Seventeen Gifts for Frannie and Jess

  Seventeen Gifts for Frannie and Jess

  Nasser Hashmi

  Copyright © 2016 Nasser Hashmi

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

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  ISBN 978 1785896 309

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  To friendship...

  Also by the same author

  NOVELS

  Season of Sid

  Wacko Hacko

  A Fistful of Dust

  nasserhashmi.com

  nasseronmars.com

  Contents

  Also by the same author

  DAY ONE

  DAY TWO

  DAY THREE

  DAY FOUR

  DAY FIVE

  DAY SIX

  DAY SEVEN

  DAY EIGHT

  DAY NINE

  DAY TEN

  DAY ELEVEN

  DAY TWELVE

  DAY THIRTEEN

  DAY FOURTEEN

  DAY FIFTEEN

  DAY SIXTEEN

  DAY SEVENTEEN

  Acknowledgements

  DAY ONE

  An Opening Ceremony without Donald Hartford’s guiding hand feels wrong. My husband pushed me hard to become a volunteer so how can I board the train to London without him? Surely that would be traumatic with 80,000 people inside the Olympic Stadium looking at me? But Donald would tap his knuckles on the palm of his other hand and say ‘Frannie, this is chance of a lifetime, don’t waste it’. After all, he was there in 1948 and now kept the precious 2012 tickets in his favourite crimson dinner jacket to protect them for the big day. That big day was here now – and he wasn’t. Couldn’t you have waited, Donald? Just a bit longer so we could have shared this moment?

  I rub a photo of Donald and my Olympic ticket together as if they will magically make my decision for me. The other ticket has no doubt ended up in the hands of someone ready to savour the event and smile all the time. I’ll have to sit to next to them. Do they have a husband or wife? Children? What if they want to talk to me? Oh, Donald you are a swine for doing this to me.

  I roll up the photo – of a tired-looking Donald during his service in Borneo – and slide it into his favourite Union flag mug. The same image of Donald will be beamed to the world inside the Olympic Stadium within hours. My team leader Rob Miles, who came to Donald’s funeral three months ago, was adamant Donald should be remembered just like the 7/7 victims and Danny Boyle’s father who had also died recently. Really Rob? Was my Donald that important? He only spent a few years in the army but then became a librarian for the rest of his life. I can’t understand how he’d measure up against those people. He’d be so embarrassed about it.

  I put the mug, ticket and photo on Donald’s pillow and get up off the bed. It’s not butterflies in my stomach but caterpillars, hundreds of them. I walk to the bathroom and imagine Donald’s voice, humming to Dean Martin, drawing me inside. I walk in and it feels colder than ever, even though we’re in the middle of summer. I stand in front of the mirror and imagine myself dressed in my volunteer’s uniform; a purple and red pensioner nursing a bereavement and a trail of bad luck. It’s a personal best for shortest amount of time spent in the bathroom. I head downstairs and turn on the TV but the story is clear: the whole event is going to be a disaster anyway so why go? Ticketing problems, recruitment issues, bad weather; I mean, even the army had been brought in so it was all going to be a catastrophe. Good old Britain messing it up again. Why would I want to be a part of that?

  I think about Donald’s favourite mug and connect it to the news. He never used the Union flag mug if guests came round to visit in case anyone was offended. I remember once an Indian man came round, selling complicated gas deals, but Donald hid his mug away to ensure there were no awkward moments. It was silly but Donald was like that; overcompensated, planned everything, saw the traps. Me? I took what came up: volunteered at the WI, filled envelopes at the charity shop, helped make breakfasts at the care home. Not much is it? Although Mr Nash might think otherwise after he nearly choked on his boiled egg at the care home one frosty morning. I’d like to think I helped save his life – at least that’s how I see it anyway.

  I’m ready to make dinner and settle down to watch the ceremony on TV at about 9pm. It’s so much cosier at home anyway. Since my sister Abigail – and her family – showed up at Donald’s funeral, I’ve been feeling more like that every day: keep my head down, don’t go out, stay within my boundaries. It was like the two-year training for London 2012 didn’t happen at all. It’d been obliterated by Donald’s stroke.

  I start preparing the anchovies and olives to go into the pasta for the evening meal. It annoys me that Abigail didn’t even come to the house after the funeral – but I hadn’t seen her for eight years so I was grateful she at least came to the service. She lives in France now, with her architect husband and such a big family that I’d lost count. People said I shouldn’t let her treat me like that but what can I do? She’s always took things when she wanted them. I could never ask – and by the time I did, it was too late.

  The London 2012 training did change that, of course. I spoke to people, asked questions, put on a big act – but most of the time, my body vibrated when I spoke, there was a tingling sensation round my temple and I had to swallow before starting a new sentence. Oh, and we met Sally Gunnell so that didn’t help. I always liked her but meeting her rendered me completely speechless. If it wasn’t for Donald, accompanying me to the training sessions – giving me encouragement and support – I’m not sure I would have made it through.

  I prepare a fresh salad for dinner and glance up at a small National Trust calendar pinned on the kitchen door. Donald liked to circle important events on it or things he had to do. There is a small note saying library books need to be given back – it goes back to early June. How did I not notice that before? Because I had enough on my plate contacting our bank, our insurers and God knows who else after he died. This was so stressful I wanted to leave the country. In one call, I was kept waiting 40 minutes and couldn’t speak when I finally got through to a human voice. I sobbed and put the phone down. Did they do this to our country on purpose? Did the dead not matter anymore? I quickly head up to his study to check through some of Donald’s things. Everything had been left untouched; I couldn’t bear to move anything. I look under the spare bed and there they are – three books, neatly stacked and heavy (he always liked the big, historical ones with plenty of pictures). I pull them out and sit on the bed. The first is a colourful history of Egyptian art. The second is on Dutch colonies in the East Indies. The third is called The 1948 Olympics: How
London Rescued The Games by Bob Phillips. I open it and read the foreword by Sir Roger Bannister. A yellow Post-it note pops out. I instantly recognise the writing.

  Donald, I knew you were trying to hunt down this book (even though you read it years ago) so here it is! Our tiny library strikes again! Hope you have a great time at the Olympic Stadium.

  Ginny

  Ginny worked with Donald at the community library. She was leading the campaign to keep the library open which was under the threat of closure (and still is). I knew her quite well – she came to the funeral and our home afterwards – but I haven’t seen her since. But it doesn’t matter now – she’s done her bit in persuading me that I must stop moping and seize the opportunity of a lifetime. I read her final sentence again: Hope you have a great time at the Olympic Stadium. I imagine Donald in there, proud as Punch, waving his Union flag and blurting out the national anthem even though his dry cough would spoil his naturally fine rhythm. I am next to him, trying to keep up, but getting the words of the anthem wrong. We are together once again, hand in hand, ready to spark Britain into life again. I read more of the book and feel captivated by the heartwarming stories and the achievements. How could I not want to be part of this? I close the book and get up. I go to the bathroom and quickly get changed. I go downstairs, have a quick dinner (while standing in the kitchen) and then check my Olympic ticket one last time. I walk out of the front door and head for the station to board the train to London. If it is daunting and intimidating, I can take it. I am a volunteer. That’s my job.

  I sit on the blue-covered seat of the Chiltern Railways’ train where it is standing room only. A kind, young gentleman, with white earphones plugged to his lobes, offers me his seat and, then cheekily, hands me one of his earphones which blurts out an almighty racket. I smile and politely decline his second offer. Hasn’t he got any Petula Clark or Lulu? I sit down and cross my hands, acknowledging the man in a beanie hat sat next to me, who’s swiping a shiny device with his extremely long fingers. What did they call these things? Tablets? I had a mobile, of course (but only when Donald pushed me into getting one) and he was right: it was essential for my volunteering and Locog training – but these Apple things (or whatever they were called) scared me. People will stop shaking hands soon. I remember a young assistant at the charity shop doing just that when I offered my hand to her on her first day. She asked me to hold on a moment because she was in the middle of texting her boyfriend. She was very nice and apologetic after that but spent most of the rest of the day (it wasn’t very busy) doing the same thing. She only lasted three weeks. But Donald said at least these devices gave people something to do with their fingers rather than smoking. Perhaps, but head down or get smoke blown in your face? It wasn’t much of a choice.

  I am thankful to reach Marylebone Station for the sole reason I can get off a packed train. The Tube isn’t much better but at least I get a seat immediately – for both journeys; first on the Bakerloo Line to Baker Street, then on the Jubilee Line all the way to Stratford. I’m annoyed that I didn’t bring anything to read. I look up and can only see the backside of man in a suit. This is why Donald never liked taking the Tube; never knew where to put your eyes. I divert mine to the map I can’t see over a tall lady’s head. As we get to Canary Wharf, my thoughts become scrambled and my hands begin to tremble. Did I leave my Olympic ticket at home? Inside the book given to Donald? How could I have done that after spending weeks thinking about the event? I check my purse and pockets and, after a minute or two of utter panic, I am so relieved to find the ticket in my coat pocket. My sigh is so loud it attracts the attention of the man next to me. I clutch the ticket and then, with a sense of slight embarrassment, put it back into my pocket.

  ‘For the Opening Ceremony, yes?’ says the man, moving his head closer to my ear. ‘Bet you can’t wait.’

  ‘Sorry, can you speak up a bit? This train’s so loud, I find it hard to think in here…’

  ‘The ticket?’ he says, moving even closer and raising his voice a little. ‘Is it for the Olympic Opening Ceremony? Are you going to be in the stadium?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll be in the stadium…’

  ‘Are you going with anyone?’

  ‘No.’

  The man nods and leans back in his seat. He looks about 35, clean-shaven, swollen cheeks, hair camouflaging the top of his ears. He’s wearing a short-sleeved sky blue shirt and brown trousers. Every time he rocks back and forth, I get a strong whiff of deodorant going up my nostrils. There is a long pause and then he moves forward again.

  ‘I hope this summer’s better than last,’ he says. ‘The riots were dreadful, absolutely dreadful. We shamed this city. I hope the Olympics banishes all those memories. It’s a got a lot to live up to.’

  ‘I never thought of it like that,’ I reply, finding it excruciatingly hard to make eye contact. ‘Never really crossed my mind really: the riots. Saw them on TV – but don’t think we should be dwelling on them now.’

  ‘Dwelling!’ says the man, with a laugh and a snigger. ‘That’s a fine word you’ve come up with there: a fine, fine word.’

  I finally turn and look the man in the eye. I wonder if he’s okay. He seems to be speaking to himself rather than addressing me.

  ‘My name’s Richard,’ he says, with an abruptness that made me shudder. ‘I was on duty with the Met last year when the riots started. I was caught right in the centre of the carnage. A few thugs got stuck into me. They got their time and a half. We were outnumbered. I went to hospital and was signed off indefinitely until I got better.’ He smiles and looks up at me. ‘I’ve recovered now so I start work next week. I want these Olympics to succeed so we can show a better face to the world. I know I get a bit worked up about it but it really matters. Do you see where I’m coming from?’

  I sigh and shift in my seat to face the man. ‘Of course, I do. I’m sorry you suffered so much but this is going to be different. We’re going to be showing a different face to the world; a bolder and brighter one.’

  ‘You say ‘we’, are you taking part or something?’

  I hesitate and consider whether I want to take this conversation further. I don’t even know the man. Donald would always ask me to be wary of men asking too many questions – and wearing too much deodorant.

  ‘It’s okay if you don’t want to talk,’ he says, folding his arms. ‘I need to save my energy for the woman I’m trying to court. I’m meeting her this evening in Canning Town. She’s got a couple of kids, but that’s no problem because I’ve got a son of my own. Don’t see him a lot though…’

  ‘Divorced, are you?’

  He nods and smiles.

  ‘See, that made you feel better didn’t it?’ he says.

  I almost break out into a smile but look away just in time. There is another long pause and I consider whether to tell Richard about Donald. Is it too early? Would he be interested? I judge it’s too early. Strangers need to keep their distance.

  ‘My guess would be that you’re a volunteer,’ he says. ‘I mean, no offence, you’re unlikely to be competing because of your golden years so I reckon that’s what you’ll be doing? Am I right?’

  This time I do break out into a smile. I nod and cross my hands.

  ‘That’s great to hear,’ he says. ‘So many people could learn from you. A little bit of TLC to the community never did anyone harm. Good luck to you.’ He pauses and looks up. ‘Oh, here’s my stop, I’m getting off here.’ He gets up and nearly falls over as we approach Canning Town station. ‘Thanks for the little chat; made me feel better.’

  I nod but don’t say anything. Then Richard does something unexpected. He reaches into his trouser pocket and hands me a card. It has his details and number on it.

  ‘I’ve learnt to be a little more thoughtful about other people since the riots last year,’ he says. ‘If you need any help from me, give me a call. Even if you do
n’t I’d love to know how you went on at the Olympics.’ He walks away towards the exit doors. ‘Oh and tell Usain Bolt to come down for a drink after his 100 metres win.’ He smiles and waves. He leaves the Tube train and we move off again.

  I look around the rest of the carriage: this time making eye contact with many more people. I pull out my Olympic Opening Ceremony ticket again – and stroke it between my palms. I may have been uncertain about coming down here before. Not now. I’m ready for a night to remember.

  As soon as Bradley Wiggins enters the stage, the stadium erupts. The noise crackles through my senses, creating an out-of-body experience as though I’m about to float away from my seat. It’s like Wiggins’ yellow jersey has turned gold and is sprinkling dust all over the spectators. Eighty thousand people cheer and clap, waving their flags and taking pictures. The roar is so deafening I have to close my eyes for a moment because it scares me. It’s as if a secret power is propelling me forward; shimmering and intoxicating, pushing me into the centre of the stadium. How will I deal with this every day? My left ear popped regularly as it was. The man next to me, who has Donald’s ticket, stands up and pumps his fist. ‘Go Wiggo,’ he says. I imagine Donald being a little less animated. As Bradley Wiggins leaves the stage after taking the plaudits, the man next to me sits down – and then pulls his socks up.

  ‘This’ll be bigger than Beijing, don’t you think?’ he says, glancing at me. ‘I can’t believe I’m here. Did you come on your own too?’

  I don’t answer immediately, as another bout of cheering gives me the opportunity to divert attention away from the man’s question.

  ‘Wiggo’s a bit of a hero of mine. Sorry, I got a bit carried away.’

  I smile at him but find it difficult to say anything. The bright, glitzy lights of the unfolding ceremony – and Wiggins’ entrance – have scrambled my emotions so much I’m not sure how to behave. How can I cheer now when I’ve been crying at dawn for the last few months? But then I realise I may have to spend the next few hours with this man who’s taken Donald’s place. Like it or not, we’re stuck with each other. Perhaps, I should be nicer to him? The problem is, I’m not seeing him as a person at all right now. Fate, death and fortune may have brought us together but all I see is a cheering ghost, a physical specimen, a man who should have been my husband but isn’t. When he opens his mouth, I imagine Donald’s words coming out.