1. The Music Box.


I have been in love my entire life. I sometimes think I may have even been born in love. And even though my sometimes fickle love life began when I was five, I seriously believe that he and I were destined to be together since we were in our mothers’ wombs. Many years later, he wrote a very poetic description of this, big sentimental poet he always was; He said, “It was written that I would love you from the moment I opened my eyes”. Ah, Paul... always had a way with words. Smart words, clever words with a second intention behind them almost every time; an intention to please, to be pleased, to mend, to hurt, to destroy, to repair. I don’t recall a moment when I have witnessed him go wrong... Or maybe once or twice, but not too frequently. At least not since that very first day when we met, when our small, innocent hands first touched each other.

I was born July 29, 1942, amidst a pile of rubble left after continuous Nazi air raids, smack in the heart of the Liverpool trade district, second child to my mum. My older sister Brenda always said that the war sirens ceased under the overwhelming sound of my very first scream. And even though mum was a nurse at Sefton General, yours truly came a tad too early (and much faster) than it had been expected. I punched and pushed my way into this world while the poor woman had been out shopping for baby clothes, and instead of the comfort of a hospital ward, she had to settle for a hollow cave of debris to deliver me into this world. Quite fortunately, she wasn’t completely alone. Shopping with her were my sister Brenda, then only four, a fellow nurse called Mary McCartney and her one month old baby son, Paul, born June 18. Well, the day I first came to life, it was very handy to have Mary around, especially since, unlike my mum, she specialised in child deliveries, a professional midwife. So we were both in very good hands. Mum always told me a story... While Mary took care of mum and I, Brenda held baby Paul in her arms. No sooner had I been born, Brenda brought Paul close to me. In true baby fashion, he clumsily wiggled his little hand around until it accidentally touched mine, grabbed it and squeezed it as hard as little babies do. All babies do this, it’s a natural reflex. But in our case it turned out to be some form of handshake, like a pact of love that was destined to survive, despite the oddities and obstacles that lay ahead of us and that would make it difficult to consummate... But in the end, it would all be worth every moment of pain and loneliness.

I lived most of my early years at #70 Western Avenue in Speke. The McCartneys lived only next door at #72. Our friendly mums would always talk as they set the freshly washed laundry to dry, loud laughs and happy anecdotes accompanied by the heart-warming scent of clean bed linen and large wooden clothespins. Mary would set a blanket on the floor for her son, and my mum would set another one for me. Sometimes, they would jump over the tiny fence to either garden and would sit on the grass as they waited for the laundry to dry. Paul and I would be sitting there as well, babbling our friendly doo-dahs, drooling on toys and touching each other’s faces during lovely summer weekend afternoons. Sometimes, Mary’s husband, Jim, would join the petite committee, and the scent of fabric softener blended with a strong smell of burning tobacco from his pipe. Then, Brenda would also jump the fence and sit around with a doll or a little tea set to keep herself busy. By now, Mary was expecting her second baby, and as luck would have it, it was a second boy, whom they named Peter Michael.

Paul and little Mike were blessed with a solid, happy, united family. Mum had been alone since before I was born. Dad had gone to war and never returned. I had been the result of their last night together as man and wife during a two week leave before returning to action. For years, mum believed he had found himself another lady, having never received a note or a telegram of his demise; It so happens that the plane carrying my dad'’ last letter home was shot down by the German Luftwaffe just as it flew over London. And a week later, the delivery boy who carried his RAF’s death notice suffered a very stupid and untimely death as he walked in front of a double-decker bus. But after a year or so, the missing telegram was found together with a few others, and all uneasy rumours of my dad’s “philandering” were put to death, together with the hope for a normal family. Father John McNaughton had died somewhere along the coast of France, a week before I was born. So, apparently, something always seemed to be in the way of true love in my family. But the battles were always won in the end. And I would be no exception to the rule. I always sensed I’d end up as Mrs. James Paul McCartney. But oh, the trials and whims of fate would do everything in their power to put one obstacle or another in our way. During our childhoods, it would be the distance when he and his family moved away to different districts; during our teenage years, it would be a guitar and a four-eyed teddy boy named John; during youth, fame, money and a beautiful head of red hair; during adulthood, geography and insecurity would get the best of us. But, like with my mum, I would win this... and so would he. I would not have written this account of unending love if it hadn’t triumphed over all the bumps and holes we saw through our life as lovers, which began, if I remember correctly, one Sunday afternoon, in the summer of 1949, during a quaint but heartfelt seventh birthday party for yours truly.

It was a gorgeous hot day and I remember the deep blue sky over my head, as clear as my memory of it. Brenda and mum were setting up a picnic table outside in the garden. Mum was my biggest heroic figure at the time, and in later years I understood why. I think that at the time I didn’t really know or fully value the trouble it meant for a working class, widow mum to be able to buy a small cake and party favours for her little girl, especially in a post war era when everything was rationed. All I knew then was that this was my birthday, it was my day and it was my cake.

Not long before the party was meant to start and kids were supposed to arrive, Mary McCartney’s face peeked over the fence.

- Oh, what’s this then? - She smiled her huge, dark-eyed smile. - Afternoon, Evie...

- Hiya. Just fixing up ‘ere a bit, is all. Big event, you know.- Mum smiled back

- It’s Val’s birthday!- Brenda said. - She’s five today!

Mary turned her huge smile to me. -Oh? Big girl now, are we?

Mum put a bunch of napkins on the table. -Why don’t you send the boys in, then? I’m sure they’d like to have a slice of cake.

Mary turned her head back. -Paul, Mike, would you two like to go to Val’s birthday party?

It hadn’t been two seconds when a little head peeked over the fence. Although the second McCartney boy hadn’t quite turned out as cute as Paul, he had a quality that made everyone want to look after him. He was a year and half younger than Paul and I then, and to my VERY mature seven-year-old mind, it meant a tremendous difference. Huge blue eyes zeroed on the little chocolate cake on the table, and it was easy to see the little mouth had begun to water. Not long after, a second, darker-haired little head looked over the fence. Paul’s head. His huge, limpid cow’s eyes scanned the back garden of my house and finally stopped when they reached me.

- Hi, Val!- Came the toothy-but-toothless little smile that would remain an identical trademark through the years. - Happy birthday.

- Ta. - I shrugged shyly.

- Paul, you think you’d like to go over for Val’s party? -Mary looked at him.

A boy possessing a very canny sense of charm from a surprisingly early age, Paul turned to mum. - Can we come, Mrs. McNaughton?

Mum’s loud, matriarchal laughter echoed from house to house. -Aw, aren’t you a treat, puppet? Certainly, you can come! You can all come...

- All?- Paul frowned.

- Your mum and dad are coming along too, you know... - Brenda added, ever the tease. -To keep an eye on yous lot, or Mike will gobble the cake before we all get to it.

- Awww...- Paul sneered at his mother. -We’ll be good! I’ll look after our kid mum, promise!

Mary McCartney shook her head. -We’re coming either way, luv.

- But mum!- Paul whined persistently, - They’ll be other boys from school!

- Paul...

- ... and they’ll pick on me because I have me mum and dad with us!! Please! It’s just next door!

- Now that’s enough from you!- Mary held a finger up before Paul’s face. -You mind your talking back at me or you’ll get a smacked bottom from your father!

Paul had obviously heard this threat before and had commuted it to his heart with indelible ink, so simply pressing his lips together, he huffed an almost imperceptible “yes, mum”, and climbed down from the fence.

Now I, Valerie Anne McNaughton, was as meek as a mouse, but the major mouth of the two of us McNaughton girls was Brenda. Like Paul, Mike and I, she had attended Stockton Wood and now stood proudly one year away from moving to a “middle school”, since she was already eleven. All the same, whenever she saw anybody picking on me, she’d fly through the school yard and simply stand in the way of the bullies. “Yous lot leave off, or you’ll have me to deal with! Go on! Eck eck!!”. I’d often see Paul do the same for Mike. The saying “Leave off, or I’ll set our kid on ya” became a trademark threat, and as soon as it was proved true, it turned into an effective form of self-defence. But neither Brenda nor Paul were violent people. Especially not Brenda. Mum had taught us both that fists were for boys and words were for girls... unless the boy used the words, then the girl could use the fists. But not before then. Mum had never, ever laid a hand on us. We always knew that mum’s patience limit came with the words “Stop it now, or I’ll get really cross!”. That was when whatever sisterly brawl or mischief we were into would halt. But other than that, mum was a high-spirited, podgy woman with a kind smile and an easily triggered sense of humour. Eve was her name. Eve McNaughton, formerly Coury. She was unlike any mum I’d ever seen. And it wouldn’t be until I met Julia Stanley years and years later that I would see another mother of her kind. Mum could play the piano, the banjo and the guitar and had a grand singing voice that would carry for blocks. And that was another great connection she shared with our friends and neighbours at Number 72, the McCartneys. Mary’s husband, Jim, was one hell of a pianist and many evenings were spent drinking tea (Milk for us, tots), singing, playing and laughing. The McCartneys had a piano and a few other small instruments lying around the house, and sometimes the happy afternoons would end when the cranky old man at Number 74 began to bang his knotty cane on the wall, thus ending the happy concert nights. Mum later told me that Jim would sometimes spike their tea with a few “drops” of Drambuie, and during those rare but merry occasions, they would ignore bitter old “Mr. Conkers” (as we, nasty little local woodsprites liked to refer to him) and the concert would cease only after the local Police Counstible tapped on the door. I have a memory of Paul, Brenda, Mike and I all standing guard by the window, and shouting “´ere comes the Bobby!!” to warn our happy parents. Not the full-fledged, drunken orgies I would become used to in later years; just three tipsy, naughty adults bending the rules just a little bit. And I think all four of us learned that to have a little fun, sometimes you HAVE to bend the rules... We would master the art of it soon enough. It started that day at my party.

Roughly an hour or two after the scolding, Paul and Mike showed up at the front door, with Mary and Jim standing behind like bodyguards. It was obvious that the two boys had been bathed and pumiced, and both wore an almost identical pair of short-legged overalls with suspenders, white shirts, knee socks and black shoes. Spotlessly clean. To this day, I don’t know how they had managed to purchase a gift for me on such short notice, but sure enough, there stood Paul, holding a small and well-wrapped little parcel in his hands. He was always the first to want to join a good party, and no sooner had the door opened, he ran inside like a torpedo. - Val!! Val!!- I heard him calling my name as he cleverly dodged what to us seemed hordes of kids from Stockton “skewl” and the neighbourhood.

I turned to find my toothless, puppy-eyed neighbour and friend, holding the small box in his hands as he held it out to me. -‘Ere... it’s for you.

I took it and frowned. -What is it, then?

- Open it!!- He bounced eagerly. - It’s from me... Well, it’s from Mike and I, but I picked it!!

- Ta...- I said again, and proceeded to rip the hell out of the pink and green wrapper. Opening the little cardboard box, I pulled out my gift. There, in my hands, stood the cutest, whitest little music box, shaped like an egg standing vertically. Smiling, I anxiously wound it up and opened it, to find a little rabbit figurine spinning slowly to the sound of a tune I had often heard through the cat’s whisker (as we called the radio), a tune made popular by Vera Lyn during the war years. Tons of little heads closed in around us, and Paul beamed proudly at having discovered the right gift.

Mum instantly walked over to us and began to sing along to the tune. -We’ll meet again... don’t know where, don’t know when... But I know we’ll meet again... some sunny day....

Soon enough, Jim, Mary and Mike had caught up with us and were smiling down at me. -So, - Jim grinned. -You like it?

- What do you say, then, luv?- My mum nudged me.

I looked up at the McCartneys with an undeniable smile. -Thank you.

The truth was that, at least up until that point, that little music box was by far the best gift I had received. I had especially relished on the look in Paul’s eyes as he handed it to me. I remember the exact moment cupid struck; it came just seconds later, when Paul leaned over to kiss my cheek. - I picked it just for you, Val. - He whispered as he leaned over. I remember the crystal clear feeling it gave to me, sort of like tossing a pebble into a pond of still water; the shock waves get bigger the further away they get from the impact zone, and that nothing, no human force, can stop them from spreading clear across the pond, bouncing back and forth in an unavoidable chain reaction. The pebble, I knew then, had been tossed, and it would echo in my life forever. It was at that instant that my otherwise simple seven year old mind and heart knew that this was the guy I’d say “I do” to when I grew up. It was that simple. I still don’t know how he took it that day, or why he felt the impulse to kiss my cheek, but I chose to believe he had also known it, probably since before I did.

Mike was five going on six at the time, and all his mind allowed him to think about at the time was the yummy-looking chocolate cake on the garden table, so having opened and cherished the gift, off we all toddled to open more presents, hear the school and neighbourhood’s kids’ rendition of “Happy Birthday”, blow seven little candles and get a slice of cake.

As it was to be expected, the McCartneys were the very last to leave that day... and the day soon turned into a summer evening. Brenda had called it a night and Mike had dozed off on a couch, one slice of cake too many, his funny little mouth covered in chocolate. And, as if on cue, it wasn’t long before the radio began to bang away, with mum and Jim singing along to “The very though of you”, Mary clapping along (couldn’t sing her way out of a paper bag if she had directions).

While the three “sensible” adults sank into a haze of music, tea and Drambuie, and while there was still light outside from the late summer sunsets, Paul and I set out for an evening of unsupervised mischief. We were known to be top class mischief-mongers, a proper pair of infant gangsters even then. This time, we started by climbing over the fence to Mr. Conkers’s “orchard”. The old man had a beautiful and tall apple tree, ready for the picking, which he hardly ever tended to, and the juicy, yummy apples would frequently tumble down to the ground and rot away. Paul had declared this was a waste and it was time to take matters into our own hands. Following his orders, I picked a few pebbles from the floor and began to toss them at the tree, hoping to knock down a few extra apples to take back home wrapped up in our jumpers. We had both zeroed on an especially large and especially stubborn, Snow White red apple that dangled tauntingly but refused to plummet from it’s branch. It shone and reflected the last rays of the sun. We both knew that this apple could NOT die a slow and undignified death on the floor with its fellow rotten apples. It had every right to die proudly, watering away in our little mouths. But no matter how we tried, it would not give in.

- Ere, climb up on me shoulders, Val...- Paul offered, speaking softly so as to not disturb the evil old monster that would very likely come out of its cave, breathing fire... or waving his cane and shouting for our parents, which was even worse. -See if you can reach it...

After a few precarious tries, I shook my head. -No, we’re still too small...

Paul pondered for a few seconds. -‘Ang on...- He pulled an old petrol can from the corner. After checking around for danger and looking over both shoulders, he stood on the can. -‘Ere, try it now...

I obliged, perfectly unaware that he was looking up my dress and staring at my knickers with a grin, and I was finally able to touch it... but not pull it.

- Stand on yer toes, Paul!!- I whimpered.

- I’m trying!! Can you get it??

- I’m touching it!!

- Go on!! Hurry up!!

- Almost got it!! Just a tad more...

- Oi!! Yous two!!!- Came the shouting voice from the window. -Leave me apples alone!!!!

Paul and I bolted like two bats out of hell and over the fence, through the back alley and to the unfinished construction site of a playground just across the street .

- That was close...- I panted.

- Blimey...- Paul huffed as he sat. -We was this close to getting that apple!!

- Wrong!- I grinned, and produced the apple from under my jumper. -Got it!

His smile emerged again and his eyes widened. -You got it!! You’re a genius!!

- I know! - I smiled back and sat next to him and polished the already glimmering fruit on my once white now grimy greyish dress. -So, who bites first, then?

Paul grinned at me. -Well, you’re the birthday girl, so go ahead...

I bit. I closed my eyes. I knew Mr. Conkers would go and squeal on both of us and he was probably doing so as I chewed, but this apple alone would be worth the scolding that mum would give me. And as soon as I handed the apple to Paul for him to bite, I knew he was thinking the same thing. He’d sleep with a warm bum that night, but no one, not even our angry parents, would deprive us from the moment we were enjoying, the taste and juiciness of the apple, the sheer feeling of victory as we ate it... and the two of us sharing it. After we were done with it, we cleaned our mouths with the back of our hands and we remained silent for a few seconds, just enjoying the moment.

- So...- Paul began finally. - Been up to any good this summer?

- Not with you around, how can I?- I laughed.

- I never heard you complaining.

- It’s always fun, though, innit?- I laughed with him. - Throwing mud pies at passing cars, finding frogs and tadpoles for yer pond, stealing apples from Mr. Conkers...

- You’re lucky you wasn’t with our kid and I the day we was playing to be a merry-go-round...- he shook his hand up and down and winced. -Last year, it was. Mike flew face first and busted a couple of teeth...

- You let ‘im go?- I widened my eyes.

- He slipped! Wasn’t my fault! His teeth were bound to fall off anyways...

- Did you get spanked?

- Aye...- He giggled. -But I ripped me mum’s curtains in return, and all...

- And you didn’t get in trouble for that, either?

- Naa, she never noticed- He shrugged. - Not half big enough rips....

More silence. The sky began to darken.

- We’d better go home, Val. - Paul sighed.

- I don’t wanna. I’m gonna get scolded.

- Well, come to think of it, I’m gonna get spanked.

- Maybe we’d sooner run away, Paul...

His eyes shone. -Yeh!! Where could we go??

- Really far!!- I replied enthusiastically. - And then we’d fly in a plane to a deserted island and no one would find us or scold us or spank us again!!

And later on, we’d come back, be really big and we’d scold and spank our parents, ‘cos they’d be old and we’d be bigger, like!! And they wouldn’t be able to do it to us!!

The idea seemed more and more appealing as we wound down and instinctively began our walk back home, throwing all plans of travelling folly out the window. Through the back alley, over the fence and back to my yard, were we noticed the music was still going on. Just then, it stopped and Jim paced out to the garden. -Hey, the old man next door just came over and told us you two took his apples... - He seemed severe as he leaned over Paul’s face. -Is this true, Paul? Did you steal his apples?

Perfectly keeping his cool, Paul spoke back. -No, dad, we never. We saw ONE apple fall from the tree and we just took it. You know how he always leaves ‘em there to rot, right? We only took it ‘cus it had fallen off, I swear!

Jim huffed and puffed from his pipe and nodded, looked in the general direction of Mr. Conkers’s house and laughed. -All tha’ fuss for one bloody apple... silly old sod...- And back in he went to continue singing and drinking tea.

Paul and I laughed heartily. -You are a liar! -I said.

- Just tell ‘im you didn’t do it and you’ll be out of trouble.- He said as he sat on the floor.

- But we did!

- And...- he raised his little finger. -...you won’t get scolded and I won’t get spanked now, right?

- Right...

- So?- He shrugged. -Why are you moaning about it?

- I’m not...- I said as I sat next to him. -But now we won’t have to run away... and we won’t go to that island and all...

Paul furrowed his brow and tilted his head to the side. -Maybe when we’re big, we might... Big people do that all the time, you know...- He turned to me. -And you know what, Val? I’ll be rich, really rich... And I’ll take us both there...

- Get on...- I nudged him and looked down.

- Straight up, I will be rich! You mind and see!- He insisted.

- Doing what?

- I dunno...- He stood up and paced as he kicked a pebble on the floor. - But I’ll think of sumthing. I’m going to be really famous...

- Yeh, and then you’ll get all snobby and forget about us!

- Don’t be daft!!- He stopped and looked at me. - I won’t. Yer me girlfriend, aren’t ya?

I remember feeling the world around me suddenly halt. -Say what?

- You know...- He sat next to me again. -Like, me girl, right?

- I was? I didn’t know till then. And I didn’t mind at all.

- Sure... yeh... but so?

- Why would I forget about you, then, eh?

- You’d better not, then.

- Won’t. Promise.

- Never?

- Never.

We fell into another spell of silence, which he broke by speaking sheepishly.

- Val...

- Yeh?

- ‘Ave you ever...?- He shrugged and blushed. -...kissed?

- I’ve kissed me mum...

- No, silly, like... a boy... on the lips, like grown ups do...

- No...- I sighed. -Can’t say as I ‘ave...

- Oh...

More silence.

- Would... you like to ‘ave a bash at it?

- What? Kiss you?

- Yeh, why not?

- Won’t it be weird?

- No, don’t be daft!- He looked at me like I was some sort of ignoramus, -Boyfriends and girlfriends do it all the time...

- But they are grown up! Only grown-ups kiss like that!

- Says who?

- I dunno, just seems that way, is all.

- Look, want to ‘ave a go, or not?

I pondered and figured a kiss on the lips was probably no different from any other kiss... and if it felt as good as the one he had given me earlier on, then I was game.

- All right, then.

We clumsily fumbled and moved face to face until we were at the same level.

- So, do we close our eyes?- I asked.

- Of course we do!- He nodded back, the big, wise, know-it-all I pinned him out to be. - But not until we’re kissing, got it?

- Ok...

- Ok, ready?

- Ready...

- One... two...and....three!!

We kissed very slowly, a clumsy, infantile but elongated lip-to-lip peck. While it was nothing like a real kiss would be, we were both young, innocent and playing to be adults in love. And to this day, I sustain that my first kiss was sweeter and more lasting than any other kiss I have experienced since. Like that hand contact when we were babies, it was like signing yet a second pact. And it was getting stronger, even then. But just at the time, we pulled apart, cleaned the mutual slobber from our mouths and shrugged.

- Well, - he spoke. -I suppose that’s it...

- Can’t see what all the fuss is about.- I added.

- Actually...- He looked at me with his grin as he saddled himself next to me once again. - I rather liked it...

And silence took over once again as he self-consciously put an arm around my shoulders. Geez, I was such a grown up! I had proven my worth, passed the right of passage into womanhood by stealing an apple, had a boyfriend and had kissed! For what seemed a long, happy couple of years, Paul and I were to be seen together almost every day. Although during our class we were sitting separately, we would always meet outside on the school yard during breaks, where we would share our Cornish beef butties and biscuits, laugh about a joke or two and maybe have another go at working out our “kiss”, whenever we could sneak it. We had both put up with endless days of teasing from our schoolmates, typical stuff of “Val has a boyfriend! Val has a boyfriend!”, but none would dare approach either one of us in the school yard, with Brenda in the vicinity. All we had to watch out for were the unyielding eyes of teachers patrolling the yard like eagles hunting for prey. After the bell rang, we’d stand up, get in line, and walk back to our tutor classroom, where the teasing would start. But we didn’t care; soon enough, the “Boyfriend & Girlfriend” trend had caught on and many kids began to jump in the bandwagon and pair up. I, however, was positive that I had the cutest guy there... Paul was a dish, even then. Huge, hazel-grey eyes framed by layers and layers of long, curly lashes, under a pair of perfectly curved, almost black eyebrows. His black hair was always perfectly combed and greased back by mother Mary, clean and squeaky. His teeth had begun to grow and stood firmly fronting the perfect, pouty little mouth, looking almost as adorable as a gerbil every time he grinned. He was a charmer, and dominated the art of “winking”, a trait so his, I would never be able to remember him without the thought of his head-tilting, playful wink, accompanied by the now toothy smile he’d grown for keeps. He could almost always talk his way out of any mess and would be courteous enough to try and talk me out of trouble as well. I was too young to see it then, but charm had begun to transform into diplomacy. He knew he was cute; he just never said it. He used it, like a lethal weapon that could disarm the toughest of cane-gripping teachers. Mike, on the other hand, would frequently join us, Brenda, Paul and I, on our way back from school, his eyes red and swollen from crying, walking funny and rubbing his tiny bum. His policy of “Just say you didn’t do it” seemed to apply to his little brother as well. Not that Paul always got away with crime, though. More than once, he had been caught red-handed and would also emerge from the main school doors with a dour, angry look in his eyes and his lips pressed tight together. But no tears. Never tears. He knew and believed that if he cried, he’d be giving those beastly teachers exactly what they wanted. So he’d just stay quiet, carefully sit back down and wait till breaktime to sneak into the tutor’s hall, chewing his butty, spit it out all chewed up and gooey, look around so as to not be seen, and stuff what he now called “the grotty butty” into Mr. X’s briefcase or robe pocket. The result was quite often funny, until I was caught giggling when Mr. Edwards came into our tutor class, stuffed his hand in his pocket and winced in sheer disgust. He thought it was me, and I was taken up front, caned and pushed to fess up and say who had done this dastardly deed, if not I. Paul stared with huge, plate eyes as I got the first whack of the cane... his eyes got bigger as the second whack managed to make me shed a tear... and on the third, his “say you didn’t do it” motto was thrown out. He stood up, true gentleman he could be, and shouted from the back of the class, making all little heads turn and gasp, - Stop it! Stop it, sir! Don’t hit Val any more! It was me! I did it! - Suffice to say, we both walked home like penguins. The “grotty butty” was never performed again.

After tea time and having both finished our homeworks, either he would climb over the fence or I would, just to spend endless afternoons of mischief, games, jokes, and an occasional argument. Mother Mary took a picture of us once, sitting on a box in his back garden, me with my pixie face, white ribbon on top of my little blonde head and a white dress, and Paul with his short overalls, no shirt, fidgeting, the sun hitting our squinty faces as we tried our best to look at the camera. It was the only piccie ever taken of Paul and I at that age, those wonderful golden days when nothing could ever go really wrong. Not until disaster struck...

It was the fall of 1951, closing in on late November. Liverpool was grey and sad, cold and windy. I noticed Paul had not joined me for a walk to school, so I figured Mary would take him later. But he never showed up in school at all. During breaktime, I eagerly looked for Mike to ask him if his brother was sick, but Mike was nowhere to be seen either. I walked back home alone (Brenda was now thirteen and in middle school) and was a bit stunned to find a large van parked outside our homes. I ran over and saw as the large, McCartney family piano was pushed up a ramp and into the van. Only then did I read the side panelling... Stephenson & Hawkins Removal Services.

- No... - I gasped and rushed inside my house. -Mum!! What’s going on??

- Oh, there you are!!- Mum came out of the kitchen with a drying cloth in her hands and her usual, huge smile. - Why??

- That van outside!!- I gasped, tears welling up in my eyes. -Why is it taking Jim’s piano??

- Oh...- Mum’s hands dropped down on her apron and her tone of voice turned compassionate. -Paul never told you, luv? I thought yous two were like really close mates!

- No, no!! What’s going on???

Mum shook her head and looked down. -Aw, luv...- She looked back up to me. -Well, Jim and Mary found the chance to buy a lovely house on the other side of Speke... they’re moving away, darling...

- No!!- I stammered angrily. -No!! Paul is my friend!! They can’t!!

- Oh, you can still be friends!- Mum smiled at me again and approached me. -We just won’t... you know, see them as often, but we will visit, I promise...

- No!! No, no, no!! - I shouted as I once again ran out of the house, round the corner, up the road and to the playground which by now was no longer a construction site. A mild drizzle began to fall as I sat on a swing and cried and cried. I hated Paul for having never told me he was moving away. I felt dreadful. I had no other friends, and Paul was a special friend to me. My young and relatively inexperienced heart was broken. I would probably never see him again, or Mike, or Jim and Mary. No more apple-knocking contests. No more late afternoons playing tag and no more late night evenings of music, tea and laughter. Mr. Conkers had won the war and the neighbourhood would now be much quieter.

I sat there for what seemed hours... and it probably had been. Around fall and winter in England, the sun sets quite early, and it was now pretty dark. I sat there, miserably sobbing and staring at the floor, when i heard the sound of a car coming along the curve. The headlights hit my face before turning again, and I saw the dreadful Stephenson & Hawkins Removal Services panelling. As if I had been touched by a cattle prod, I stood up and began to run after the truck.

- Paul!!! Paul!!- I shouted as I ran. -Wait for me!!! Wait!!!

I ran for roughly twenty seconds when the van suddenly stopped. The door flew open and out came the still young but guaranteed love of my life, running to me. -Val!!!

The embrace would have broken all records. I cried as we held each other tight. -I want to cum with you!! Please!! Let me come with you!!

Jim, Mary and Mike had caught up with us; Mary crouched in front of us and smiled her kind, motherly smile at me. - You can’t come with us, luv... You have your mum and your sister! They’d be very sad if you left!

- But... why are you leaving? - I sobbed. - If I can’t come, can Paul stay with us? I promise, we’d look after him, and... and... you can visit him any day! Please!

Mary and Jim chuckled and Paul turned his doe eyed stare to his folks. - Please, mum???

- No, m’dear, I’m afraid that can’t be done...- Mary looked back at me. -But you and your mum can come and visit us any day, luv!

- It won’t be the same!- I cried even louder.

- Maybe not...- Jim added from above, -But, for all you know, it might be even better.

I failed to see how that concept could possibly apply, but I had no choice but to accept what was being dealt to me. I looked down and wept silently.

- Cum ‘ead, luv...- Jim said to Mary. -Let’s give ‘em a couple minutes... Mike...

The toothless, younger brother turned to me and hugged me suddenly. - Bye, Val... Cum to visit us soon...- He spoke groggily before turning tail, grabbing Mary’s hand and walking to stand and stare from a distance.

Paul and I stood looking down at the floor. - You never told us you was moving...- I moaned.

- I tried, but I got too sad, is all...- he mumbled back.

- Do you have to?

- I wish I didn’t...

- But we’ll never see each other again, will we?

- I hope we do...- He sighed. - I’ll miss you, Val... Please cum to see me soon, or I’ll cum to see you!

- Promise?

- I promise! And I will also keep my word! I’ll be famous and rich one day, and you’ll cum to live with me and... you know...

- We’ll get married?

- Sure...- He shuffled his foot across the floor. -Yeh, why not?

- Ok...- I wept and hugged my best friend and very future husband. -Don’t forget us!!!

- I won’t, I won’t...- He said.

- From behind came Jim’s voice. - Paul, come on son, it’s getting late...

Paul sighed and looked at me as he swallowed. -Yer pretty. I always thought you were. I’ll call you often, I promise...

- You’d better...

- Bye...

- Tarrah...

One last peck on the lips, one last look into the huge, hazel-grey eyes... and I witnessed as tears welled up in them, the light of the lamp post reflecting his childlike sadness through the huge mirrors. The very first time I’d ever seen him cry... and the last, for a very, very long time at least. Not wanting to cry or see me any more, he turned, ran to the van and not stopping at all to look back, he hopped inside. The van left with its precious cargo in it, and I was left standing alone under the cold, Speke drizzle, sure to never see him again.

Mum later told me they had moved some six miles away, still in Speke, but in a newer, post-war neighbourhood, to Number 12 Ardwick Road. Very frequently, Paul and I would be on the phone, but as time went by, the calls became less and less frequent. By about six months after my tenth birthday, I hardly knew what had become of them. Although mum often visited, she usually did so while Brenda and I were in school. On one occasion, she did take me, but as bad luck would have it (ran in the family, as I have said before), Paul was out with his new neighbourhood mates, and only returned when we were about to leave. We had not seen each other for only about a year and a half, but that time had been more than enough for him to get a tad podgy. However, we were both very happy to see each other and for the duration of that one short encounter, we were as close as ever. He told me about the things he did, and all the amazing things one could find in this neighbourhood. For one, he and Mike had almost drowned in a flooded lime pit, but had adventurously survived the terror when they secured their grip on a tree root. Then there was also his “turnip time”, which meant, he, Mike, the “gang” and the “gang’s dog”, Prince, would throw raw turnips they picked from a local wild patch down a bridge at passing trains, aiming for the engine master and quite frequently hitting the bullseye. He told me that the name of his new school was Joseph Williams, and it was an all-boys school, which, to him, was mighty boring, but he kept scoring all them straight A’s. Mike had also grown a tad and looked leaner, meaner and a whole lot less shy than before. Sadly, we only had a chance of about one hour for us to catch up with our lives before mum told me it was time to leave. But now I knew the route.... and I would be eleven in a few months... With his proverbial caginess, he showed off his new bike, and turned to me with his still identical wink. - Maybe you ought to get a bike for yer birthday too, Val!

AHA!! That was it!

Sure enough, I told mum that I didn’t want a party or a cake... but a bike. Brenda, who was now about to turn fifteen, put a few shillings and pounds together... she was becoming a hairdresser’s apprentice downtown and was earning something around the lines of one ten and nine (that’s one pound, ten shillings and nine pence from the old coin system), which wasn’t much even then. Still, both mum and Brenda paid for my so greatly desired prezzie... A lovely, lavender bike, complete with a honker, a basket and breaks. It was brand new. I had seen it on an apparel downtown and I knew it had probably cost fourteen quid (a fortune!!!), but nonetheless, there it was! All mine, for me to ride as far as the eye could see... except there was a problem... I couldn’t ride it at all!! Since Brenda had never owned a bike and mum hadn’t ridden one since she was roughly my age, I had to teach myself how to use it. I started off with small laps around the playground. Once I stopped trembling at the handles, I began to teach myself how to speed up and slow down. First down the empty, neighbourhood street, then across the other side of the playground, and finally, up and down the entire six blocks. I was ready. It had taken me a whole year to become a bike pro and I was now twelve years old, happy, eager and very prepared to pedal from one side of the Speke district to the other. Five miles seemed like an awfully long spin, but Paul was worth it. We hadn’t spoken in ages, and I had no clue whether he’d be there at all or if he’d be out with “the gang” his dog Prince, but by golly, I’d get there.

The following morning, I got ready for school, placed all my goods in the front basket, and pedalled... In the opposite direction... Past the playground, past the second and third sector of the area, past the main street, past the shops, past the fourth, fifth and sixth sectors together with their playgrounds... and finally... deep ocean. I was lost. Whenever I stopped for directions, I would be met with stares and comments like - Why aren’t you in skewl, then little girl?? - I dodged six bobbies, almost got hit by a double-decker bus and wondered where I had taken the wrong turn.

After two hours of misdirected orientation (or lack thereof), I finally recognised the Pub on the corner of Ardwick Road I had seen when I had visited with mum little over a year ago. Finally!! I took the left turn and felt my legs ache with the effort... I was getting closer! Sure, he’d probably be in school himself, but I would wait outside his house. If I had come this far, I wasn’t going to complain over a short wait. I pased number 76...Number 50... Number 22...Number 19....Number 12. Number 12 Ardwick Road!! This was it!!

This... this was... for sale.

I jumped off the bike and stared at the ugly sign on the front lawn. Leaning my bike on the small fence, I opened the gate and paced up to the front window. Standing on the tips of my toes, I looked inside. Empty. Just like my heart at that very moment. The McCartneys had made yet another move... and this time I had no clue where they had gone.

I dragged arse (and bike) back home, where mum waited for me with an angered look. The school master had obviously called and it was now no secret that I had bonked school. But one look at my devastated, tired puss and she was disarmed. Instead of a scolding, I was met with a hot cup of cocoa (no tea, still), chocolate chip biscuits and a clean handkerchief to clean away dirt and tears. After I told her what had happened, Mum told me that she knew little at that point, but she did know that they had moved to a nicer neighbourhood in Allerton... Allerton!! That was at least a good, twenty-five minute bus ride away!! Definitely too far for my biking skills.

I went to bed not much later. I sat on the bed and I opened the gorgeous, little egg-shaped music box. It sounded exactly the same as it had five years earlier, when Paul had given it to me, and I cried myself to sleep to the sound of the Vera Lyn song. I don’t know why I was so determined over a promise we had both made as seven year old children, but something didn’t seem right. A part of me was missing... and I knew he was it. I sang a few, groggy lines before falling asleep. And I sang them as a personal oath.

- We’ll meet again... don’t know where... don’t know when... but I know we’ll meet again some sunny day...

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