Seventeen Gifts for Frannie and Jess

by Nasser Hashmi

  ‘Er, Mrs Hartford, there may be some cancellations this afternoon, there always are,’ she says. ‘Do you want me to call you if we have an appointment available?’

  ‘Yes, that would be helpful…’

  ‘Do you want to tell me a bit about your problem so I can give Dr Adamson a head start?’

  ‘Not really, I’d rather speak to the doctor…’

  ‘Very well, Mrs Hartford. I realise you’ve been through a difficult time. I will call you if there’s a cancellation.’

  The line is cut off before I get a chance to say goodbye. Dr Adamson did help me quite a lot when Donald died and the surgery as a whole were also very supportive: advice on support groups, paperwork, funeral arrangements and a few other things. The doctor didn’t actually know Donald that well (perhaps because Donald had never been to the doctor in 35 years) but they met through the appointments I had to attend and, subsequently developed a respectful, if distant, relationship.

  I make lunch and turn on the TV. I was adamant I’d resist the Olympics for the whole day today but can’t help it: the infectious sound of chattering spectators still lingers, their patriotic tentacles continue to draw me in. I watch some rowing – the men’s lightweight coxless fours – and Team GB put up another sterling show to win a silver medal. The noise and atmosphere keep me watching for longer than I should. I keep the TV on, eat lunch and then return to watch Andy Murray playing in his quarter-final at Wimbledon. It’s strange to see so much colour at the All-England club. There’s seems to be a casual, relaxed atmosphere amongst the players and spectators. Maybe it will help Murray win a gold medal after losing to Roger Federer earlier in the summer? It could be the turning point for him.

  The phone rings and I think about not answering it: the tennis and the mild pain in my back seemed to be good enough reasons to stay put. But it rings again, on four occasions, so I get up and walk into the hallway to answer it. Gillian’s voice gives me a soothing, unexpected lift. I feel guilty about not answering her call before.

  ‘Oh you were probably resting after all your hard work,’ says Gillian, speaking much quicker than usual. ‘I think you deserve a day off! Look, I’m just preparing a late lunch for myself as I’ve been at the library all morning; I wondered if you wanted to come round to join me?’

  ‘Thanks for the offer, Gillian, but I’ve just had lunch,’ I say, looking over my shoulder and wondering if Andy Murray has won the latest rally. ‘And besides I don’t think I could even make the short walk to your place. I feel very stiff this morning. Back trouble, I think. Had to call the doctors so they’ve booked me in for an appointment tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh you poor thing. Do you want me to come round immediately? I can be there in five minutes…’

  ‘No, there’s no need for that. I think I can manage for now. I just hope…’

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘I hope that I haven’t done any damage to my back. I’ve still got another five shifts to do next week. I don’t want to miss out on all that. It’s all happening for Team GB now. Those flags are like magic wands for me.’

  ‘Health first, Frannie, the medals come later. Look, I’ll be round in five minutes…’

  ‘No honest, you don’t need to come round…’

  ‘I do. I really don’t like to see you alone, Frannie. I think about you so much I wish I could move in with you to keep you company. But, obviously, circumstances won’t allow and I have to make do with Larry-come-lately. I’m leaving now, so see you soon…’

  She hangs up before I can answer. I put the phone down and walk back to the living room where I see Andy Murray hitting an effortless winner. He doesn’t seem to feel the pressure and is enjoying the adulation of the crowd. He doesn’t seem to have the weight of the world on his shoulders anymore. Just as I was beginning to feel the same, I’m forced to clutch my back again to absorb the searing pain.

  The phone rings again and I think it must be Gillian – but the doorbell rings at almost the same time so I realise it can’t be her. I answer the door first and she comes scuttling in with a book under her arm and a small pharmacy bag which seems to have a few bottles of pills in it. The phone is still ringing and she walks over to pick it up.

  ‘No, it’s okay Gillian, I’ll get it,’ I say, trying to show I’m in decent fettle by bending down to pick up the receiver.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, with a polite wave of the hand to usher her into the living room.

  She nods and walks off, tapping her fingers on the specific bottle of pills she thinks I need to ease the pain in my back. I answer the phone. It’s Dr Adamson’s secretary.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Hartford?’

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘There is a cancellation this afternoon and I could get you in to see Dr Adamson at 2.40pm. Would that be suitable for you?’

  ‘Oh er, yes, I wasn’t expecting that. I’ve got a visitor now so I’m not sure.’ I pause and think about what Gillian is doing in the living room. Is she watching the tennis? ‘When do you need to know by?’

  ‘Well, immediately really as it’s only a couple of hours away. I’d need an answer now to book you in, otherwise there are many other people waiting.’

  I rub my back and then straighten it a couple of times. The pain has lessened but it’s so stiff I’m not sure I can sit down comfortably.

  ‘Okay, that’s fine, I’ll take that appointment please; 2.40 is it?’

  ‘Yes, Dr Adamson will see you then…’

  The secretary hangs up and I put the receiver down and walk back into the living room. Gillian isn’t there; she has walked through to the kitchen and is preparing a couple of soluble pills to be thrown into a glass of water. I walk towards her and she looks up at me and smiles.

  ‘Anyone important?’ she asks, watching the pills dissolve into the water. ‘Dad’s been through all the painkillers in the world. It’s what makes me an expert. Get this inside you and you won’t feel a thing for a few hours, at least.’

  ‘It was the surgery. They’ve had a cancellation so I can get an appointment today…’

  ‘No problem,’ she says, looking up and handing me the fizzing glass. ‘I’ll drive you down there.’

  ‘But I can walk, it’s only 10 minutes away…’

  ‘Maybe you can, but is it worth it? You might aggravate things further and that’s the last thing you want right now.’ She pauses and puts her hand on my shoulder. ‘Isn’t it Frannie?’

  I nod and reluctantly take the glass.

  ‘Get it down you, it’ll ease the pain away for a while,’ she says. ‘Then I’ll drive you down to the surgery and make you some cupcakes this afternoon, how about that?’ She turns and picks up the book she’d brought with her. ‘Also bought you this. It’s something very personal to me but I would like you to read it.’

  I take the book and wipe the dust away from its slightly amateurish cover. It’s called A Dad Shivers, A Daughter Weeps. There is an image of a father playing hopscotch with his small daughter in the back garden. The author is Gillian Bernhard. I look at Gillian and feel a strange, fuzzy elation.

  ‘Did you write this?’

  ‘Yes, just published it myself, only 50 copies or so. But I wanted to get my Dad’s story out there. He was diagnosed so early that he’s had to live with the condition for nearly 30 years already. I need to show people what that can do to a person – and to a family.’

  I feel the cover in my hands and then hold the book to my chest. ‘You should be proud of yourself, Gillian. Has your father read it yet?’

  ‘He doesn’t know about it. He can still read but his hands shake when he has to hold a book. He also forgets what he’s just read.’ She pauses and urges me to drink the glass of pill-soaked water. ‘Come on, Frannie, drink it before it loses its kick.’

  I move my lips to
wards the glass but then pause. ‘Did Donald know about this book? I’m sure he’d have encouraged you if he did.’

  ‘He knew I wrote a few things but he didn’t know about the book.’ She reaches forward and eases her hand onto the bottom of the glass, tipping it towards my mouth. ‘Sometimes, it’s easier to put these things in print rather than talk about them in the open.’

  Gillian and I walk into Dr Adamson’s consultation room. He is tapping a keyboard on his computer. He sees us and swivels round in his giant chair, taking his glasses off and offering a handshake to both of us. We both sit down and Dr Adamson swivels round to his computer again, tapping some more keys before a final click of the mouse. He then turns and gives us his full attention.

  ‘Mrs Hartford, it’s nice to see you looking well,’ he says. ‘Have you caught a bit of the sun? Looks like it?’

  ‘Er no, I don’t think so. I have been standing outside a lot, that’s true, but the sun hasn’t been out that much so I’m not sure…’ I turn to look at Gillian. ‘I haven’t changed that much have I, Gill?’

  Gillian shakes her head but is clearly annoyed by Dr Adamson’s opening question.

  ‘It must be all those Olympic smiles then,’ says Dr Adamson. ‘Anyway, what I can do for you?’

  ‘It’s my back,’ I say, awkwardly putting my arm behind me to locate the pain. ‘When I woke up this morning, I was in so much pain I thought I’d never move again. It was excruciating. It’s just down here, low down…’

  Dr Adamson moves forward in his seat. ‘Right, let’s have a look. Pull your cardigan up…’

  I pull my cardigan and blouse up and feel an immediate draught wafting across my body, the lower back bearing the brunt of the cold air. He presses his fingers into the lower end of my spine and then onto my fleshy bits in the same region. I don’t feel anything for a couple of minutes as he continues to probe, his scalpel-like fingers almost causing as much irritation as the pain itself. He then reaches a sensitive spot and I jump in my seat.

  ‘Ow, yes right there,’ I say, as I close my eyes and let out a mild shriek of pain. ‘Just there. That’s very painful. Feels like I’m completely paralysed when you push down there.’

  ‘You’re not paralysed, Mrs Hartford…’ he says, moving back and looking at his computer again. He types into the computer. ‘Are you enjoying your work at the Olympics? My secretary sees you coming back into the village sometimes, still wearing your violet and pink volunteers’ uniform.’

  ‘It’s purple and red,’ says Gillian.

  ‘Okay, purple and red,’ he says, glancing up at Gillian. He turns back towards me. ‘How many days have you just worked, Mrs Hartford?’

  ‘Five…’

  ‘Consecutive days?’

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘And that would be how many hours roughly?’

  ‘I don’t know, added up, maybe 40 or so.’

  ‘When was the last time you worked 40 hours in a week?’

  I look at Gillian and smile. ‘I did more than that when Donald was around, particularly at home with the housework and all that.’

  ‘I mean outside, paid work, that kind of thing…’

  ‘Well, I suppose 20 or even 25 hours is the most I’ve ever done in my volunteering – but you have to remember someone had to run the house. That’s a full-time job in itself.’

  ‘I understand that Mrs Hartford but you have to put all this in context,’ he says, looking at me and folding his arms. ‘If you’ve done 40 hours this week – and I feel you’re probably underplaying this because going in and out London is another 10 or 12 hours – the likelihood is that your body simply cannot cope with that kind of strain and pressure after so many years of, let’s say, less rigorous work.’

  ‘Volunteering can be very rigorous,’ says Gillian, interrupting again. ‘Frannie has been working part-time for more than 25 years. Try changing some sheets when someone’s defecated; I’d say that’s pretty rigorous.’

  ‘Er sorry, I haven’t had the pleasure…’

  ‘Gillian Bernhard. I work at the library. I thought I’d come down with Frannie today because she’s barely been able to walk.’

  ‘Oh yes, Mrs Bernhard, I think I read about a campaign of yours in the local paper. Also, don’t you have a son?’

  ‘Two. The younger’s one regularly here clogging up your surgery. He gets a lot of sinus infections.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Bernhard, now let’s get back to the issue in hand,’ he says, politely but with a pause that’s longer than necessary. ‘So Mrs Hartford, it’s clear to me that your body has responded badly to the little breather you’ve had after a five-day stint of intense shifts. I would also mention the fact, although I realise it might be sensitive, that your husband only passed away a few months ago. This kind of psychological strain can also have a negative effect on the body. I’m not saying it has, but it could be a factor.’

  ‘But the pain’s physical, it’s got nothing to do with Donald…’

  ‘I get that – I’m just saying you’ve had a traumatic few months and then when you add in your whole Olympic experience, it’s a lot to take…’

  ‘…For an old woman?’ says Gillian.

  ‘You said that not me…’

  ‘So you’re not going to do any scans?’ asks Gillian.

  ‘Not immediately. We’ll see how the pain develops. Hopefully, it will subside after a period of rest.’ He turns and looks at me. ‘I wouldn’t worry, Mrs Hartford, I think you’re going to be fine. It’s just that your body is so stiff because it’s not used to that kind of intensity. That is why you’re getting some difficult symptoms. I’ll prescribe you some painkillers…’

  ‘That won’t be necessary.’

  ‘Are you sure? I take it you have more shifts next week. They may help you get over the line.’

  ‘Like you said I’ll just have to rest for these couple of days…’

  ‘Yes,’ he says, breaking out into a smile for the first time. ‘You know I run a clinic here at the surgery, two evenings a week, which tries to get people to change their lifestyle habits and get their bodies back in some sort of health. We are absolutely overwhelmed with diabetes patients, smokers and many more who, with just a little bit of adjustment, could get their lives back on track. I mention this because yesterday something strange happened. I usually get about 20 or 30 people turning up every week – but yesterday almost 200 people turned up. We couldn’t fit them all in. I could only put it to one thing…’

  ‘Which is?’ says Gillian.

  ‘The Olympics, and in particular, Team GB’s success yesterday. I can think of no other reason for the phenomenal response. More people want to get active and are inspired to do something with their lives, particularly those with health problems. They’re willing to open up and share things.’

  ‘It’s true, Frannie,’ says Gillian, turning towards me. ‘I’ve seen subtle changes at the library too. One man mentioned Lizzie Armitstead to me – and I wondered who he was talking about! I know you don’t see a lot of this because you’re actually there, at the coalface, but it is quite strange to see the Union flag in people’s windows in the village. It’s not the kind of thing we usually do round here.’

  I nod and notice Dr Adamson is actually enjoying listening to Gillian now. He reaches over to shake my hand and does likewise with Gillian.

  ‘Great to see we’re back on the same page,’ he says. ‘Now, Mrs Hartford, do come back to me if the pain gets worse. My guess is you’ll be back throwing yourself through the Olympic rings next week without too much trouble.’

  ‘Thank you doctor,’ I say, getting up from my seat.

  ‘Hmm, bit of a wasted visit, I’d say,’ says Gillian.

  ‘As I say come back to me if matters deteriorate,’ says Dr Adamson.

  ‘Don’t worry, we will,
’ says Gillian.

  ‘I meant Mrs Hartford…’

  ‘Her too…’

  I smile at Gillian’s slightly aggressive tone. I suppose she’s looking out for me. She’s driven me to the surgery, given me a pill for my back pain and prepared cupcakes for me this afternoon. All the doctor has done is provided me with a nice anecdote.

  ‘You can’t trust them,’ whispers Gillian, opening the door as we both head out of the surgery. ‘Same with the county council and their library closures. They all have too much power and none of them are really accountable.’

  ‘I kind of trust him. He was quite nice. He did right by Donald.’

  ‘Maybe, but you have to ask yourself a simple question: are you stressed or are you in pain? Which is it? Because as far as I can tell, you’ve had the happiest five days since Donald died.’

  I look at Gillian as we reach the exit. I didn’t have an answer and felt a twinge in my back again.

  The cupcakes and custard Gillian makes are so delicious I find it hard to resist eating more. But I know I have to resist as my taste buds might cause more trouble for my back. Gillian does go on about the connection between food and joint pain – but doesn’t seem to mind serving me more of her lethal, but perfect, concoctions! I browse through her book while she’s fascinated by what’s happening at the Olympics, particularly in the Velodrome which seems to be at fever pitch. She tells me Team GB are having a great day already – Peter Wilson wins gold in the shooting, Gemma Gibbons wins silver in the judo and there’s another gold and silver in the canoe slalom (she tells me their names too but I literally can’t keep up) – so obviously I’m delighted but there is a slight sadness that I’m not in the Olympic Park soaking up the atmosphere after these wonderful feats. I can only put this feeling down to the strong, soothing pills Gillian has given me. They’ve taken the pain away and made me feel stronger and more energetic than I probably am.