Seventeen Gifts for Frannie and Jess

by Nasser Hashmi

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Well, there’s this one girl I see every weekday. She’s dressed quite poorly, her uniform’s all over the place and she doesn’t seem to have any friends. I developed a relationship with her and she tells me her mother ‘puts powder up her nose’ all the time. I was shocked at how easily this nine-year-old girl told me about this. I didn’t report it because I didn’t want to hurt her anymore. It’s not my job. But you can see that this girl just needs guidance, a bit of love and a bit of direction. She just isn’t getting it – and that’s heartbreaking.’

  ‘Very sorry to hear that. Is that a big problem in your area? Drugs?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that. Simon’s had his alcohol and fag issues but he seems to be getting a handle on them now. The rest of the community are probably the same as anywhere else. I bet London’s even worse than us.’

  ‘Probably is,’ I say, with a wry smile. ‘Lucky I’m only there for the Olympics!’

  ‘Or unlucky if you’ve got Jessica in your house. I’m praying she comes back in one piece.’

  ‘She will, although I think she’ll come back a changed girl; wiser and more mature.’

  ‘I know that – and I can’t thank you enough for taking her in.’

  ‘It’s really nothing, honestly. I was on my own anyway. She’s even getting on well with people in the neighbourhood…’

  ‘Like who?’

  I hesitate and wonder whether I should have brought this up at all. There seems a slight loosening of the rules in terms of the boundaries of conversation. In the past week, I’ve noticed people – including me – saying things they should have never said, being too open and blurting out intimate information to complete strangers. It’s not like me at all. But this is Jessica’s mum we’re talking about here – and I like her already. It can’t do any harm to talk a bit more on this warm and fuzzy Sunday.

  ‘He’s called William…’

  * * *

  I try to get things done, like tend to the garden or clean the bathroom, but the Olympic coverage keeps getting in the way. Andy Murray and Roger Federer are playing in the men’s tennis final and the sheer exuberance of the event draws me in; the wild, cheering crowd, the colour distinction when compared to the all-white of Wimbledon and the beautiful athleticism of the two players. I try to leave my sofa but I can’t. Another shot leads to another blistering wall of sound as Murray seems to be getting the upper hand. It’s as if the cap of stuffy regulation that dominates Wimbledon has been blown off, creating a near-hysterical, but harmonious crowd, who seem to be more to Murray’s liking. He looks completely at ease on Centre Court. That hasn’t always been the case. He wins the first set 6-2 and I go to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. When I return, I’m convinced it will be Andy’s day as Federer looks tired and off his game. Perhaps Jessica was right that his epic semi-final has taken its toll. He takes the second set 6-1 and is 5-4 up in the third and I’m already imagining him winning the gold medal; purging all that pent-up disappointment and beaming at his mother while the crowd go wild. He has match point on his serve but it still feels surreal: Murray in navy blue, Federer in red, surrounded by purple with hardly a tinge of white to be seen. He’s 40-15 up and has match point. The crowd hold their breath – and I feel like I’m not breathing at all. He prepares to serve and – he serves an ace right down the middle. He’s won the gold medal! Centre Court erupts to create a sound that’s almost too much for my living room. He kneels down and puts his hands over his face. He walks to the net and shakes Federer’s hand and then the two men embrace, something that always gives me goosebumps. He walks to his seat and puts his racket down. He turns, closes his eyes and points his fingers up the sky. I try to contain myself but the tiny gesture is a gateway into my soul, just like Mo and his daughter wrapping themselves in the Union flag. The tears rush down my cheeks again. Andy Murray, Olympic Champion. Thank you for this glorious, epic moment. The momentum is with us now: the past can no longer weigh us down.

  I read Gillian’s book in the back garden after tea and biscuits. It’s a lovely day so I decide to sit out there for the first time since Donald passed away. A low-flying blackbird and a lime green butterfly are the only things to distract me from the book as I find it hard to put down. Gillian describes her relationship with her father in intimate detail, calling the early years ‘extremely loving and stable’. It’s clear she thinks of him as a hero and cites one particular instance when he helped clear the whole neighbourhood of debris after a nasty flood. But then his body and mind start to fail him – and Gillian finds it hard to relate to her father in the same way. The blank, distant expressions on his gaunt face, the lack of eye contact, the marathon pauses between speaking were too much for her. She continues to visit regularly but they inevitably begin to drift apart because Gillian repeats a single word again and again: helplessness. There is no way out for her and her family. They simply have to watch on as this fit, strong and able man turns into a shivering wreck with a pill-rolling tremor and an arm that pulls to the floor. ‘He is not my father anymore’ writes Gillian. ‘That man is dead’. I think of Donald as I read those brutal words. Is it better to die or live with conditions like Dementia or Parkinson’s? What if Donald had lived after his stroke? It could have happened. Would he have been disabled? Would his memory work properly? Would I have had to care for him? To wash him and bathe him? Reading Gillian’s book makes me rethink these questions. They are not as clear cut as I once thought. I am so absorbed in the book that I completely ignore the distant sound of the front door opening and closing as I know it’s Jessica back home after her shift (she has been using Donald’s spare front door key). I carry onto to the end of Chapter 6 (there are only 8 in total) when Jessica finally walks through the house to the back garden.

  ‘Had a much lighter day than yesterday, thank God,’ she says, sitting down on the plastic white chair by my side. ‘Still a bit crazy though with Andy Murray winning; did you see that?’

  ‘Yes, the noise at Wimbledon was frightening. It felt like a different country.’

  ‘You mean it was more rock and roll than Last Night of the Proms? I know which I prefer…’

  ‘John Tavener…’

  ‘Bat for Lashes, even though she’s not rock and roll.’

  ‘Don’t think we’ll ever see eye to eye on them,’ I say, with a smile. ‘But do remember that John Tavener’s music was played at Princess Diana’s funeral, a huge national event. It wasn’t my favourite piece of his but a lot of people still play it. Actually, I think the mood of the nation has got similarities to that day in 1997; the flags, the shared experience but it’s all about joy rather than despair…’

  ‘Hmm, this is quite deep for early evening, Frannie,’ she says, looking at Gillian’s book in my hand. ‘What are you reading there?’

  ‘It’s about Gillian’s dad. She’s published this book herself, it’s about his struggles with Parkinson’s Disease and how their relationship has changed.’

  ‘I hope it’s not going to send you on a downer for the rest of the evening. We’ve had a ridiculous couple of days. We need to enjoy the moment.’

  ‘It won’t change how I’m feeling right now,’ I say, turning the book over in my hands and looking at the anorexic blurb on the back. ‘Nothing will have an impact on that. But this book’s got me into reading again, something I haven’t really done seriously for years. Donald always loved books, obviously because he ended up working in the library, but I was always less enthusiastic; I seemed to like classical music, TV dramas and theatre a bit more. But reading this…’ I look up at Jessica and curiously make a knocking gesture on the book, ‘…has made me appreciate what books can do. I’d forgotten how truthful and intimate they can be.’

  ‘Agree with that. Give me a sports bio any day. I can lap those up in a couple of weeks. I’ve just finished Denise Lewis’s Personal Best and I’m tackling M
ia Hamm’s Go For The Goal next.’

  ‘Mia Hamm, who’s she?’

  ‘American soccer player. Even Dad had heard of her…’

  ‘Speaking of which, one of your parents did call today. Who do you think it was?’

  ‘Dad…’

  ‘No, it was your mother…’

  She rolls her eyes. ‘I did tell her I was working but you know what mother’s are like.’

  I smile and almost break into a laugh. ‘I don’t as it happens.’

  ‘Sorry, didn’t mean that but I told her not to pester you if I’m not here…’

  ‘She didn’t pester, in fact, we had a nice chat…’

  ‘Did Dad get that sports job at that ad firm, then?’

  ‘You already knew?’

  ‘He hinted at it, but it wasn’t confirmed…’

  ‘I’ll let your mum talk to you about that. I don’t want to say anything out of turn.’

  She gets up off the chair. ‘Sorry, not in the mood for too much family ding-dong right now, I’m knackered. I’m going to start preparing dinner if that’s all right…’

  ‘It’s okay, I’ve already done some prep; we’ve still got a bit of time.’

  She heads towards the kitchen door and turns, putting her hand on her forehead.

  ‘Oh, I nearly forgot, I’ve invited William to come round this evening so I hope that’s okay. We wanted to watch Usain Bolt in the 100 metres together…’

  ‘But it’ll be over in ten seconds,’ I say, with a smile. ‘What are you going to do for the rest of the time?’

  ‘We’ll think of something. He wants to get a takeaway too, maybe a pizza. I said I’d ask you first.’

  ‘But we’ll be having dinner, what do you want a takeaway for?’

  ‘He usually has dinner and a takeaway late at night. As you can see he’s rather a well-built boy.’

  ‘We’ve got work tomorrow – and I’m not sure my body could take another late night.’

  She opens the door and smiles. ‘Don’t worry I’ll tuck you up with some cocoa while we polish off the pepperoni pizza at midnight.’

  ‘What if I want some takeaway pizza? I’ve never had any you know…’

  ‘NEVER?’ She shouts so loud my ears hurt. ‘You’ve never eaten takeaway pizza?’

  ‘Of course, I’ve had pizza in restaurants and all that, homemade too, but no, I’ve never paid anyone else to send one to my house. You don’t know what grubby things they put in them.’

  Jessica winks. ‘Well, tonight’s the night Frannie. You’ll be able to taste the mucky magic on your lips. What do you say?’

  ‘I can’t wait…’

  ‘I’ll give William a call now so he knows we’re on…’

  She’s about to leave but I can’t help getting in the last word, particularly after the way this conversation has developed.

  ‘Oh, by the way, William’s name did pop up in my conversation with your mother. I don’t know how it happened but it did. She might ask you about him next time.’

  ‘Oh Frannie, you didn’t?’

  ‘Whether I did or didn’t is academic now it’s just a case of what you do. After all, you did forget to tell me about Gillian’s purse being left here and I did have to look silly for a while. I’d say we’re one-one now, what do you think?’

  ‘I’ll take a draw as I’m playing away from home. As long as you didn’t tell Mum about my untidy bedroom I’ll let it go…’

  ‘Would I do that?’

  She shakes her head and smiles. She finally leaves the garden and I settle down to try and finish Gillian’s short book, feeling even better than before. I’m looking forward to this evening with William, Jessica, Usain Bolt and a slice of pizza. But more importantly, I also feel like helping Gillian later in the week with her public meeting about the library campaign. Of course, Donald would want me to do that, but this time it will be my decision. The book in my hands has seen to that.

  The two boxes of pizza lying on the table in the living room created an almighty stink but what could I do? A mouldy, tomato-scented smell dominated – and would take days to clear. Surely this was a mistake? Eating out of a cardboard box just felt wrong; even when I brought in plates, knives and forks to give the pizza some credibility. Jessica and William ignored the cutlery and ate with their hands, picking up the curved, lumpy slices and gobbling them up as if they’d never had a meal in their lives. I used my plate, knife and fork but found it hard to cut the damned thing as the cheese kept sticking to the plate. William and Jessica enjoyed this spectacle as much as the Olympic events that were taking place on TV. The 100 metres was about to begin – and I decided to give up on the soggy pepperoni and pineapple monstrosity on my plate. I put it back on the table and put my feet up on the sofa.

  ‘Come on, Mrs Hartford,’ says William, licking his fingers as he devoured another huge slice. ‘You don’t know what you’re missing.’

  ‘Oh I do Will and that’s fine by me.’ I glance at him and, in particular, his striking red, yellow and green wristband. ‘Isn’t that in Jamaican colours?’ I ask.

  ‘You’re not going to believe this, but it’s actually my Dad’s. He’s started packing a few things away, as a precaution, and this old wristband popped up from when he was a bit of a reggae fan in the late 70s…’

  ‘Lawrence was into reggae music? You’re right, I don’t believe it.’

  ‘It’s true though, but I don’t want to talk about that now. I’d rather Mum and Dad stay together rather than think of the past…’

  ‘So what was Lawrence’s reaction when Gillian told her?’

  ‘Sorry, Mrs Hartford but they don’t tell me anything. I just hear voices, things moving around, a bit of packing, that kind of thing. I don’t know if they’ve made up or if they’re splitting up. I think they tell Jack more than me.’

  ‘Come on, can we concentrate on the race now, it’s nearly starting?’ says Jessica, sitting cross-legged on the sofa with a particularly bare slice of pizza in her hand. ‘We’ve got time to talk about crap things later.’

  ‘It’s not crap Jessica, it’s quite serious,’ I say, folding my arms and leaning back on the sofa. ‘No-one wants a family to break up…’

  ‘Agreed. But talking about divorce while the fastest man on earth, a legend already, is about to race isn’t my idea of a memorable evening.’

  William smiles and looks at me. He stretches out his slightly greasy hand, making it into a fist. ‘Call it quits for now?’ he says. ‘Or she might not buy me any pizza ever again.’

  I make my own, somewhat hasty fist, and let him touch it.

  ‘I can’t imagine divorcing her,’ he says, with a wink.

  Jessica doesn’t even register William’s latest quip. She’s deep in concentration with her eyes fixed on the TV screen. Usain Bolt is in lane six while his training partner, Johan Blake, is lane four. Jason Gatlin is sandwiched between the two. Bolt puts his finger on his lips as they prepare to take their marks. Bolt bends down and crosses himself before pointing a finger up into the sky. A deathly hush goes round the stadium. William takes another bite of pizza which annoys me a little. It feels so loud in the circumstances. All eight athletes have their heads down, eyes on the track, fingers pressed behind the white line. ‘Set…’ The starter gun goes off and the crowd roar into life. Jessica screams at the top of her voice, as Bolt is left behind in the first 40 metres. But then he starts to power through and Jessica’s anxiety begins to melt away. She shouts for joy as he breezes through the last 20 metres and rushes for the line. He beats Blake into second place as Gatlin gets third. The time is 9.64 and Jessica is clapping and screaming as if she is part of the Bolt team or even his own family. But I feel exhilarated as well. The shortness of the race always seems to create the highest anxiety. There is no time to mess up. No time for mis
takes. All gone in a flash. Four years of build-up obliterated in ten seconds. Jessica keeps on cheering and takes William’s wristband off his wrist. She starts waving it in the air and singing a weird song which I can’t make head or tail of. Something about ‘karmacoma’ and ‘Jamaica’.

  ‘It’s a Massive Attack song,’ says William, as if that’s going to make me understand things better. ‘It was the first song she heard when she first went into the bookies to see her dad.’

  ‘Lord, the little girl must have been frightened to death!’

  Jessica wags her finger at me as if to say she was far from a frightened little bunny.

  ‘So it was nice was it?’ I ask. ‘Going into a smoke-filled room with all those men clutching their betting slips. I can think of better places.’

  Jessica smiles and stops singing. She sits down and drinks a glass of water. ‘Phew, I’m tired now.’ She rubs her throat and looks up at me.

  ‘I do love Usain Bolt,’ she says. ‘He’s keeping the sport alive, basically…’

  ‘Because everyone else is on drugs you mean?’ says William, with a wicked smile.

  Jessica playfully punches him on the shoulder. ‘No, because he’s a superstar – and people outside athletics can relate to him. It brings more people into the sport.’ She looks at the TV, as Bolt wraps a Jamaican flag round his shoulders like a cape. ‘I mean, look at him. That’s a real superhero, not these weedy ones you see at the pictures.’

  William moves up to Jessica. ‘And me? Am I strong enough for you?’

  ‘Can you run the hundred inside ten?’

  William looks doubtful. ‘Thirteen seconds maybe…’

  ‘Unlucky brother…’

  William tries to grab hold of Jessica but she elusively springs up off the sofa. She starts to run around the room as William chases her.

  ‘Not fast enough, little boy,’ she says, dodging his grasp. She points to the screen. ‘Learn off the master!’

  ‘Oi children, please calm down,’ I say, with a mixture of bewilderment and pleasure. ‘I don’t want any furniture broken. The pizza odours and reggae wristbands are enough for my blood pressure, thank you.’