Chapter One:
Hold Me Tight
My life and my love. The luck and the accidents. The laughter and the tears. Eternal content. One wishes on a trustworthy star to save them when their time of worry arrives. I wished, like many others, but my wish was different. Because my wish came true. And once it did, my life took a sharp turn down an uncharted path...and I never looked back.
I turned seventeen on Halloween of 1965; for my birthday bash I was presented with multiple records and 45s, tons of clothes, and permission for a new haircut, which I took advantage of immediately.
I was an ordinary seventeen year-old...my mother and father told me repeatedly that I was beautiful, but that's the sort of thing that parents do. They can't help it; it's their nature. Honestly? I would not consider myself "beautiful"...pretty was more like it. I was five feet and five inches tall, thin but strong from ten years of ballet, and I had reasonably long hair which was straight as a poker, bright red in sunshine and auburn in dim light. It was solid brown in darkness.
I started September of 1965 as a junior in high school, (one called Phillips Exeter Academy,) and as of then education was what I believed to be most important for later success in life. And so I dutifully studied Geometry and Trigonometry, English, French, History and Art, in addition to piano, guitar and voice. Thanks to my concert pianist parents, music was a major part of my life from the day that I was born. Who would have known that within five months, I would be a different person? For who knows how lives unfold? Who plans what, what is destiny, what is luck, what is an accident? Things that one could never dream could come true do, and in its spontaneity, life remains a thrill to anyone who dares to live it.
Our story begins in late June of 1966, when the one thing apparent to me was that the Beatles were beginning a tour of America, and they were starting on the east coast. (Which, coincidentally, was where I lived.) School was out, long ago, and I was prepared to go all extremes and see them perform. Where I didn't know. But I would soon.
"Penny!" called my mother from downstairs, "get DOWN here: we'll be late!"
"Coming!" I tugged my hair into a ponytail and tumbled down the stairs. Literally. Ouch.
We hopped into the car, on our way to see a performance of 'Schoner Mullerin' by Schumann, being sung at the University of New Hampshire by a terrific low bass singer by the name of David Ripley. By the time the concert was over I was exhausted, (it was more than two hours long,) and I had just fallen into bed when the phone rang. I dragged myself up after two rings and picked it up groggily.
"Hello?" A British voice was on the other end.
"Ah, yes, I'm calling for Professor Strafford." My father.
"DAAAAAAAAAAAAAD!" I bellowed down the staircase. I heard him pick it up.
"Yes? Hello? Hmm...I see. No, I will not tell anyone...why? OH......HOLY JESUS."
I ran downstairs, fully awake by then, and practically jumped on him.
"DAD! DAD! WHO WAS IT?"
"I can't tell you."
"Why not?"
"Because you'd either die or tell someone. Or both."
"No, I swear I wouldn't."
"Penny, if anyone but you learns about this........"
"I won't tell anyone, I swear!"
"Well, I just got asked to tune a piano for a group that's playing in Boston."
"BOSTON? Why can't they get someone there?"
"I don't know....maybe someone gave them my name."
"Who's 'them'?"
"Promise you won't tell. This honestly could be a matter of life and death."
"PROMISE!"
"Well, then," my father smiled. "I believe that their manager's name is Brian Epstein..."
"Very funny, Dad," I said, smirking, "no, really, who is it?"
"One word: Epstein." I was getting mad finally.
"Da-AD! That's not FUNNY! Who was it?" Dad was smiling by now, and yet his eyes were serious.
"I'm not joking, Penny. I mean it. The Beatles need a tuner."
I didn't remember much after that except for the view of the floor rushing up to meet my eyes.
Three hours later, my father and I were on our way to Boston. He had somehow convinced my mother that I needed new piano music and that Boston had the best stores in the country. She seemed skeptical, but agreed. My older sister, Antonietta, was in college and so she was away from home, and my younger sister Charlotte had taken a trip to a friend's house in California, so I was alone at home. A trip, I claimed, would save me from the depths of boredom.
We arrived at the studio at which the Beatles were recording, where I can't remember: I was in shock as we pulled up to the corner. No girls were around screaming, which surprised me. The only possible reason that I could find to this was that the Beatles finally had grown used to the fans and thought up effective means of tricking them when it came to the public knowing their whereabouts. Dad took out his equipment and I followed him up the steps. He knocked on the door.
I heard laughter, then hushing from around. I hid behind Dad, and bit my nails.
"Who is it?" came a voice from inside; it was too hushed to tell if it was a man or woman.
"My name is Christopher Strafford, and I'm your piano tuner, I believe, unless I've got the wrong address in which case..." answered my father.
"No, no, you're quite right." The door opened and standing there was a man who I had seen many times in pictures: Neil Aspinall. My heart sped up.
"And who's this lassie?" he asked, peering down at me. My heart raced.
"This is my daughter, Penny," said my father, smiling wickedly. "I hope that it's all right that she came along with me; she's quite good herself on the piano and plus...I believe that she is the biggest fan of the Beatles in the world!"
"'Zat so?" inquired a masculine voice, slightly salted with sarcasm. A face peeped around Mr. Aspinall, a face that I had seen millions of times in photographs, billions of times on TV and an infinite amount of times in my dreams. John Lennon looked into my eyes, which bulged. I was seventeen, but immediately felt like I child. I hid behind my father. He only laughed. So did John.
"Come 'ed now, I don't bite..." he attempted to bring me forth again.
"Hard." Someone from behind John finished his sentence. I knew that voice better than any other in the world. He was Paul McCartney.