by Kal Smagh
George confided to me, "John comes here as a second home. Then he goes home to his wife."
Paul followed in a low voice, "We don’t talk about that either out in public. Maybe later, not now."
"So have a seat. We are just re-writing the lyrics for Brian because we understand you had your purse stolen. Lousy thing, that."
I was both shocked and flattered they knew of my happenings, however dreadful.
I sat down joining them. In front of John was a notebook and he was scribbling in it. Please Please Me was written across the top of the page. He said, "You’re sure you’re not the one who stole our lyrics? Girls do crazy things anymore." He didn’t look up from where he was writing.
"No, oh gosh no. I’m so sorry it happened."
Paul pulled a chair next to me at the table, "He’s joking. Whoever pinched your purse was just some bad guy. It happens. Next time carry a brick and whack him with it."
George questioned, "Where were you?"
"Outside the Splinter Bar. I was helping a man…"
Replying, Ringo said, "Well there’s your problem. You did something good so something bad had to happen to you. It’s the balance of nature."
"Balance of nature. Pah. The girl got mugged."
George stated, "Splinter Bar is like our first Hamburg trip. Filthy pit. We’re past that. Hopefully, fingers crossed."
I sensed an opportunity, but dare I take advantage of it? I would already be in so much trouble if Brian so much as caught a whiff that I was with the boys right now and was about to propose they help me.
I said, "I saw you perform last night."
"Across the river?"
"Yes. Wonderful."
"Then you saw Ringo trip exiting the stage. Yes?"
"I didn’t trip. I lost balance waving."
"Same thing."
Their banter was so easy going. Playful chiding, like brothers. It must be fabulous to be so self-assured.
John asked, "Any questions of us. For the fans? Or yourself?"
This was my opportunity. I asked, "How do you get the confidence? To be in front of so many people? Doesn’t it scare you?"
John remarked to the others in a low voice, "Bird goes straight to it."
Paul looked at me, "How so?"
"I mean, I saw you play together in front of all those rabid fans, and you looked so self-assured on the stage."
George said, "She means do we have doubts like normal humans. Hamburg takes that out of you. Rabid animals describes Hamburg. The people here are excited."
Paul half whispered, "Of course. And we have to overcome other people's doubts of ourselves. There’s a lot of that in this business."
Ringo said, "There are some doubts about my drumming ability. They are wrong. I just have to keep playing."
John asked, "What is this about?" He cut directly to the heart, "Is somebody doubting us now?"
Paul replied to John, "You mean someone new."
"No. Not to me. Everybody loves you."
Paul exclaimed, "Tell that to EMI. Those lab coat guys think we’re just a bunch of Scousers."
George nodded, "We are a bunch of Scousers. That’s true."
John questioned, "But, what is this about?"
"I need to tell you that people are trying to record your song, the one you’re writing the lyrics for right now, right there on your paper. They’re trying to beat you so they can release it first."
John asked, "Who is it?"
It all came tumbling forth. About Paul dropping off the lyrics, and the envelope in my purse, and helping Wayne Prescott. Of Tamara Marylebone watching the office. (John raised his eyebrows at that part, like he knew there must be more to her.) Of the banker and his wife trying to take over the Splinter Bar. And of Brian and how he said I should just answer the mail so that he could work on getting the recording contract with EMI for your album. "Mr. Epstein is so focused on getting you that recording session."
When I finished, I looked up from where I had been staring at the table top and saw all four of them staring at me intently.
John said, "So what is your plan? You know, to get them."
"Brian will kill me. And then he’ll fire me, for even having a plan, let alone carrying it out."
Ringo corrected, "First, he’ll fire you. You have it out of order."
George said, "Shut up."
“Sod off, you,” Ringo shot back.
Paul said, "Go on."
I said, "I don’t want them to record your song. That will create legal hassles for Brian. And hurt you. And he wants less distractions."
George said, "It’s the censors that are the problem. We should plant a song that the censors would never pass."
Paul and John both looked at George.
John brightened, "That’s it. Bloody hell."
I asked, "What?"
John was already scribbling on his paper, "I am writing new lyrics for you. Somehow this has to be what they try to record. It will never pass any censors."
"Let’s come up with a new title. Ringo, say something sexy."
"Like periwinkle?"
Paul said, "That’s a color. You’re no help. Stick to drumming."
“You can sod off, too.”
George punched Ringo in the shoulder, hard. He burst out laughing.
"Ouch! Damn you. I need that arm."
John was writing and I glanced at the top of the page. He had scratched through Please Please Me and had replaced it with...I couldn’t read it.
"It’s going to be about women’s undergarments. People are always interested in ours. You probably see that in the mail Freda and you send our way."
In the daylight, and within fifteen minutes he had finished scribbling it out, taking inputs from each one of the boys. There was a lot of laughing, and playful ribbing at past experiences with German girls. They each popped open a beer and John kept slapping the table when a howler of a line came forth from Ringo. George added lines in deadpan and Paul clapped as they rattled off the pseudo lyrics. I even added a line about the colors of the greeting cards I purchased for Paul. It seemed appropriate.
John said, writing with a flourish, winking slyly, "Titling it, ‘Pretty Panties for Me’."
Finishing, John folded the paper and handed it to me. "See that you put that into an envelope, Melon."
With the paper in hand, I slipped it into my mother’s clunky purse and it became awkward for me to stay in the kitchen even one moment longer. Paul showed me to the side door and I exited hearing their laughter while walking out through the gate and to the sidewalk.
CHAPTER 20: RULE NUMBER 3
I returned to the office, stepping around the newly delivered bags of mail that continued to grow in both volume and size on each of the three days I had worked here.
Freda asked, "How’d it go? Do you have the cards?"
"I ran into Paul and I gave them to him."
She froze, looking up at me as I set down my purse, "Ran into him? Where?"
"On the street."
"On the street? On the street?" She looked at me like I’d cursed at her grandmother in church.
Then it hit me and my stomach sank clear to the floor.
"Rule number two. Never be seen with them on the street. It causes nasty rumors and makes Brian’s job harder."
"He was waving at me. I couldn’t not go over."
She nodded, "Waving. Sounds like Paul."
"We were chased."
"Together?"
I looked down at my hands, "Yes."
"I get it. It happened to me, too."
We worked in silence for the afternoon. We each placed our letters onto our respective piles and then carried out the tasks of sorting the new mail and answering those. In that silence we made a lot of progress, at least with the post. But I felt an unstable footing with Freda, realizing I had broken all four rules for working here in the course of only a few days. I couldn’t bear to tell her about the flophouse and the doctored lyrics in my purse right n
ow.
Suddenly I felt lonelier than I’d felt before starting this job. It seemed like I never really fit in anywhere, and I was ruining my chances by making so many blunders. Why was I doing all of this? I was always so studious and cautious. It was like I’d thrown caution to the wind and gotten myself into deep waters without knowing it.
It was about to get worse.
CHAPTER 21: THE MEN IN THE CAR
This lousy feeling in my stomach was because I was definitely in the dog house.
Late in the evening I excused myself to go pick up dinner and Freda did the same. She did not invite me to go along with her, exiting in different directions. Her manner showed she was very clearly in the camp with Brian. As it happened the Beatles were playing out of town that night so there was no fan club sign up table to set up in the local area.
After returning we worked further, late into the evening and actually made significant progress. Our stacks were high, the mailbags near empty.
I shared with her the unique requests that were coming in. We had the same kind of pleas for hair clippings as we'd had in the past (yesterday, how time flies), only today there was a request for a handkerchief that could be shared back, and it had to have sweat from at least two of the Beatles on it.
To Freda I said, "I’m telling you, a request for underwear is in one of those letters. Either it’s coming in tonight or it’s coming in tomorrow, or the day after that, or the day after that."
She gave me a small smile and that was all.
Finishing for the evening we closed up and locked the door and went in our separate directions. All she shared was a curt "good night."
It was dark outside and it had been raining. Even though it was late November it didn’t feel like snow was coming. The streets were wet, and there was a chill in the air. The fog had gathered around hanging low over the dark buildings and the lights seemed to burn like candles in a smoky concrete forest. I walked alone toward the corner. Waiting to cross I saw a car in the distance that looked similar to the one that had slowed down earlier in the day to have a look at me.
The hair went up on my neck as I sensed something was off, a wave of fear ran up my spine like a slithering snake, and my legs began to shake. Rather than wait on the corner I turned and walked down the block away from the car.
It was a mistake because the vehicle turned through the intersection and came alongside me slowing down. The streets were deserted.
There were two men inside wearing dark masks. The passenger side window rolled down and one of them said, in a gravelly voice, "Hey, girl. How’s about you get in the car."
A sudden feeling of cold gathered in my core.
They pulled alongside the curb ahead of me and stopped.
I froze in place, fear gripping me with icy talons. The passenger door opened and a man stepped one foot out.
I didn’t wait for him to reach both feet to the pavement, turning and running back from where I came. I heard him slam the car door behind me with a whump and the vehicle sped away. I looked over my shoulder.
He was chasing me, his heavy foot falls gaining speed as they clopped on the sidewalk.
I turned at the corner and sprinted fast as I could, my clunky black shoes no match, feeling him draw closer. Turning the corner again I knew he would catch me and I ducked into a dark alcove before he rounded behind me. He came sprinting around the corner and I stuck out my leg tripping him on the sidewalk where he fell face forward swearing, "Dammit!"
For once it wasn't me falling down.
I lurched out of the alcove and back down the block as the vehicle came up to him back behind me. I heard the door slam, and the car's wheels screech in pursuit. Running with gasps for breath the car accelerated after me. I ran down the block and turned into an alleyway, running into the dark. I crouched down, hiding, sucking in lungfuls of air.
I’d lost them?
The vehicle came flying past the alley opening and then I heard it screeching to a stop and reversing course, red tail lights coming back to me. I bumped into a trashcan and made a tremendous noise as the metal lid went flying and a cat screamed. The lights of the vehicle squared up on the alleyway and began following me through the mist.
I threw another trashcan to the middle of the path and made it to the end of the alley, then turned and ran up the street, chest heaving. I heard a crash between buildings as the car knocked the metal can forward striking it with force.
I ran across the street and down the block. It was not getting better. They would catch me. Completely out of breath and gasping for air I descended several steps into a darkened stairwell, hiding from view, my lungs burning.
Up on the street I heard the car hesitate at the corner and then thankfully turn the opposite way and accelerate up the block.
I stayed still a few beats longer, listening.
Then the men in the car came back down the street, driving slowly. I held my breath, feeling tight in my chest. They knew I was here. Somewhere.
Twenty feet before where I knelt in the dark a man yelled out the car window, "Stop talking to the police."
I stayed still as a church mouse.
The car proceeded past and I heard the man say again from down the street, fainter now, "Stop talking to the police."
Then the car sped away, it's engine sounds fading into the distance.
Ascending the steps, I looked both ways and crossed the street again, got to the corner and continued up until I saw traffic at an intersection ahead, lots of autos and red tail lights. I needed to be around people. Being alone was for the birds, and dangerous.
Now I really had lost them. I looked over my shoulder, walking quickly, keeping in the street light’s glow.
I entered the queue to board a bus and sitting on the ground level of a green double decker I joined a seat with an older man in a heavy coat, sitting next to him and looking out the window.
Finally catching my breath, I drew air deeply into my lungs and struggled to regain my composure as the bus began on its route, pulling from the curb with a groan. I was sweating and my hair was positively feral. And I still had the doctored lyrics in my mother’s old purse.
Arriving home a porchlight was on, but no one was awake. I could have used to speak to my parents. I undressed and got into bed, still feeling my heart beating in my chest, and thankful for a warm, safe home. But so many questions bounded around in my head it made falling asleep difficult at best. What did those men want with me? Was it about the Beatles, or about a woman walking alone?
Then I thought about my day: I’d met with the Beatles and sat round a table composing a song with them. How amazing was that? Only I couldn’t tell anyone what had happened. Freda definitely wasn’t as warm to me, and Brian, when he found out, would be livid.
But the boys. Ah, the boys. They were wonderfully splendid and made a girl feel welcome and happy, just like when they played on stage.
CHAPTER 22: BEATLE GIRL
My father sat at the kitchen table reading the morning newspaper. He was already dressed in his dark suit, his jacket thrown over a chair back. I liked seeing him, his receding hairline, and his paunch, stationed like a gargoyle to ward off evil spirits.
"Mornin’, dad."
He didn’t look up, "Mornin’."
Sweeping into the kitchen, "You were out late again. I don’t like it," my mum squeaked. Her floral housecoat with pink roses on a white cotton wrapped around her, accenting her bulbous red hair.
"Mum…"
My dad folded the paper over.
"Oh, my god." My mother pointed at the newspaper, "That’s you!"
"What...what? Who?"
She grabbed the paper from my father’s hands and held it to me, pointing, "You!"
I felt my stomach fall. It was a black and white photo of me talking with Paul on the street yesterday.
"Who is this boy? It says, ‘McCartney’. Who is that?"
"He’s one of the musicians. The ones I’m working for."
&nb
sp; "You work for him? He’s so young," My father said.
"And handsome," mother added. She adjusted her housecoat.
"No. I work for Mr. Epstein. He’s their manager."
"Of this band of musicians? What’s their name?"
I pointed at the photo caption, "The Beatles."
Father said, "Silly. Named for a bug. They spelt it wrong."
My mother sat down next to me and folded her hands together.
"Don’t say it."
"Helen. Honey."
"Don’t say it, mum."
My father added, "Don’t say it, Daphne."
Her eyes flashed at him and he looked down to the newspaper.
"Are you dating this boy?"
"No! Mum!"
"What? I have a right to know."
"You don’t. And I’m not."
She looked at me, sizing me up to see if I was fibbing.
I stared back at her; our eyes locked. She pushed her chair back and got up.
Whew, dodged that one.
"But you do like him."
"Mother, stop."
I fled the house without telling them about my miserable street chase. Or my meeting with the boys. My mind was on my plan to undermine the robbers and regain my footing at work.
God help me, I needed it.
#
Outside the office I put the envelope up for Post ensuring it had no stamp. The postman wouldn’t take it then. That's exactly what I wanted to happen. I glanced around behind me to the street and then entered the office.
Freda was already inside and working a magazine layout. She had pieces of paper and was laying them at angles atop her desk.
She said, "How do you think it works better, Beatle Girl?"
My shoulders felt heavy. I looke at her, "Oh god. I know. I was mortified."
"So was I. And Brian, too"
I started apologizing and she cut me off. "I’m--,"
"--Seriously now. I’m not sure this is working out."
She sighed and put her hands down on the desk, hands with paper in them, "It’s one thing to have a problem learning. You’re new. Brand new. It's not even a week yet. But, it’s another thing entirely to break all of the rules that you were specifically told we were not to break. And to do all of that in the range of a few days is just too much."