by Kal Smagh
Freda said, "They’re inside. Where you’re all going in just a moment. For the show."
That seemed to calm the frenzy, and they reduced the onslaught and inquisition to more private murmurs about green beans.
To me, Freda said, about Brian, "Maybe later tonight, or tomorrow."
"Okay." To the girls I said, "He left some potatoes."
"Potatoes!" Cries rang out again. Freda shook her head while smirking at me, indicating how dumb I was bringing this on myself, again.
One day on the job and already I was the target of anguish and envy from roving packs of teenagers.
The rest of the evening was a blur and again as we took in the fan club sign ups, I heard the boys tuning up in the Cavern and then begin their show. Still no Brian Epstein. I folded the card table back down and gave it to the doorman smelling the same smoke and laughter and electricity as I had earlier in the day, only now it was mixed with the smell of collective sweat and perfumes and teen angst of so many more people inside.
The place was rocking, aggressive guitar chords rang out like the fan's calls to me about George’s dinner. Ringo’s thumping bass drum reverberated from the walls, and I wished I was in there with every single one of the fanatical teens now off on a roller coaster of sweaty and unbridled fun.
Was it really that good? It must be.
I looked around me on the street outside the Cavern and those who hadn’t made it in before capacity was reached were milling around like football fans in the parking lot outside a stadium, just glad to be near where the action was taking place, waiting to hear the cheers.
CHAPTER 8: ROBBERY
In my first very long day I had made a new friend, answered pages and pages of letters, signed up new fans for the fan club, and ran an errand that had me flying across Liverpool and then back to the place where the shows occurred for a second time. And I had met the Beatles. Some of them. Sort of.
I stifled, but failed, and let out a suppressed yawn that caught Freda’s attention. As Freda watched me, she tried to stifle her own. It had been a long day, but a great day.
"Maybe you should go home," she said. "We can break you in a little bit each day."
I stretched my arms over my head, "I don’t wanna leave you here still working. Maybe we should both go home."
"I have just a few more things to do here and then I’ll head out the door."
She looked involved in the letters on her desk so I picked up my bag and my coat. Wanting to leave on a good note, I said, "This was really a lot of fun today."
"I’m glad you think so. It’s a laugh a minute, especially when you see how much more mail we’ll get tomorrow."
I pushed my way through the door and towards my bus stop. Proceeding through the darkened city streets late at night doesn’t give one a comfortable feeling. I stayed under the lights and where other people were walking and I came upon a crowd on the sidewalk near my bus stop.
In a circle, strangers were gathered, speaking in hushed tones. The November chill made me pull my coat closed at the collar. "What happened here?"
"A man got knocked on the head."
I looked into where the group stood around and on the ground was Mr. Prescott, the blond haired man I had seen at the Cavern Club earlier in the day. Standing next to him was the same lady friend. Melanie Bumpus. She was trying to soothe something on his head and was asking for help. No one seemed to be responding. I went forward to them. What kind of people were these that didn’t render aid to the injured?
Above on the street was a sign for the Splinter Bar. I didn't want to know about that seedy, dump of a place.
As I came nearer to them Melanie said, "Oh, thank you so much. If you could please help me. We need to keep pressure on his head. Some mugger came and robbed us."
He looked out of it, dazed, unspeaking.
Gingerly I placed my hand on top of the handkerchief as she transferred control to me and she said, "The police should be here any minute."
She went to gather their belongings that were splayed out on the sidewalk, her purse, and a shopping bag. Mr. Prescott did not seem to be completely lucid. His eyes were glassy.
"Who are you, girl?" he asked me.
"I am Helen Spencer. I think someone has tried to rob you."
"Where is Melanie?"
"I am here," Melanie said from the sidewalk where she stood in the shadows gathering her purse together.
Suddenly I felt a yank on my purse and I toppled over on top of Mr. Prescott as my arm was pulled aside. Lighter suddenly it took a moment to realize I’d been robbed. A man was running into the distance in dark shadows, his footfalls no longer audible.
My purse was stolen, and the man was getting away.
Shouts rang up from the crowd and a few people chased but the robber was fast and disappeared out of sight quickly down the alleyway turning at the next street. He was gone.
I picked myself up and stood there in shock at what had just happened. I wasn’t exactly sure how it all transpired.
I was shaken and jumbled up. What was happening? Just then lights and sirens jarred me from my daze. The police arrived and the crowd parted as they came forth taking charge of this crime scene. Double crime scene.
Melanie came forth first and started speaking to the policeman, "He’s been robbed, and beaten. He needs help."
The policeman took a look at Mr. Prescott and said, "Do you need to go to hospital?"
From where he was seated on the sidewalk Mr. Prescott said, more clearly now, "I think I’ll be alright."
"Let’s get you up on the bench." The policeman helped hoist him onto a bench where he sat, now with his own hand to his head, holding the handkerchief.
I said, "Officer, I've been robbed also."
He looked at me, he was tall, at least a head taller than I was and had a wide forehead with smooth skin.
He said, "Attacked also, by the same man?"
Melanie cut in, "We should be addressing the first crime first. He’s been beaten, you can see that. Let us give you a statement first and then you can speak to the girl." She looked at me with her eyebrows raised hoping for my agreement.
I didn’t get a chance to respond before the policeman turned and was attentive to Melanie's request, saying, "Very well."
CHAPTER 9: INSPECTOR TUFFLE
I am a skilled eavesdropper, I have to admit.
I overheard Mr. Prescott and Melanie describing the man as wearing some kind of hat and having followed them for a few blocks. But they never got a good look at him under his hat and in the shadows. Yes, Mr. Prescott was the owner of this Splinter Bar. No, they had not seen him before. No, it looked like he hadn’t stolen anything. Yes, they were fine. It droned on and on.
When it came my turn to give a statement, I didn’t even have any descriptive words for the purse snatcher.
The policeman asked, "Well now, girl. What happened? Your purse was stolen, eh?" He looked me over quickly, "Not injured?"
"I’m not injured. Shook up."
"Lucky. Was he wearing a hat like they described?" He motioned toward where Mr. Prescott had been seated, now vacated. He and Melanie were gone.
"Dark jacket. Dark hair. I don’t know."
"Money in your purse? Stolen items to report?" He was writing in a small notebook.
Then realizing that the envelope meant for Mr. Epstein had also been stolen made my stomach fall through to the sidewalk. I suddenly felt light headed, dizzy.
"What is it? What’s happened to you? Sit down." He grasped my upper arm with a strong hand and walked me to the empty bench where Mr. Prescott had been minutes prior. I sat and collected myself. I needed a drink of water.
The policeman sought to sooth my reaction. He introduced himself as Inspector Tuffle. The crowd had thinned out and there were only one or two other people there still after I had been made to wait. Neither of them was helpful in any kind of description of the man who stole my purse.
After several minutes the Inspector gr
ew impatient. "Is there anything else you can share?"
"All I can tell you is that it was a man. And he was very fast."
"Did you have a lot of money in your purse? Had you taken it out and shown money anywhere?"
"No. First, I don’t have any money except for my bus fare. And now I don’t even have that. And I had an envelope in my purse that was meant for my boss. It’s important that I get it back." I heard my own pleading.
"Was there anything else in your purse?"
"My driving license. And the purse itself was a gift from my parents." I felt awful at how I had lost those lyrics. Now they wouldn’t trust me, I should have left it at the office, and had forgotten to even think of it.
"Very well then." He took down my information and work location and let me go. "We’ll be in touch if anything turns up. I’ll start a report."
I sat on the bench sunk under in my fatigue. What a capper to a first day, and now I wasn’t even able to get home. What would I do?
I had one friend. It was too far to call my father from his sleep. I would find a way to manage. With no bus fare, and no other place to go, I walked back to the office where I found Freda still working on answering fan mail.
"How did it go?" and then the ashen look on my face registered to her as she said, "What happened to you?"
I moved a stack of letters and sat in my chair. I said, "I don’t know what just happened."
"Are you hurt? Have some water." She handed me a cup.
"Only my feelings. I was robbed. A man snatched my purse off my arm as I was helping a man who had been beaten and robbed." I took a sip and then another.
"You what?" Her eyes were as wide as saucers. "I don’t understand."
"My purse was stolen. He got away. I was helping a man...the Wayne Prescott man from today in front of the Cavern."
"He was there?" She said to herself, "Why would he be there?"
"He and that Melanie lady were already victims of a robbery. She asked for help and I was assisting to stop the blood on top of his head, and then my purse was snatched."
"Wayne Prescott? The bar owner?"
"I think so. That lady he was with at the Cavern found him. There were police there."
"Where was this exactly?"
"My bus stop. In front of a bar."
Her eyes narrowed, "Which bar?"
"Splinter Bar." I set the cup on the desktop.
She looked up to the ceiling, "Who would want to rob him? Could have been anyone in front of that dump. It's no wonder your purse was grabbed."
I looked at my hands, sharing the important part, "In bigger bad news the envelope is missing, with the lyrics. And in smaller bad news, my pocketbook is missing. I’ve no money to get home."
"That I can fix." She opened her purse and gave me fare. "And we can have the lyrics re-written."
I was so relieved at her easy fix. I picked up the water cup and finished the last. "I’m such a bother."
She put a hand on my shoulder, big sister-like, "A bit of a bother. But not a total bother."
I got up, still in my coat, and walked to the door. It was late and I needed to get home. My parents would wonder where I was, and doubtless my mother would be waiting up.
Freda said, "I know it’s been a tremendously long day. And you’ve had more than your share of turmoil. So, there is some good news."
"I don’t know if I can take any good news."
"You don’t want to know about our going to help out at tomorrow’s concert?"
"Tomorrow’s concert. Really?"
"It’s what Brian was finalizing. We have work to do, just like the Cavern, only bigger."
That’s right. I work for the Beatles. Rule one: be helpful.
"Bigger?"
She read my body language, the way I wanted to continue on with enthusiasm, but was completely knackered from the day. "Go home. Sleep. Eat. Come back refreshed."
As I walked to the bus stop, I realized I missed the other part of rule one: be discreet. Mr. Epstein would learn where I had been tonight when the police called him to verify my employment. I hadn’t done anything wrong except try to help out a man who was injured. That it was the same man who was pressing him for business didn't seem right.
I'd fallen down, been knocked down, been running, been interrogated, and been robbed, and given a statement. Every day wouldn't be like this, would it?
Oh wait...now I needed to go home to face my mother.
CHAPTER 10: MY MOTHER AWAITS
My mother has flaming red hair, big and bouncy. It's the first thing you see, and the thing you most remember.
I saw her red hair like a blazing camp fire; Mother was peering out the front window as I came down the street, walking the last steps from the bus stop. She clapped once silently and shouted over her shoulder, also silent to me on the street, but in my head, I could hear the shrill tone already. She’d been worried.
She opened the door wearing her housecoat of pink roses on a white cotton cloth, flowing around her bosom. Her flaming hair was entirely unkempt, like she’d gone to bed and arisen when I hadn’t returned home at what she called "a decent hour". Tapping her wrist where a watch would be she said, "Good morning, night owl."
"Mum, don’t start. I’ve had a day."
"What, start? I didn’t start." She looked me over, "What happened today in your new job?"
"To end the day, I was robbed of my purse."
"Robbed? Where? Are you alright?"
"I’m fine. Not hurt. It was a purse snatcher."
"Purse snatcher." She called down the hall to my father, still in bed. "Henry! Helen's had her purse stolen."
From down the hall my father shouted back, "You hurt?"
I called, "Not hurt."
"Good," he called back. "Talk more tomorrow. Good night."
My mother continued on however. Where was I when it happened? Were there any police in the area? How did I get the money to come home on the bus? Was it even safe for me to be out at night? The inquisition was an avalanche of queries coming too rapid for my tired mind to process and respond. I was just too tired to go into it all, so I told her I’d worked at the same store as before and went to a different office. All was so draining. I needed sleep.
"But you haven’t told me anything. Are your co-workers nice?" And then, as inevitable as the moon rising, "Meet any new boys?"
And so, it continued. Mother had been after me forever it seemed to mingle with boys and get a boyfriend "before the good ones are gone". I was immediately exhausted. Now double exhausted.
"No new boys. Co-worker is nice."
"What’s her name?"
"Freda."
"Freda. Is she German?"
"Irish."
"And no boys to speak of? What about Mr. Epstein?"
"He’s my boss, mother. And ten years older than me probably. Ew."
"He comes from money. Never know."
"Ew, mother. Stop it." I looked at her, "Why would you say he comes from money?"
Rolling her eyes, she whispered, "Jewish."
"Mother! Stop it."
"Okay, suit yourself. After I stayed up for you."
I looked at her, feelings hurt, making this about herself. "Thank you, mother, for staying up." Then I yawned a loud groany one, my fatigue taking over.
She asked, "Did you eat? There is pot roast in the refrigerator."
"I couldn’t eat a bite."
"To bed with you. We can talk in the morning."
I'm glad she finally had the idea. Those were my favorite words of the entire evening. I dared not tell her George Harrison had green beans with his dinner or we’d be there in the doorway for another hour. Not that she knew who he was, but a boy's name would be enough to encourage her.
We didn't need that.
CHAPTER 11: THE CONCERT
This was going to be hard. I swallowed the lump in my throat.
Brian and Freda looked on as I bowed my head and explained, "My purse being stolen, the lyrics
went with it."
I was afraid to tell Brian but better to lay it out cleanly rather than hide it. Seated in the office I finished and looked up to see their faces.
Brian weighed my news for a moment. "First, it will be no problem to have them written again. I will get it after the show. " He blinked a few times, "But it does cause me some worry."
"Why worry?"
"If those get into the wrong hands someone else can record the song. Musicians sometimes steal from one another. And I don’t like one other part of your evening."
"Getting robbed, or losing the lyrics?"
"Both of those. Glad you weren’t hurt. No, it's that Wayne Prescott is involved."
"You suspect him?"
"I do. He’s been trying to get the Beatles to play at his bar. The trouble is the place is just not big enough. Have you seen it?
I hadn’t. He was forgetting I was seventeen and not old enough to go to bars.
He continued, "...and I know his real endgame."
I asked, "What is that?" Freda looked on with a curled lip, knowing the answer.
Brian looked at Freda and I, sobered, "He wants to represent the boys, and take them away from me."
"We won’t let that happen."
I added, seeing Freda cue me, "Absolutely not."
He breathed a sigh and then continued, shifting to the show tonight, "Now tonight. It’s just across the River Mersey at the Majestic Ballroom, Birkenhead."
Pressing his fingers to his lips, he added, "Let’s get lots of fans signed up tonight. Then a treat: after the show has begun, please come in. In the back of the audience is where I will be. We'll survey the whole place from there. I’ve arranged so you do not have to pay."
I felt a chill at the prospect of getting to do any kind of travel with the Beatles, and this made my palms sweat. Seeing my first Beatles performance!
"Don’t misunderstand." Freda explained to me that we would not actually be traveling with the boys, oh no. Instead, our job was to make sure we got over there well beforehand and set up our table and signed up as many fans as possible.