Seventeen Gifts for Frannie and Jess Page 3

  ‘GORAN!’ I shout, together with the other three women as they strike my palm as they walk past. ‘How good was he?’

  ‘Not good. GOD!!’

  The women laugh and head off into the Olympic Park. One of them mimes a tennis serve and does an exploding sound once imaginary ball hits imaginary racket. I breathe a sigh of relief and feel quite content with myself. It’s like I’ve taken some small baby steps before things really get serious. But my right hand feels stiff so I clench my fist repeatedly to ease the pain, grimacing and gritting my teeth with each movement (it was an awkward high five). A few minutes later, I see Jessica, another colleague in my team, running towards me, pink foam pointer in her hand, high-visibility jacket and tied-up blonde hair smacking against her shoulders. She stops by my side – and I wonder what on earth has got into her.

  ‘Are you all right, Francesca?’ she asks, slightly out of breath.

  ‘Of course, what’s the matter?’

  ‘Well, you looked to be in pain. I thought I’d come and ask how you were.’

  ‘And why would you do that?’

  She doesn’t answer immediately. She looks over her shoulder towards Stratford Gate.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be getting back over there,’ I say, crossing my hands in front of my waist. ‘Few more coming in as far as I can see.’

  ‘Well yes, but…’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she says, touching the back of her hair. ‘I’ll get back up there now.’ She begins to walk off.

  ‘Wait, what the hell did you run over here for? I don’t understand. Has Rob told you something he shouldn’t have? I hope he hasn’t because some things in this world have to stay private…’

  Jessica turns and waits. She’s about to speak but thinks better of it. She heads off again.

  ‘Don’t walk off when I’m talking to you…’

  ‘I’ll be over there if you need me,’ she says, with a glance over her shoulder.

  She runs off very fast so I decide not to say anything else as I know it’s futile. A couple of minutes ago I was feeling quite euphoric but now I’m annoyed. No, I’m angry. How could Rob tell someone who I didn’t know (apart from the usual pleasantries) about Donald’s death without consulting me first? Isn’t this wrong? Don’t we have a moral code anymore? Jessica seems a nice girl but that’s not the point. She shouldn’t have been told. Rob has some explaining to do – and not just for spoiling my morning. I need to speak to him but I don’t know where the hell he is.

  ‘Hello, can you tell me where the Copper Box is?’ says a woman holding the hand of a young child. ‘I have tickets for the Russia game.’

  I look down at the child for longer than necessary. He’s probably about seven; with jet black hair, huge eyes and a gaze that seems to interpret my life story in a few seconds.

  ‘Hello Madam, are you listening?’ she says, showing me her tickets. ‘I asked where the Copper Box is…’

  I pause again and take a deep breath. I feel so hot I have a desperate urge to run towards the Aquatics Centre and jump into one of the pools. It’s like I’ve completely lost my bearings and don’t know where I am. But I look down at the child again and he breaks out into a smile, melting away my anxiety.

  ‘Oh yes, I’m dreadfully sorry, I didn’t mean to be like that,’ I say, offering a belated smile. ‘Yes, the Copper Box, of course…’ I look to my right and raise my arm to point the way. ‘What you have to do is go down here, turn right, keep on walking for a while until you see that strange-looking brown block on your left. You can’t miss it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ says the woman. ‘Come on, Wasafa, let’s go. Let’s hope we can beat the mighty Russia today.’

  The boy tries to hold his mother’s hand but she eases it away. I notice the movement and she looks up and smiles at me. She shows me her hand.

  ‘In Angola, I thought I could make the handball team but then I had to come to England,’ she says, eager to show me her worn, semi-bandaged hand. ‘It was an opportunity too good to miss. But it didn’t stop me from playing with Wasafa in the back garden. It was in my blood. So much that my hand has blisters. See?’

  I nod and smile at the woman and boy. ‘Yes, and that’s before you do the cooking and cleaning!’

  ‘No, Kenneth, my husband does that. I trained him well…’

  We both laugh but there is another awkward moment of silence before the woman walks off with her son towards the Copper Box. The thought occurs to me that it all seems to be about hands this morning: Goran’s, mine, the Angolan lady’s. I’d like to just hold Donald’s again. I know that’s impossible but maybe, just maybe – as I slip my hand into my pocket and touch that library card again – the spirit of 48 will be revived 64 years later. If not, this will be a long 16 days.

  I have lunch in the canteen on my own – but don’t eat much. A half-eaten tuna sandwich, a nibble on a cereal bar and a coffee is all I can manage. I’m so tired I wonder if I’ll be able to get to the weekend, never mind the Closing Ceremony. Standing up for four or five hours has been more difficult than I imagined. I notice Jessica, Ben and Sheena sitting together a few tables away from me. Jessica seems to be the centre of attention. She’s quite loud and boisterous and I’m glad I didn’t engage with her this morning (my aching legs and the inquisitive spectators were more than enough to be going on with). Finally, I spot Rob coming into the canteen. I wave to him but have to do it twice to ensure he sees me. He walks towards me, puts his arm on my shoulder and then sits down at my table.

  ‘So sorry, Frannie,’ he says, rubbing his neck with his hand and rolling it from side to side. ‘We had a little emergency outside the Aquatics Centre and I had to help out. Otherwise, I would have been with you this morning.’

  ‘But you got Jessica to keep her beady eye on me instead…’ I reply, taking another sip of coffee and regretting it immediately. ‘So, what happened?’

  ‘A bloke got ill so I had to keep his children occupied until we got more help. I bent down so much my neck got stiff. Probably, just the stress though.’ He eyes up my cereal bar which has hardly been touched. ‘Can I have a bite? Bit of a queue up there.’

  ‘You’ll never change,’ I say, sliding the cereal bar across to him. ‘Can’t you get your own? Here, finish off my coffee too.’

  ‘Sharing is my mission,’ he says, picking up the cereal bar and taking a big bite. ‘Hmm, in the spirit of Macca, Hey Chewed.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Paul McCartney at the Opening Ceremony last night. Hey Jude was the last song. Which reminds me, did you enjoy the ceremony on TV? How did it look? I was in the stadium; it was electric.’

  I pause and don’t answer immediately. It didn’t feel like yesterday at all. It felt like another time – or even another era. I had Abide With Me ringing in my ears all night, sung by the little boy.

  ‘I was in the stadium,’ I say, crossing my hands on the table. ‘I was at the Opening Ceremony.’

  ‘JESUS!’ says Rob, spurting out some coffee from his mouth which ended up on his trousers. ‘You came to the Opening Ceremony? Why? I thought you’d handed the tickets back to Locog. Who did you come down with?’

  I tap my index finger in the middle of my chest.

  ‘You came on your own?’ He wipes his mouth and looks annoyed. ‘Frannie, why didn’t you say? I would have met up with you. Made sure you were safe. There was loads of us here on the night. We could have kept an eye on you.’

  ‘But you’ve got Jessica to do that for you now. Why did you tell her about Donald?’

  Rob sighs and pulls out a tissue from his pocket to wipe his trousers. He grimaces as the warm coffee stain deepens into his thigh.

  ‘Have I not looked after you, Frannie?’ he says, without looking up.

  ‘Of course you have, but that wasn’t the question I
asked. I wanted to know why you told a complete stranger about my husband’s death. He’s only been dead three months. Even some of my distant family don’t know about it.’

  ‘Jessica’s not a complete stranger; you’ve spoken to her a few times already…’

  ‘In your internet world she may not be but she is in mine,’ I say, wanting to get up and leave the canteen. ‘I’m not ready to share everything yet.’

  ‘We don’t share everything on the web, Frannie, it’s just a tool to connect with more people. I don’t think that’s a bad thing. I got a couple of extra driving jobs simply because I discovered a few organisations that needed help. They needed to get their kids out of the classroom environment so they called me up. It’s not all bad.’

  Each time Rob talks about his job, I am cowed and humbled. It takes the sting out of any mild dispute or disagreement I might have with him (this is the second if I recall. The first came when he wanted to stay overnight after Donald’s death to look after me. I said I was fine and won that small battle). He is a driver for a charity called Swings in the Sky and takes disabled children to local museums, parks, art galleries and sports events. He’s been doing the same job for nearly 25 years since being made redundant in the late 80s and having his house repossessed. When I first met him at my training at the ExCeL, I couldn’t believe how cheerful he was after he told me all this. I am not sure how Donald and I would have coped with such indignities. You hear about them on the news but they seem so far away.

  ‘It was the Olympic torch montage that did it for me, yesterday,’ says Rob, finishing off the cereal bar and wiping some crumbs away from the side of his mouth. ‘That sequence made me well up something rotten. It might have been because a group of local kids were down there, one of ours, watching a disabled man carry the torch down the road, being cheered on by thousands. God, when I saw the look on those kids’ faces…’ He shakes his head repeatedly as if he’s trying to purge a deeply-buried memory. ‘Did you see that bit?’

  ‘Yes – and I agree, it was emotional. But Emeli Sandè was the one for me and that other man…’

  ‘Akram Khan…’

  ‘Yes, him…’

  There is a moment of silence between us and I sense the fatigue kicking in again (there are still a few hours of my shift to go and I need my energy).

  ‘Did you travel down to London on your own, then?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes, it wasn’t too bad.’

  ‘When did you get home?’

  ‘Earlier than you think. I left before the teams came out.’

  ‘For God’s sake, why?’

  ‘I’ve already told you. Emeli Sandè…’

  ‘I know some people don’t like her but she’s not bad…’

  I shake my head and put the palms of my hands over my face.

  ‘Oh sorry, Frannie, I get it. I can understand how it might have all got too much for you. Sorry for being so insensitive.’

  ‘Stop apologising all the time…’

  ‘It’s the kids I spend time with. Must be catching. They’re always saying sorry even though they haven’t done anything. I’ve been trying to work on their self-esteem.’

  Another long silence develops. I sometimes think I’m at some counselling clinic rather than the Olympics. Are all the days going to be this bad? Everyone on eggshells around me all the time?

  ‘Are you going to tell me about Jessica then or not?’ I ask. ‘Why did you tell her?’

  Rob sighs and folds his arms. ‘Because I knew I wasn’t going to be around – and I wanted her to look after you, it’s as simple and as complicated as that. She’s a good person is Jess; if only you’d given her a chance instead of shooing her off.’

  ‘I didn’t do that. Is that what she said?’

  ‘No, I just like using that word.’ He smiles and gets up from the table. ‘I’ve got to go and find out why a couple of volunteers didn’t turn up for their shifts this morning. I know the Opening Ceremony finished late but that’s no excuse.’ He bends down and peers at me. ‘Are you happy with your shifts for the next couple of weeks? Five days on, two off and then five and two again? I’ve worked hard with my Locog boss to get you that freedom. I want to make sure you can manage.’

  ‘My legs hurt already – but I think I can manage. I know we had to tell one or two people about Donald – to ensure I could still do my job properly – but I didn’t want the news splashed across the Park. You know how women talk.’

  ‘Believe me, I do. Having five of the loudest in my house makes me escape to the sanctuary of the bedroom. It’s probably why I trusted Jessica so much.’ He prepares to leave and straightens the sleeve on his t-shirt. ‘But point taken, Mrs Hartford. It won’t happen again. Donald deserved better.’

  I am surprised by Rob’s contrition but believe it’s utterly genuine. He looks down at the stain on his trousers and tuts. ‘Might have to change these,’ he says, carefully looking over his shoulder to ensure no one notices. But someone does. To my horror – Jessica walks towards the table.

  ‘What’s up captain, caught short down below?’ she says, with a smile. ‘Your teenage daughters are tidier than you are.’

  ‘Course they are, but they also know who’s boss…’ He looks at his watch. ‘And this boss says it’s time for you to get back on shift.’ He smiles and playfully tugs a strand of Jessica’s hair which has become loose. ‘Oh and don’t take the megaphone out this time. You’re like a lethal weapon with that around your mouth.’

  He walks away and laughs. Jessica smiles too but then nervously looks over her shoulder.

  ‘Remember to change your pants too,’ she says, rather loudly for my taste.

  Rob leaves the canteen and Jessica looks at me. She offers a polite smile and then sits down at the table.

  ‘Am I the only one that hated the Queen and James Bond sequence last night?’ she asks.

  I am bemused and don’t know what to say. So I just nod my head and hope she’ll go away.

  Jessica is really enjoying herself this afternoon with her foam pointer. It’s like she’s taking part in the Olympics herself, creating a new event called Air Hands (rhythmic) such are the twirly movements of her comically flexible arm. On another day, I might have felt she was more like a stuck-up traffic warden telling the bemused people clutching a ticket where to go but as I look at some of those faces – children with their mums and dads, teenagers in baggy t-shirts and jeans, patriots covered from head-to-toe in national colours – I can see they’re responding to her well and, perhaps, I need to loosen up a bit. She only asked about my wellbeing after all. Was that so bad?

  She approaches me as a lull develops in the number of spectators coming into the Olympic Park. I brace myself and nervously glance to my right, hoping that a spectator might grab me instantly and ask me where the toilets are but, alas, no luck and Jessica is onto me before I can make any excuses. She takes off her hat and runs her fingers through her hair.

  ‘Don’t you want to have a go with this?’ she asks, handing me the foam pointer.

  ‘No, my shift ends in about an hour…’

  ‘Mo Farah can run two 10,000’s in that time so you’ve got plenty of free minutes. Where do you live then?’

  I look her up and down. Today’s been like a marathon – and I’m not about to fall at the line.

  ‘Are you always this..?’

  ‘This what?’ she says, interrupting. ‘Forward, assertive, bolshy, what? It’s the Olympics and we’re the eyes and ears of London. Shouldn’t we be engaging with our spectators? Making them happy? Giving them a good experience? I admire you for being here after all. You’ve shown a lot of courage but I don’t understand why you’re being so difficult with me. I’ve only been trying to help.’

  ‘So you think I’m being difficult?’

  She pauses and sighs, using the f
oam pointer to wipe some imaginary sweat off her forehead.

  ‘Okay, maybe that was the wrong word: guarded might be better…’

  I nod and examine her closely again. Perhaps I’d underestimated her.

  ‘Yes, guarded – that sounds better,’ I say, with a hint of relish.

  There’s a long silence between us. We turn to face the spectators and I can tell we’re both desperate for someone, anyone, to come up to one of us and break the fog of discomfort.

  ‘Did you see Steve Redgrave with those young Olympians last night?’ says Jessica, finally breaking the shackles. ‘They lit the flame together. I found it really moving.’

  ‘I didn’t see that bit. I came home in the middle of the ceremony.’

  She turns and looks at me.

  ‘I probably know the reason why…’ she says, ‘…but I don’t want you to bite my head off if I get it wrong.’

  ‘Who told you I bite?’

  ‘No-one,’ she says, doing a high five with a young boy wearing a baseball cap. ‘But if I lost a loved one so close to me…’ She pauses again and then looks up at me. ‘I might end up biting a few people – and not know it.’

  I pause and then offer a mild smile for the first time. My moods have fluctuated so much over the past three months that any slight upturn in fortunes is to be welcomed – and seized without delay.

  ‘How old are you?’ I ask.

  ‘24…’

  ‘A student aren’t you? Rob told me what you were studying but, for the life of me, I can’t remember…’

  ‘Sports Science at Leeds University…’

  ‘Oh yes, good course is it?’

  ‘To be honest, I’m not enjoying the course as much as I thought I would. Too many other distractions…’

  ‘Like what?’

  Jessica is about to answer but a man walks past us with an angry look on his face, as though we have wronged him in some manner.

  ‘Sort those empty seats out, what are you doing?’ he says, shaking his head but not making eye contact. ‘You need bums on seat or these Olympics’ll be destroyed. Where’s Coe? Get him here and I’ll take him on.’