by Kal Smagh
I couldn't help it and giggled, "Do I need to check them in beforehand so that I can just hand them keys?"
"That’s a kind offer. Actually no. I believe there will likely be plenty of support for us as they arrive."
"Well then," I stifled a yawn, "I think I will just turn in so that I am fresh for tomorrow."
"I will do the same." Behind him I heard a mocking voice, I think it was John, saying, "I will do the same too. After I finish this drink."
I laughed out loud, asking, "So the show was good tonight?"
"Very good, splendid." Behind him again John’s mocking voice, "Very good, splendid. I say old chap. Paul. Pall Mall. Take your hands off that woman."
Brian exhaled with exasperation, "Truthfully I think they are nervous about playing this royal variety show. It’s so different from their other shows, with so many rules. I’m concerned that John will say something on the stage and we will all get in trouble and never get invited back."
I had to agree. It was a very distinct possibility that John would want to act the part of a rebel, enjoying that role and how it tormented Brian.
Suddenly, “Arghhhh! Wait, John! No! I’m trying to talk...”
I heard through the handset a wrestling for control of the telephone on Brian’s end, muffled in the noises of his gathering hands on the speaker. The handset seemed to be buffeting around amid shouting. I couldn’t make out what was being said, or yelled. Finally, it sounded like the phone was wrenched free from Brian’s grip, the sound of the party going on in the background suddenly clear again.
"Is everything okay there? Brian are you all right?"
"Hello, Helen. Paul here. Brian is just fine; he seems to have been carried away by the others. Maybe they will go dunk his head in a bog somewhere. Anyway, how are you?"
Paul! "I am good." I giggled, picturing the four of them lowering Brian face first to a toilet over his shouting protests.
"Keep laughing, Helen. We’ll see you tomorrow." And with that Paul hung up the phone and the line fell silent.
I paused holding the handset and wondered where the woman had gone.
Was she staying in the hotel while her husband had left out the front door?
I think it was her husband, but what did I know?
And was Brian's head really in a bog right now?
Chapter 10: Sunday, Run Day
Hungry.
I got up out of my creaky bed and went to get some breakfast, my stomach rumbling.
Eating continental style offerings of buttered toast in the restaurant I saw people talking in hushed tones. I sat alone but others seem to be watching me. I didn’t like feeling so conspicuous, like I was the only one not in on the news. What were they looking at? I quickly checked my blouse to make sure it was fully buttoned and not flashing anyone.
All good.
Finishing, I paid and double-checked my blue credentials were with me, and then proceeded down the covered walkway toward the Prince of Wales Theatre.
It hit me like a ton of bricks, stopping me in my tracks. I heard myself say aloud, "Oh my god."
Entering the side door, the same playbill board was mounted on the easel listing all of the performers. Only now next to the Beatles had been entered in bold black lettering the word "scratched". My stomach fell to the floor.
THE BILLY PETCH DANCERS
THE CLARK BROTHERS
MAX BYGRAVES
LUIS ALBERTO DEL PARANA AND LOS PARAGUAYOS
CHARLIE DRAKE WITH TESSA DAVEES AND THE EIGHT CHARLIES
SUSAN MAUGHAN
THE BEATLES SCRATCHED
DICKIE HENDERSON
FRANCIS BRUNN
BUDDY GRECO
NADIA NERINA WITH THE CAST OF SLEEPING BEAUTY
JOE LOSS AND HIS ORCHESTRA WITH ROSE BRENNAN, ROSS MCMANUS, LARRY GRETTON, THE BILLY PETCH DANCERS.
"STEPTOE & SON"
WITH WILFRED BRAMBELL, HARRY H.CORBETT
"PINKY & PERKY & COMPANY"
JAN AND VLASTA DALIBOR
ERIC SYKES AND HATTIE JACQUES
MICHAEL FLANDERS AND DONALD SWANN
MARLENE DIETRICH WITH BURT BACHARACH
TOMMY STEELE (WITH THE HALF A SIXPENCE COMPANY)
HARRY SECOMBE (WITH THE PICKWICK COMPANY)
This had to be the work of some prankster. It was 9 o’clock in the morning on a Sunday and I knew of nobody to direct a question toward.
I invaded the building looking for anyone who looked like they worked there, stomach in knots, denying what I had seen written. People milled around at the far end of the lobby and as I accelerated through the auditorium area, I spied Archie, my lunch companion from yesterday, from Buckingham Palace.
He was wearing his uniform in starched red. He was taking care of placing items where his boss pointed. He looked up and made eye contact with me and then it must’ve registered to him the ghastly look on my face. He worked for another few minutes and then begged off for a break. Reluctantly his supervisor let him go saying, "Five minutes. Then back here. Sharp."
Archie approached, "What happened to you? Everything okay?"
"Did you see the playbill? It says the Beatles are scratched."
His eyes went wide as saucers, "I did not. We drove straight to the service entrance and brought our things inside. Where did you see it?"
"On the playbill board as I walked in from the hotel." I started in that direction and he followed me. I was walking fast and his long strides soon had him catch up with me.
Reaching the playbill, I pointed. "There it is."
He looked at it and scratched his chin. "There must be somebody you can ask."
"Who would I ask?"
"I would say it’s the producer. Be aware, he’s pretty difficult. I’ve seen it."
Then I saw walking along the covered walkway and into the building past us the lady who had gone up the stairs last night after her arguing distinguished husband had gone out the front door. The actress lady. She walked past us as if not noticing us. Again, her hair was made up beautifully and her makeup was perfect. She had beautiful eyes.
Archie saw me watching her, and commented, "Marjorie Guilford."
"Who is Marjorie Guilford?"
"Actually, it’s Lady Marjorie Guilford. She’s married to a member of the government. Her husband is a finance type. Exchequer they call it. She used to be an actress, and a singer."
"I saw her in the hotel last night. I think she and her husband were arguing."
"Why do you say that?"
"Their body language was hostile toward one another. Hands on hips and crossed arms, both sneering. They were speaking, very angrily, to one another."
From the distance I heard Archie’s supervisor say, "Archie! Break’s over!"
Archie looked at me, "I need to go. But if you ask me, it’s odd to see Marjorie Guilford here on a Sunday morning."
"Why is that?"
He shrugged, "I don’t know. It just seems odd. She hasn’t performed in years."
Chapter 11: A Question
I was afraid but approached them anyway.
Mr. Jenkins was speaking with the show's bearded producer, whose name was on the door to his office: Bradley Andrews, General Manager, Producer.
Inside the office with the door open was also Lady Marjorie Guilford. She was seated and Mr. Jenkins was standing as was Mr. Andrews. I waited in the outer area hoping that I would catch their eye so that I could ask a question about why the Beatles were scratched from the playbill. I needed to confirm that it was some kind of joke.
Instead of getting an audience with him, on making eye contact Mr. Andrews rose from his desk.
I smiled at him, he'd seen me.
He walked to the door and shut it, and me, out.
Now what was I supposed to do? Should I call Brian?
Not until I found out more. I didn’t want to needlessly alarm him, but warning lights and alarm bells were going off in my head. He was trusting me not to screw things up and this was as big a pro
blem as there could be.
I needed to be persistent and camp outside the office until they emerged. I would not move until that door opened and I had an audience...with someone. Whomever could fix this debacle in the making.
That didn’t last long, for in less than a minute an older security fellow came up to me and asked what business I had being there.
I didn’t want a scene, "I am with the Beatles."
He frowned, a crease between his gray brows, "Sorry to hear about all of this."
My heart began to hurt, that was some confirmation already. Had this already been announced and I had missed it?
He asked, "Waiting to speak to the manager?"
"Yes. He’s in with some people."
"Yes, well. I’d rather you didn’t loiter out here. I might ask that you go wait down in the lobby and then you check back maybe in thirty minutes or so."
I really didn’t want to do that, I pleaded, "Would it just be okay if I stayed?"
He dismissed me with one firm shake of his head, pointing down the stairs. It was no use, so I went down to the lobby and I stood trying to look up to see when the door might open, but my view was obscured. I’d never see them when I needed to.
Then coming down the stairs was Mr. Jenkins.
His eyes locked on mine and I felt as if a heat ray was emanating onto me.
I needed to be brave.
Surprisingly he did not come up to me, but instead turned to walk the other way through the lobby, disinterested.
Well! A total brush off.
I followed him calling, "Mr. Jenkins, I need to speak with you."
Contempt emanated off of him, "Make it quick."
"I saw that the Beatles had been scratched from the playbill. Do you know anything about that?"
He breathed in deeply as if holding his patience with me, the dumb young girl.
"It’s true. The Beatles are off the playbill. Producer has decided. They will be formally notified later on this morning. And you’re the reason why."
I froze, at a loss for words.
Outrageous!
I shot back, "Me?"
"It’s your behavior, very unladylike. Plus, you seem to be unable to follow the rules. I’m deeming you a security risk to the royal family. And I will tell the Beatles as well. They are all risks to the royal family. You were the last straw that made the decision clearer."
"Risks to the royal family...? How can you...?" I felt my indignance boiling, "How dare you? They aren’t even here. And I haven’t even seen anybody from the royal family."
"It’s my job to stop you from seeing them. But I do know with the way you’ve been listening in on conversations, and lurking around in the shadows of the auditorium, that you are a problem waiting to happen."
My jaw dropped open.
"Problem waiting to happen?" I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. "I was looking at the television camera placements--."
"--Unlikely. It’s my job to make sure that problems don’t happen. You are a problem. I am not going to let you, or your Beatles, happen."
"I’ll go speak to the producer then."
"Good luck. He’s decided, and I back him up and make the security decisions."
Suddenly I heard voices behind me.
Coming down the stairs in the distance was the shaggy faced producer, Mr. Andrews, and Lady Marjorie Guilford.
I watched as they embraced, a hug that lasted a little too long, if you ask me.
She stepped away, her face was beaming, her smile enormous.
Mr. Andrews watched her walk away and then turned and saw Mr. Jenkins speaking with me. He did not stay and instead ascended the stairs quickly, going back to his office I assumed.
Mr. Jenkins pointed, with a sharp flash of his index finger, "That’s who replaced your Beatles. Lady Guilford."
He turned on his heel, walking with an officious air.
I stood alone and flabbergasted at what was happening.
Turning I went to follow Mr. Andrews. Ascending the stairs I felt my blood boiling. I would let him have it. Yes I would.
He was not in his office.
He was avoiding me!
I looked around for a minute, he was nowhere and I felt a sinking feeling churning in my middle.
Back down the stairs I went to where I’d spoken to Mr. Jenkins. As he’d walked away, I noticed a business card had fallen from his pocket. Just in case he came back looking for it I picked it up and stuffed it into my pocket and went the opposite direction as fast as my short legs would carry me.
#
It was late morning and in the hotel lobby I tried to call Brian at the hotel in Sheffield.
Finally answering the phone, frustrated that it rang and rang several times, the lobby clerk listened to my pleas and answered, "Mr. Epstein and the Beatles have checked out, they didn’t say where they were going."
I knew they were headed to Leeds. But since they were on the road there was no way to contact them. It might be just a little bit before they were available. I checked my notes and tried to see which hotel they were staying in; however, it was not listed. Drat.
No, not drat...dammit! That felt more like it. I could think of other words to add. One of those was disaster. This was a damn disaster.
Brian had said it was an afternoon show, perhaps they were not going to check into a hotel, but instead come from their hotel to the venue, play the show, and then pack up and come straight down to London. Of course.
But what an awful surprise awaited them. I only had a few hours to make it better. Only I didn’t know where to start.
So, never minding that I had been rebuked I decided to have it out with this Mr. Andrews.
Who was he to scratch the Beatles, the most popular band in the country, and easily the most exciting thing to happen to Britain in ages? Certainly, in my lifetime.
If I could find him, that is, I’d really let him have it.
Yes, I would.
Chapter 12: At Least I Have My Credentials
With my blue credentials in hand, I marched back over to the Prince of Wales Theatre and entered the lobby like a banshee.
A damn angry banshee.
There at the base of the stairs I waited to see Mr. Andrews. Flipping over the business card with Mr. Andrews’ name on it for the hundredth time in the last hour, I stewed and steamed.
On the other side was listed a time: 2 PM. I didn’t know what was supposed to happen at 2 PM for Mr. Andrews, or Mr. Jenkins, but I damn sure was going to be around to see.
The security guard, the gray browed one who had asked me to leave Mr. Andrews’ office area earlier in the day, came up behind me, startling me.
He frowned, deep crevices forming on his forehead shaped like flying geese, "I’ve been ordered, so understand that I’m to take your credentials away from you, Miss. Since the Beatles are no longer in the show, there is no further reason for you to be in the building. These are orders from Mr. Jenkins. No offense to you, young lady."
Flabbergasted, I challenged, "These are my credentials. I’m waiting to speak to Mr. Andrews to get this all corrected."
"Sorry, I’ve been asked to take them away. Do you understand about security, and the royal family? They don’t play any games."
I wanted to say that they were nothing but games being played, but I bit my tongue because I didn’t need to be arrested on top of this eviction. I couldn’t do anything from jail. With a churning stomach and on the verge of releasing tears of frustration, I took the lanyard off from around my neck and held it to him.
He took my blue credentials in hand and then asked, "Politely, young lady, I need to escort you off of the premises." He pointed toward the door.
"How am I supposed to get back into the hotel to get my belongings? I have no credentials to get there."
He weighed my predicament for a moment, "I can walk you into the hotel but that’s as far as I’ll go. You’ll need to work out the rest of that with the hotel."
He esc
orted me outside through the long corridor that was covered, blocking view from the street. It felt as if I were being led to the gallows.
Through the wooden tunnel I already heard fans outside on a Sunday afternoon. Fans who knew the Beatles would be coming into town later on today, and I felt sick to my stomach. What was I going to do?
I heard police whistles and some raised voices directing fans to be out of the road, to make a way on the sidewalk, the growing crowds were already unruly and it was a simple Sunday.
Oh, how complicated and bleak this simple Sunday had become.
Entering the hotel area, the security guard continued escorting me all the way up to the concierge desk, not letting me out of his sight, flipping his thumb at me while addressing the concierge, "This young lady has had her credentials revoked. She is no longer allowed to come into the Theatre."
The man behind the concierge desk, dressed in a black suit jacket with short gray hair, stood, "What has she done?"
The security guard replied matter-of-factly, "That’s no business of the hotel. However, please mind that you do not allow her back over into the Theatre." He looked from the concierge to me, and back, with tired eyes, "I believe her to be leaving."
He looked at me, paternalistic and fatherly, but without remorse.
I dared not swear in front of him, though I was feeling it churning inside.
There had to be a way to get back over there for the 2 PM meeting.
Dang it!
Chapter 13: The White Flag
I didn’t want to pack my bag; I didn’t want to leave.
I watched the gray-haired security guard leave the hotel but not before wagging his finger at me and then disappearing into the covered walkway.
This smelled so very fishy.
The Beatles had done nothing wrong.
Outside the fans were beginning to accumulate in larger numbers awaiting their arrival.
The Beatles and my boss, Brian Epstein, would be getting on the road after their show in just a few hours. Mr. Jenkins had already said his reasons why the Beatles were off the playbill, and I was still in shock that he had accused me of being a threat to the royal family. None of it made sense.