Seventeen Gifts for Frannie and Jess

by Nasser Hashmi

  I wonder if the man is drunk. Jessica smiles at him politely and thankfully calms him down.

  ‘Have you just come from the Aquatics Centre, sir?’ she asks.

  ‘Yeah, how could you tell?’

  ‘You’re still sweating. Don’t worry I’ll get onto Seb Coe immediately and tell him about your concerns. Now sorry, I’ve just got to attend to that young girl behind you. She seems to have lost her ticket…’

  The man looks bemused and walks off towards the exit for West Ham tube station.

  ‘Do you know Seb Coe personally then?’ I ask.

  ‘Do I hell. My dad’s got videos of him, though.’

  She heads off and tries to help the young girl find her ticket. It doesn’t take more than a couple of minutes – and she’s back by my side.

  ‘Talking of my dad,’ she says, looking beyond me and smiling at a group of Korean spectators taking group shots with a shiny phone. ‘I can see him now, sitting by the telly in Leeds with his mushroom risotto and rice, lapping up everything from the boxing to the archery.’ She looks at me and rolls her eyes. ‘Must have got the craziness from him.’

  ‘What does your dad do?’

  ‘Bit embarrassing really. Works at a bookies. But he had enough a long time ago…’

  ‘And your mum?’

  ‘Now who’s asking the questions,’ she says, with a smile. ‘She’s a dinnerlady in Keighley. Again, it’s just a few hours a week so she fills the time by volunteering at a health clinic.’ She looks at me with those piercing blue eyes. ‘Heard, you’ve been volunteering nearly all your life. I think that’s something to be proud of.’

  ‘Maybe it is, but I’ve never thought of it that way.’ I can see the next batch of spectators coming out of Stratford station. ‘So where are you staying then? You don’t get the train down from Leeds every morning do you? You’ll be exhausted by the time the Athletics starts.’

  ‘I’m bunking above a chippy in Streatham. It’s a bit rough, but it’s cheap – and I get hot, vinegary chips for free!’

  ‘Are your parents okay with that? I mean, aren’t they concerned?’

  ‘About what? I’m a big girl now, I can look after myself. A friend at uni in Leeds is actually from Clapham and she knew I was going to be involved in the Olympics so she pulled a few strings and got me in touch with this husband and wife team in Streatham who run the chippy. I was a bit sceptical at first because I had some other places I could have stayed but they were so nice I thought ‘why bother looking anywhere else?’ It saved me a lot of hassle.’

  ‘It’s nice to know there are still a lot of people like that out there…’

  ‘Yes…’ she says, pausing and offering me a nervous glance, ‘…mind if I ask you about your husband?’

  ‘Yes, this is neither the time nor the place…’

  ‘I understand,’ she says, stroking the foam pointer with her hand as though it were fur on a cat. ‘Maybe a room above a chippy might be the best place to break that particular conversation.’ She looks up and smiles. ‘When was the last time you had chips and gravy? Looks like you need some to bring you back in the common domain again…’

  ‘Give me that foam pointer, you rotter!’ I say, laughing freely for the first time in months. ‘I’ll teach you a lesson with it.’

  Jessica skilfully moves away from me and waves a cheeky goodbye. She’s also laughing and I try to make sense of how this situation escalated so quickly and dangerously. Shouldn’t I feel guilty about laughing so soon? What would Donald think if he could see me now? Wouldn’t it be shameful? Perhaps, but as I look at Jessica’s sparkling eyes and feel a chink of light emerging shouldn’t I allow a sliver of enjoyment to seep through? It’s as though she’s saying ‘come with me’ there’s nothing to fear. But there is. The fear of tarnishing Donald’s memory burns so deep I cannot push things too far yet. He would never forgive me. I cannot let 46 years of marriage disintegrate in a few hours – on the altar of cheap laughs. I must concentrate on my duty – and let the others have their carnival.

  I get home and immediately take my shoes off, rubbing my toes vigorously to ease the pain and numbness. I can’t believe how exhausted I am. Even the Tube and train journey back home (I got a seat both times) didn’t make a difference; the feet ache like never before. Another few days of this and I won’t be able to move. I lie down for an hour and then have a shower followed by a light dinner with a glass of white wine. Gradually, I begin to feel better but then realise how quiet it is at home: a crushing silence in comparison to the humming and buzzing of the Olympic Park. My ears are still ringing because I can still hear the people milling around. I listen to John Tavener’s The Protected Veil and feel a premature tug of my bed and pillow; I am more tired than I think. I turn on the radio and hear that Britain (as expected) has won no gold medals on the opening day. China are racing away already with four golds and even Kazakhstan have won a gold! Are we that bad? This could be more embarrassing than I thought. Ryan Lochte is the hero in the pool, beating Michael Phelps into fourth place in the 400m individual medley. Donald did tell me he thought Phelps was the Muhammad Ali of the pool but if that was the case how come he lost on the opening day? He could have gone a few rounds (or lengths) at least. Maybe, he’s preserving his energy for the events to come. Donald said the greatest competitors always played the long game.

  I try to sleep but images of the Orbit tower and the silver-saucered Olympic Stadium make me restless. The Orbit tower, in particular, is giving me an unsettling, queasy feeling. If I have to look at those twisted red veins for another 15 days I may not make it to the Closing Ceremony. I get up and sit on the bed for a few minutes. I slip my feet into Donald’s huge slippers and feel a warmth and intimacy that’s soothing and reassuring. I get off the bed and walk downstairs in them, even though they are three sizes too big for me. I warm up a glass of milk and reach for Donald’s favourite coconut cookies. I take one and dip it into my milk, savouring the gooey, mushy portion melting into my mouth. I want to put some more John Tavener on but resist it as I know how it will all end: with tears stealthily invading my top lip. I go back upstairs and walk into all three bedrooms for no other reason than to have a change of scene (Donald’s specialist, Dr Latimer-Rees, said this was a good cure for insomnia). I sit down in the room Donald had turned into a study with its bookcase, computer, office chair and framed portraits of old Ashes victories by the England cricket team. It was the room Donald had his stroke. Everything remains the same. A Post-it note, with Donald’s scrawled handwriting, is still stuck on the bottom of the monitor. He even used sellotape on it to ensure it stayed there. I don’t need to read it – I know what it says. The campaign against the library closure had taken up a lot of Donald’s time in the last couple of years. He sent out leaflets, held meetings and lobbied the local MP. One time, Donald organised a special book fair with Gillian where they were hoping to raise awareness (and funds) to keep the community library open. He was absolutely crushed when only six people turned up. He brushed it off but I could tell it affected him. He redoubled his efforts and worked even harder – until that crisp April morning where our world fell apart. I was in the kitchen making warm porridge and pancakes for breakfast when I heard a loud thud in the bedroom-turned-study (which is directly above the kitchen). Initially, I walked upstairs calmly thinking it just might be the bookcase toppling over or even the computer falling off the desk but when I walked in, I saw Donald lying on the carpet with the office chair still lodged behind his back and his face to the floor. I rushed towards him but the horror of his listless eyes, violet lips and sagging cheeks were too much to bear. I tried to get him up but his arm and right side of the face drooped like jelly. His uncontrollable saliva fell onto my hand. I said his name a few times but it was futile. I ran downstairs, nearly falling over, and called emergency. They came within 15 minutes. I went in the ambulance with him. I spent three hours
in intensive care by his side. He died in the early hours of the next morning. A massive heart attack had followed his stroke. I didn’t have porridge and pancakes the next day – or for 24 days afterwards.

  But now I sense his presence in this room. I can hear him talking to me: ‘Frannie, don’t let my fate spoil the Olympics for you, volovant.’ He liked to call me volovant for no other reason that I’d spent the latter part of my life volunteering in the community; it was nothing to do with food. It’s something I grew to love along with our short breaks to the Lake District, the crooner albums and occasional trips to the West End for a major play. I cannot let all that become a burden. I must treasure it.

  I get up and walk out of the room, glancing behind me one last time. I’m not sure I want to go in there again for a very, very long time. I walk down the corridor and feel incredibly sleepy again. I head to my bedroom but wonder how long I can stay in an empty house where there is so much darkness and silence. The rooms are bare and the walls are suffocating me. As I lie down in my bed, I’m only thinking about one person – and it’s not Donald. She is probably having the sweet dreams of youth right now. Jessica.

  DAY THREE

  I spend most of the night having odd dreams of plucking the five Olympic rings from the Olympic Park and using them as hoops around my waist. The fantasy doesn’t last long as the stiffness, when I swivel my legs out of the bed, brings its own bone-creaking reality. The sound isn’t one I’d like to take to work today. I go downstairs and pick up yesterday’s mail from my mat (I ignored it yesterday as I was too tired) but now I have no desire for clutter in an already packed schedule. Left for a week, I’d have pizza leaflets, quotes for new conservatories and hedge-cutting flyers clogging up my doormat so I clear them out but spot an envelope underneath with a wonky first-class stamp on it and a handwritten address. I open it immediately and unfold a neatly-typed letter, which also has a handwritten signature at the bottom. I recognise it immediately and feel annoyed I didn’t open it yesterday.

  Good luck for the Olympics

  Dear Francesca

  I would have sent you an email but I know you haven’t been reading them lately so I’ve written this on my father’s old Compaq computer. How are you anyway? I’m sorry I can’t be down there with you as you start your adventure as volunteer at the greatest show on earth. Doesn’t that sound good? Yes, and you deserve it.

  As you know my father has been quite ill lately and mum has found it difficult to cope so that’s why I’ve been up here in Harrogate trying to offer my help in the best way I can. To be honest, I feel quite lost and, sometimes think your volunteering skills would be much more useful to them than my soft-fingered experiences with reference books and inquisitive customers! My mother even said ‘why don’t you ask Francesca to come up here?’ to which I replied ‘Mum, she’s starting work at the Olympics soon’. She always wants to make new friends. I suppose she’s just feeling lonely.

  As you know, I would have liked to sit on the sofa with you and watched the Olympic Opening Ceremony but it was not to be. I hope you’ll forgive me for that. There’s been so much going on since the start of the year and my father’s deep brain stimulation procedure is just another examination for all of us. I really do worry about it. Yes, his Parkinson’s is bad – but is that the answer? Mother thinks so but I am not so sure.

  You can tell from all this that the library campaign has lost momentum since the turn of the year. It was inevitable this would happen when Donald died – but it really has been disappointing how little I’ve been able to give to it and also how little people, in general, care about their community facilities.

  Oh Frannie, I’ll go on and rant all day if I’m allowed! So I’ll let you go and prepare for your wonderful adventure in London – it’s the least I can do after the last few months you’ve suffered.

  You should be the one getting a gold medal round your neck.

  Cherish Forever

  Gillian

  I take the letter into the kitchen and reread it while eating breakfast. Gillian has given my spirits a lift. She has always been good to me, despite vicious rumours circulating two years ago that she was having an affair with Donald. I knew this was nonsense because of the way she dealt with it. She invited the two of us to have dinner at her house with her husband Lawrence, and their two sons, William and Jack. She also invited almost everyone else in the parish. At least 30 people did turn up (they enjoyed the free food) and she put everyone on the spot asking them why they think she would ever threaten her 26-year marriage by having an affair with a colleague at work. I could see the hurt in her face. I believed her – and so did everyone else. Donald just looked sheepish throughout the whole curious spectacle. But why did we all have to go through that? To humiliate ourselves in that manner? Because it was the only way to get our point across, adamantly and vociferously, that nothing untoward had happened. In one way, it was chilling and frightening because our word was no longer enough; there had to be more, a drama, a spectacle, a gathering. Luckily, it worked and no more rumours surfaced – but it had the strange effect of making me feel even more isolated, less talkative and less trusting of strangers. I didn’t want to engage in conversation in case the subject came up again; it was too hurtful. I do still think about Gillian’s persuasive performance that day and think she did a wonderful thing: she used grace and kindness to demolish a virulent piece of gossip. But her evening dinner also served a bigger purpose. It made me realise how much I really loved Donald.

  I go upstairs and slip Gillian’s letter into the 1948 Olympics book. I get dressed and head out to the station to catch the train to London. I have worked out in my mind what I will say to Jessica; I will apologise to her for being so abrupt yesterday. It is something I regret. I will also apologise to Rob; he was only looking out for me. People have cared for me since Donald died – and I should realise that. There is no point keeping it all locked inside. What good is privacy if the rooms are bare and the house is empty? I get to Stratford ten minutes behind schedule. The morning meeting has already started. I can see Rob but no Jessica. Maybe she’s late too. I think of wild scenarios like her stomach being pumped after eating too many chips or her father turning up to ask her why on earth she was living like Albert Steptoe. The troops are ready. The purple and red brigade march out to take their positions. It’s a bright, lovely day (at the least the weather has held up so far). I’m further down the Olympic Park this time, closer to the Olympic Stadium – but move around a lot as it gets busier throughout the morning. We spend most of the time helping spectators read maps and deal with ticket resale issues – but the most common question is ‘Where’s the Riverbank Arena’ as the hockey tournament – and the women’s preliminaries – get underway today. There are also questions about the Water Polo Arena and one man who queues for half an hour at the Aquatics Centre thinking the men’s preliminaries would be held there. He is annoyed that he’s late for the first game – and blames Sheena. We are glad when he disappears into the arena. It is much busier than yesterday, but that is expected as there are an extra three events going on in and around the Olympic Park. Sheena and I finally get a breather just before noon. I still wonder why I haven’t seen Jessica and ask Sheena if she knows where she is.

  ‘Probably got in late,’ she says. ‘Might have been assigned the Riverbank Arena. Lucky her.’ Sheena looks at me and blows down her t-shirt as the midday sun begins to take its toll. ‘Why do you ask? Thought you didn’t like her?’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘She did.’

  ‘Well, it’s not true.’

  Sheena smiles and folds her arms. ‘You know, my son Theo, said the exact same thing to me when he came home from school the other day: ‘Mummy I don’t like you’.’

  ‘But Jessica and I didn’t say that to each other…’

  ‘I know but I’m just making the point that even when someone says that
it means something completely different.’

  ‘So what did you think your son meant?’

  ‘That he wanted a pair of new trainers and a Spiderman DVD…’

  ‘And did you get them for him?’

  ‘I’m a volunteer not a banker! The last full-time job I did was before Theo was born. He’s nine now, then Holly came along, she’s six, then Joel, who’s just about to start nursery. I get my husband Gary to buy all the stuff for him. I’m almost permanently wedded to the kitchen or the school gates. It’s like being a maid in your own house. I sometimes think, did I get married to that man – or have those kids? For my sins, yes, but I have to keep reminding myself sometimes.’ She looks up at me, perhaps feeling guilty she may have spoken for too long. ‘Do you have family?’

  I pause and the word vibrates in my head like a gymnast pummelling a trampoline. Family? Do I have any?

  ‘Yes, I’ve got a sister Abigail, she lives in France. She’s married to Vincent and they have two daughters and three sons. My folks have passed away, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I mean your own family…’

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘Do you have children?’

  I sigh and look around, desperate for intervention. I see two women, dressed in orange from head-to-toe, approaching us. They look anxious and distracted, clutching their tickets.

  ‘Riverbank down there, yes?’ says one, shaking her head and pointing at the same time. ‘If the Belgians have won today, I’ll never forgive you, Maria.’

  ‘No way,’ says Maria. ‘They won’t win. But I told you a thousand times, it’s not my fault we’re late. We should have got the earlier flight.’

  ‘Ladies, you do know that Holland and Belgium started about an hour and 15 minutes ago?’ says Sheena, rather more abruptly than necessary. ‘You’ve missed the earlier New Zealand/Australia match too.’