Seventeen Gifts for Frannie and Jess

by Nasser Hashmi

  I call Richard Krystal on his work number after staring too long at the fridge. I get through to voicemail but don’t leave a message. I call his mobile and, again, it goes through to voicemail. This time I leave a hesitant message as I don’t want to call him again. Almost immediately, my phone rings and I answer it.

  ‘Hello did you just call my mobile?’ says a muffled voice, from a busy, noisy place which sounds like a main road.

  ‘Yes, it’s Francesca Hartford…’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Francesca Hartford. I met you on the Tube just before the Olympics. You gave me your card. You said I could call you any time.’

  He pauses and shouts instructions to another person. He doesn’t sound too happy. ‘I TOLD YOU TO MOVE YOUR VEHICLE ONTO THE GRASS VERGE. WEREN’T YOU LISTENING?’

  ‘Look, shall I call later,’ I say. ‘I can tell you’re busy.’

  ‘That depends Francesca, is it important?’ He laughs. ‘Has someone planted a bomb at the Orbit tower or something?’

  ‘No, no it’s nothing like that. I just wanted to ask about a man that may be about to be arrested…’

  ‘May? That doesn’t really exist in our vocabulary, Francesca. We do things. What did he do anyway? Do you know him?’

  ‘He’s a neighbour called Lawrence Bernhard. He came to the Olympic Park and got a bit aggressive towards me and my fellow volunteer Jessica.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s a long story…’

  ‘They always are. So was it investigated? Did someone come down to ask you a few questions, take statements?’

  ‘Yes, while I was at work, in the canteen actually…’

  ‘Did you get the officer’s name?’

  ‘Er no, I can’t really remember, I think he gave it to us before he left but I’m not sure…’

  He sighs and pauses, shouting over his shoulder again. This time, it’s at least two minutes before he speaks to me again.

  ‘Okay, Francesca look, there isn’t much to go on there. Our departments are rather big so who knows which of my colleagues spoke to you that day? But I’ll ask around a bit and see if we have a file for him already. Did he actually physically attack you then? If he did that, particularly at your age, he definitely does need locking up.’

  ‘No he didn’t do that. He was drunk though. Which reminds me did that date of yours go well in Canning Town?’

  ‘From being drunk to Canning Town, how does that work? But to answer your question, yes, everything is going better than expected. I’m seeing Melissa regularly now. We’re going out tonight, in fact. Funnily enough since I saw you that day, my luck’s completely changed. Back at work, new girlfriend and I even saw my son at the weekend going bananas while watching Mo Farah. He even says he packing football in because he’s obsessed with all these new sports. I don’t believe him though.’

  ‘Oh that’s nice to hear, Richard. I hope you’ve changed that deodorant though, it was terrible.’

  ‘What was wrong with it? Got me into Melissa’s arms didn’t it? She didn’t say anything…’

  ‘We never do. Anyway, I’ll let you go because I know you’re busy. I’ve only got one more shift at the Olympics by the way, on Saturday, so I hope we’ve all done a good job.’

  ‘You volunteers are going to be knighted, what are you on about? We’d take generations to get that kind of attention. You’ve done it in two weeks.’

  ‘I sense a bit of jealousy…’

  ‘No, just an acknowledgment of our thankless task. A policeman’s lot is ingratitude writ large.’

  ‘You better watch it or they’ll sign you off again. All that gloomy talk…’

  ‘No, August 2011 was rock bottom, I’ll never be in that place again. Things are looking up now…’

  I pause and clear my throat. ‘Which reminds me, are you doing anything this Sunday?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, we’ve organised this sort of end of the Olympics party and I thought you might be interested. You could bring your girlfriend and, perhaps, son too…’

  ‘At your house?’

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘I didn’t see you as the party sort,’ he says, with a smile. ‘Can you still get those creaking limbs moving then?’

  ‘Jessica, my colleague, wanted this to go ahead, not me, but I’m kind of warming to it now.’

  ‘You don’t want the Olympics to end do you? You’re enjoying it so much…’

  ‘I suppose you’re right there.’

  ‘No suppose about it: the whole event been ridiculously good for the country. Look, just on this Lawrence Bernhard fella, do you know who reported it initially?’

  ‘No, there were a lot of people in the Olympic Park at the time. It was a bit confusing.’

  ‘But why attack you though, what motive did he have?’

  ‘As I said, it’s rather convoluted…’

  ‘I’ve got a couple of minutes. Give me a summary…’

  I sigh and wipe some sweat from my brow, trying not to remember Lawrence’s scowling face on that day.

  ‘To begin with I’m his friend’s widow, I think he misses him…’

  I did say to Jessica that I would never watch women’s boxing and I’ll apologise to her when she gets home. But what can I do? Nicola Adams is going for gold against Chinese fighter Ren Cancan and the frenetic noise from the TV is sucking me in like circus entertainment does to a child. But the commentators and producers do have a lot to answer for: their wide-eyed patriotism and infectious enthusiasm has almost become standard fare but it’s those sweeping musical excerpts and shots of joyous spectators that really tug at the heartstrings. I cannot help but get drawn in. Yet it’s still strange to see two women in head guards beating the life out of each other. My mind also wanders to yesterday when Saudi Arabian athlete Sarah Attar ran in the 800m heats and got a standing ovation even though she finished last. Her head was covered too and I wonder how far women around the globe have come since I was a child? Are women more respected now than we were? Is there less sexism? Are we more equal? I’d say we have more opportunities, definitely, but we’ll never be equal. Donald did his share but he still expected me to do the bulk of the housework and cleaning. Lawrence, according to Gillian, is even worse. Yet perhaps William and Jessica will be different if they get together. Will they share all the duties 50/50? It’d be nice to think so but I still think it’s impossible. Some minor niggle always gets in the way.

  Adams wins gold and it’s another glorious moment for Team GB! I feel particularly happy for Jessica as it’s another huge success story for her county. But a few minutes later, I start to feel guilty that I’ll spend all day in front of the TV so I start preparing for the evening meeting at the village hall. I have an early tea and get dressed into one of my colourful summer frocks, one of Donald’s favourites which had tiny flowers draped across it in a diagonal pattern. I step out of the house and start walking down to the village hall, which is only about 10 minutes walk, close to the library and the post office. As I reach the end of my street, I’m surprised to see William walking towards me in a brisk and breezy manner. I hope he won’t keep me too long as I don’t want to keep his mother waiting at the village hall.

  ‘Hello Mrs Hartford, is Jessica back yet?’ he says, looking quite pleased with himself. ‘Got some good news.’

  ‘No, probably in about half an hour. I’m just going to your mother’s public meeting, Aren’t you going?’

  ‘Er no, I’m just up to my neck in it at the moment…’

  ‘So what’s the good news?’

  ‘Got a job offer in Leeds. At the same chain of pubs I already work in. I called them last week and they said they’re always short staffed so I told them I was available and they offered me a job immediately! Weird that because they’re always struggling f
or punters down here.’

  ‘You’re serious about leaving then?’

  He nods and looks away from me. ‘Dad just called. He’s just going into a police station in London now to be questioned. I’ve had enough of him. He can go to hell as far as I’m concerned. He told me about what happened in the Olympic Park but it’s too late now. I want to spend the rest of my life with Jessica.’

  ‘Are you sure you’ve really thought this through?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says, hesitating and looking down at me. ‘Hasn’t Jessica been good for you too?’

  ‘Well if you put it like that, of course, but moving hundreds of miles away from your family and friends is a big step to take.’

  ‘Grandad’s family is in Harrogate so they’re close by. I’ll find new friends up there. Once you get a job, the friends flow from there. No problem at all.’ He puts his hands in his pockets. ‘I’ve spoken to Simon too and he’s helping me out a bit. He even says we can stay at his if we can’t find a decent place to rent. A mortgage is beyond our means right now.’

  ‘Does your mum know about this?’

  ‘No and please don’t tell her yet. I need to tell Jessica first.’

  ‘You really should come to the public meeting…’

  ‘Not my crowd, sorry.’

  ‘Well, what are you going to do now then? I have to get to the village hall and there’s no-one in the house.’

  ‘I’m not going back home,’ he says, abruptly. ‘Prison’s got a better atmosphere.’

  I pause and sigh. ‘Do you want my keys then? You can wait inside. Make yourself a nice cuppa?’

  ‘No, I’d rather sit on your doorstep if that’s all right…’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I want to see Jessica walk down the street. I just can’t believe I’ve been lucky enough to hook up with a girl like that. She’s incredible and I want her to know that I’ll sit on the doorstep night and day if need be. I don’t think I’ll ever let her go…’

  I count the number of Union flags in the village hall. Seven in total. I thought I’d never tire of them but having feasted on so many in the Olympic Park and, practically everywhere else, in the shops, in train stations and in people’s bedrooms I’m now a touch weary about seeing the red white and blue symbol of pride. They’re beginning to hurt my eyes (I think it’s the bright colour and spider-like design; a bit like the London 2012 logo). I am sat on one of the corner seats, about five rows back, in a packed hall which is listening to a volunteer speaking about their experience of reading to blind residents at a care home. There is total silence in the hall, about 300 people are captivated, listening intently to this moving tale of two people connecting through a third voice: the book. I didn’t know it’d be like this. If I did, I wouldn’t have prevaricated at home for so long. About half an hour later, Gillian gets up and starts talking about the leafleting campaign, the Government cuts and the future of the community library. She says if the community don’t come out and fight the plans then it will become solely a volunteer-run library with reduced opening hours and patchy book selection. Gillian speaks eloquently with the microphone in her hand and keeps looking in the front row at her father, as if she is trying to get inspiration from him, a secret message between the two: keep going and never give in. I expect her to mention her own book. She doesn’t – and I’m surprised by that. Wouldn’t it raise her profile even more? Perhaps people know about it already. She ends by talking about Donald – and she eventually makes eye contact with me. Some people turn to look at me. I am slightly embarrassed but they seem to mean well.

  ‘Does anyone remember this event?’ she says, holding up the 1948 Olympics book that Donald had kept for so long – and cherished. ‘Some of you are old enough for sure…’

  There are a few laughs in the hall and, eventually, several hands go up.

  ‘My late colleague Donald Hartford attended the last London Olympics and he never forgot it. Do you think we’ll remember London 2012 in the same way?’

  A loud shout of ‘yes’ goes up in the hall, almost in unison.

  ‘But without this book, how much of it would we have remembered?’ says Gillian. ‘We would have documentary footage, of course, pictures, yes, newspapers articles, definitely, but how much of the whole story would we have captured? I’d say not enough. A book gets into the heart of the story and wrings out the truth. It is intimate and personal. It creates a fresh set of experiences for everyone. It unlocks the imagination in a way nothing else can. So I say to everyone in this hall tonight, this is what will be lost if we don’t come together and fight these plans. The imagination will wither way and we, as a result will be diminished.’ Gillian glances at me again. ‘Will there be a book about 2012? Hundreds, I expect but I believe there should be one about the true heroes and heroines of London 2012: the Games Makers. I’d like to invite Francesca Hartford, who I’m sure you’ve all seen walking around the village in her snappy Olympic uniform, up onto the stage for a short address…’

  Applause rings out and everyone is looking at me. Oh Gillian, you are a beast. I reluctantly get up and awkwardly make my way up to the front, my sore, shuffling feet acting up as if they’ve been tied together for the past fortnight. I get to the front and Gillian shakes my hand. She leads me to the microphone stand and ushers me across as if I’ll have to say something, not her. It’s a horrifying, gut-wrenching prospect. She lowers the microphone stand for me and I stand behind it, looking at the expectant faces in the hall, all staring at me silently, waiting for me to offer up my first word. I look at Gillian and shake my head. I can’t go through with this. She walks up to me and lowers her head, whispering into my ear.

  ‘Just tell them about the crimson dinner jacket…’ she says.

  I look at her and wonder what the hell she’s talking about – but then I remember the London 2012 tickets Donald kept in his inside pocket. I turn to the people in the hall and take a deep breath. Treat it as just another performance. I’ve been doing the same for spectators in the Olympic Park.

  ‘If it wasn’t for Donald Alfred Hartford…’ I say, with an almighty sigh of relief after I’ve said his name, ‘…then I wouldn’t have attended London 2012 at all. He supported me and inspired me. He took me and brought me back. He kept my spirits up when I couldn’t tell my Copper Box from my Aquatics Centre or my Waterloo from my Bakerloo and gave me confidence that my volunteering skills would be valued in such a challenging environment. So he did all those things for me but there was also something he so desperately wanted to do for himself…’

  I tell the audience about the way Donald ironed his crimson dinner jacket in preparation for wearing it at the Opening Ceremony. The way he took the tickets out of his inside pocket, checked them and slipped them back in when the jacket was hung up; warm and freshly pressed. It was his father’s jacket. He had worn it in Wembley Stadium in 1948, when Donald was a little boy watching by his side as Harrison Dillard broke the tape to win the 100 metres. It’s what Donald felt the Olympics was all about: colour and effervescence. He pledged to wear the same jacket to London 2012. It didn’t happen, of course, and I tried to do my duty for the both of us. It’s the least I could do.

  A small round of applause breaks out when I finish speaking about Donald’s relationship to the Olympics. I feel some momentum and go on to talk about his role at the library and how desperate he was to preserve it for the community. I feel less certain about this subject and, therefore, try to brief. I simply don’t know enough about books or the wider issues of local authorities or budget cuts. All I know is that if an author writes a book about the volunteers of 2012, I want to be able to come to my local library and get a copy (or reserve one). Is that too much to ask? I look at Gillian when I finish and she claps as she walks up to me. Yes, she annoyed me greatly by asking me to speak but, now, with the adrenaline rushing round my body and the murmuring warmth of the
audience tingling my senses, I feel somewhat grateful. She raises the microphone stand once again and puts her hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Thanks so much for that, Frannie,’ she says, in a low voice. ‘I don’t think they’ll ever forget that.’

  I smile and prepare to head back to my seat. ‘Oh wait,’ I say, suddenly remembering something. ‘Do you want to know where Lawrence and William are?’

  ‘No. You’ve made up for them. And besides I know where Lawrence is anyway: at the police station…’

  ‘How did you know?’

  She stretches out her arm towards the people in the hall as if to say ‘there’s enough people here to tell me’.

  ‘I spoke to my solicitor on the phone earlier so the divorce is happening,’ she says. ‘I could stay with my father up in Harrogate for a while if things get messy…’

  ‘Maybe William could join you. He’s on my doorstep right now.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Romeo waiting for his Juliet…’ I say, walking back to my seat.

  Gillian smiles and introduces her next speaker.

  The meeting is about to wrap up and I see Jessica and William walking into the hall. William has a phone in his hands and both of them have their eyes fixed on the screen while shuffling forward; a skill I’ve noticed young people seem to be adept at these days. They sit down a few rows behind me as Gillian makes her final, persuasive plea for unity to save the library. It’s a rousing end to a heartwarming evening. It’s almost as if I can feel Donald’s presence in the hall. The meeting is over and, after a round of applause for Gillian, people start to leave and head home. A few stay behind to talk to Gillian. A nice couple who run the dry cleaning store in the high street even want to talk to me! Agnes, who I’d completely forgotten about, also seeks me out to say she was touched by the story of the crimson dinner jacket – and I begin to see her in a different light. She’s not that bad after all. Perhaps she hasn’t got over the death of her brother. The hall is nearly empty when Jessica finally approaches me, without William in tow. He’s still sitting at the back of the hall, eyes down on his phone, as if a bomb wouldn’t even disturb him.