from Manchester for this. I think that sequence has just made it all worthwhile.’
I hesitate but realise social norms are being loosened by the second due to the spectacle unfolding in front of us.
‘Francesca – and I definitely haven’t come that far…’
‘Where then?’
‘A village in Buckinghamshire…’
‘Bet it’s posh isn’t it? Buckinghamshire Palace and all that. Have you got maids and servants?’
I laugh for the first time in the evening. Can I do that yet? Is the mourning period over so soon? I feel guilty about not keeping myself under control.
‘Speaking of which, is that James Bond going into the Palace?’ he says, looking up at the big screen. ‘Looks like he’s got a date with the Queen.’
‘I bet she prefers Sean Connery…’
Marcus laughs this time – and I’m surprised by my quick-witted response. We watch the big screen as 007 and Her Royal Highness get into a helicopter. The sequence then develops to make it look as though the Queen has parachuted down into the Olympic Stadium. There are mass cheers around the stadium – but it also feels like a personal moment of reassurance. If the Queen can take part in the ceremony – be a good sport and let her hair down – then surely I can too.
The National Anthem is sung by a group of children – and then Mike Oldfield performs Tubular Bells.
‘God, it’s The Exorcist,’ says Marcus, putting his hands over his eyes.
‘No, it’s Mike Oldfield…’
‘Bit before my time, Francesca. I’ve seen that film six times. He needs to get out more. People might recognise him one day.’
I offer a mild smile but avert my gaze to the curious, but uplifting, spectacle of NHS nurses and doctors dancing in the centre of the arena. Patients too, spring out of bed and join the staff to create a heartwarming scene, as though a magic, happy virus has spread through the ward to create eternal good health. Then the announcer introduces J.K. Rowling. Marcus gets his phone out again and records the Harry Potter author’s performance, a reading of Peter Pan. It’s hard to keep up with the children’s characters popping up everywhere: Voldemort, Mary Poppins, the Child Catcher. I remember hearing about Chitty Chitty Bang Bang being filmed in Hambleden in the late 60s (just a few miles from our village) and it’s still one of my favourite films. Donald and I even visited the exact location where the car took its first drive! This pleasant memory doesn’t last long, however, as the sequence ends with a giant baby in a bed which I find quite scary. Marcus laughs and ensures he’s got it all on his phone. He sits down again and offers me the phone.
‘Want to see that again?’
I shake my head. He puts his phone away and starts fiddling with the cables on his pixel screen. Every spectator has one of these tablet-like screens in front of them, which has nine lights and is designed to illuminate the whole stadium. I’m sceptical about them but have to admit that, in the dark, they look spectacular and very colourful. Marcus is not convinced that his is working. He misses Simon Rattle being introduced – but as soon as Chariots of Fire begins he looks up. The stirring melody is so beautiful that I feel I can’t move. But it doesn’t last long – as Mr Bean pops up, playing the synthesiser.
‘We just know how to do it, don’t we?’ says Marcus, shaking his head as if he’d just seen Jesus himself walking into the stadium.
‘What do you mean?’
‘NHS, Mr Bean, chimneys; we just don’t care. We just put it out the
re and try to get a smile on people’s faces. Wit and flippancy, we’re the best in the world at it.’ He glances at the big screen. ‘I mean, look at him!’
Mr Bean is cut into the famous scene in Chariots of Fire where the men are running barefoot on the beach. I find it amusing but do feel a little disappointed that we’re being diverted from such glorious music. Perhaps the laughter is too soon for me after all.
‘He’s one of our biggest exports,’ says Marcus. ‘I work for an event management company in Cheshire – and get to travel abroad sometimes. You wouldn’t believe how many people have heard of Mr Bean. He doesn’t even need to say anything. People around the world know what he’s about. It’s the same thing as all of us: we love to laugh and we love to be silly. I mean, what about Monty Python? I rest my case.’
‘Donald didn’t like them…’
‘Who’s Donald?’
I couldn’t believe how stupid I’d been. Every time I tried to put Donald at the back of my mind – and enjoy the ceremony – he re-emerged to join the conversation. It was if he was saying: ‘What are doing here, talking to this strange man? You have nothing in common’.
‘Sorry Francesca, I won’t pry again.’
‘It’s okay, it’s just…’
‘If you want to talk, I’ll listen – but you’re not half as interesting as Mr Bean over there…’
‘You’ve made that clear already!’ I pause and continue to watch the big screen as Mr Bean gets to the finishing line. ‘No, let’s just watch the ceremony. That’s what we’re here for…’
Marcus nods and starts clapping vigorously even before the sequence has come to an end. I sense I’m doing the right thing: I cannot share Donald’s intimate details with a man I’ve known for barely an hour. I realise people share things very fast these days – in the news or on social media or whatever it’s called – but there’s still a time for patience and restraint; and this is one of those occasions.
The whole stadium gives Mr Bean and Simon Rattle a rapturous send-off and a few minutes later, we’re into a music and cultural montage which gets Marcus excited again. Whenever a band or film are mentioned, Marcus shouts the title and then sings along to the words or quotes from the film. It becomes a bit trying after a while.
‘It’s The Jam!’
‘It’s OMD!’
‘Charlie Chaplin!’
‘Gregory’s Girl!’
‘The Beatles!
‘The Specials!’
‘Doctor Who!’
‘Happy Mondays!’
‘Prodigy!’
I hadn’t heard of most of the bands mentioned. Then a performer came onto the stage who had the strangest name I’d ever heard. Couldn’t he think of something more pleasant on a night like this?
‘It’s Dizzee Rascal!’
I am thankful when the sequence ends. Only good old Charlie – and perhaps Ray Davies of The Kinks – give me a lift. Marcus sits down again.
‘Phew, I’m tired after that,’ says Marcus. ‘Cracking that was. Who’s this fella now?’
‘Invented the internet, I think.’
‘Oh yeah, Tim Berners-Lee. Thought you’d have known who he was with his double-barrelled surname? Probably lives round the corner from you.’
‘Not by inventing that kind of thing he doesn’t. We like a bit of peace where we come from.’
Marcus smiles but doesn’t respond. After Berners-Lee, there is a sequence about the 1948 Olympics as black and white images of King George, the flame being lit and an achingly young Elizabeth are shown on the big screen. I slide my hands over my face and rest them on my lips. It’s like I’m frozen in time. Donald was in that stadium – and I’m in this one. If only we could be reunited again. Luckily, the montage is very short – not enough time for me to get worked up again.
But that comes a few minutes later – after a musical sequence about the 70-day torch relay and David Beckham bringing the flame to the stadium in a speedboat. The big screen beams a short pictorial tribute to friends and relatives who couldn’t attend the ceremony. Donald is there, in amongst 7/7 victims, Danny Boyle’s father and many others. His shy smile flashes up for a second – and then is gone forever. This time there is no restraint. My eyes fill up as the big screen becomes so dark I think I’m going blind. I feel unsteady but proud. The images are gone as quick as they came. I clear the tears with my thumb. I hope there is no more of this – or the night will become impossible.
Luckily, Marcus doesn’t notice my sobbing – and thank God for that. He might try another joke. Britain likes its humour but there’s a limit.
The stadium goes quiet as Emeli Sandè begins to sing Abide With Me. It’s like they’re trying to do this to me personally: batter me into submission with emotion and nostalgia. I manage to keep myself under control but then I see a dancer performing such a moving sequence that my head and eyes begin to fill up again.
‘Who’s that dancer?’ I ask, trying to keep my voice under control.
‘Akram Khan…’
Marcus doesn’t have to say any more – we are both captivated. The song continues and I’m not sure I can make it to the end. I’m sobbing now and I need to do something; stand up, escape, go to the toilet, anything, because this is going to finish me off. It’s coming to the end now and I think I’m going to make it in one piece. I take a tissue out of my purse and wipe my nose, cheeks and eyes. But that little boy with Akram Khan is prolonging the anguish. He’s an angel, a beautiful soul, fluttering over the surface with innocence and grace. The love I feel for him right now is too much to bear. Oh Donald, if you could have seen this you would have gone to your grave a happier man. The boy hugs Akram Khan who carries him away towards the sun. In Life in Death, O Lord, Abide With Me… The boy reaches up and puts his arm up in the air. This time it is too much for me. The song ends and I get up from my seat, trying to keep the tears at bay. I walk past Marcus who is still clapping and whistling at the compelling performance he’s just seen.
‘Where are you going?’ he asks.
I raise my arm to acknowledge him but say nothing. I walk away from our seats and head for the exit. I fleetingly think about Team GB coming into the stadium or the Olympic flame being lit. Am I going to miss that? Regretfully, yes. Some things are more important, like my memories of Donald, which have been illuminated beautifully tonight. I will not make a sobbing spectacle of myself and spoil the night for everyone. I will go home with that little boy – and Donald by my side; forever.
DAY TWO
The journey to Stratford is peaceful enough; not much sign of Olympic fever here. I get to the Olympic Park and fear the whole event will be a damp squib. There’s a palpable sense of trepidation and fear, although I admit it might just be me. Missing a portion of the Opening Ceremony seems to have affected me more than my colleagues. There are plenty of smiles around. I get changed into my uniform and put my hand in my trouser pocket to touch Donald’s library card. It gives me a lift as I imagine having to make conversation throughout the day – from giving directions, checking tickets and smiling when I feel like hell inside. After our meeting in the control room – where we are put into groups and handed our lunch vouchers – I head out into the giant playground of the Olympic Park to prepare for the bustling intake of spectators. I know two people in my group – Sheena and Ben – but not well enough to initiate conversation. Ben spoke to me during my training and said he was a film student. He asked me about old classics and we did get onto David Lean films like Brief Encounter and Great Expectations. I recommended This Happy Breed to him but he’d never heard of it. I wouldn’t mind Ben speaking to me – but he got extremely busy straight away, peering into a map given to him by three Croatian women, wearing national flags as capes and with their faces painted like a red and white chessboard. So much colour and enthusiasm, I thought. I didn’t want to miss this opportun
ity to get fired up so I straightened my name badge and stepped forward, waiting for the three women to walk past. They take longer than expected. Ben gets on well with them. Finally, they part company and I get the chance to kickstart my Olympic campaign. Donald would be so proud of me.
‘Going to the Basketball Arena?’ I ask, unashamedly trying to show off my knowledge and develop some confidence at the same time. ‘Preliminaries, isn’t it? Who are you playing?’
‘America, but it doesn’t start till 4.45, so we’re very early…’
‘Very,’ I say. ‘Well, I suppose it gives you time to see the whole of the Olympic Park!’
‘Of course, and there’s hardly anyone here yet. How many events are there happening here today?’
‘In the Park? Three: Basketball, Swimming and Handball. Obviously, there’s many more going on elsewhere like the Cycling at The Mall and the Tennis at Wimbledon…’
‘Oh, don’t say Wimbledon, I’m going to faint,’ says one of the women who hadn’t spoken yet. ‘It only means one word to me…’
‘What’s that?’
‘GORAN!’ she shouts, as she enthusiastically smacks the palm of her friend’s hand extremely hard. ‘You remember him? The King of Wimbledon?’
For a moment, I’m lost again. I vaguely remember a Wimbledon final which went onto a Monday afternoon and I can picture the player’s languid, loping features – but for the life of me I can’t remember his surname. I raise my hand quickly and hope they don’t notice.
Seventeen Gifts for Frannie and Jess Page 2