I hesitate and notice her father, who has been sitting quietly in the armchair, shaking his head.
‘Did you see that Gillian?’ I say, with a smile. ‘Your father said ‘no’. I don’t think he wants any more copies to go out there.’
Gillian whisks her head round to look at her father. ‘Oh Daddy, you wouldn’t want that would you? You’d want people to know about your life. Otherwise, how would anyone be remembered?’
This time, her father keeps his head still. Gillian laughs.
‘He’s always been playing games with me,’ she says. ‘He’s not going to stop now.’ She looks at me and her smile turns into an expression of defiance. ‘It’s what gets Lawrence worked up. He just doesn’t like the fact that we’re ultra close and understand each other. It’s worse when Daddy comes to stay. Maybe that’s why Lawrence had that drunken escapade. He’d just been told my father was staying in his home for a couple of nights. He hates it. And then there was the fact I didn’t tell him about the book…’
‘He didn’t know?’
‘No, because he would have said I shouldn’t publish. His parents have both passed away so I can understand it a little but I had to explore this devastating illness and it’s affect on our family. I just had to do it.’
‘I think you did the right thing,’ I say. ‘So have you put it in your local library yet?’
‘Erm no, you’re the only person to have read it so far. I wanted to get your views first because I trust you. Now I can go on with a bit more confidence.’ She nervously looks at Jessica and then at me. I can see something else is troubling her. ‘Speaking of books, I have got something to ask you, Frannie. It’s about the public meeting on Thursday with regard to the library campaign. We’re having real problems attracting numbers and I fear it could all be a damp squib, which would be a disaster. I sent out flyers last week but the response hasn’t been great because I’ve been asking people to email so I can get some ideas about turnout and attendance. There’s an issue with volunteers too. I think you’ve stolen them all for the Olympics! I need a couple more to put out some chairs and help with the snacks at the village hall. I just cannot do everything with all the dramas I’m dealing with at home.’ She pauses and glances at her father. ‘It was so much easier when Donald was around. He drove things forward so well, got people interested…so I wanted to ask you something…’
‘Yes…’
‘I’m not sure it’s the right time yet – so if you want to say no I’ll totally understand…’
‘What is it?’
‘Well, I’d like to send flyers out this evening – I actually have a lot of them prepared already – with Donald’s picture on them saying ‘In Loving Memory’ and underneath there will be the usual text about the cuts to the library and how Donald cared so much about his community library. I will use his exact words, if you allow me, and this might help us get more attention and rally people to the cause. I know it’s been difficult to talk about Donald at all over the past few months, never mind use his image or words, but I think this could make a big difference and it could become a fitting legacy to him. But I’ll only do this if you agree to it.’
I sigh and look at Jessica. She nods and crosses her hands in front of her body.
‘I don’t know Gillian,’ I say. ‘I’d obviously need to know what it looks like first but it sounds okay…’
Gillian instantly reaches into her handbag and pulls out a thick bundle of flyers wrapped in an elastic band. She hands one over to me – and I look down at it. A huge colour photo of Donald jumps off the page. His eyes meet mine again – and make me dream for a few seconds. An instant tear falls onto the tip of my nose.
‘Of course, Gillian,’ I say, handing the flyer back and beginning to sob uncontrollably. ‘You can’t believe how happy I feel seeing that…’
I get up and leave the room, needing the sink immediately to cradle my tears.
DAY THIRTEEN
After the team meeting in the morning, it suddenly dawns on me that I only have two working shifts left: today and Saturday. Even the Saturday is a bonus as I’ve twisted Rob’s arm to let me work because I want to sample the closing weekend rather than be sat at home. I still have the energy so why not? But this slightly chilling emotion – that it will be over by this weekend – makes my imagination run riot during a morning that’s quiet by Olympic standards. I start noticing the buildings and the venues more: the Riverbank Arena, the Olympic Stadium, the Aquatics Centre; how will they cope without the tingling mass of spectators? Will the giant playground of the Olympic Park become a desert? Empty and unloved? A wasteland of fleeting memories and nostalgic joy? Luckily for me, a couple of male spectators dressed in red leotards start talking to me and I snap out of my temporary wistfulness. We talk in general about the wild nature of some of the fancy dress costumes we’ve seen during the event. We compare the best and the worst. The men say it has to be a Sikh man dressed as the Queen with a crown perched precariously on his red, white and blue turban. I nominate a woman who, somehow, had five hoops rotating round her body all at the same time: one on her waist, two on her arms, one on her neck and one on her foot. I remember the look of breathless elation on her face and never forgot it. The men in the leotards agree that is a good choice but still feel their Royal Sikh gentleman should get the gold. We finally agree they should both get the top prize. It’s an amicable compromise. When the men in leotards leave me and head to the venue, I realise I have been talking to them for much, much longer than I thought. This trend has been more prevalent since Super Saturday: an extra sentence, an extra conversation, an enthusiastic desire to share information with complete strangers. Jessica even said she wanted to make a campfire here at the weekend so she could stay all night and all morning because she was loving it so much. I sense so many people roaming around the Park today feel the same.
As the camaraderie continues with spectators during the morning, I also sense people are treating us differently than they were a week ago: there is more reverence, more recognition that we’d done a good job, more engagement in our volunteering roles outside the Olympics. I find this quiet flattering and some people are even treating us as some kind of semi-heroic figures, always there to help, always there with a smile. I’m not as comfortable with those descriptions, nice though they are. We’re just doing our job; the success of Team GB is probably the main reason for our elevation.
Yet one spectator continues to labour the point – and even elaborates on our mythic status. She says she imagines all volunteers as athletes: inside the Olympic Stadium, running on the track, throwing the javelin, doing the relays. A purple and red army called Team GM (GamesMaker) making the nation proud. I laugh at all this but can’t help but join in: Jessica doing the 10,000m, me doing the discus, Eric doing the 100m hurdles, Sheena doing shot putt, Rob doing the heptathlon. All in our Team GM shorts and t-shirts, waving at the crowd and absorbing the adulation. We are kings and queens for a fortnight. In the end, it’s the spectator who has to stop me from getting carried away as I do like the thought of Rob doing the heptathlon. Even seven events aren’t enough for him.
These heartwarming encounters with spectators take me up to lunch where, even though I’m eating with Sheena, I start thinking about Donald’s picture on that flyer. I wonder how it will be received when it pops through those letterboxes in our village. Will people ignore it or will they absorb his message and try to do something about it? I imagine the gold-coloured letterbox that has sprung up in Sheffield to pay tribute to Jessica Ennis – and hope a similar one pops up in the village, its sheen rubbing off magically on the villagers, persuading them to join the campaign to save the library. I’m not hopeful – and I’m even a bit frightened that someone will contact me and say this is a shameful move to put Donald at the heart of the campaign.
After lunch, I see Jessica near the Riverbank Arena. She’s looking forward to a b
ig semi-final this evening between GB and Argentina in the women’s hockey. She’s desperate for Great Britain to reach the final and wants me to promise I won’t change channels this evening so she can watch the match in its entirety. I agree (I’ll probably have an early night again) and try not to let on that I do find hockey a bit boring anyway. The penalty corners are exciting but that’s about it. But she also has other things on her mind. Unfortunately, it’s something that raises my anxiety levels again.
‘Saturday is the last day for both of us,’ she says, turning towards me having pointed a New Zealand fan to the relevant seating block inside the Riverbank Arena. ‘I’ve been thinking about doing something for Sunday…’
‘Doing something?’
‘Having a sort of leaving party…’ She corrects herself almost immediately. ‘Well, not a party as such because I know it’s the wrong word to be using and that to have something like that in your house is just plain wrong – but I think we should mark the end of something that we’ve all been part of, something that we’ll remember for our whole lives. I don’t want all that to just end in a damp squib on Sunday. It should end on a high, I think. I don’t want to be eating a packet of crisps and watching Songs of Praise…’
‘Nothing wrong with that,’ I say, with a smile. ‘I think Donald even did that a couple of times…’
‘He liked crisps?’
‘Not really, but he did bring those tubed ones from the supermarket once. I think William suggested them to him and he gave them a try.’
‘Pringles, were they?’
‘I think so, but he ended up using the tube as storage for his paper clips and elastic bands.’
‘If only I was so resourceful!’ She looks at me and hesitates. She bites her bottom lip, always a signal there is something else bubbling underneath the surface. ‘Would you go ape if I already started making plans, you know, asked a few people round to the house? There’s only a few days left after all.’
‘No I wouldn’t go ‘ape’ as you put it but it’d be nice to know who you’ve already asked. I mean, I’d rather not have Richard the Lionheart turn up at my house or those men in leotards I met this morning.’
‘No, no I wouldn’t invite those kind of people, course not. It’s people like Sheena really – and maybe her family, if they want to come. Eric too might be interested. My parents could come down…’
‘Good lord, how many people have you got in mind? I couldn’t cook for all of them!’
‘You wouldn’t have to do a thing. There’d be enough of us to sort that side of things out. Honestly, the bottom line for this get together would be to say a big thank you for all the things you’ve done for me and, of course, remember the wonderful days we’ve spent together. Most of the people I’ve spoke to already are very positive about it as well. They want to pay tribute to the way you’ve handled these couple of weeks.’
I pause and look away from Jessica. The crowds are streaming into the Riverbank Arena, mainly New Zealand and Netherlands fans who are preparing for the first semi-final. I am almost blinded by the all-orange costumes of six Dutch fans – but they provide a lift too.
‘Well, I’m a bit taken aback by people wanting to show their gratitude and all that, Jessica,’ I say, rubbing my eyes. ‘But I’m not sure my house could take all those people. I mean, where would they sit?’
‘It’s a big house, Frannie, there’s oceans of room.’
‘I’m not sure, Jessica, I’m really not. After all our shifts, we’ll be exhausted by Sunday and might want a break from it all. Who knows I might want to watch the Closing Ceremony with a quiet cuppa and a biscuit…’
‘But not a packet of crisps?’
‘No, unless I can find Donald’s tube of Pringles and throw all his paper clips out,’ I say, with a smile.
‘Promise you’ll think about it though…’
‘I will,’ I say, with a sigh. ‘But my house has been silent for so long the walls might crumble with so many bodies around.’
There are a few surprises waiting for me when I get home: eight, to be specific. Three letters, four emails and one phone call; all from people who want to come to the public meeting after seeing Donald’s picture in the flyer. The emails – I only opened an account just before my London 2012 training – were all from people I knew in the village. Most of them feel they can now talk openly about my loss and not have to ask awkward questions about how I’m coping or whether to visit my house. The phone call is from the local greengrocer who says he nearly dropped a wooden box of cauliflower when he saw the flyer because he remembered Donald patrolling the village in his trilby hat and a couple of books tucked under his arm. Funny that, because Donald never had books under his arm; he always used a shoulder bag. We were all getting a bit carried away, I suppose. This intense period of dealing with people I thought I might never speak to again (I pledged not to speak to a soul again when Donald died but obviously this now seems silly in hindsight) goes on till early evening when Jessica is gripped by the hockey and I’m making an extremely late dinner. As I put the finishing touches to the salad, the bell rings and I ask Jessica to answer it. She shouts that she’s watching the hockey but then reluctantly gets up and goes to the front door. A couple of minutes later, a woman in a long flowery dress and sandals, probably a few years younger than me, lurks at the kitchen door. I do not know who she is and wonder why on earth Jessica, who has gone back to watch the hockey, let her into my house. Surely there has to be a limit to this Olympic spirit business?
‘Mrs Hartford, I wouldn’t normally do this as I know you need time to yourself but I felt I had to show you this.’ She pulls out a thick pile of flyers wrapped in an elastic band. ‘I think these were undelivered by one of the young men Gillian hired to post them in the village. I saw him dump them on the corner of the street. Look at the top one.’
I wipe my hands on the tea towel and take the pile in my hand.
‘You see what some of these young rascals are like in our village?’ she says. ‘No respect at all for anyone. A couple of them even broke a window at the community centre the other evening.’
I look down at the picture of Donald. It has been defaced with a red marker. He now has a beard, glasses, red hair and speech bubble saying ‘I’m a wanker’. I look up at the woman and wonder about her motivation.
‘Was it really necessary for you to show me this picture?’ I ask. ‘Does it make you feel better?’
‘No, I simply thought that if these flyers are being dumped around the village and not even being delivered…’
‘But they are being delivered,’ I say, with a firm interruption. ‘Many people have already contacted me today to say it’s precisely what Donald would have wanted: to keep the library open, and this is a good way of highlighting that cause.’
‘I’m not sure how defacing a dead man with graffiti helps anyone’s cause at all…’
‘Sorry, I don’t know your name…’
‘Agnes Vaughan. I work at the antique shop in the high street but I also hope to be elected for a parish council seat in the next couple of years. I’ve seen you a couple of times walking back home in your Olympic uniform so I just thought I’d come and meet you…’
‘So it’s not really to do with the graffiti at all but the Olympics…’
‘Both. When I saw your husband’s image covered in marker I wondered why the glow of the Olympics hasn’t permeated through to the young people in the village.’
‘Oh I think it has. This was probably just a young boy getting carried away…’
She pauses and examines me in depth for the first time. ‘You’ve got a wonderful naivety haven’t you Mrs Hartford? It’s very endearing. All I’d say is that when a man’s image, particularly a deceased one, starts coming through people’s letterboxes it can bring a negative reaction as well as the positive one you’ve outlined.
I’ve spoken to Gillian about this already…’
‘You know her?’
‘Of course, I’ve seen her working in the library over the years but I don’t know her as such. That changed a couple of hours ago when I spoke to her about this…’
‘About this specific image?’ I say, holding up Donald’s tarnished picture.
‘No, I wouldn’t be that insensitive. We talked about the boy she hired to deliver the flyers – and the wider campaign to keep the library open. We do need to keep it open but, I’m afraid, if there’s not enough money coming in from central government big decisions have to be made.’
‘Spoken like a true politician. Now is there anything else?’
‘No, that was it, really. I’ve asked Gillian to cut down on her ambitious posting schedule. There have already been a few complaints about people not wanting to pestered.’
‘Of course, I’m sure they prefer the junk mail of the pizza leaflets, taxi cards and gardening services landing on their doormat.’ I look down at the flyer again. ‘I’ll hang this up on my wall, shall I?’
‘You don’t seem to be taking any of this seriously.’
‘I am – but over the past couple of weeks I’ve learnt to see the good in people rather than the bad.’
Agnes sniffs and rolls her eyes. ‘You do know it’ll be over on Sunday – and good old Blighty will be back to its predictable ways yes? Errant youths, no respect for the elderly, a lack of community spirit? You talk as if the Olympics will go on forever.’
‘I wish it would…’
Agnes laughs and heads for the door. ‘Call me if you reconsider about having your husband’s picture on the front. I know Gillian is sending more out tomorrow. We don’t want any more residents getting riled.’
Seventeen Gifts for Frannie and Jess Page 20
