‘Okay ladies I get the message, no need for army measures.’ He swallows his food and pinches his throat as if a piece has got stuck. ‘Do you realise it’s the only meal I’ve had today?’
‘Call that a meal?’ says Jessica. ‘I wouldn’t have fed it to the pest at Stratford Gate…’
About an hour later, I am stunned and bewildered by what is happening. I am inside the Olympic Stadium, at ground level, huddled with 50 or so other volunteers watching the semi-finals of the Women’s 400m. Jessica is standing next to me but Rob has disappeared into the bowels of the stadium. The stands are jam-packed, light bulbs flashing, a crackling sense of expectation as the spectators roar and then offer mild applause. My eyes are fixed on the lush orange track as the athletes come round for the home straight. What am I doing here? I’m supposed be in the Common Domain, not in the prime venue of the Olympic Games. I’m a generalist not a specialist. I’m not supposed to have access to these venues because I don’t have the specific skills. But this doesn’t worry Jessica as she relishes every moment, chatting enthusiastically to the other volunteers about Christine Ohuruogu’s chances if she makes the final (which she does). About 15 minutes later, Rob appears and walks towards our group with a smile on his face. Sheena is by his side carrying what looks like a small cake with candles. Eric is also there with a card in his hand. My heart starts to race faster as if I’ve just heard the starter gun. All the volunteers turn around and look at me. Jessica also turns but looks bewildered. She shakes her head at me as if she doesn’t know what’s going on. Sheena brings the cake towards me, it’s filled with so many small blue candles that I cannot be in denial any longer. It’s for me. Some of the candles have already been blown out; the wafts of air around the stadium are too strong for the tiny flames. All the volunteers start singing and look at me. The song can hardly be heard in amongst the cheering spectators and the constant announcements.
‘Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday Dear Frannie, Happy Birthday to you…’
The volunteers cheer and clap and look at me, expecting me to blow out the candles but I hardly have any strength left. I bend down and try my best but have nothing left after three pathetic efforts. Jessica comes to help finish off the job. She puts her arm round me as we look at the writing on the cake: ‘A True Olympian’; there are also two gold medals on either side. Sheena hands me a card, which I’m relieved to deal with as it’s much easier than the cake. I open it and it says: ‘To Frannie: For doing your duty through difficult times’. It nearly brings tears to my eyes. Rob comes over to hug me and then bends down to kiss me on the cheek.
‘You’ve been a tower of strength to us all, Frannie, and I mean that,’ he says. ‘This is your night. Enjoy it.’
‘But my birthday was yesterday…’
‘I know,’ said Rob. ‘But you were off work. I wanted your colleagues here to show their appreciation. We couldn’t have done that yesterday.’
‘I don’t know what to say…I’m just overwhelmed really…’ I look at Jessica. ‘Did you know about this?’
She shakes her head. ‘I didn’t even know it was your birthday yesterday.’
I nod and look at Rob. ‘Genuinely Rob, I know you get carried away sometimes but this is wonderful, I really mean that.’
He smiles and gives me another hug. Then he looks at his watch and eyes up the cake (still in Sheena’s hand).
‘Right, we’ve got to pack up this mini-celebration quickly or else Locog will sack us all by midnight,’ he says. ‘Sheena do you want to just a cut a piece of cake for Frannie and then we’ll be done? There’s a big night of Athletics to come, we don’t want to be carted out of the stadium for causing a distraction.’
Sheena pulls a small knife out of her pocket and cuts the cake. I notice a few spectators, to our left, are peering over their seats wondering what the hell’s going on. The sweet smell of the cake may have got up their nostrils. She offers me a small, crumbly slice and I pop it into my mouth, closing my eyes as the cream and jam arouse my taste buds.
‘Can you cut some more?’ says Rob. ‘I’m bloody starving.’
‘Wait on, I’m going to give Eric and Jess a piece…’
‘Oh for God’s sake, am I not going to get any food tonight?’
‘Why do you want food when we’re getting so many medals?’ says Sheena.
Rob rolls his eyes and starts to walk away.
‘Here Rob, you can have some of mine, I can’t finish it,’ I say.
He comes back reluctantly and finishes off the cake. Looking a bit happier, he folds his arms and looks out into the Olympic Stadium.
‘You might see something special tonight, you might not,’ he says, glancing across at me. ‘But one thing’s for sure: Donald would have been proud that you were still here, fronting up, helping people and making their visit more memorable.’
‘Oh, you’re getting carried away Rob, I’m just doing my job…’
‘Maybe, but after all this is over, the London 2012 volunteers will be getting a lot of plaudits. I can feel the momentum building already: politicians and the media are already praising us. They’ll need their heroes and heroines – and you’ll be one of them.’
‘Heroin?’ I say, with a smile. ‘Isn’t that the white stuff that supposed to give you a lift? Feels like there was some in that cake.’
‘No, that was cream. But if Jess Ennis or Mo Farah come through for Team GB tonight you’ll have the mother of all overdoses.’
We both laugh before Rob steals another piece of cake that is meant for Eric.
* * *
The wall of noise round the stadium is deafening as Jessica Ennis comes into the home straight in the 800 metres. Buoyant spectators clap the athletes round the track – and I join in as the stadium seems to develop a beat and rhythm of its own. Union flags wave vigorously as she kicks for home. She still trails two athletes but breezes past them with less than 100 metres to go. I cannot believe I’m here to see this. The spectacular noise is exhilarating but too much for my tender ears. She comes up to the line and flings her arms up in the air. A cry of joy written on an unbearably emotional face. The cheers sizzle round the stadium and she bends down, hands on knees, gasping for breath. Then she falls to the floor in tears, flat on her back, body pumping, hands on her face. She’s finally given a bottle of water by a colleague. She sits up, still in tears, and takes a sip. She gets up and acknowledges the crowd, arms up in the air; elation and emotion wrapped up in one. She runs to the crowd and wraps a Union flag round her shoulders. It’s a glorious sight and I try and contain myself. I look away at my fellow volunteers, some cheering, some chatting, one or two in tears. I wonder where Rob is; I must thank him for this. Jessica is just a few feet ahead of me, chatting to Sheena. She moved closer to the action as the climax got closer. She turns and walks back towards me.
‘You see I always told you Jessica is a great name!’ she says, stopping by my side. ‘Jess means blessed, simple as that.’
‘This place is blessed that’s for sure. I’ve never seen anything like that.’
‘I agree,’ she says, nodding her head. ‘Something’s happened to our country. We’re allowed to wave our flags properly for once.’
‘Careful,’ I say, with a smile. ‘Rob might have his PC brigade out again soon.’
‘Hope so because they’ll get swept up in it too.’ She turns and looks beyond the track at the long jump event. ‘And we might have another gold soon. Greg Rutherford’s already jumped 8.31. He’s got two jumps left.’
There is so much euphoria in the stadium I don’t know where to look: at Jessica Ennis with a flag round her shoulders? At the incredible spectators or at the long jump event which is creating an excitement of its own? A few minutes later, the decision is made for me as Greg Rutherford prepares for his penultimate jump. The rhythmic hand clap begins again, a rising, urgent
call to arms for an athlete ready to put his body on the line for his country. He runs up and takes off, a huge leap, as though he’s suspended in the night sky above the stadium. He lands and an almighty roar circulates around the stadium. I look for the white flag. I always look for the white flag when a British athlete is competing. It’s white – and the length of the jump eventually flashes up on the scoreboard. He doesn’t extend his lead – but before I can dream of another gold for Team GB, another wild cheer erupts in the stadium as Mo Farah sets off in the 10,000m final. Oh where to look? They go round and round and round almost making me dizzy before Jessica tells me to watch the long jump again. I’ll need glasses after this (and not the celebratory ones). American Will Claye is the only man who can stop Greg Rutherford getting a gold and he takes off, for the last time. It’s not his best jump – and Rutherford puts his arms up in the air as ear-splitting cheers cascade around the stadium. He’s Olympic Champion! Two golds in a few minutes! Astonishing – and that’s five in one day now. Could it get any better than this? Donald didn’t see a single gold for Great Britain at the 1948 games. All eyes are now on Mo Farah as he hears the bell for the last lap. The sound in the stadium now is almost unbearable; a panoramic, ferocious noise engulfing every being in the giant silver bowl. It tingles and swarms all over my body making me feel as if I could join Mo and the gang, taking every stride, pumping ever arm, taking every breath. He’s in the lead with 200 metres to go and I can’t help but raise my hands above my head to cheer him home. I’ve never been as excited as this. My purple and red-uniformed colleagues are doing the same: jumping up, cheering, pumping their fists. Mo comes into the home straight. He’s going to do it. Bedlam and pandemonium in the stadium. He hits the line – and it’s gold for Britain once again! Mass cheering and hysteria all around me. An exhausted Mo hugs his training partner and then slumps down on the track and kisses the floor, to give thanks for his incredible victory. He taps his head repeatedly as the tears gush out. The unrelenting din of the stadium heightening his emotions. He raises his arms in the air and rushes to the crowd, a Union flag is thrown to him. He drapes it over his shoulders and starts doing a strange thing with his hands, putting them on top of his shaved head and then tapping them repeatedly.
‘What’s he doing?’ I ask, having to shout at Jessica because of the noise in the stadium.
‘It’s the Mobot,’ she says, moving her mouth as close to my ear without nibbling it. ‘He said he’d do it if he won – and he has.’
‘But what does it mean?’
‘Can’t hear you, sorry,’ she says, ‘I’ll tell you later, just enjoy this…’
I nod and look out into the stadium, captivated and exhilarated. Mo Farah is posing for the mass of photographers but then his pregnant wife and daughter come down onto the track. His daughter jumps onto him as he tries to keep hold of her and the Union flag. It’s too much for me. The tears plunge into my cheeks – and I can barely see the track after a few seconds. An unbreakable bond between parent and daughter. A family united. Mo’s country. Jessica sees me crying and wipes away a tear with a tissue. It’s a night of dreams; a golden spectacle that will linger long in the memory. A magical party peppered with red white and blue. Happy birthday to me – even if I didn’t believe in them anymore.
DAY TEN
I spend the whole morning rewatching last night’s tumultuous events. Jessica, luckily for me, had remembered to record most of the action and I sit, with a coffee and an edition of the Sunday Telegraph, to relive some of the incredible things I witnessed. I keep using the remote control to rewind to pivotal moments: Jessica Ennis in the 800, Greg Rutherford’s winning jump and, of course, Mo Farah’s thrilling pursuit of 10,000m glory. But I keep pausing it again and again at Mo’s embrace with his daughter; the Union flag stuck in between them, it’s an image seared into my consciousness. I cannot say how wonderful it makes me feel. If the tears are an indication, then I must be in dreamland. There is also the small matter of all the other gold medals to catch up on from yesterday: two in the rowing and one in the Velodrome. It’s the best day for Britain for 104 years. We now have 14 golds and 29 medals in total, sitting third in the medal table. Seeing all those smiling British faces on the podium again and again feels like a trick of the mind. Are we that good? Maybe we’re not as bad as we think.
After this wonderful, lazy morning (and I don’t feel any stiffness either after yesterday’s marathon stint), I go upstairs and tidy what is now Jessica’s bedroom. She is working this morning and, perhaps as she had to rush to London to beat the Sunday transport restrictions, her bedroom is what she likes to call a lot of things: a tip. So I begin picking up the clothes strewn on her bed as well as the odd magazine, a summer dress, socks and an empty bottle of water. I wonder if she’s always this disorganised or the mitigation of our frequent London trips – at unsociable hours – should be taken into consideration. The neatly-placed picture of her mother and father that she’s placed on the bedside table makes me think the latter. After a few minutes, the bedroom looks how I want it but I cannot help go through some of things Jessica and I trawled through yesterday. The old photo album and the shoebox of Test cricket stubs bring a smile to my face. I didn’t expect them to do that. Donald looks so pleased in some those pictures that I imagine him standing on a podium, with a gold medal round his neck! For some reason, I’m drawn to the happier photos today rather than the ones I tended to highlight when I was with Jessica yesterday. I enjoy going through the shoebox with the Test cricket stubs. On the back of the stubs is a single word describing the day he spent at the cricket ground: ‘frustrating’, ‘enthralling’, ‘captivating’. It was Donald through and through: patience and analysis; it was why he managed to stay in the army for so long. I leave the bedroom and head back downstairs, in the kind of uplifted mood I’d never thought I’d experience again in this house. I start making lunch and think of how Gillian must be coping with cooking Sunday lunch for Lawrence, William and Jack. I dread to think how Lawrence will react if Gillian tells him she wants a divorce. Dishes may fly. It also reminds me that I must finish Gillian’s book, which is still lying on top of the radio. I’ll be doing a disservice to her if I don’t. She’s in her time of need. She did the same for me when Donald died. After peeling the potatoes and shelling some disappointingly small peas, I hear the phone ring. I quickly rinse my hands under the tap, wipe my hands on the tea towel and walk out into the hallway.
‘Hello, is that Mrs Hartford?’
‘Yes…’
‘This is Debbie Lees, Jessica’s mum…’
‘Oh yes, hello, how are you. Nice to finally hear your voice.’
‘Well yes, I thought I’d give you a call because Jessica gave us this number and I just wondered how she was getting on. Is she there today? Because I’ve called her mobile and it’s switched off.’
‘No, I thought you knew; she’s working today…’
‘Oh I didn’t know. I just assumed she’d be off today.’
‘Well, we’ve both been a bit up and down with our shifts so that might be the reason you didn’t know. We started off with quite a structured shift pattern but a lot of things have happened since then as you know…’
‘Yeah I know, tell me about it. Simon’s even got a job with a sports firm who sell advertising online. Wonders never cease.’
‘That’s good to hear. Is that what you wanted to talk to Jessica about?’
‘Sort of but now we’re on, can you tell me honestly how Jessica has been around the house? Has she been pulling her weight? I don’t want her taking the piss, if you’ll excuse my language, because I know you’ve been through a difficult time yourself.’
I think of the bedroom ‘tip’ I just cleared and smile. ‘No, she’s been absolutely fine in the house with me. To be honest, I needed someone like her to keep me company. It’s been a blessing really…’
‘That’s so good to hear. You do
n’t know how much that means to me.’ She pauses and I sense she’s about to say goodbye – but she switches tack. ‘Did you see the athletics last night? Amazing wasn’t it? I know you and Jessica were on the early shift so did you watch it on TV?’
‘We were in the stadium. It’s a long story. But, yes, I don’t have any words for it, really. It was a bit too emotional for me.’
‘I can imagine. And Jessica was in there too?’
‘Running every metre…’
‘We recorded most of the evening’s action because we went out to celebrate Simon’s job in a restaurant. Unfortunately for us, a huge roar went round when Jessica Ennis won her gold medal so we knew exactly what was happening. I think they were watching in the kitchen because there was no TV screen in the main restaurant. Still a great atmosphere though.’
‘She’s from Yorkshire isn’t she?’
‘Yes, Sheffield. One of the staff actually came out later and said he went to school with Jessica Ennis. No-one believed him but it was still entertaining!’
‘I do think these Olympics have made people a bit mad at times…’
‘But it’s fun isn’t it? I would say 60 per cent of our street have red, white and blue flags in their windows. What’s it like down there?’
‘In our village, I’d say the ratio is a bit less because we don’t like to show our true feelings that much. But in my particular street, I have noticed a few more flags, a few more smiles and, even people coming round to knock on my door more often than they did before.’
‘Yes, it’s the shared experience, we crave it so much. I can see it every lunchtime when I’m serving dinners at the local primary school. The buzz and joy I get from watching the kids eat and interact with each other is wonderful. They even had a themed Olympic lunch the other day with things like Usain Bolt burgers on the menu! It’s nice to be working in that atmosphere, although there are downsides…’
Seventeen Gifts for Frannie and Jess Page 15
