‘Good myth that, Frannie,’ he says, folding his arms and looking at me. ‘Truth is, I was involved in two big accidents quite close together: one on the M40 which was a six-car pile-up and one in Northampton where the brakes on my crappy Cavalier failed. I suppose the Northampton one could be deemed as my fault but what could I do? I plunged into the back of someone because my foot went right down through the pedal. The M40 one was about the posh bloke in the Ferrari behind me not spotting there were lane closures ahead and going too fast. He eventually whacked the back of my car and I ended up hitting a few more because I couldn’t stop. His fault…’
‘And the third?’
‘There wasn’t a third. I was eating breakfast one morning and the car that had crashed on the M40, but was still drivable, was parked outside my front door and a bunch of joyriders smacked into it just like that. I nearly choked on my Weetabix. If it wasn’t written off before then they did the job for me.’
‘…And you said Jessica was unlucky.’
‘I don’t see unlucky people getting a juicy insurance payout do you? Nearly five figures, I’ll have you know. Lots of money for paupers like us.’
I shook my head and wondered if I’d ever really understood Ben since the first day I’d spoke to him.
‘So why do you seem so down then? I don’t understand.’
‘Because I don’t want to stand here anymore handing out fake smiles and dodgy handshakes; it’s wearing me out. I need to be making films, writing, painting, anything but this. It was a mistake for me to volunteer in the first place. It’s not for me. I haven’t got the temperament for it. I only applied because my Mum’s part of the Locog team. She thought it might do me good…’
‘I didn’t know your mother was part of the Locog team…’
‘It’s better to keep that kind of thing quiet, because people then think you might be getting the better shifts.’
‘That didn’t work then,’ I say, with a smile.
‘She’s always been a slave-driver, the old girl. Look Frannie, don’t get me wrong, I admire everything you are doing – and all the rest of the volunteers too – but some people can do this kind of work and some can’t. I’m in the latter category.’
‘It’s only for a couple of weeks, for Lord’s sake, can’t you show some patience? The Olympics won’t be coming to London again in my lifetime and it might not in yours too. Stop being so precious with your arty credentials. Who knows it might fire off some fresh creative ideas in your head?’
‘Already has…’
‘So why stop making that Olympic Diary? It’s early days yet and I bet Team GB do better than you think.’
‘Because I thought of something better; something more worthy to burn my insurance payout on. It’s going to be a short film about Mum’s pressurised work with Locog and how she juggles it with looking after a big family.’
‘So you have a lot of brothers and sisters?’
‘Six – and I’m the oldest. This will be a better piece of work. It’ll concentrate more on the sacrifices women have to make…’
I examine Ben closely after that last comment. Perhaps, I’d got him wrong completely – and my generic assessment of young people was way off the mark. He has surprised me with his sensitive thoughts on family and work.
‘So this new piece of work you’re thinking about…’ I say. ‘Will you able to film your mum? Do Locog allow that?’
‘I’ll have to find out, but it could be a challenge. As you know, they don’t even allow us to communicate on social media for the duration of the event so they might be a bit jumpy about what I’ve got in mind.’ He looks at me and smiles. ‘You do know what social media is, don’t you Frannie?’
‘You cheeky bleeder. I’m Auntie Media, don’t forget, I’m all seeing and all knowing. I don’t need to see it on a computer screen.’
He laughs and walks towards me, giving me an awkward hug. ‘Oh Frannie, I’m going to miss you…’
‘What?’
Before he can answer, a massive cheer erupts in the Olympic Park. I knew the women’s pair of Helen Glover and Heather Stanning were going for a medal in the rowing at Eton Dorney this morning but my conversation with Ben made me forget all about it. Now, I realise with the amount of cheering in the Park, the flags suddenly beginning to wave, the shouting and, even the hugging, that Team GB has won its first gold medal. I feel a wave of joy seeping through my body and turn to look at Ben. He smacks my palm with a horrendously heavy high five.
‘See I told you,’ I say, ‘Oh ye of little faith…’
‘Shit,’ he says, looking confused for the first time during our conversation. ‘I might have to make that Olympic Diary doc after all…’
I end up staying in the Olympic Park well past the end of my shift – and feel rewarded when Bradley Wiggins wins Team GB’s second gold of the day in the Cycling time trial. Ben has some comedy sideburns handy and sticks them onto his face, doing a jig and a manic pedalling routine to entertain a small, euphoric crowd that has gathered round him. The mood was already good but I sense it has raised another notch with more smiles, high fives and flags fluttering in children’s hands. I wanted to savour some of this; why should I go home? I haven’t seen Jessica or Simon all day but don’t care about them now. If they want to head back home they do so with my blessing. Ben finally finishes his ‘Wiggo’ routine by singing The Jam’s Going Underground and it brings me back to reality as I fear I may get caught up in rush hour if I don’t get a move on soon. But again, why should I? The atmosphere is electric. Two gold medals! No-one can really believe it. A young boy, in a Chelsea replica shirt, approaches Ben and asks him to do the routine all over again. Ben feigns exhaustion and puts the sideburns on the little boy’s cheek only for them to keep falling off. I watch Ben and wonder why he has decided this is his last shift today when he still has so much to offer (he told me during lunch that he couldn’t take another 10 days of this and that it was better to bail out without causing a major incident). I told him bluntly (but jovially) that he was chickening out and he not only agreed but, positively endorsed my conclusion, saying there were only a few people who could volunteer in this world and he wasn’t one of them. He craved expression, not sacrifice. At least he was doing that now. The young boy and Ben end up dancing like Red Indians around an imaginary campfire made up of Union flags. I do wonder why Ben has chosen to be Indian. You see, he’s different. After this surreal scene, the small group of spectators stream away and I say goodbye to Ben. He hugs me tight and wishes me all the best for the remaining days at the Olympics. He finally touches on the subject that has dominated my life for the last three months – but which he has found hard to broach.
‘Donald was a lucky man, Frannie,’ he says, kissing me on the cheek. ‘I hope you’ve found some peace lately.’
‘There, you see, that wasn’t too difficult was it?’
‘You don’t know the half of it,’ he says, with a smile.
He lets go of me and then starts to sprint, in his huge size 13 shoes towards the Olympic Stadium where he says he’s having a commemorative picture taken before he leaves. I watch him drift off and then look round the Park one last time before I, too, have to call it a day. It’s been simply glorious, there’s no other way to describe it. Jessica or not, I think I’ll sleep better tonight.
On the journey home, I feel a sense of relief that I have the next two days off. No early starts, hasty dressing or rushing to the station. I look forward to a long lie-in, a lazy breakfast and a soothing dose of classical radio melodies. The shifts have been tough, but rewarding, although there is a touch of guilt that I’ll be away from the action just when Team GB are getting their act together. I hope the euphoric atmosphere I felt later today will be even better when I get back to work on Saturday. I’ve got the front door key in my hand as I head towards my front garden, thinking about wheth
er I have the stamina to cook anything substantial. I do feel like treating myself – a sort of ‘well done for getting this far’ kind of thing – but realise my body is giving me signals that it’s already about to shut down for the evening. I unlock the gate and walk down the garden path, still with my head down, deep in thought about the suitability of chilli con carne and salad on a night of mild celebration and national pride. I look up and am startled to see Jessica and Simon sitting on the doorstep with at least five shopping carrier bags by their side. Jessica gets up and rushes towards me. She puts her arm round me and almost drags me into my own house.
‘Are you hungry, Frannie?’ she says. ‘Sorry, we didn’t see you today. Dad was at Wembley Arena – and I had a hectic day once we landed that first gold. It was wild…’
I put my hand on my heart. ‘Well, I don’t know what to say, you gave me a shock. You shouldn’t do that to an old woman.’
‘It was Dad’s idea to do it this way. I wanted to call you on your mobile but he wanted to surprise you.’ She waits by the doorstep and picks up two of the carrier bags. ‘So come on, let us in. We’re going to make you an Olympic dinner. You deserve gold too after doing your five-day marathon.’
I breathe deeply and look down at Simon who is still sitting down.
‘Could have known you’d have put her up to this,’ I say, looking at the bulging carrier bags and actually starting to feel hungry. ‘Can you cook then?’
‘No,’ he says, springing up from the doorstep. ‘But I’d never been to the Olympics either. You wait years for an experience and then two come at once!’
‘I don’t believe in that theory. Now shift out, so I can get the front door open. I’m tired and I need a shower.’
I use my keys to open the door and then turn around to look at Jessica and Simon as they struggle with the heavy carrier bags in their hands. I smile and put the keys into my pocket.
‘What if I was to shut this door now?’ I say, gently easing the door to and fro with my hand. ‘Long way back to Yorkshire, isn’t it?’
‘You can shut it but you won’t,’ says Simon, stepping forward.
‘It’s just I don’t like these kind of surprises. They make me nervous. I was feeling very relaxed when I came home tonight – and you’ve spoilt it.’
Jessica steps forward and gently eases my hand off the door and pushes it open. I don’t resist, probably because it’s been a day full of smiles, unity and togetherness.
‘…And you’ll feel relaxed again in a couple of hours, Frannie,’ she says, walking into the house. ‘Let us cook up something wonderful for you. It’s our way of saying thank you for everything you’ve done for us. I’ll never forget it…’
Simon nods as he walks in too. I let them both go into the hallway and then look outside one last time before gently shutting the door. There is something special happening since I started work at the Olympics, I just don’t know what it is.
I sense the ‘two cooks’ are wary of being too extravagant. They know it has only been a few months since Donald died and it isn’t really time for a banquet or cases of champagne. I am happy to take whatever they serve up (mostly because it allows me to relax on the sofa all evening and relive some of the day’s memorable action on TV). Jessica comes in with the starter; a fresh salad with nuts, seeds and olives. She lays the bowl on the table and says the main course, which will consist of white rice, lamb, roast potatoes and gravy, will be ready in 10 minutes. After 20 minutes, nothing has arrived but then Simon walks in wearing an apron and something distinctly odd on his face, which I can’t work out because he is too far away. He comes closer and lays the main course down on the table. I am stunned to see that he has a Harold Wilson mask on his face. What on earth is he playing at? He reaches into his pocket and sticks a toy pipe into the rubbery mouth of the mask.
‘Now, you do know I’m one of Huddersfield’s famous sons, don’t you my lady?’ he says, taking the pipe out of his mouth and dabbing the food like a health inspector. ‘I have a statue outside the train station. Have you been lately?’
I shake my head and break out into a smile.
‘What, no Yorkshire Pudding?’ he says, now aggressively prodding the lamb with the pipe. ‘I’ll have to get the cabinet onto that. You must sample some of that heavenly crust. Salt of the earth, that is, or is it earth of the salt?’
I shake my head again.
‘Whatever, it’s a grand sight better than the food served up at these Olympic Games. Where are they being held again?’
I shake my head – but this time break out into uncontrollable laughter. Simon then suddenly whips off his mask and wipes the sweat off his brow.
‘Phew, it was hot in there,’ he says, straightening his hair. ‘Couldn’t keep that on any longer.’
‘Looks like you’ve got a hidden talent there?’
‘Not really. I remember a robbery at the bookies about 16 years ago and one of the guys was wearing a John Major mask. I know it sounds ridiculous but it did happen. So I got the idea from there, really.’
‘And you chose Wilson because he’s from your county?’
‘Sort of – and the fact he’s from your era: pipe and slippers and all that.’
‘Hey, don’t forget whose house you’re in! I’m not that old. I preferred Macmillan anyway…’
‘Who? Never heard of him…’
I playfully try to smack Simon on the shoulder but he ducks out of the way. He escapes to the kitchen and I finally look down at my food: steaming hot and generously-portioned. I know I’ll never get through it but I start tucking in anyway. As I start eating my food, I think about the way I used to serve Donald dinner in the evening and how he used to wave his hand over the steam coming from the dish like some magician showing off his latest trick. He felt steam had magical powers and it was good for his hands. I thought it was a bit cranky at first but did find it endearing after a while. Now I miss it, oh how God I miss it. I glance into the kitchen at Jessica and Simon making fun of each other and it fills me with pride that a family – another family – is united in my home. I raise my hand over the steaming white rice and close my eyes. If only you were here Donald, you could see that I’ve managed despite all the mourning and the crying and anguish. I’m okay my love. I know you’ve found peace. I’ve nearly found some too.
DAY SEVEN
I wake at 5am, annoyed that my body clock is still set to Olympic time. I think about Jessica and Simon and why they didn’t stay the night. One of Simon’s friends, Jim Unsworth, was so happy he got to see an Olympic event yesterday, he was adamant he would drive them all the way back to Yorkshire (he lived in Barnsley) and take them out at the weekend for good measure. It was an offer too good to refuse but Jessica baulked at the ‘weekend party’ saying she had to come back to London for her next shift on Saturday. As she got into Jim’s car, Jessica promised me she would stay at my house for the final week, if I wanted it. Did I? Of course, but I realised her mother Debbie perhaps needed to see her more than me. It was something I didn’t like thinking about too much. Only a mother knew her daughter’s intimate thoughts.
I try to turn over and get back to sleep – but as soon as the left side of my head touches the pillow, I feel a vicious, almighty pain in my lower back. It’s excruciating in its intensity; firing up further as I try to turn and lie on my back. My eyes begin to water and I fear I may have slipped a disc or got arthritis. I lie absolutely still for a few minutes and, thankfully, mercifully, the pain begins to subside. I reduce the severity of the diagnosis: it must be the five punishing shifts in the Olympic Park; standing for hours on end, chatting, smiling, shaking hands. It’s too much for an old woman like me – and now I’m paying the price. A few more minutes pass and I feel less pain and stiffness – and more energy swarming around my body. I eventually get out of bed and get dressed. I head to the bathroom and feel relieved that the p
ain is now almost gone. I do some light stretches but am wary of pushing too hard. I go downstairs and have breakfast; eggs, toasted rolls and black coffee. I feel refreshed – and so relieved I don’t have to go into work today. I start to clear up and put the dishes in the sink. I turn on Radio Three and start the washing-up. I turn on the tap – and the pain rips into my lower back yet again. I grab my back and have to go down and sit at the kitchen table. I take a deep breath and wonder if I should call someone: the doctor? Gillian? I give it a few minutes and the pain calms down again. This can’t go on, it’s ridiculous. During the morning, I move a bit better but each time I bend down or reach over for something, the pain is there again. There is no option, I have to call Doctor Adamson. I finally get through to the surgery (after 15 minutes of an engaged tone) and his secretary says there is an appointment available tomorrow morning so I agree to book it. At the end of the short conversation, the secretary recognises my voice (after I have to give my name, date of birth and address).
Seventeen Gifts for Frannie and Jess Page 10