Seventeen Gifts for Frannie and Jess

by Nasser Hashmi

  ‘No, don’t be silly. No-one dissed me, it’s just…’

  ‘What?’

  I pause and take the trilby off William’s lap. I stroke the rim of the hat with my fingers.

  ‘It’s just this girl I work with, one of the volunteers. There’s something about her, a vulnerability I can relate to. She’s got problems with accommodation so I asked if she wanted to stay here. She said ‘no’ for the time being. I don’t know why but it felt like a sword going through my heart. I can’t describe it. It’s as though when Donald went, so did my emotional defence. I don’t have one, everything fires through at a rate of knots. Rejections, in particular, spin round in my head until I feel sick.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself, Mrs Hartford. You’re still in the grieving process. And it’s not as if this girl said ‘no’ permanently did she? She’s probably just weighing up her options.’

  ‘What? Live with an old lady or live with her peer group? Not much of an option is it?’

  ‘She will stay here, just you wait and see. Once she feels your kindness and warmth, she’ll be round here quicker than you can say Daniel Sturridge.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘He scored a couple of goals for Team GB tonight…’

  ‘Oh, not football again!’ I say, with a smile. ‘I’m going to ban all football and cricket talk in this house from now on.’

  ‘Er football is part of the Olympics and as you’re an ambassador for the Games, it kind of defeats your argument…’

  ‘Clever clogs!’ I pick up the trilby and playfully put it on William’s head. ‘That’s why I don’t let young people in the house. They think they’re so superior.’

  William holds his hands up and asks me to wait. He tilts the trilby on his head and lowers his head slightly the way Donald did when he spoke. I expect to be apprehensive about what William is about to do but I feel strangely calm. He does an impression of Donald and, after a couple of lines, I break out into a big smile.

  ‘Ah, have you got any crackers in your sandwich box there, William? Nothing like the bite of a cracker with a bit of cheese at an Ashes Test match. Makes it all worthwhile. Followed by an apple and a flask of warm tea. Marvellous.’

  As William speaks, the events of earlier in the day evaporate into the reenergised living room. I forget all about Jessica. I remember life again. Donald’s – and I remember not to just mourn it but remember it.

  DAY FOUR

  The aches and pains I’d felt on my previous two shifts magically disappear on the third morning. It’s like William has opened my eyes to another way of seeing, a thought process I didn’t know existed, a bit of humour that I thought was insensitive. When is it okay to laugh over a loved one? Three months? Six? A year? Never? Well, we did laugh a great deal – and I didn’t feel guilty at all. I am still thinking about William as I stand in the Olympic Park in the morning almost three hours into my shift. I’m not feeling the pace at all in the morning – until I talk to a man about McDonald’s sponsorship of the Games. He waffles on for a long period about the ‘crap’ McDonald’s put into their food and why they shouldn’t have been given the chance to be associated with such a prestigious event. I listen politely but realise if I keep absorbing the man’s endless gripes, all the gains I’d made from last night onwards (relaxation, smiles, good memories, less fatigue) might be destroyed in a few minutes. I look beyond the man and notice Ben is a few yards away trying to fix the zip on a little girl’s tracksuit top.

  ‘Sorry sir, I just have to talk to my colleague for a second…’

  ‘So this is not important to you then?’ he says, putting his hand in his cagoule pocket. ‘I guess if the SS can cover for Hitler, then you can cover for McDonald’s. They’re both killing machines.’

  ‘Oh come on, that’s ridiculous. You can’t compare a fast food outlet to Hitler.’

  ‘Why not? I just have. Both are responsible for mass murder.’

  I examine the man closely. He has spiky blond hair and a tiny earring. His bleached jeans and polished Doc Martens boots do not fill me with confidence that we’ll agree on anything, never mind on this subject. But perhaps I should be more open after my experience with William.

  ‘So which event are you seeing today?’ I ask, desperately hoping Ben will see me. ‘If you’re so anti-McDonald’s and the Olympics, why are you here?’

  ‘I’m not seeing any events. I’ve got a ticket for the Orbit tower and the Olympic Park.’ He turns and points at the twisting, spiralling tower behind him. ‘I’m writing a major blog about big companies like Coca-Cola and McDonald’s and their sponsorship of major sporting events like the Olympics and the World Cup. They can’t live without one another. So when they’re not killing the planet with their planning application for big stadiums and parks, they’re killing people with their shit drinks and poisonous food. That’s why I’m going up the Orbit. I can get a good view of the damage done to east London.’

  ‘You’ve got quite extreme views, don’t you think?’

  ‘Only to those people who haven’t got any.’ He turns and looks at me, his piercing light blue eyes making me feel somewhat inadequate. ‘Which includes you, I guess.’

  ‘Maybe it does…’

  ‘Here…’ he says, reaching into the pocket of his cagoule and handing me, of all things, his passport. ‘Report me if you want. If you think I have extreme views, as you put it, call security and get me carted out of this glorious utopia. I won’t mind. I know what I’m up against.’

  I take the passport in my hand, open it up and look at the picture. The image only faintly resembles the man I see in front of me.

  ‘Looks forged anyway…’

  ‘It isn’t. That was taken at least four years ago.’

  ‘That was a joke,’ I say, with a smile. I hand the passport back to him. ‘Look, I’m not interested in calling security or anyone else. You believe in something – and that matters. Good luck with your campaign.’

  ‘I knew you wouldn’t report me,’ he says, taking the passport with a mild shake of the head. ‘I could see it in your gentle manner and your oh-so tired eyes. You have more humanity than you think. We all do. We just don’t show it enough.’

  ‘People are showing it all the time in this Olympic Park,’ I say, beginning to move off.

  ‘Not enough though…’

  ‘Maybe you could show them the way then…’

  ‘I will.’

  The man walks off at a brisk pace towards the Orbit tower. The thought does occur to me that his rather extreme views might have been dealt with differently by one of my colleagues. Would they have called in the heavy lifters? I’d hope not. Ben was telling me that one of the more jobsworth volunteers (Inspector Hector we called him) had already ‘stuck his nose’ into a couple of disputes which ended up with spectators being ejected from the Park or from a stadium or venue. Ben did like to ham this up a bit so I didn’t know how much of it was true. I dread to think what Inspector Hector, of the Purple and Red force, would do to the anti-McDonald’s blogger.

  Ben finally manages to fix the young girl’s zip and the family are pleased with his handiwork. He taps her on the head and off she goes towards the Aquatics Centre. I stop by Ben’s side and he asks me about the ‘weirdo’ I’d just had a conversation with. I admit, I felt uncomfortable with Ben’s choice of words – but he did have a habit of getting to the point. ‘If I want to be a director, I have to be direct’ he said, quite regularly, which seemed to have a twisted logic to it.

  ‘Don’t tell me, he’s watching the Water Polo this afternoon and smuggling a joint in with him,’ he says, finally getting up from a crouched position. ‘Or has he got the hots for Tom Daley? He’ll get a good look at him this afternoon. It’s always the weirdly dressed ones you have to look out for.’

  ‘No, it’s none of those thing
s. He just doesn’t like McDonald’s…’

  ‘Join the club.’

  ‘Or much else by the sounds of it…’

  ‘So he’s a sort of activist then…’

  ‘Yes, that was the word I was looking for. Why couldn’t I think of that?’

  ‘Because you’ve probably had too much on your mind lately…’ He moves closer to me and puts his arm round me. ‘Come on, let’s go for our break. We’ve had a good couple of cameos this morning.’

  ‘Talking of which, Sheena tells me you wanted to get Jessica into one of your short student films?’

  ‘Yes, I wanted to but she wasn’t having it. She burns up the screen, no doubt about that. Pity she burns up everything around her too. Bad luck follows her like a virus.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Her place getting raided, huge debts, losing her bag on the Tube…’

  ‘She didn’t tell me about that?’

  ‘No, she wouldn’t. I’d stay well clear. She’s lovely and all, but she’s Miss Fortune as far as I am concerned…’

  ‘But you still wanted her in your film?’

  He smiles and looks towards me. ‘Yes…’ he says, with a wink. ‘…But directors can get very nasty when they’re spurned by their leading ladies.’

  ‘So the bad luck affected you too…’

  ‘You could say that.’ He looks over his shoulder. ‘By the way, have you seen Jessica this morning?’

  ‘No – and she won’t appear in your mucky student film.’

  We both laugh and head to the canteen for a welcome break.

  * * *

  The Olympic Park seems much busier in the afternoon, so I’m actually sad to be leaving my shift for once! I’m not tired at all. Park Live (a kind of alter ego to Henman Hill or Murray Mount at Wimbledon) has filled up nicely as Tom Daley’s Diving final provides plenty of entertainment and frustration for the spectators on the big screen. It doesn’t look as though Tom’s going to land the first gold for Team GB. Shame, as he’d be the perfect role model to get our campaign underway. I do fear we might not get any golds at all. But I also sense a sprinkling of gold dust circulating in the atmosphere. As I watch the spectators, I notice a subtle shift in their moods and attitudes. During the first couple of days, there was a wariness and even anxiety coming from every pore of the Park (I admit, I was one of the chief worriers) but now I sense a small change in the way people are talking and interacting with each other. There are more smiles and nods of acknowledgement. People are asking me for help even if they know they don’t need it. It’s like the Olympic Park has been given some kind of electric jolt and, dare I say it, a fuzzy, unthreatening patriotism has taken hold. It’s so nice to see the flag being raised so often and so vigorously. It’s being reclaimed before my very eyes. The only downside is Donald’s not here to see it.

  I’m ready to leave for the end of my shift as I catch sight of a large group of children a few feet away, some of them drinking water from plastic bottles. A couple of them are having co-ordination problems as they try to get the bottle into their mouths. There are many spectators in the way so I cannot see if there is an adult with them. After a minute or so of squinting my eyes, I’m amazed to see Rob, dressed in jeans and Black Sabbath t-shirt, pop up behind them and offer his help to one of the young boys, who has spilt some water on his collar. Rob pulls out a tissue and wipes the boy’s shirt. When he’s finished, he pulls the boy’s cheek playfully as he gets up. Rob then turns and notices me. He smiles and points at the boy to look at me, as if to say ‘respect that lady in uniform’.

  ‘I thought you were working today, what happened?’ I ask, moving forward and picking up one of bottles dropped by the same boy.

  ‘Change of plan. We’re all off to North Greenwich to watch the Gymnastics later today. I got a call from the powers-that-be late last night that they needed some bums on seats over there so here I am. General Dogsbody strikes again. Always willing but never sees a shilling.’ He pauses and moves towards me, putting his hand on my shoulder. ‘How are you anyway, Frannie? Sorry that I haven’t been able to see you for a couple of days, I’ve been so busy – and the athletics haven’t even started yet!’

  ‘Oh don’t worry about that, I’m fine. I can see you’ve got your hands full with the kids. Did they come down on the train?’

  ‘Yes, they came to London with a couple of their special needs teachers. They’re already at the North Greenwich Arena right now. We’re meeting them there.’ He looks down at the children. ‘But they were desperate to come to the Olympic Park first so I obliged. I feel so proud that I got them here in such a short space of time…’

  ‘So it wasn’t prearranged?’

  ‘No, after I got the call from Lord Locog last night, I started making arrangements. Somehow, we got it all organised. Didn’t have to come far though, only from Watford – and strangely the Tube and the trains were less jam-packed than expected even though it was a working day.’

  ‘Maybe we’re better organised than we think. We always talk ourselves down.’

  ‘Not anymore!’ says Rob, using his hand to help a boy wave a small Union flag. ‘We’re putting the ‘Great’ back in Britain again!’

  ‘Not with that ghastly t-shirt you’re not! What on earth possessed you to wear that?’

  ‘Possessed: good word, very appropriate. No, I just didn’t have any time to put on anything else, and that’s the God’s honest truth. They’re a great band anyway, what’s your problem?’

  ‘I’ve never heard of them…’

  ‘And I’d never heard of John Tavener…’

  ‘Oh, you’re so slanderous Rob, please stop,’ I say, with a smile.

  Rob laughs too – but he then pauses and watches me for a few seconds.

  ‘It’s so great to see you smile, Frannie, do you know that?’ he says. ‘You’ve been through so much that it fills me with a joy I can’t describe…’

  ‘It’s this…’ I say, looking around the Olympic Park and raising my hands. ‘…and these people, and those flags and these children…’ I bend down and stroke the forehead of a boy who’s more interested in the big Park Live screen behind me. ‘…What can I say? There’s something in the air…’

  Rob taps me on the shoulder and starts singing Phil Collins In the Air Tonight in such an appalling manner that I can’t wait for him to stop.

  ‘You have such a terrible taste in music, do you know that?’ I say.

  ‘Who says I like the old Genesis mucker? The song’s just appropriate for this moment. I can belt out a Black Sabbath number if you want?’

  ‘Oh don’t do that, please…’

  Rob laughs and moves closer to me. He gives me a hug and then starts to move off with the children.

  ‘I hope you enjoy yourself, have we got a chance of a medal in the gymnastics?’ I ask.

  ‘Maybe. It’s Louis Smith and the boys – but who cares? The kids will remember this event forever.’

  I am just about to wave goodbye but remember a niggling detail that has been hovering in the background all day.

  ‘Have you seen Jessica today?’

  ‘She’s moving her stuff from Streatham to Watford. She has got the day off unlike yours truly. She’ll be back tomorrow.’

  ‘She’s staying at your place then?’

  ‘Well, she can’t stay on the streets can she?’

  ‘No, I suppose not…’

  ‘Don’t worry, she hasn’t stopped talking about you for the last couple of days. She’ll be knocking on your door pretty soon.’

  ‘Oh, she won’t do that now. She needs to be with her own age group and her own friends.’

  ‘Maybe but she feels a connection with you. Don’t knock that, Frannie, because she could become the best friend you’ve ever had.’

  I get ho
me and realise I have enough energy to watch the highlights on TV. While I’m disappointed we haven’t won a gold (we’re in 20th place in the medal table with one silver and two bronze medals), I’m hopeful, after today’s events, that something good is about to happen, particularly after seeing the Men’s team in the Gymnastics perform so heroically. They win a bronze – but it could have been so much more after a protest by one of the other teams demotes them from a silver medal. But Tom Daley – and his diving partner Peter Waterfield – miss out on a medal altogether, finishing fourth in the synchronised event. This fails to puncture my inexplicable optimism, which I can only put down to the random meeting with Rob and his wonderful gang this afternoon – and, perhaps to a lesser extent, William’s visit to the house last night. I hope it remains. I have experienced such wild fluctuations in mood over the last few months that I’m not holding my breath. But for now, it’s even drawing me in to events I’d never watch like the weightlifting and the water polo. I even catch a bit of Great Britain’s hockey match against Argentina. Even though it’s the Men’s tournament I wonder, somewhat irrationally, if Jessica is there. A few minutes later, the bell rings. I almost can’t believe that two people would want to visit the house in two days; I’m not sure that even happened in Donald’s day. I get up and answer it, still thinking about those wonderful gymnasts in the North Greenwich Arena like Louis Smith and Max Whitlock. Such well-rounded boys. I wonder if Rob and his crew got to the arena in time. I hope so, they wouldn’t have wanted to miss that. I open the door and am quite shocked to see Lawrence, standing there in his suit, mobile in one hand, trilby hat in the other. He doesn’t make eye contact with me.

  ‘Hello Francesca, here you go,’ he says, handing Donald’s trilby hat to me. ‘William should not have kept it in the first place. If I’d have known, I would have handed it back years ago.’