Seventeen Gifts for Frannie and Jess

by Nasser Hashmi

  ‘We know that, don’t rub it in,’ says the first woman. ‘I know we’re one of the favourites to win gold, for sure, but missing this match has ruined the Olympics for me already. I wanted to see the Belgians get hurt.’

  ‘Does your country not like them or something?’ asks Sheena.

  The women smile at each other, take their tickets and sprint off towards the Riverbank Arena.

  ‘You fell into that one,’ I say with a smile, quite pleased that the Dutch ladies had saved me from more potentially awkward questions.

  ‘So do you know why the countries don’t like each other?’ she asks.

  I hesitate and wonder if I should allow myself an indulgence that could be seen as arrogance. There is also the small matter of not wanting to drag Donald into the conversation again. But I can’t help putting these things on the line; it’s what I trained for after all.

  ‘It’s something to do with their history I think,’ I say, crossing my hands in front of my stomach. ‘Belgium was part of the Netherlands about two centuries ago – but then the people revolted and became independent. That’s about all I know. There’s a language thing as well. I think a lot of Belgian people speak Dutch – or Flemish.’

  ‘You’ve been going way too far on your training?’ says Sheena, with a polite smile.

  ‘I was actually told about an athlete at the 1948 London games called Fanny Blankers-Koen, a Dutch girl who won four gold medals. I only stumbled on the Belgium/Holland information from there. I didn’t read the illustrated history of the Low Countries.’

  ‘The Low Countries, what are them? That’s like double dutch to me!’

  We both laugh and I’m relieved our conversation has turned away from the thorny subject of family.

  ‘The only Dutch thing I know is a football player Theo is mad about: Van Pertwee or something…’

  ‘Van Pertwee! Sounds like a scarecrow driving in the field…’

  ‘Feel like a couple of scarecrows standing here. Come on, shall we move down here a little bit? Give these spectators a bit of room.’

  I nod and we start walking, continuing to laugh but trying not to draw attention to ourselves.

  ‘Team GB aren’t going to win any medals so we might as well enjoy ourselves,’ says Sheena.

  ‘Early days yet, but I am getting nervous…’

  Just as we stop, Sheena is approached by two young men carrying huge backpacks. She glances at me before she prepares to greet them.

  ‘So if you don’t have kids, are you married?’ she asks.

  After lunch, many people keep their eye on the Women’s Road Race, which ends at The Mall, to see if Team GB can grab its first medal but as it’s so long (over three hours) I find it hard to watch for a concerted period. Sheena is loving it though and we part ways for a while as a steady stream of spectators approach us with a variety of questions and requests. I get my photo taken with a large group of Tunisian spectators and also get asked to sign someone’s hat which I find quite strange. More than an hour passes and I feel the pace again, having been on my feet for most of the day (a bigger lunch is probably also a factor in something I’ve come to know as ‘matinee idle’) but then, magically, just when I’m thinking of home again up pops Jessica, about 20 feet away, her hat swinging in her hand, walking so briskly as if there is an emergency nearby that has to be dealt with immediately. She doesn’t see me. I raise my hand and call out. Nothing. Is she blanking me? Why would she do that? She walks straight past, without as much as an acknowledgment. There are lots of people between us: spectators, children, even a film crew, but I cannot believe she didn’t see me. In a few minutes, she’s gone; heading down towards the Aquatics Centre. I turn and try and shrug her image out of my head. I carry on with my smiles and my greetings – but I’m quite annoyed inside. But then a massive cheer erupts throughout the Olympic Park. Did we win something? Sheena comes running towards me after a couple of minutes – and raises her fist.

  ‘Izzy, wizzy, let’s get Lizzy,’ she shouts, clapping her hands, smiling and then raising her fist again. ‘Liz Armitstead’s done it, Frannie, she’s got the first medal for us. One of many!’ She does a high five with three spectators in a row – and then locks arms with a couple more in an awkward jig of delight.

  ‘Our first gold, yeeeess!’ I say, trying not to draw attention to myself.

  ‘It was a silver…’

  ‘Oh. Still a medal though. We’re on our way now.’

  ‘I think the good old British rain helped her. It was bashing it down over there. Now, we just need Becky Adlington tonight to round off a good day for us.’

  ‘What’s she going in?’

  ‘The 400m Freestyle. It’s not her favourite but she won it in Beijing.’

  ‘Different pressure here…’

  Sheena looks at me and nods. ‘I think she feels it too. Do you remember when Frankie Boyle made that cruel ‘back of the spoon’ joke about her?’

  ‘Who’s Frankie Boyle?’

  ‘My husband loves him. He’s got his stand-up shows on DVDs and swears he’s the best comedian on the planet.’

  ‘Still haven’t heard of him.’

  Sheena is about to answer but sees Jessica, again, breezing past us, about 50 feet away.

  ‘Hey Jess!’ she shouts. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘BACK TO THE RIVERBANK.’

  ‘Just come here for a mo, Frannie needs a word.’

  ‘What?’ I say. ‘No I don’t.’

  ‘I’M BUSY, BIG GAME AGAINST JAPAN TONIGHT.’

  ‘Oh, just for a minute you busybody. Come on…’

  Jessica reluctantly looks round and then heads towards us. She stops by our side.

  ‘Look Jess, Frannie’s been asking about you all day,’ says Sheena. ‘She’s been worried about you…’

  ‘No I haven’t.’

  ‘She has.’ She looks at Jessica. ‘Just tell her what you’ve been doing…’

  Jessica sighs and looks at her watch. ‘Look, I haven’t got much time to waste but because we’re all feeling a bit better now after landing our first medal I’ll make an exception.’ She looks at me directly, making me feel more defensive than necessary. ‘My two favourite events are on today: hockey and judo. I know a couple of the girls in the Team GB hockey team and I used to play regularly with them at school and then at college. I’m just dealing with some of their families today who I haven’t seen for years. The match against Japan starts at seven so I’m going to be here for a while yet. It’s annoying that the judo’s going on at the same time but I did have a break and caught some of the semi-final before getting back to work.’ She pauses and then folds her arms. ‘Anything else Francesca, or can I go now?’

  ‘Jess, stop being so rude,’ says Sheena. ‘Frannie cares about you, that’s all.’

  ‘About time somebody did…’ She begins to walk off.

  I step forward and grab Jessica’s arm. ‘Hey, what’s wrong?’ I ask. ‘You seem to be having a great day – and yet you’re not.’

  ‘This isn’t the time and the place. Can I go?’

  ‘Yes. But not before you tell me what the problem is.’

  Jessica tuts and takes her cap off her head. She aggressively pushes her fingers through her hair and then replaces the cap.

  ‘The chippy where I’m staying was raided last night,’ she says. ‘Turns out, the room I was staying in was occupied by an illegal immigrant before me. I was asleep when these beasts, with big helmets, roared in just before dawn. They took me in but released me after a couple of hours when I told them I was a volunteer at the Olympics. Mr and Mrs Hatton are still getting a grilling.’ She fiddles with her collar and looks away. ‘Worse of it is, Mum and Dad want me to come home immediately. Pack it all in. Go back to Leeds.’

  ‘You look so pale,’ I say. �
��What on earth did you come to work for? Couldn’t Rob have given you day off?’

  ‘I told him I wanted to come in. No-one’s going to stop me from taking part in these Games. No-one. I’ve been dreaming about them since July 6 2005 when we won the right to host them.’

  ‘What about your mum and dad?’ asks Sheena. ‘Have you told them?’

  She sighs and looks away. ‘Mum kept going on about the so-called crime in London before I came down here. She went on about the knife crime and the no-go areas. She was proper paranoid to begin with – and now she’s proper mad.’ She shakes her head and closes her eyes while running her hand over her face. ‘I understand it in a way. I didn’t tell her I was staying at that chippy. I said I was kipping at a friend’s house in Clapham. There was no time really. It was so chaotic building up to this event. That was probably a mistake.’

  ‘You should have told your parents the truth, Jessica,’ I say. ‘They care about you deeply.’

  ‘And you would know?’

  ‘It’s common sense. But forget about that. What about Mr and Mrs Hatton? I can’t believe a confident girl like you would have been duped so easily.’

  ‘I wasn’t duped. It could have happened to anybody. I didn’t have much money so I couldn’t stay at the Hilton – and my friend said they were good people so I went along with it. When I met them, they looked so respectable. I can’t understand why they let that man live there. He was involved in some criminal activity too.’

  ‘They might not have known themselves,’ says Sheena. ‘Not everyone can do background checks. Well, at least you look okay. Must have shaken you up a bit?’

  ‘Yes, it did but I met some of my old friends this morning so I’ve forgotten about it already.’ She smiles and taps me on the shoulder. ‘Okay, must get on. Told my parents, there’s absolutely no way I’m going back up to Yorkshire just yet. Only just got here!’

  I look at Jessica and imagine her playing hockey for Team GB tonight against Japan in front of a full house at the Riverbank Arena. She raises her stick and strikes the ball home. Home. The word almost feels meaningless to me now.

  ‘But where are you going to stay?’ I ask.

  ‘Rob’s already ringing around his mates so I don’t expect any problems. If not I can kip on his sofa.’

  I pause and take a deep breath. I must not hesitate any longer. What am I scared of? Fear of intimacy? Ridicule?

  ‘My house is empty,’ I say, in a low voice. ‘You could stay there for a night or two if you like…’

  Jessica doesn’t take up my offer immediately – but will tell me by the weekend if she wants to stay. She is content to stay at Rob’s house in Watford for the time being where there are other like-minded girls (Rob’s daughters) to keep her company. I accept her decision but when I get home, and sit down on my cold sofa with a cup of black coffee perched on my thigh, I feel crushed. The disappointment is so overwhelming I think there must be something wrong with me. The only comfort I can take is that I must still be in mourning for Donald; it’s why I’ve reacted to the news so badly. Yet I cannot help but think Jessica is wary of coming to my house. She has never stepped foot in Buckinghamshire before and would feel completely out of place in a parish like ours with its well-kept lawns, boutique shops and pathological green-belt champions. Has she ever lived in a place like this? A working-class girl from Leeds does not want to spend a week with an old widow while the greatest show on earth is exciting everyone in the big city. It’s just the way it is. I would bore her – and I need to get over it.

  But I can’t. Donald used to fill the house with his considered, drawn-out voice and fourteen-stone stoop but I feel smaller by the day, as if the purple flower buds on the living room wallpaper are releasing a suffocating nectar. I used to think this was the prettiest living room I ever saw – now I think it needs a decorator. I watch TV for a while and then prepare for an early night. I am so tired I can’t be bothered checking this evening’s Olympic results. Someone won, someone lost, so what? I admonish myself for my cynicism but I have little else left. I am just about to get changed into my bed clothes when I hear the bell ring. I think about not answering it – but when it rings twice more, I give in and go downstairs. I wait one more time by the door – and it rings for a fourth time – so I open it.

  ‘Hello Mrs Hartford,’ says William, running his fingers through his hair as he talks. ‘Mum wanted me to come round to see how you were doing. Can I come in?’

  ‘Oh, William, er, really surprised to see you. It’s a bit late…’

  ‘I know you’ve probably had a long shift but I’ll only be a few minutes. You need your rest, I understand that.’

  ‘Your mum not back yet?’

  ‘She’s staying in Harrogate for a few more days…’

  I move away from the door and let William come in. He also has a small bag over his shoulder, one of those fashionable bright things that young men like to carry, with a diagonal strap and hardly any storage room to speak of. He smiles and wipes his feet on the doormat.

  ‘Thanks, I won’t press you for a cuppa, don’t worry.’

  ‘And you won’t get one! There’s a limit to hospitality if you’ve been at it all day.’

  He laughs and walks into the living room. He sits down on the sofa, and I feel strangely uplifted as though the living room I’d inhabited a few minutes ago has been given an injection of energy.

  ‘I’ve just been watching the football,’ he says. ‘Team GB are playing UAE. You wouldn’t believe it but they scored a goal against us. Did you see it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m just getting a bit carried away. It was on in the place where I work…’

  ‘You still at that pub in Beaconsfield? Thought you’d have got a job more in line with your abilities by now. What was your degree in again?’

  ‘Graphic design. I’ve sent out loads of applications and I’m still earning so I’m still hanging in there. Might start my own business soon anyway and become a website designer. I think I can do better than what’s already out there.’

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you one thing…’ I say, moving away from the door and sitting on the opposite side of the sofa. ‘You’re too good to be working in a pub pulling pints for a pittance. And I told Gillian that too…’

  ‘That’s kind of you, Mrs Hartford.’

  He pauses and swivels his bag round onto his lap. He unzips it, looks down and waits. He then looks up at me and sighs.

  ‘What’s in there, William?’ I ask.

  ‘I should have given it you before, but I held onto it…’

  ‘What is it?’

  He slowly reaches in to the bag and pulls out Donald’s check-patterned trilby hat. I look at it without feeling any emotion, which surprises me.

  ‘How did that end up in your bag?’

  He pauses again and feels the trilby in his hands. He sighs and leans back on the sofa.

  ‘Do you remember the time my father, Donald, Jack and I went to the Ashes Test at The Oval in 2005?’

  ‘Yes, and he didn’t make me want to forget it. Is that where he lost his hat?’

  ‘Well, it was flicked off his head when someone in the crowd cheered an England boundary. It was quite raucous in there. Anyway, he tried to find it under the seats but there were so many spectators it was impossible.’ He pauses and folds his arms. ‘Anyway, at close of play, just as we were leaving the ground, I was at the back and someone tapped me on the shoulder. The trilby had been found and a man handed it over to me rather than Donald. I said I’d give it to him, as Donald was in conversation with my father. But for some reason, I didn’t, I put it in my bag. I don’t know why. It was like something had come over me. It felt like a memento, like one of the wickets that players pull out of the ground after a famous victory…’

  ‘So you didn’t give
it back?’

  ‘No. I’m ashamed to say it but I was ready to sell it on eBay. I was only 15 at the time and any easy money was welcome. But that didn’t happen…’

  ‘And there was me thinking you were a nice boy…’

  ‘I was a stupid teenager, that’s all. Anyway, the reason I didn’t sell it was because the very next night I happened to be in the library and Donald recommended I should read a book about the Bodyline tour of the 30s. I agreed but then he stunned me by saying he knew I’d put the trilby in my bag. He’d seen it but hadn’t said anything. He took me out back and I started crying and said sorry. He said it didn’t matter and asked me if I wanted to keep it. I wasn’t sure but he said I should take it home because ‘golden memories’ don’t come round very often – and you need to treasure these moments. He said in years to come, when I looked at the hat, I’d just remember that glorious day at The Oval when England won The Ashes.’ He sighs and looks up at the ceiling. ‘So I did keep it and here it is. I think I should hand it back now.’

  ‘Why on earth would you want to do that? Donald wanted you to keep it so it’s yours.’

  ‘I still feel guilty about it.’

  ‘Don’t. You’ve done a brave thing by coming round here and telling me this. The bottom line is, you and your family have been rocks to me in my time of need. I don’t know what I would have done without you. The aftermath of the funeral nearly killed me too, what with Abigail’s posturing and the stress of the Olympics schedule. I thought I might as well join Donald…’ I move closer to William and put my hand on his thigh. ‘But you’ve restored my faith in humanity, for want of a better word. I admire you for coming round here. I’m not sure many young people want to be seen at an old woman’s home like mine anymore…’

  ‘What are you on about?’ he says, finally banishing his gloomy demeanour. ‘You’re not an old woman – and why wouldn’t young people want to come here? Jack and I were round here all the time with Donald. I really don’t think you should talk like that. I know you’ve suffered a lot but not all young people are the same.’ He pauses and puts his hand on mine. ‘Did someone diss you at the Olympics? If they did, tell me and I’ll ensure they never do it again…’