Seventeen Gifts for Frannie and Jess

by Nasser Hashmi

  ‘..And you blame your father for that experience?’

  ‘No, but each day he continues to work there, it keeps the memory fresh.’ She gets up off the sofa and starts heading towards the kitchen. ‘Enough of this, I’m going to make dinner for you this evening. It’s the least I can do after all you’ve done for us. Can I put Bat for Lashes on?’

  ‘What? I thought we were going to watch the swimming?’

  ‘Who cares about that? Phelps will get his 19th medal. He’s great, get over it.’

  I shake my head and get up off the sofa. ‘I never know if I’m coming or going with you…’

  ‘Well, come this way to the kitchen so you can show me where all the pots and pans are. We’re going to have a lovely night, irrespective of whether my father turns up or not.’

  ‘Calm down, girl, I’m coming…and what the hell is Bat for Lashes? Is that an eyeliner or something?’

  ‘It’s a band led by the lovely Natasha Khan, I’ve got a CD in my bag. So can I put it on or not?’

  ‘Is she related to Akram Khan? If she is, I might give her a go. I still can’t get that opening ceremony out of my head.’

  ‘They’re not related…’

  The bell rings just as I get up and walk to the kitchen.

  ‘There he is,’ I say. ‘I told you he’d be here. Every parent wants to see their child.’

  She rolls her eyes impatiently and I sense a slight dip in her jovial mood.

  ‘Do you want me to answer it?’ she asks, folding her arms.

  ‘Yes please, I’ll just get the ingredients ready for evening dinner.’

  She walks off briskly and answers the door. As I potter around the kitchen, pulling salad bags out of the fridge and opening packets of pasta by popping them with sharp knives, I feel pleased that Jessica and her father will be having dinner in my home tonight. It gives me a sense of satisfaction that a family will be back together within these four walls; chatting, eating and drinking; even if it isn’t mine.

  Jessica walks into the kitchen within a couple of minutes. I turn and look who is standing by her side. I am surprised to see Gillian. She walks up to me and hugs me immediately while I balance a jar of pasta sauce in my hand. I am taken aback and have to put the jar down – and then embrace her properly. I can see she is crying.

  ‘Oh Frannie,’ says Gillian, lowering her head on my shoulder. ‘I’m sorry about this, I can’t help it. Seeing my father like that, not knowing where he is, not recognising me, I can’t take it anymore.’ She eases her head off my shoulder and wipes away her tears. ‘This is so embarrassing, Frannie, I hope you can forgive me. But a dad’s a dad and I don’t know what I’ll do without him, I really don’t.’

  DAY SIX

  I’ve never believed in the ‘two come at once’ theory because the first one is always the problem for me. It never arrives. But I am forced to change my outlook when Simon Lees turns up, yet again, at just gone 5am, banging on the door, looking worse for wear and with his leather jacket tied round his waist like a jumper. Amazingly, Jessica is fast asleep while this banging is going on and I am forced to deal with him once more. On this occasion, however, I feel much calmer and more accommodating which can only be put down to the fact that Gillian had stayed late the night before – and had talked in depth about her father’s illness. It had been a sobering, emotional evening in which Jessica had also offered support to Gillian. It was by far the most heartwarming evening in my house since Donald had died – and I wouldn’t let Simon do anything to spoil it. So I brought him in and made him breakfast – pancakes, soft-boiled eggs and black coffee – which he was initially enthusiastic about but hardly touched (he ended up taking two soluble paracetamol pills for his headache). He didn’t ask about Jessica at all – so I had to press him on why he hadn’t turned up for dinner the previous evening, after virtually twisting my arm to be invited.

  ‘I left my job two months ago,’ he says, abruptly without looking up at me. ‘Since then, I’ve done some temping at warehouses, packing and all that stuff, but the shifts are all over the place. Some of them start at six in the morning.’ He looks up at me and smiles for the first time. ‘It’s probably why my body stirs into action at five-ish. I am sorry Frannie…’

  ‘Francesca, you don’t know me that well yet.’

  ‘Okay, Francesca. Look, I know Jessica’s sleeping upstairs but please don’t tell her about this job situation yet. She’s got enough on her plate right now. Only Debbie and you know at the moment and it’s better she gets through these Olympics without any more traumas…’

  ‘Are you sure it’s her suffering the traumas and not you? Seems to me, the real troubled soul is sitting at the kitchen table, a few feet away from me. What did you do during the day? Where did you go? I didn’t think you knew this area well at all.’

  He fiddles with the pill-stained empty glass, rubbing it with his fingers.

  ‘Did you go down to the betting shop all day?’ I ask. ‘At least there’s one of those round every corner.’

  ‘Yes, but I only went in for about half an hour to see how it’s run. I spent most of time walking round the shops in the morning and then watched the Olympics for most of the rest of the day…’

  ‘In a pub?’

  ‘Not all the time. I did go out for a bite to eat in a restaurant.’

  ‘But why didn’t you come here? Jessica and I were expecting you.’

  He pauses and then gets up from the table. He puts the glass in the sink and looks out of the window.

  ‘You’re not going to believe it if I tell you…’

  ‘Try me. A lot of things have happened to me in 2012.’

  He sighs and then swivels round to face me.

  ‘I met another Huddersfield Town fan in the pub. He must be the only one in this county. We got talking and knocked down a few. Before we knew it, last orders kicked in – and then he invited me back to his place…’

  ‘For a few more?’

  ‘Well no, that wasn’t the intention but, yes, that’s what happened. He said he had some amazing Huddersfield memorabilia from the 1920s, when Town were top dogs, which included shirts, boots and socks. I didn’t believe him but he was adamant I come home with him to have a look.’

  ‘So you went to a stranger’s house at almost midnight?’

  ‘He wasn’t a stranger. Mike’s a top bloke – and we exchanged numbers. He’s been down in this neck of the woods since he got a job as a production editor on the local newspaper. He was with the Huddersfield Examiner before that. I had a good night with him.’

  ‘Better than you would have had with your daughter?’

  He doesn’t answer and moves away from the sink. ‘Look, are you going to wake her up so I can see her. I need to see those lovely eyes today or I’m going to feel worse than I already do.’

  ‘Well, you shouldn’t have spent the whole of yesterday drinking then should you?’

  ‘I didn’t. I did a lot of walking and sightseeing too, sampling the green fields of the village with its pretty lawns and huge drives. But it is too quiet for me, I can’t deny that.’ He glances at me and walks to the door. ‘Which bedroom is she in? I’ll wake her up myself. If you don’t push her, she’ll never get out of bed.’

  ‘No, I’ll do that. She’s had a calm night; I don’t want her getting all worked up this morning.’

  ‘She’s my daughter, Francesca…’

  I walk towards the door and brush past Simon.

  ‘Yes, but she’s sleeping in my Donald’s study…’

  I give Simon and Jessica time in the bedroom together so they can talk to each other. But after half an hour, I have to go upstairs and knock at the door to ask them to get a move on. It’ll be my fifth shift in a row at the Olympics today. An overwhelming tiredness is kicking in stealthily this morning and I have to ens
ure I have enough time to get to Stratford without being late. I cannot wait to have two days off after this shift to recuperate. I knock again on the bedroom door after getting no response. I decide to walk in, almost out of habit as that is what I’d been doing when Donald wanted a cup of tea or a bowl of apricots and cream. I sense a good atmosphere in the room. Simon is gently swivelling round on Donald’s dicky office chair and Jessica is sat on the edge of the bed, facing him, hands crossed on her lap, looking directly at him. They both smile as I stop at the door.

  ‘Sorry Frannie, we’re nearly done,’ says Jessica, looking at her watch. ‘Still got a few minutes haven’t we? Train’s not for a while yet…’

  ‘You know I like to take the early one, Jessica,’ I say, looking at Simon but imagining Donald swaying from side to side in his chair. ‘Gives me time to get organised and get my thoughts arranged for the rest of the day.’

  Simon stops swaying in the chair. He gets up and walks towards me. He puts his hand on my shoulder which surprises me.

  ‘I’d like to come to London with you and Jess, today,’ he says, looking down at me with a sincerity I didn’t think he possessed. ‘But only if you agree to it. Otherwise, I’ll just go back home and do a few more temporary shifts at the warehouse than expected. The recruitment agency’ll be delighted to see me.’

  ‘Why do you want to come to London?’

  He smiles and looks at Jessica. ‘Who else is going to fill those empty seats we keep seeing on TV? Wembley Arena, Earls Court, Greenwich Park, someone’s got to nip in there and get it sorted.’ He pauses and glances at me. ‘I’ve called some of my mates down so we can muck in and make a difference.’

  ‘But most of the seats have been filled now. Locog, the organising committee, have got onto it and sorted out the problem.’

  ‘There’s still a few issues, Frannie,’ says Jessica, with a rather abrupt interruption. ‘I was speaking to Rob yesterday and some venues are still suffering. Lack of drinking water’s a bit of a problem too.’

  I feel confused about this sudden thaw in father/daughter relations. It’s as if the friction, frustration and downright hostility Jessica seemed to feel for her father had magically evaporated during one brief conversation in my Donald’s bedroom. I need them both to come clean – otherwise there’s no chance of any happy families coming down to London with me. I need my moments of peace and reflection.

  ‘You haven’t been telling the truth about your job, have you Simon?’ I say, groaning as I sit down on the edge of the bed. ‘Don’t you think it’s fair that if you come into a widow’s house, and that’s what I am now, you have a duty to tell her the truth and not be evasive? I mean, you’ve been sitting in Donald’s chair for Lord’s sake. Where’s your dignity?’

  Simon glances at Jessica and sits back down on the chair. He stretches his arms out and then crosses his legs. He finally looks at me directly – and I sense a lack of flippancy for the first time since I set eyes on him.

  ‘I was about to made redundant from my job at the bookies but I walked first,’ says Simon, with a mild shake of the head and minimal eye contact. ‘It was a painful decision because I had a mortgage to pay and Jess’s massive student fees to think about – but I had to do it, there was no option.’ He pauses and shifts forward in his seat. ‘In recent years the industry’s changed so much I don’t recognise it anymore. They’ve brought these fixed-odd betting machines into the shops and they’ve brought in a different kind of clientele: younger, rougher and much more aggressive. The old mob with their nicotine fingers, betting slips and whisky breath are still around but they’re simply dying out, that’s the reality. Anyway, sometimes I’m behind the counter on my own dealing with these new kind of people. If you ask for ID, they can go off the rails, if you say I don’t have that kind of change they can abuse you so it’s been hard over the last few years. A couple of months ago, though, things got out of hand on a late shift when a young lad in a hoodie that was too big for him kept throwing coins onto the glass covering of the counter just in front of where I was sat. I ignored it at first but then his mates joined in and threw more coins. Then they started banging on the counter saying they were going to kill me. I called the police but they took so long in coming that I could hardly speak when they did. And they only made one arrest, saying they couldn’t identify the culprits. That was the last straw for me, so I told my bosses I was packing it in. They’d have made me redundant by Christmas anyway. They don’t care about their employees at the coalface; it’s all gone online now. That and fixed odd betting terminals, they’re the only games in town for them. Everything else is expendable.’

  I sigh and look at Jessica, who has her head down.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me this before, Simon?’ I ask. ‘You could have told me twice but you went off with your football friend instead? I don’t like being messed around in my house.’

  ‘I wanted to wait until I could see Jess face to face, that’s all. Then I would have told you immediately. A man walking out on his job, no matter how shit it is, is a big deal where we’re from Francesca. There isn’t much else around; particularly for people like me.’

  Jessica reaches over and touches her father’s hand.

  ‘Okay, I understand I think,’ I say, with a mild nod of the head. ‘You probably thought it was the ideal time to come down and see Jessica because she’d been through her own ordeal? So it would make your own revelation easier for her to stomach?’

  ‘Sort of, yes,’ he says. ‘I thought we could talk things through, away from home, and also…’

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘Talk about a new business idea I’d had…’

  ‘Oh not now, Dad,’ says Jessica, getting up from bed. ‘Come on, Frannie let’s go downstairs and have a cuppa before another big day. He’s always had these harebrained ideas and I’ve told him I’m not listening to anything until the Olympics is over.’

  ‘I think Jessie and I could be a good team. She’s got her sports science background and I’ve got the sports betting so I’ve got this idea for a new app that would combine the two…’

  ‘No, Dad, Frannie doesn’t want to hear it. We’ll see you downstairs…’

  Simon gets up from the chair and folds his arms. ‘And this is the sympathy I get,’ he says, with a mild smile. ‘I suffer dog’s abuse for years and finally take a stand – and what do I get? A walkout.’

  ‘Too right…’ says Jessica, opening the door.

  ‘So am I coming to London or not?’ he says. ‘I’ll be the best good luck charm you’ve ever had. Team GB could do with some. If they don’t win a gold today there’ll be a riot.’

  ‘No, you’ll be a bad luck charm,’ says Jessica. ‘But it’s up to Frannie, it’s her decision.’

  ‘Says the living, breathing voodoo doll who’s only away from Yorkshire for a couple of days and ends up in a cell in the big city!’

  ‘It’s in the blood, darling.’ Jessica looks at me. ‘Frannie, it’s your call. I’ll respect whatever you say. I know you don’t like to talk too much on the train or the Tube. If you take him, you might regret it…’

  ‘Oi!’ says Simon, clenching a playful fist.

  Jessica puts two fists up by her chest in defence. I pause and hold the door open.

  ‘I don’t mind you coming, Simon,’ I say. ‘You’ve sat in Donald’s chair so what’s left? And besides, you were brave and absolutely right to walk out of your job after all that abuse. No-one should have to take that…’

  As soon as we get to Stratford, Simon disappears into the Westfield shopping centre because he wanted to ‘compare it to the mini-beasts of Meadowhall and the Trafford Centre’. He says he’ll see us later in the morning but I’m not completely convinced he’ll turn up, judging by his performances during the last couple of days. Yet Jessica is convinced and I detect a huge change in the nature of their relationship
. As we walk into the Olympic Park, Jessica tells me Simon has asked her to come back to Leeds for a couple of days. She says she is considering it (as her rota was quite flexible) because he’d sacrificed quite a lot for the whole family and ‘mum must be quite worried’. I find it quite touching, when I look into Jessica’s eyes, that she is now thinking that way. However, I also have a palpable sense of anxiety that she might not come to stay at my house again. Her presence has been so comforting it’s as though she’s been living there for years.

  I think about Jessica’s predicament throughout our team meeting. I almost take no notice of what is being said or who is saying it. There’s a lot of talk of keeping spectators’ spirits up because Team GB still haven’t won any gold medals. I feel my own spirits need a lift now. Oh Donald, why these sudden changes in mood? I really do get sick of them. It’s as though that pleasant morning in your study, barely a couple of hours ago, never happened. After our team meeting, we are split up again and Jessica ends up outside the Aquatics Centre with Sheena while I’m with Ben near Stratford Gate. I feel so tired after the first couple of hours mainly because Ben doesn’t stop talking about his Olympic Diary project – and his drastic decision to abort the 30-minute student project because Team GB’s performance has been so disappointing. He thinks no-one will watch the documentary (or a ‘series of interviews with his mates’, as he calls it in his most cynical moments) so there’s no point wasting any more time on it. The only thing he feels guilty about is ‘blagging’ equipment from people and using their front rooms for shooting scenes because a lot of them wanted to be in the final cut. As I listen to Ben’s rabbitting on, I do wonder if he’s been influenced by this morning’s team meeting. Does he really think Team GB will win no golds? That’s impossible, I say, but he comes up with a long list of reasons why it could happen, including our big hopes like Jessica Ennis, Chris Hoy and Ben Ainslie being served a dodgy McDonald’s quarter pounder in the Olympic Village and ending up getting food poisoning for the duration of the event. When pressed on why such athletes would be eating this kind of food, he laughs and says ‘that’d be a film I’d want to watch because it’d be funny’. I’m not sure I would. But Ben’s morning gloom does make me think. Why is it that Ben, Jessica – and for that matter, most of the young people I’ve met since the Olympics started – seem to be less optimistic than me (even if we consider what I’ve just been through)? Are their money worries, standard of living and relationships with loved ones getting them down? I had similar concerns when I married Donald in 65, not a penny in my purse or a house of our own to live in, but we got through it because there was a certain hope that things would get better and that we’d be fine at the end of the day. Does that exist now? I don’t see it when I look deep into the young people’s eyes. They seem to be restless and distracted, eager to move on or look for the next person or project to engage in. Of course, I could be wrong as Ben had recently written off three cars – and that could be a reason for his relentlessly downbeat demeanour. After a few moments of thinking about whether it is appropriate to bring this up, I take the plunge.