* * *
After lunch, I go to the toilet and notice Sheena coming out of the cubicle in tears. Her face is as bright as our t-shirts and I wonder if I should approach her in this state. It might be something serious; I think back to my own circumstances when the Olympics started. I wait by the sink and mimic drying my hands just to give me some time. She acknowledges me with a resigned, weary smile and I realise I mustn’t hold back. Silence is the enemy in this environment. I walk towards Sheena and put my arm around her.
‘Hey love, what’s the matter?’ I ask, wiping away a tear from her cheek with my finger. ‘Come on, let’s go back into the canteen and have a chat about it.’
She shakes her head and continues to sob. ‘No, I need some air. I’m going out in the Park…’
I give her a tissue and we both head out into the Olympic Park. A few minutes later we are standing by a kiosk where a man is selling some kind of mini-newspaper or fanzine to spectators for a pound each. He is wearing a flat-cap, wellies, a waistcoat and a dicky-bow tie. He makes Sheena smile with his rasping sales pitch, as if Del Boy had morphed into a rag and bone man.
‘Get your Tom Daily here, get your Tom Daily, a pound for your paper. Read all about him. Read all about him. Going for diving gold today. Britain’s golden boy. Read all about him…’
Sheena shakes her head and smiles, wiping away her tears as if they were an aberration. The man hands her a paper but she refuses.
‘Sorry we’re on duty,’ she says. ‘Are you allowed to do this round here?’
‘No-one stopping us, love. Don’t you want to know about Tom’s existential relationship with the water? When he dives in, it’s as though he’s plunging into another universe. Here, this article, on page 6, explores that very issue.’
‘Thanks, but I’ll pass. Like I said, I’ve got work to do.’
‘No problem. What about your friend here?’
‘Me too,’ I say, rather abruptly in the hope that the man will go away so I can speak to Sheena.
‘Well, make sure you don’t work too hard or you’ll miss Major Tom getting on board later today.’ He walks away and continues to talk and sell as he moves through the spectators. ‘Read all about him. Get your Tom Daily…’
‘Oh God, did I need that!’ says Sheena, straightening her name badge which is almost over her shoulder. ‘He’s cured me in seconds…’
‘Of what?’
She hesitates and looks at me. ‘It’s silly, Frannie, it’s nothing…’
‘Maybe it is, but it might make you feel better if we share it. After all, that’s what this place is about isn’t it?’
She sighs and looks away from me towards the Orbit tower. ‘I’m just blubbing like a little girl because I can’t bear the thought of going back home after the ridiculous high of these two weeks. Gary spoke to me this morning to say he had a backlog of stuff for me to do when I got home: piles of washing, kids’ shopping and even their homework, it made feel down again, that’s all. It felt like the rollercoaster has crashed – and I’d been ejected. I’m sorry Frannie, compared to what you’ve been through, it hardly registers.’
‘It does register, Sheena, of course it does because I have similar feelings. I’m sure all 70,000 Games Makers will feel like that too. But as you know, nothing lasts forever…’
‘No, but when I woke up this morning, I had this strange sensation that we’d carry the feelings of hope, generosity and community spirit right through with us so that when we got back home or to work, people would be the same.’ She pauses and looks away from me. ‘Maybe I was being optimistic…’
‘No, you weren’t because I see that all around me; in our village, in the streets, in the shops. People have been wonderful – and I have faith that they’ll carry it on.’
‘Maybe in your village,’ she says, with a smile. ‘You don’t know Gary and the mates he hangs around with. One call and he’s gone. I think he’s just waiting for me to get back in the door and he’ll be off down the watering hole necking his bevies again.’
‘I’ll know him on Sunday, though, won’t I? Is he coming?’
‘I’ll be there, but I don’t know about him. He says there’s some football on so he might be busy. Community Shield or something?’
‘Sounds like something volunteers would get for a heroic act like saving someone’s life. Which team does he support?’
‘Chelsea…’
‘Only thing I know about them is Sir Richard Attenborough is a big fan…’
‘The one who made Gandhi?’
‘Yes…’
‘I tried to watch that film once and Gary turned it off after half an hour because he said he was bored.’
‘Donald saw that four times. It was the same with Chaplin, he watched that on numerous occasions too. He liked those kind of films, about famous historical figures. He felt we didn’t really make those kind of films anymore. Oh Shadowlands too, about CS Lewis, that was another favourite.’
‘The Narnia author?’
‘Yes…’
‘Now that’s something Gary does like: the Narnia books. He’s even kept a few of them.’ She laughs and folds her arms. ‘He’s the Lion and you know the rest…’
‘A bulging wardrobe: the bane of our lives!’
‘I’d love to turn into a witch for a day and sort him out.’
She’s about to say something else but a couple of spectators approach us asking us if we know the exact times Mo Farah and Usain Bolt will be competing tonight in the Olympic Stadium. We provide an estimated schedule and then they ask us about the relays. We provide that information too and then one spectator talks about the relays at length and claims that Britain’s persistent baton infringements, particularly in the men’s team (dropping it, not handing it over in time etc…) is akin to the England football team’s dire performances at successive World Cups. They do not practice hard enough, he says. Baton infringements and penalty shoot-outs are part of the same problem: a lack of technique and temperament. When he’s finished, Sheena and I are none the wiser. Our lack of football knowledge has been well established but we do get his point on the baton issues. It’s a pity because the relays, when in full flow, are one of the most wonderful sights at the Olympics. I always look forward to them.
Sheena nudges my arm to say there’s someone right behind me. I turn and am startled to see Jessica inches away from me. I put my hand on my chest and roll my eyes.
‘What are trying to do to me? Give me a heart attack?’
‘It’s about Lawrence,’ she says, without delay. ‘William called me at lunchtime and said he didn’t come home last night and that Gillian is really concerned about him. No-one knows where he is.’
‘So you’re telling me he’s missing?’
‘I don’t know,’ she says, rubbing her palm on her forehead. ‘I told William that he left your house at about seven and we don’t know anything after that. To be honest, William isn’t taking it very seriously; it’s Gillian that’s worried.’
‘Have you spoken to her?’
‘No, I’ve done enough damage for a fortnight don’t you think?’
I nod in mild agreement, although it’s tinged with flippancy rather than conviction.
‘I need to speak to Gillian,’ I say, looking at my watch. ‘But I’m going to do it after our shift has ended.’
‘Who are you talking about here?’ asks Sheena. ‘Is it that man who came to the Olympic Park, all drunk and unruly? If it is, I say good riddance.’
Jessica tuts. ‘Sheena, you don’t know anything about him…’
‘Well, he nearly had you out for the count with a right hook, didn’t he?’ She folds her arms and looks at Jessica. ‘I don’t think you can ever indulge these kind of blokes. They will always revert to aggressive behaviour if they don’t get their way. I rem
ember a friend of Gary’s knocked his wife around after a perfectly good night out with the lads. He was just frustrated for no reason at all and lashed out even though he’d had the best time of his life a few hours back. I don’t trust them; that’s my twopenny’s worth…’
‘Maybe you haven’t known enough of them then,’ says Jessica. ‘There’s plenty of decent blokes at my university. We talk, go out, play sport, everything; you can’t just make assumptions based on a few numbers.’
‘No, but I can make assumptions on what I saw of Lawrence – and it was ugly. If he’s going to be your father-in-law, I’d think deeply about the kind of family you’ll be marrying into…’
‘Who said I’m getting married?’
Sheena looks at me and smiles.
‘I never said anything…’
There is a long silence as Jessica looks at me too.
‘Okay, I did,’ I say, rather annoyed that we’re veering away from the subject in hand. ‘But it was just a passing remark.’ I turn towards Jessica. ‘Forget about that now. What about Sunday? Shall we cancel it now with all this going on? I think it might be in bad taste.’
Jessica looks astonished. ‘No way is that going to happen. My Mum and Dad are coming down and there’s too many others we’d let down if we didn’t go ahead. We deserve to go out on a high. If Lawrence is still missing then, tough, it’s nothing to do with us.’
‘That’s the spirit, girl,’ says Sheena, putting her hand up for a high five which Jessica doesn’t reciprocate.
‘Oh I don’t know Jessica,’ I say. ‘I’m having big doubts about all this now…’
‘Don’t,’ says Jessica, putting her hand on my shoulder. ‘William thinks his dad is doing this for attention anyway. He doesn’t want us to leave home and live somewhere else. That’s natural. He’ll probably be back at the house for Sunday lunch.’
‘And if he isn’t? Are you and William still leaving for the north?’
‘Yes, because we want to spend more time together. We’ve hardly seen each other through the Olympics. I’ve been too busy.’
‘Do you want to do a swap?’ says Sheena. ‘You go back to my house and make bacon and eggs for Gary in the morning while I parade around the Yorkshire Moors with William Lover Boy dreaming of wild romance and exotic landscapes. Deal?’
‘Er no,’ says Jessica. ‘You can keep your full English.’ Jessica turns to me and suddenly looks quite worried. ‘I’m not concerned about my relationship with William at all; we’re big and tough enough to deal with it. But I am concerned that I might spoil it all for you right at the finishing line. We’ve had an incredible two weeks, I just don’t want Lawrence destroying it all for us right at the death.’
Jessica’s final word rings in my head for a few seconds. Why if Lawrence is dead? Why if the prospect of divorce and everything else has led him to suicide? I banish these stupid thoughts immediately. I know they have circulated because of Donald.
‘He’s not going to spoil anything for us,’ I say, smiling at Jessica. ‘And besides we’ve got a policeman coming so if there are any issues, he can deal with them.’
‘A copper? Who?’ asks Jessica.
‘Oh, someone I met on the Tube on the day of the Opening Ceremony. He was involved in the riots last year. He thinks this summer has been the best ever…’
‘The riots eh?’ says Sheena, with a laugh. ‘If this Lawrence bloke turns up on Sunday, there might be a riot at your house, Frannie.’
‘We already spoke to him, yesterday, Sheena,’ says Jessica. ‘He apologised to us so that’s not going to happen.’
I nod in agreement but imagine Lawrence turning up just before the Closing Ceremony and demanding that William stays at home. William disagrees with his father and a fight breaks out. Richard Krystal intervenes but is caught up in the melee too. Again, I can’t believe I’m thinking such outlandish thoughts. But there’s a happy ending to this: Donald walks down the stairs in his soldier’s uniform and calms everyone down, making the peace and serving tea. As long as he’s with me, I’m unbreakable – and no-one, I say, no-one – can lay a finger on me in my own house.
I realise my time in the Olympic Park is coming to an end. I watch Jessica, Sheena and Eric having their photo taken with a group of children and wonder if I will ever feel this way again. The glow of warmth, joy and intimacy, particularly since Super Saturday, has been inexplicable as well as incredible; a buzzing happy virus that has infected everyone in its vicinity. I look around and absorb the sights. I’ll miss most of them but not all! The wildflower meadows, the wetland tress and the lawns surrounding the Olympic Park all look gorgeous on a sunny day and I wonder how I will do without them when I wake up in my own bed on Monday. The London 2012 megastore, the mascots Wenlock and Mandeville, the BBC commentary box perched on a stack of colourful shipping containers and those wonderful blue and red high chairs used by volunteers which, unfortunately, I never sat in. The McDonald’s restaurant and the corporate sponsors who erected their temporary pavilions across the site: BP, Coca-Cola, Panasonic, BMW, Samsung and the rest. Will I miss them? No, but plenty of people still bought their products. The venues that are hard to forget: the giant saucer of the Olympic Stadium, but also the Orbit tower, the Aquatics Centre, the Basketball Arena and my favourite shape of all: the Velodrome. But as I lower my gaze and look at directly what’s in front of me, I realise all of that is irrelevant without the single, most important thing in the Olympics: the spectators. The sheer range of faces, voices and costumes has been breathtaking. The whole world has been here. A high five of continents. Flags painted on their faces, butterflies on their cheeks, capes round their shoulders, anything to feel part of a bigger community. Some people have been less extravagant: sunglasses, shorts, handbags, t-shirts, hats and sandals have been enough for them but even they had a twinkle in their eye, a spring in their step or an expression of mild anticipation as they clutched a ticket and entered their Olympic ring of history. These people I will miss, because they are like me: Britain’s quiet enthusiasts. I hope they find another outlet for their passions soon.
I glance over at Jessica, Sheena and Eric again. This time they are doing the Conga with two Australian hockey supporters, who are in great spirits after having won bronze in the Men’s tournament by beating Great Britain 3-1. The Aussies are enjoying the sandwich: three Britons, one from Down Under. They take it in turns to rub in the point. Then another group of spectators pay homage to us by singing Prince’s Purple Rain but with the words changed to Purple Red. It’s strangely captivating and emotional. I watch this delicate spectacle and smile at a family walking past me. I approach them because I want to – time is ticking away. Dad is holding his daughter’s hand and Mum is trying to keep watch on her (slightly more wayward) two sons.
‘Hello, which event are you seeing?’ I ask, crossing my hands in front of my waist. ‘This is my last day and I really want to wish you the best.’
‘Oh, that’s nice of you,’ says Daddy, looking down at this daughter. ‘Chloe, do you want to shake the great Games Maker’s hand? One day, you can say you were here…’
Chloe offers her hand and I almost have to close my eyes as I hold it because it’s so supple and fragile.
‘Thank you for everything you’ve done,’ says Chloe. ‘I saw your team on TV. Are you getting gold medals too?’
I laugh and bend down, with a bit of difficulty, to reach eye level with Chloe. ‘We do have a shift system where we get bronze, silver and gold badges, yes, but I think you deserve a gold medal for being here today, don’t you?’
‘Yes, but not as much as Mo Farah, we’re watching him now aren’t we Daddy?’
Daddy looks at his watch. ‘Not quite yet, darling, we’ve still got a few hours to go. We’re going to have a browse around the Olympic Park.’
‘Can we take this lady in?’ she says, clutching my hand tig
ht. ‘I like her. She can tell me where Mo Farah is going to be. Does she know all the great Olympic people?’
‘Of course, she does,’ says Daddy, looking up at me. ‘Come on, Chloe, let’s go, I think this lovely lady has got work to do.’
‘Oh not too much now,’ I say, stroking Chloe’s hair as she moves away. ‘I saw Mo Farah last week in the Olympic Stadium and he won so let’s hope he can do the same this evening.’
‘Did you run with him?’ she asks.
Dad and Mum laugh and start walking away with Chloe showing more reluctance. ‘Sorry about that,’ says Mum. ‘She does come out with the strangest things.’
‘No, it was one of the funniest things I’ve heard,’ I say, getting upright again and straightening my tilted hat. ‘I need to get back in shape anyway!’
‘Anyway nice to talk to you,’ says Mum. ‘Say bye bye Chloe…’
Chloe waves and smiles. ‘Bye bye and I hope I can see you on the track when it’s night.’
‘You will,’ I say, raising my arm to wave.
I watch the family head towards the Olympic Stadium and breathe a marathon sigh. I look up into the sky and wish these feelings could last forever.
I think of the film The Long Goodbye as I carry out my own farewells – to staff, to team leaders, to spectators, and ultimately, to anyone who’ll listen. Donald and I watched this film at a cinema in London and he was a big Elliot Gould fan after watching MASH a few years earlier and enjoying its absurd, satirical take on army life. I do not remember a single scene in The Long Goodbye, but do remember Donald’s hand on mine on the arm rest. I never felt freer or happier. He had left the army in the late Sixties and got a full-time job at the library eight months later. This came mainly because he helped illiterate soldiers write letters to their wives during earlier campaigns – and even in some cases, poems and short stories. The thirst for education over service was too great and he chose to leave. Now, I was saying goodbye to a couple of young, fresh-faced soldiers from 2012. They had served the London Olympics so well that many people had forgotten about their contribution once the gold medals started to pile up and the British athletes (as well as us Games Makers) gained recognition. The two men, who can’t be more 20 years old, have their picture taken with Jessica and me. So handsome, innocent and precise; like Donald was all those years ago. We wave goodbye as we head out of the Olympic Park for the last time, bags over our shoulders and a tinge of sadness in our hearts. Many spectators are still rushing in – Mo, Usain, Tom – are all still competing this evening so there’s still a buzz of expectancy in the air. Jessica shakes her head and looks at me.
Seventeen Gifts for Frannie and Jess Page 25