Seventeen Gifts for Frannie and Jess

by Nasser Hashmi

  There is a long silence between us. I look at him and almost regret not agreeing to his request to accompany me to London.

  ‘Close the gate behind you,’ I say. ‘I don’t mind you coming for dinner – but I haven’t time to do any shopping. It’ll be just basic things like potatoes or pasta.’

  ‘It’s all we eat,’ he says, turning his collars up again. ‘Where’s the high street in this village?’

  I point the way and then leave without looking back. As I head towards the train station, the annoyance I’d felt at Simon Lees popping up at my house melts away. A certain grudging respect – and even admiration – takes hold. He’d come a long way. Would I, as a parent, have gone that far? Absolutely, but fate bundled me down a darker path.

  I’m still thinking of Simon Lees during the morning team meeting – but once we get out into the less suffocating surroundings of the Olympic Park, the range and upbeat nature of spectators divert my attention. One of my conversations is with three Icelandic fans, who have national flags wrapped round their waist, and are playing Tunisia in the handball preliminaries. They are incredibly enthusiastic and keep asking me to thank Seb Coe for putting on a great Games but that I should also ask him to put his shorts back on because Team GB have been ‘pants’ in terms of trying to win gold medals. I said the medals would come (although I wasn’t completely convinced) and then one of them did a playful magic trick with his hands and said ‘Now I lift the ash cloud from the London Olympics and Great Britain will start to win golds’. We laughed and he then went on to tell us how he was stranded for 48 hours last year after the Icelandic ash cloud had grounded so many planes. I had almost forgotten about that news story. Donald was alive then. It felt like decades ago, not last year. These spectators also took a picture with me – and then went off to the Copper Box for their game. I missed them immediately.

  About two hours into my shift, I finally have a chance to speak to Jessica. I’d seen her before but there were always many people round her – volunteers, spectators, team leaders – so I let her be. The perils of being popular, I suppose. She acknowledges me by raising two fingers in a curious ‘peace’ symbol. Or did she mean, there’d be two people staying at my house tonight: her and her father? She finally walks up to me with a shake of the head, minimal eye contact and the palm of her hand vigorously rubbing her forehead as if it needs to be shaken from its nightly trauma. I notice a cold sore has also developed on the side of her mouth. This isn’t the Jessica that started the Olympics. I thought it was meant to be enjoyable?

  ‘Go on what did he say?’ she says, with a weary roll of the eyes. ‘He’s not staying is he?’

  ‘Why are you ignoring his calls?’

  ‘I’m not ignoring them, I’ve just been busy. In the last month, I’ve slept in three different places, now I’m going to be sleeping in a fourth. I would have been better off staying at home and getting the train down from Leeds.’

  ‘So why didn’t you then? A parent’s home is always the best…’

  ‘Independence, a desire to see London, meet new people…the kind of experiences most people want. Didn’t you want to get away from your parents?’ She pauses and makes eye contact for the first time. ‘Or did the Sixties not swing for you?’

  ‘You know you’re the cheekiest girl I’ve ever had the misfortune to come across, but…’

  ‘I’m funny?’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far. I’d say you’re quite perceptive in your thoughts but pretty shabby in your actions. I’ve got a mind to say that having you in the house would be like waiting for a nuclear bomb to go off in the country.’

  ‘Don’t exaggerate Frannie, that’s for Dad to do. Did he say he wanted dinner? He always does. Food’s on his mind even when there’s a so-called crisis going on…’

  ‘Now you ask, he did talk about dinner…’

  ‘Chippies are never enough for us northerners you see…’

  ‘Yes, that’s why the police ended up in your Streatham palace…’

  I am pleased that I’ve been able to get a bit of my own back on Jessica. She’s not the only one who can crack a joke. Yet I also have to admit I’m having second thoughts of one, never mind, two of them being at my house this evening. They’ve got this forthright, almost formidable, streak about them that makes me nervous. They could do things I’ll regret. But there’s also something else about them I can’t deny: a life-affirming vigour that had all but disappeared from my life.

  ‘Your father said he helped you financially through university, he seems to be under a bit of pressure,’ I say, smiling at each spectator as they walk by.

  ‘Mum did too – but it’s still not enough. He took a loan out I think and I don’t know if he’s paid it back. None of our family have ever been to university so it’s a big thing for them. Didn’t really feel like it to me because all my friends are going anyway.’

  ‘Used to be special that, going to university. Donald had his dreams of going after he’d come home from Borneo but it never worked out for him. Now, it feels as common as going to the supermarket.’

  ‘Who are you calling ‘common’?’

  ‘Well, this is the ‘Common Domain’. If we were special, we’d be in the Olympic Stadium helping with the starting blocks or in the Aquatics Centre watching great swimmers, like Michael Phelps, jump into the pool.’

  ‘Yes, but I wanted to do this…’

  I look at her with a bewildered expression.

  ‘What? You had the chance to be a specialist but you preferred staying out here in the Olympic Park?’

  ‘Yes, because I want to engage with people – not with athletes or dignitaries, there’s a big difference. I was all set to be one of the meet and greet volunteers with the Australian national team but decided against it. I wanted to be out here, where all the action is.’

  ‘And Locog gave you that choice?’

  ‘Rob did. He then told me about you and it was a two birds with one stone, kind of thing. See if I could look after you too. I haven’t regretted if for a single day. I’m loving it.’

  I pause and nod for a few seconds, wondering how this girl keeps surprising me. I’m thinking about putting on a bigger, better dinner tonight when a tall man with his face painted red, white and green walks towards us. I try and work out which country he’s from but fail to do so. He doesn’t speak but shows Jessica his ticket. Jessica points him in the direction of the Copper Box.

  ‘Ask him where he’s from?’ I whisper to Jessica. ‘It’s nagging me now.’

  ‘I think its Hungary,’ says Jessica. ‘They’re playing South Korea in the handball this morning…’

  I shake my head, annoyed that Jessica has trumped me again.

  ‘How did you know that? Have you been to Budapest or something?’

  She pauses and smiles at me.

  ‘No, it says it on the ticket,’ she says, starting to laugh. ‘South Korea versus HUNGARY!’

  I am astonished at my gullibility and Jessica throws her arms round me, still unable to curb her laughter. I cannot help but submit to her infectious smile and warm embrace.

  Jessica spends most of the time with the police in the afternoon after she reports a man for trying to sell fake tickets for the Swimming finals. Her suspicions are aroused when she sees the tout – who is actually wearing a shirt, a very loose tie and a leather jacket – handing out folded tickets from his wallet and then waiting until the spectator slips him a note. Jessica takes the initiative and approaches him but then a minor dispute ensues and, eventually, Locog officials and the police are called to take the man in. I do admire Jessica’s courage for challenging the ticket tout – but I am glad to watch from afar, uninvolved and, therefore, free from intimidation or anxiety. I still sense I’m some way off, in terms of taking the lead or reporting suspicious activity. Greeting spectators is enough. So Jessica�
�s actions indirectly lead to Eric Bramwell, one of our most experienced volunteers, coming to say hello to me in the afternoon to see how I was faring. All this love and concern for me; it felt quite overwhelming. Eric felt I might have been alarmed that a ticket tout was operating just a few yards away from me but I told him I was fine. I had never spoken to Eric before, although I had seen him in around the Olympic Park and the canteen. He is so tall and wiry I feel he may keel over any second – but he uses that height to arch over people in a genial, gentle way, crossing his hands almost permanently while flicking his thumbs together. He speaks about his 45 years of volunteering across a range of groups, organisations and institutions. It makes me feel inadequate – as though I’ve never helped anyone in my life.

  ‘I remember seeing one of my mother’s friend’s round at our place, sometime in 67 I think it was, and she was in tears,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘Her son had been in London for three days and not returned. She said he’d got into music and drugs and terrible things like that – and there was no-one to look after her now. She was adamant she needed to see a doctor because of her ‘mental problems’. It was weird listening to all this in my front room. It rang a bell in me that I must help this woman because there was no-one else she could turn to. I felt that was wrong – and still do.’

  ‘So what did you call the group?’

  ‘Community Road. I know it’s a silly name – but when I got married, which was very young, my wife came up with the name Rings of Life and that worked better. We branched out and started helping women with family planning advice and things like that, because they were very isolated. She still does that but I got into other things like helping young people with domestic problems, abuse, that kind of thing. Not very pleasant but who else did they have to turn to?’

  ‘I admire you for doing that. I love helping – and seeing the deep acknowledgment on people’s faces – but I find it hard to listen to the difficult stuff.’

  ‘Well, someone’s got to do it…’

  I nod and there is a period of silence between us.

  ‘So how many groups are you part of now?’ I ask.

  ‘Too many, particularly for my age. Probably about 30 or more. Everything from youth action to giving carers for the elderly a break in the sun. I’ve lost count. I still find time to play the harmonica though. I need it after listening to all that.’

  ‘Where is it? Have you got it with you?’

  ‘It’s at home. Why, are you interested? Do you play an instrument?’

  ‘Oh no, couldn’t do that. It’s just I’ve been listening to a lot of music lately, classical, really and it’s got me thinking about how wonderful melodies and harmonies are and, you know, the contours and texture of music.’ I pause and wonder if I should say any more – but can’t resist. ‘There’s been a lot of silence in my house lately so the music seems to reach deeper, if you know what I mean. It’s a strange feeling.’

  ‘Rob told me about Donald, do you want to talk about it? It’s not as though I haven’t listened to these things before.’

  I am taken aback by Eric’s direct approach – but curiously uplifted that someone closer to my own age is broaching the subject.

  ‘I’m not sure if I want to talk about it right here, Eric…’ I say, turning away and watching the criss-crossing spectators, casual and carefree, as if suspended from the rigours and pressures of normal life. ‘…but since the Opening Ceremony, and these first few days of the Olympics, there’s been an urge inside to talk about Donald and let it all come out. I don’t know how that’s happened but it’s happened so fast it’s almost frightening.’

  ‘Don’t fight it, Frannie, one day you’ll have to talk about these things…so why not now?’

  I look at my watch and check how long I’ve got on shift.

  ‘Do you want to come home for dinner tonight? I’m cooking for two people already: Jessica and his dad. Why not make it a full house?’

  Eric smiles but looks quite embarrassed. ‘Well, I’m grateful for the offer, Frannie, but I can’t tonight, I’ve meeting the wife and I think we’re catching a film at the cinema.’

  ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked,’ I say, suddenly having the startling realisation that a widow had asked a married man to come and have dinner at her house. How could I have been so stupid?

  ‘I will come,’ says Eric, putting his hand on my shoulder and amending his voice slightly to offer a calm, reassuring tone. ‘Probably when the Olympics end. Absolutely. You deserve nothing less.’

  I pause and feel better, touching Eric’s hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Don’t turn me into one of your subjects, will you?’ I say. ‘We’re supposed to be helpers not victims.’

  Eric sighs and grips my hand tight.

  ‘Sometimes we’re both,’ he says.

  It is odd to be going home on the train with Jessica. She doesn’t talk as much as I expect. Perhaps, she’s got her father on her mind? She sits on the Tube, constantly taking her music earphones on and off, picking out Denise Lewis’s autobiography Personal Best from her bag and then putting it back again and also checking her phone from time to time for text messages. The few snatches of conversation we do have are about Team GB winning silver in the Equestrian event and about Zara Phillips, in particular. We talk about why the media are obsessed with certain members of the Royal Family and not others. The conversation inevitably leads to Princess Diana and why she became such an icon – and so much trouble for the Royal Family. We don’t have any answers apart from Jessica saying she was a ‘looker’ and that the tabloids are ‘sex mad’. I didn’t think this line of argument had too much depth about it but maybe it was an indication of how Jessica was feeling. We did, however, get onto the music heard at Diana’s funeral and I mentioned John Tavener’s Song For Athene which is the only piece I never liked of his. Jessica said she actually loved Elton John’s Candle in the Wind but not after that day, which made a sort of irrational sense, I suppose. Luckily, there are no delays on the Tube or the Chiltern Line and we get home within a couple of hours after leaving Stratford. Jessica isn’t as bewildered by my home village as I expect. She claims there are many parts of Yorkshire with similar traits: boutique shops, leafy hedges and pocketbook houses. She is more concerned her father hasn’t smuggled himself into my house. He hasn’t and we walk in quite relieved that we can wind down a little after a hard day’s work. Jessica turns the TV on almost immediately and says she is looking forward to seeing if Michael Phelps can become the greatest Olympian by going for his 19th medal in the pool. I talk to her for a few minutes and then go upstairs to the bathroom to wash my feet, as they’ve been pounded quite badly today. The warm water reaches deep into the pores of my toes and brings a soothing, ecstatic boost to my head. I put on my slippers but just as I am about to leave, I stop right in front of the mirror, in the exact place Donald liked to hum his Dean Martin songs. I look at my reflection for a few seconds. The house will have its first overnight guest since Donald died. Am I doing the right thing? Is too early? No, I feel good about Jessica. Her spark and vigour has reenergised me. I hastily raise my stiff arms and imagine I’m a youthful gymnast landing after an acrobatic performance. I hold the pose and, for the first time in months, savour the silence; a beautiful silence which only ends when the deafening applause erupts. I’m part of a team again. An old woman seeing chinks of light in her house once more. A few minutes later, I’m back downstairs and see Jessica stretched out on the sofa, trainers off, flicking through the TV channels with the remote control. I ask her if she wants to call her father on her mobile, as I don’t know how many places to set for dinner (besides how much food to make). She says she’s not hungry and I shouldn’t put myself out for her.

  ‘I’m going to say sorry in advance for my father,’ she says, picking up a copy of the Radio Times but then putting it down again. ‘He has a habit of drifting off and not
quite remembering what he’d promised a few hours ago. I knew he wouldn’t be here. Did he not give you a time?’

  ‘I didn’t ask to be honest. I was in a hurry to catch the train to London. He wanted to come with me.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me that…’

  ‘I don’t tell you everything, Miss Lees. Now, what do you want for your dinner? I haven’t had time to do the shopping so it’ll just be basic stuff like pasta or lasagne…’

  She looks at me and then springs up from the sofa. She walks towards me and puts her arm on my shoulder.

  ‘Sit down, calm down and let’s watch the swimming finals,’ she says, ushering me over to the sofa. She sits me down on the side Donald used to prefer. ‘The swimming’s very intimate on TV, there’s something about those heads bobbing up and down in the water. I can almost feel the splashes on my face never mind theirs.’

  ‘But who’s going to make the dinner? Your dad might be here at any moment.’

  ‘Forget him,’ she says, sitting down next to me. ‘He’s probably grabbed a bag of crisps and a pint from the village pub. He might not come anyway.’

  ‘Why do you say that, Jessica, I don’t understand? His daughter’s here and he’s come all this way, so why would he not want to see you now after all that trouble?’

  Jessica sighs and crosses her legs on the sofa. ‘Did he talk about his job?’

  ‘Not really…’

  ‘I’m not surprised, who’d want to say you worked in a bookies?’

  ‘Is that why you fell out? I sense you’re a bit ashamed of where he works. Maybe he has to do it to make ends meet?’

  She pauses and picks up a cushion, hugging it to her chest. ‘I remember going in there once; I must have been about 11, I think. Absolutely grimy and filthy it was, full of old men with fags in their mouths and papers tucked under their arms or cocky lads showing their mates how good they were on fruit machines. One of these lads even asked me out: I don’t think he’d seen a girl before.’ Jessica looks up at me. ‘I’m sure you’re not surprised to hear that I couldn’t wait to get out of there…’