3. The ukulele.

Maria often brought records she had bought in America. With her father’s job, she had done some serious travelling before finally settling down in Liverpool. Bill Haley, Elvis Presley, Little Richard, Ritchie Valens, Buddy Holly, The Big Bopper, Gene Vincent... All rock and Roll. It was considered by most “serious” youths of the time to be the words of the anti-Christ. Skiffle had been one thing; local, moderated and fun. But Rock and Roll was like Pandora’s box! I had seen Elvis on the telly at Paul’s once or twice (always above the hips) and while I hadn’t been overly impressed I had not been disgusted by him, either. A tremendous Teddy Boy, the leader of the pack, quite likely. Brenda had loved him for a while. Mum hadn’t banned his music from the house, but often offered sharp comments like “Lord luv a duck! What a racket! Turn that bloody record player down, Brenda!”. But the minute Maria set foot in my house, Rock and Roll became a household item. Mum wasn’t crazy about it, but she never stopped me. She figured that she had had her own share of crazy youth and I was equally entitled to it, in spite of her opinion about modern trends. Of course, she hadn’t expected me to start wearing lipstick, or to sew the inside of my school skirt to make it tighter and shorter. Soon enough, I was chewing gum, smoking cigarettes in the street and quite frequently skiving class to join Paul, Maria, John and George at the graveyard. After watching closely, Paul and I had figured out how to dance rock n’ roll, and we’d frequently do so in the middle of the street to everyone’s great amusement. My favourite singer became Eddie Cochran, and Twenty Flight Rock had become my rebellious anthem. I still managed to study hard enough to maintain my straight A’s, but teachers were now beginning to complain about my erratic behaviour. Very frequently, my phone at home would ring and my tutor teacher, Sister Mary Anne, would tell my mother about the awful behaviour her daughter had in class... and even began to suggest to mum that she’d better ban me from hanging out with that “Italian brat, for she’s been a directly bad influence on Valerie. She used to be such a meek, nice, respectable young lady...” Mum, however, always dismissed such calls. She had met Maria, and according to her own words, she reminded her of herself when she was young. “Only young girls trying to break the mould”, she’d say to me. For someone like mum, it was easy to see through Maria. She was, after all, just a young girl, like myself. Maria always behaved politely around mum but soon enough all protocol had been lost, and instead of “Mrs. McNaughton”, my mum became Evie to her. Maria had a flair for comedy and very frequently would have all of us rolling around with laugher. So, after seeing that mum had taken to her so well, I had no trouble in introducing her to John Lennon and George Harrison. As I had thought, it was a matter of minutes before Mum and John had hit it off. John’s poignant sense of humour struck gold in my mum’s heart, and not one hour had passed when The Quarrymen began to improvise tunes in my living room to mum’s great amusement.

The Quarrymen was a line-up of little local baddies, or kids who wanted to appear as such, anyway. Six local baddies, to be precise. Len Gary, roughly John’s age, was in charge of the improvised bass made out of an old tea chest, some rope and a broomstick. John’s fuzzy-haired childhood friend, Pete Shotton, took care of the spoon and washing board. A boy with a fully equipped drum set named Colin Hanton sat at the back behind his skins, George would step in and out with his guitar, depending on the song to be played, and Paul and John pretty much monopolised the vocals and guitars. Their manager was another friend of John’s, a soft spoken and very well mannered guy named Nigel Whalley. While John had personally handpicked each and every member of his band, Paul seemed to be the one in control of what happened, when it happened, how it happened and why. Although he never made any direct comments to their faces, it was pretty obvious that Len, Pete and Colin could all tell that Paul had something going against them. According to Paul, it was nothing personal, but they just weren’t good enough to be in the Quarrymen... and he was starting to subliminally convince John of that. From that very early time, it was plain to see that John was no picnic, but for some reason Paul and Paul alone had managed to tamper with his brain, something that not even the ruthless auntie Mimi had accomplished in eighteen years. And it seemed that John was the only person in that band that Paul deeply loved and respected. He knew genius when he saw it, apparently, and if John wasn’t genius then I don’t know what the hell he was. It wasn’t all one way, however. The other three didn’t trust this charming little McCartney virtuoso and thought of him as a big-headed little bastard who was discreetly but very surely clawing his way into John’s side-saddle.

I would spend evening after evening, listening to Paul go on about how he and John had done this and that, how they had written a new song, how John spoke, what John did and so on. Another frequent topic of conversation was Cynthia Powell, John’s sweetheart. John had used the term “Hoylake Muffin” to describe her, and it seemed Paul had a very good opinion of her as well. “She’s too good for John” was a frequent joke. And the day I met her I suddenly found myself agreeing with the joke. She was dead proper, pretty, meek and always smiling. The prototypical good girl who had it bad for the bad boy and (just like I had), who had sold herself to the “bad girl” image when John told her she’d look great if she copied the style of Brigitte Bardot. We hit it off like a charm from day one, and after a while, the female gang consisted of Maria, Cyn and I, sitting around the boys as they rehearsed. It was plain to see Cyn was crazy in love with “Ole Foureyes”, as Mike liked to call him. And why deny it? I was pretty sure that I was in pretty much the same shape over Paul. I had known him to be a cagey, conniving little weasel my entire life, but I also knew he was smart, kind, polite and warm-hearted. And although Paul and I had been going on and off since young children, I was perceiving a set of emotions I had never felt before. Once we were walking down Penny Lane and a fellow girl from the Academy walked past us. I suppose she had missed out on the fact that we were hand in hand and quite cheekily stared, smiled and winked at him. And as if that had not been enough, I saw him smile back at her and turn his head as she went past. For some reason, I suddenly threw my arm into his stomach and walked off alone. A jealousy fit? That was a new. Paul didn’t talk to me for three days, but after that time it was as if nothing had happened, and from then on he didn’t as much as turn his head to look at other girls when I was with him... and I stress, when I was with him.

While John and Paul would very frequently skive and go back to Paul’s for songwriting, the full-blown rehearsals often took place at John’s home. Not the posh, Woolton home he had shared with his Auntie Mimi, but a much more modest little terraced house over at Spring Wood where his mum lived. A week after I met them, I cordially followed the Quarrymen and girls to Julia Stanley’s place. She was living with a man whose real name I never knew but whom I knew John affectionately called Twitchy, due to a permanent tic in his eye. It wasn’t until then that I learned that John had two sisters, or half sisters, at least. I will never forget the day I first set foot on Julia’s place. Paul and I arrived early, at least an hour before John who apparently had to go get his guitar over at Mimi’s. We were greeted at the door by a tall, slender woman with auburn hair and a smile identical to her Ted son’s. She was no older than thirty four or thirty five and had a conventionally British beauty of a face.

- Ello, there, Paul!- She hugged him. - All alone today, are we?

- No, Julia, John and the lads will be over soon enough. -He smiled back as he stepped behind her into the house. - By the way, this is me girlfriend Val, Val, this is John’s mum.

- Call me Julia!- She smiled at me and hugged me as if she had known me her whole life. -So, you’re the lucky one who stole Paul’s heart, are we?

Paul chuckled. - It’s always been ‘ers, Julia...- He said, before turning around and giving me a soft, tender peck on the lips.

- Oh, she’s the one John told me about? The one that you supposedly met when you were kids?

- Seems he got the story wrong. -I bit my lower lip. - We’ve known each other since before we were even born, I think!

- Aw. - She tilted her head to the side and clasped her hands in front of her dress. - You’re a sweet pair, yous two... Cum ‘ead...- She walked into the den. -Sit down. I’ll set the teapot.

- Ta...-

As Paul sat himself down on the couch, I looked around at a bunch of photos in picture frames on top of the mantelpiece. I stopped when I identified John’s much younger face, school cap and blazer, smiling at the camera. Then there was another image of him and Julia in a garden, John squinting as the sun hit his face and his mum proudly holding onto him.

- He don’t look much like ‘er, does ‘e?- I spoke softly as I turned back to Paul with a grin.

- Look ‘ere...- He stood up, turned to look at the kitchen door and then pulled the picture out of the frame. From behind it fell another photograph, a man in a uniform, young, tall, handsome... and standing next to a young and very pregnant Julia. - That’s John’s dad... He walked out not long after this, you know...

Now THIS I could relate to. John was identical to his father. Same eyes, same nose, same lithe body frame. Only Julia’s auburn hair and cheeky, twinkling smile. Paul swiftly returned the picture back into the frame and set it back on top of the mantelpiece just in the nick of time. Julia walked in with a large tray of tea in her hands.

Paul immediately rushed over and took it from her. -Ere, Julia, let us ‘ave that.

- Aw...- She turned to me with he big old smile. - Has he always been this much of a charmer, then?

- ‘E’s gotten better, but yeh.

- Years of practice. -He added.

- So...- she spoke as she sat and began to pour a cup for Paul. - Just how long is my son gonna take now?

Paul shrugged. -Dunno. Said ‘e ‘ad to get his guitar from Mimi’s.

- Oh, good God, ‘e’ll be an hour!- She laughed and looked up at Paul. -One or two sugars, m’luv?

- Two, please. Ta....

- Yeh, if I know my sister, she’ll start getting on his case. - She huffed.- She’s done a good job with John, but I think she’s ‘aving a hard time at letting ‘im be what he is.

- And what may tha’ be?- I asked cheekily.

- Well, John is... John.- She sighed and began to pour another cup for me. - ‘Ow do you like yer tea, puppet?

- Cream, no sugar, please...

- Oh, yes, John is different.- She said as she fixed my tea. - He was my first child ever, but even before he was born I felt like I had known ‘im fer years. He was due on October 15... But...- She chuckled as she poured cream into the cup and shook her head as she spoke. -...’e beat us all to the punch. Came out in the middle of the night, October 9. He’s like me. He can’t wait to ‘ave things done his own way. Goes against convention in any form it may come... He’s much too restless and creative to sit behind a doctor’s desk, which is Mimi’s idea of what ‘e should become. No...- She handed me the cup and sat back. - Not Johnny. I just see that he needs his space, I respect it and we get on great. I just wish I could do that for him all the time... But ‘e adores Mimi, too. Drives ‘er up the wall, mind you, but ‘e adores ‘er.-

There was a long, smiling silence before she spoke again. -So, Paul, luv, got yer guitar?

- It’s right ‘ere...- He smiled and pulled it out from its case.

- Ok, be right back. - She stood up, ran upstairs and came right back down with a ukulele in her hands. -Want to jam a bit?

- Yeah!- Came Paul’s enthusiastic response. -Val can sing fer us, right, Val?

Julia turned to me, her big eyes, the same colour as John’s, sparkling like two hazel opal stones. - Can you sing, luv?

- Naa... That’s just what this lot says, but, no, not really...

- Don’t you listen to ‘er, Julia, she’s really good. -Paul huffed. -So, what shall it be then?

- What songs do you know, then, Val?

I sat silently and I thought for a few seconds before turning to Paul. - Over the Rainbow...

For a few brief seconds, I seriously hated myself for that answer. Paul was a Ted now. I should have said “Rock Island Line” or “Freight Train” or something from the U.S.... What type of poised, bourgeois little cow could come up with such song?

- Aw, Fab!! I luv that one!- Paul shocked me. -Know it, Julia?

- Of course!

- Ok, then... ready Val? One, two, three, and...

It was the first time anyone had ever played a very Hawaiian sounding over the rainbow, with Julia playing, laughing and smiling, and Paul cooing some fabulous background vocals. So, the McCartney in Paul was still there! Good news all around, at least until Lennon arrived.

- Aye, aye, can’t leave you two alone fer a few seconds before you start crooning this rubbish. -he huffed as he and the others placed their guitars (washboard, bass with teabox and drumsticks) down.

- Aw, lay off, it’s a nice tune. -Julia laughed.

- Yeah, something YOU might not know too much about, luv. - Added Paul.

John shrugged. - Whatever you say, Dorothy.

Getting a few giggles from everyone with his sharp tongue was one of John’s favourite (and might I add, best developed) hobbies. Julia had the same gift, only wasn’t quite as acid and gnarly as her son. No wonder those two got along so well.

After that first day of meeting Julia, the rehearsals of the next few months were nothing short of a laugh. I could not keep a straight face the day we were all sitting around after The Quarrymen had finished their practice and someone tapped at the door. Julia had been collecting the laundry from her back garden and simply ran from one end of the house to another wearing a huge pair of knickers atop her head... and that’s how she answered the door. Each and every one of us had to bite our tongues, but as soon as we heard the door slam shut, the explosion was inevitable.

- Who was that, mum? -John giggled, controlling the outburst as he spoke.

- Oh...- Julia answered non-chalantly. - Just the local vicar, never you mind...

That alone had us roaring with laughter again.

Days and months went by. Being with Paul felt the way it should be, and for a blissful while I couldn’t remember a day that had passed without him. I was bound to turn 16 on July 29 that year, and a party plan was under way. The best spot for a birthday bash was completely out of the question (it being Aunt Mimi’s oversized back garden), so we had to settle for one of three possible locations: My place (which now that I was older looked considerably small), over at Paul’s (which was even smaller) or Julia Stanley’s. On July 15 of that year, Paul and I sat around in my living room just planning and seeing all the possibilities for a cheap but fabulous party for me.

- No balloons! come on! - I laughed and slapped him playfully on the arm.

- Go on, it’s like being a kid! - He replied with his typical impish grin. - The famous kid we all have inside, you know ‘er...

- No balloons.

- Ok, ok...- he scratched it off the list he held in his hand. - How about... music?

- Record player or live band?

- Maybe both...

- In that case...- I giggled, -...best do it at Julia’s. I don’t think Jim or me mum would be too keen on a live Skiffle band banging away in our garden.

- Ok...- He shrugged. -Fags?

- That’s John’s department.

- Drinks?

- Spiked punch, maybe?

- Or tea with Drambuie?

I laughed at the memory as he shook his head from side to side. -Anyways, I think I may know what to get ya.

- A music box? - I smiled.

- No. -He smiled back. -But I’m kind of happy you remember tha’ one... Went from shop to shop to find it, we did. I remember tha’ I stopped and pasted me face on the glass of this shop. There it was, up on the apparel. We went inside and mum and dad were seriously considering getting you a cardigan, but I was so persistent...

- Maybe annoying would be a better word...

- Probably...- He chuckled. - anyways, they caved in. I was pretty proud of tha’ one.

- Now I’M amazed tha’ YOU remember all tha’. - I said.

- Yeh... All too well. - He sighed. - What ‘appened to the music box, anyroad?

- It’s upstairs, on my bedside table...

- Yer ‘aving me on!!

- No...- I shrugged. -Want to take a look?

Paul suddenly blushed and began to appear sheepish. -Wha’... upstairs? In... yer room?

- Sure...- I pressed my lips together. -Aw, come on, McCartney, I won’t touch you, me mum is out in the garden hanging up the laundry, do you think she’d never figure out we’d be... you know... shaggin’? Don’t be coy, come on, it’s just a bloody music box, it’s not like the end of the wo....

He clasped his hand on my mouth. -I get the idea, luv. But believe me, I know tha’ if something DID ‘appen up there, it wouldn’t be YOUR ‘ands starting it... Not sure you’d want ME up there... alone...- He blushed even harder, but the look in his eyes told a completely different tale... lust. And although I hated to admit it, it was contagious as all hell.

- Do that...- I said, in perfect control of the situation. -... and wind up all rumpled up in the dust bin...

He laughed heartily. -So much fer the College Pudding John ‘as you pinned for, eh? - He sighed. -All right. Let’s go...

Just for safety, I walked out to the kitchen and popped my head out the window. -Mum, we’ll be up in me room!

- Don’t you dare spoil my child, Paul McCartney!! Remember, I know yer dad!!!- Mum joked from the garden.

- Mrs. McNaughton, be sure to know yer child’s virtue is safe with me!- He joked back as we turned tail and walked across the den and up the steep staircase. Brenda was in the room next to mine and I could hear her moan and whine about not having something to wear for her date that night. She had been dating a local boy named Glenn Bailey who was the son of the local butcher. A nice enough chap who was obviously mad about her, but with a mug like bat and eyes like pissholes in the snow. Things seemed to be going well for them, though, and Brenda was oblivious to the fact that her fella was a real dog.

- Listen to ‘er ranting...- I whispered to Paul as we walked past her bedroom door and into mine. -You’d think she’s dating James Dean...

- Oh, like you were doing so well...

No... no, he couldn’t even begin to compare! He knew himself to be handsome, that much was obvious. And it was also obvious that he was just looking for the right comment to shine up his already glimmering, shimmering ego. Every passing day I learned something new about him and his personality... and today’s lesson was, “this boy has a high opinion of himself...”.

- Yeh, you have a point there...- I decided to answer cheekily, and that in turn earned me a playful scorn.

- And to think I was about to say I’m not doing so bad, meself...- He said as he propped forward with the finest, most persuasively charming smile in his collection and wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me to him for a long lasting kiss... and a completely different message behind it. Now, in spite of the fact that Brenda and mum were in the house and that I had more than enough reasons and education for my virginal alarm to go off, I was responding to his every move. I didn’t want it to go any further, but from the feel of it, this was bound not to end there if we let it. I had often heard Maria talk about the “point of no return”, but I had no clue about it, let alone know where the “point” was. I had it pegged for some kind of emotional road with a detour and a big, red signal that read something like “exit here before you hit the wall”, or something. But some people (namely, Maria) had driven down that road so fast that they had missed the exit and the inevitable had taken place. I didn’t really know much, other than the basic “birds and bees” talk. I knew enough at least to get it on; the man has a doo-dah that goes inside the woman’s yee-haw and after a few minutes you are in potential danger of hosting a winged, feathery visitor from Paris with a special parcel for you, not to open in nine months. Getting preggers, or ringing the bell, as we Scousers referred to it. That thought alone suddenly froze my inexperienced but obviously savvy teenage hormones and I stopped the kissing with a sudden jolt.

- You...ok?- Paul frowned.

- Yeh, but...- I bit on my lower lip. Feeling as if I had been smacked on the face with a steel bucket. - Yer not on, lah... Sorry, not ‘ere, not now...

From the puzzled look on his face, I knew I had put my foot in my mouth. -Ok...- He nodded. -But will you...?

- No, not now... not for a while...- I rubbed my arms and looked down. - Sorry Paul, I can’t.

- You... don’t err...- he shrugged. -...want me at all?

- It’s not you. -I swallowed and looked back up to him, his eyes expectant and inquisitive. - I just... don’t feel it’s... time, you know...

There was a long silence during which I could feel my face blushing insanely and tears welling up in my eyes. But by the time I had gained courage to look into his eyes, his scorn had melted into a gorgeous and bemused little grin. -Aw, come on, no big deal... The time will come...- He winked at me. -You wait ‘n see.

That McCartney determination... The last time I had heard him say something like that had been when he had told me he’d be rich and famous. But unlike that particular assertion, this other one was a guarantee, especially when I had just learned what wanting a guy was about. Add a cup of history, a dash of teen lust and ten gallons of serious emotional affection (aka, love), and it’s a deadly mix, like a nitro bomb. I seriously didn’t want it to explode, and I think maybe he too knew the potential danger of it. Otherwise, I had reason to believe he might have pushed it further, maybe not having actual sex but at least doing some serious heavy petting.

His grin, for the time being, was very reassuring, and I smiled back. -Yer not mad, then?

- Look, - He winked at me. - I’ve been there, really... I know how the game goes, but it takes two... What fun would it be if you ‘ave it all cemented up, in yer brain at least? Naaa... when yer ready, you will know it...-

I gagged at the thought. He had... been there?

- You mean to say... you’ve dun it?

- Yep...- He said proudly. - Overrated stuff... Nice, but overrated. AND messy.

- But... but...

- Look, me nextdoor neighbour... big knockers, babysitting. She asked us over and... well, it ‘appened. That’s about it.

I had to disguise a small but very annoying sense of disappointment. He’d had his first time... and it had not been with me. I knew it wasn’t terribly important, but jealousy was so very hard to control. I took a deep breath and convinced myself that I had done the best thing by holding back, also trying to delete the bothersome pang of frustration and unjustified anger for not having been the one to cut the ribbon of his grand opening. Not that it would have mattered, since this could have been MY grand opening and had run away from it screaming and panting. It didn’t matter.

- Ohhh...- He suddenly pointed at the music box and walked in its direction. -‘Ere it is!!- He turned to me, looking amazed and happy. - And does it still work?

- Sure. -I sat on the bed and took the box to wind it up from the bottom before handing it back to my doe-eyed young boyfriend. -‘Ere, open it up.

With an adoring smile, he opened it up and looked at it. - You know...- He began, his eyes fixed on the little rabbit spinning inside the box as the music wound on. -Fer ages I cried every time I ‘eard that song...

- So did I...

- Val, I promised you something. -He looked at me. - ... and it WILL ‘appen.

- What are you on about now?- I laughed.

- I’m serious. -He said, and his face didn’t seem to deter that thought. -I’m working on it. I’ll make something of meself... You’ll cum right along with me, even if it takes me years, luv, I’ll take us to tha’ deserted island...

- Oh, my God...- I gasped. -You remember that???

- I remember it all, luv. I always fancied you, even then. I dunno, it was rather silly back then, but now... now...- He looked at me and it was easy for me to see that speaking from the core of his heart with no mask was rather difficult and awkward for him. - Now it’s... not so simple. - He sat next to me on the bed and looked at me. -I really don’t want to get too real on you, Val, but I...luv you. Really, it’s not just hot kecks for ya. Please tell me you know what I’m on about...

It took me ages to swallow and it wasn’t until I had managed to pass saliva down my throat that I remembered that we are all human and humans need to breathe to be alive. -Yes...

- Well? - He shrugged. -Do you?

I stared into his young, beautifully lashed eyes and felt the first shockwave of that pebble thrown into a pond so long ago hit me with a vengeance. - Yes...- I was finally able to mutter. -I luv you too...

As if we were living through a scene from some English B-grade movie, we kissed a different type of kiss. So it wasn’t just me... it felt great to know it wasn’t only me who had begun to experience the sometimes horrible feeling of life controlling you instead of you controlling life when you fall in love, especially the first time.

Somewhere in the background, melted together with the traditional household and neighbourhood sounds I was so accustomed to, I was able to hear a tap on the door , followed by Maria’s voice as she spoke to mum. It didn’t stop us from our now confirmed love kiss... at least not then... not until Maria barged in, slamming the door open and making both Paul and I turn our heads sharply in her direction. She looked like she had ran the marathon from Wallasey to Birkenhead through the tunnel, her perfectly sexy hair was a mess on her face, her lips bore no sign of red lipstick and what was worse... she had been crying.

- Paul? Val!!

- Maria...- he replied, now visibly concerned and pulling a chair for her. -Are you ok?

- What’s wrong?- I asked too.

She sat, cried for a minute and finally stopped to tell us. - Something... terrible happened. Mamma mia... poveretto... poveretto...

Paul grimaced. -Get a grip, girl, what are you on about?

Maria sighed and looked into his eyes. -Johnny... he...

- Maria, what about John???- I asked, now scared something seriously bad had happened.

- Julia... she was...e morta... she dead...- She continued gagging through the story before our bewildered stares. - She crossed the road and ... a car... a car... Mio Dio, she got hit and died. Poor Johnny!!- She hid her face behind her hands and cried.

Paul stared at her, his own eyes depicting something that was definitely not good and that I had never seen before. Much as he hated to have his emotions out in the open, it was clear that this time he wasn’t even fighting it. John Lennon had just lost his mother... like he had little over a year ago. The pain and the memory of the loss of his own mum had flushed back and hit him head on. For a few seconds, he just sat there, eyes wide as dinner plates, shinning but not shedding, and suddenly he just stood up and ran like bolt lightning to the door, without as much as saying goodbye to my mother. I looked out the window as he jumped on his bike and began to pedal at a speed previously unknown to me. I had no clue where he’d be going, since Allerton wasn’t especially close, but some seven bus stops away. And if Allerton was a long shot then Woolton was out of the question, as was Spring Wood, where Julia lived... or had lived. Once Paul was out of sight, the news suddenly hit me and sank in. John’s mother, Julia, was dead. That lovely, auburn haired lady who had so frequently hosted me and treated me as one of her own was gone from this world. I suddenly turned my thoughts on John. Given the story Paul had given me about his life and how it had been recent that John and his mum had begun to bond strongly, I felt his pain strangely close to home. My attention was then drawn back to Maria, who also sat on the chair in a mess of tears, and I understood she was probably feeling the same thing that had prompted Paul to leap up and go. A dead mother. I had a dead father, but I had never even met him. Sure, I felt that something had been missing, but I had never seen him go before his time. And sharing the bond I had with my mum, I could not even begin to imagine...

- What... what can I do?- I gasped.

- Niente...- Maria shook her head. -Nothing. Just... be there.

A week later, the Quarrymen showed up for the burial of Julia Stanley... all except John Lennon, who had obviously taken a detour to get roaring drunk and staying as far away from reality as possible. It’s not that he didn’t care, but rather he just cared too much... and had lost it way too early. Paul and I stood together as they lowered the coffin into the ground, and I could see that his face depicted more of a feeling of closure rather than pain. I remembered him telling me how Jim had had both he and Mike sent to his Auntie Gin’s and how he would have liked to be there at the funeral of his own mum. He was getting a shot at it now. Sure, Julia wasn’t his mother, but all he had to do was picture it, live it and leave it behind. I understood it all too well, and said nothing as I silently took his hand in mine. He looked at me and a quick look of gratitude flashed through his face before he turned it back to the hole on the ground. I stood by... as I would do whenever he needed me.

For months after the incident, John was a complete disaster area. He’d seldom show up sober to his own band’s rehearsal, and when he did he’d be snappy, angry and defiant. On one occasion, Mimi had called everyone to ask if anybody had seen her precious nephew. Apparently, he had never come home that night. Paul cut school, as did George and all the other Quarrymen. Paul hit the jackpot, finding the seventeen-year-old Ted dead drunk all the way at the back of the top deck of the 7:30 Penny Lane bus. It’s safe to say that John was never the same after Julia died. Sure, with time he went back to being John, only he was now seriously pissed off at life in general and became the local troublemaker. From that moment on, he’d easily get into fights and would sometimes even go looking for them. Stuart, his artist buddy, seemed to smooth out the sharp end to his anger and frustration. Cyn and Paul also helped a lot. George stayed safely out of the way, knowing he was out of his league with this one and that this was better off left to Paul who knew what losing a mum was about. But the other Quarrymen were fast getting tired. Slowly and during the course of the following year, each band member began to depart, some claiming they had plain lost interest, but most sustaining that they could not bear being around the hypocritical, baby-faced little bastard John had taken under his wing. Not that Paul had no idea what was going on; from the get go, he seemed to know better than anybody what that band needed to rise above all the other local bands. He knew who could stay... and who had to go. It seemed to me that while John was the natural ring leader, he often handed the reins to Paul, who seemed to be a few yards ahead when it came to business savvy and musical know how. In spite of this, I witnessed a moment of sheer humiliation when Paul attempted to do a guitar solo and balled up so blatantly (in public!), that George became the official lead guitarist. I also remember the day Paul Ran into John’s living room, shouting about how Buddy Holly had just been killed in a dreadful plane crash, and the band took a solemn week off, in memoriam. I was there for the sly and cagey sacking of tea-box bassist Len Gary. Paul had noticed skiffle’s slow conversion into a dying fad, and had managed to convince John that a REAL bass player was needed... not an amateur with an old box and broomstick painted black. They had to make “the transition into a professional Rock N’ Roll combo”. Neither John nor Paul dared to break the news to him; rather, they all met at Paul’s (when they were supposed to meet somewhere else) without telling Len, and just had drummer Colin Hanton break the news to him over the phone. I later learned that this cowardly protocol was to repeat itself years later in the sacking of Pete Best. Pete Shotton went next, but chose to solemnly quit and keep his friendship with John. His role as washboard-ist was terminated with the crashing sound of the washboard being playfully smashed over his head by none other than John himself. Colin Hanton stayed for a little extra time (Paul knew how hard it was to find a drummer their age who actually owned a drumset), but called it quits not long after, telling John that he was being manipulated by Paul and that he would not stick around to watch it happen any longer. So, the band went down to three. For quite a while, Paul had to take care of the drums, John would sing alone and George would do all the amazing solos with his little virtuoso fingers. We often had a few laughs when we went to the movies; George would tag along but not be allowed into the cinema (even though Paul was terribly baby-faced, George STILL looked much younger). To solve this, Paul and I would grab some dirt, rub it over his lip and push him through the crowd with his cap pulled down over his brow. We saw a great many flicks, Love Me Tender, Whatever Happened to Baby Jane (that one freaked me out), The Blob (with Steve McQueen), and a few others. This time, I was absolutely convinced Paul and I were to stay together. But in spite of the opportunities, we never made love. I knew he was fighting it. It was rather plain to see his growing interest in sex; I frequently heard about it, oddly enough, from Cyn, who was apparently leading a fully sexual life with John. She would tell me things John would tell her, and John obviously heard a lot of things from Paul. Things such as “I can’t wait”, “It’s driving me barmy!”, “she wants it too, but she’s just too scared to let go”, blah, blah. All the same, he had said that for as long as I wasn’t ready, we’d wait... and maybe it was that wait that breached us apart a second time... that and the band.

It had been two long, happy years together, and we made a point of celebrating it, together with Paul’s eighteenth birthday, over at a pub called The Grapes. We sat, smiling, holding hands and sharing Paul’s first legal pint of beer. Just as we had swallowed our first sip, in stormed Lennon, smiling from ear to ear, and gave Paul a sudden and rough slap on the back, making him cough out his mouthful of beer all over me.

- Fuckin’ ell, mate!!- Paul cleared his throat and sneered at him. -What the bloody ‘ell...??

- You’ll be begging fer another one after I tell you this one...- John turned to me. -Hiya, Val... Sorry, ‘ope you won’t melt...

- Really funny, John...- I moaned as I cleaned the once white and now beery-yellow frills on my blouse.

- Mate, I ‘ave two good news...- John turned back to Paul as if he hadn’t heard me at all. -Ever ‘eard of Larry Parnes?

- Larry wha’?- Paul winced.

- Parnes!! You know, the one tha’ last year took Ronnie Withcherley and turned ‘im into... what’s-his-name... something Tempest? You know ‘em, Vince Eager, Billy Fury, Johnny Gentle and all them lot?

- Oh, yeh!- He suddenly lit up. - So?

- So...- John made a fake drum roll sound.

- Get on with it!

- So, we ‘ave an audition with ‘im!! Ha Ha!!

Paul frowned. -We don’t want to look like bloody idiots, Lennon...- He shook his head. -We’re three bloody guitarists. We ‘ave no...

- Bass and drums?- John cut in. - Well, my good man, that’s news number two... We now ‘ave a bass player!!

- Wha’??- Paul suddenly sat up with a smile. -Tha’s great!! Who is it???

- Stu...

There was a long period of Paul staring into John’s eyes, as if expecting the moment in which John would break down laughing and tell him it was a joke... But, that didn’t happen.

- Stu?- Paul asked, confused, as he once again sat back. -As in Sutcliffe, Stu?

- Same one...- John said, taking Paul’s beer and woofing it down his throat like a milkshake.

- But... Stu? Stu doesn’t even ‘ave a...

- Nope, he doesn’t. - He put the beer down. -That’s where YOU cum in handy!!

Paul and I stared at John.

- Err...- I grinned. -I don’t think I follow... I thought Stu was a painter.

- He’s an artist.- John shrugged. - Music is another form of art, innit?

- Oh, yeah? What’s ‘e gonna do John, paint ‘imself a bass?- Paul chuckled. -It’s a larf, mate...

- God, Paulie, ‘ave you no vision?- John laughed back. - I’ll bet you ‘ad no clue that Mr. Sutcliffe just sold a painting.

- And?

- Fer sixty-five quid... At the John Moore’s exhibit...

Paul now looked interested as he once again sat up. -I’m listening...

- Simple enough... You use tha’ pretty-boy charm of yours and ‘elp me coax ‘im into buying a bass with that dough...

Once again, they stared at each other. The glow in John’s eyes made it obvious that he had struck a nerve in Paul. And one look at Paul was enough to see he’d do it. A sly smile cruised their lips.

- All the same...- Paul muttered ever the cagey one. - ‘E can’t play...

- Neither could you, when you first started, I’ll bet. -John shrugged. - We’ll teach the bugger. Point is, we’ll need a bass player fer the audition...

- And what about a drummer?- I asked

- Yeh! I don’t want to play the drums any more...- Paul added.

- The Good Lord will provide. - John quipped as he stood up. -See ya in an hour over at the main entrance to the College, Paul... See ya, Val...- And just the way he’d appeared, he was gone.

I laughed at the sleaziness of their plan... and laughed even harder when I saw Stu join the rehearsal at Paul’s with a beautiful, brand new Hofner President bass, which was obviously too big for him. At first, Paul was a darling, teaching him whatever he could... But after about three lessons, it was plain to see that Stu had not been cut out for music and Paul began to lose his patience. Still, he managed to learn at least three songs, and the “band” was hired by Parnes to do a small tour of Scotland... providing they lose that horrible skiffle name (Temporarily Johnny and the Moondogs). I can proudly state that I was there when “The Beatles” were born. I had been sitting at the back of the hall with Cyn and Maria (who was now sort of dating Stu), applauding after every song, even though we all knew they were darn awful then. All the more reason for us to be thrilled beyond description when Parnes gave them the job. We celebrated at a pub called The Jacaranda, while the boys thought hard of a name.

- It ‘as to be different. - John thought aloud. -Something no one has ever thought of... a pun of sorts...

- A short name. - Stu added. - Johnny and the bloody Moondogs, man... what were you thinking?

- Oh? I don’t see YOU cuming up with anything. - Paul shrugged and sank his lip into the beer.

- I’ve got a thought or two...- George spoke softly. -Not anything I’d want to use, though...

- Let’s ‘ear it! - Paul turned to him.

- No...

- Go on!

- No, you’ll just hurt me.-

John smiled his vilest smile. -Say it, ‘arrison, or we’ll ‘urt you anyway...

- Err... - He shrugged shyly. - The...bugs...

There was a long silence before a sudden rain of head-slapping on poor George.

- ‘Ang on...- Stu stopped. ‘E might be onto sumthing...- he turned to the others with sheer excitement (or maybe the face of enlightenment) - Do you remember Brando in The Wild Ones?

- What about ‘im? -Paul asked as he leaned one elbow on the bar and placed the other arm around me.

- Well, - he went from face to face, eyes wide and handsome smile illuminating the room, - Do you remember the biker gang? The one Brando used to be in?

- The Beetles? - John asked.

- Yeh! That’s a thought! I mean, America ‘ad Holly and The Crickets, Britain can ‘ave...

- Lennon and the Beetles!- George caught on and his huge brown eyes suddenly lit up. - Yeh!!!

Paul nodded silently while John’s mental coils began to twirl and twirl so loudly, we all heard them and waited for him to speak.

- Beetles... Beetles... The Beetles Beat band... ‘ang on!!- He smiled suddenly. -We’ll be the b-e-A-t-l-e-s!! Spelt like a Beat band! Like an all in one!

- Yeah!- Paul suddenly jumped. -That’s fab! George?

- Great! See? Wasn’t so far off the fuckin’ mark! - He turned to John and pointed his finger at his face. -And if you so much as DARE smack me in the ‘ead again fer me language, I’ll cut yer balls off!

The thought of George cutting John’s balls of had us laughing for a while before the four boys made a toast for The Beatles. All they needed now was a drummer.

The small tour was a disaster. They returned home with holes in their pockets. John lost his recently stolen guitar and Stu had bruises all over his face when, one night, three huge, rough teds pounded him for flirting with their Judies. They had not completed the tour and thus, Parnes had not paid them their promised eighteen quid. They had hired a temp drummer, a huge, six foot gentle giant named Tommy Moore, but that had also ended in catastrophe when during one of the rides, the equipment in the back of their van came crashing down on his face.

Back home, the owner of the Jacaranda, our now favourite hangout, had noticed them. A small and happy welsh guy; Allan Williams had been an amateur manager of Merseyside bands trying to make it out of the underground circle. One look at the Beatles and he knew he’d hit the jackpot. A lot of these bands that Parnes had promoted often ended up empty handed and were not very pleased with him. One of these bands told Alan they needed a tour guide to London, since they were going to find this Larry Parnes and pound him into a penny’s worth. Alan had convinced them to take along their gear, just in case they found a nice spot to play in. Naturally and in a city as big as London, Parnes was nowhere to be found; but they did stumble upon a small club named The Two I’s and they wound up playin a night’s set there. During their set, Parnes got to talks with some German club owner named Bruno Koschmider. He talked him into getting that band to play in one of his clubs; apparently, English bands were better than German bands, not to mention cheaper, since they’d be playing in clubs without a work permit. After hiring the band there on the spot he told Alan he needed a couple other bands. Best resolved before the end of the month.



With Tommy Moore hospitalized, The Beatles were again without a drummer. Little did they know what was about to hit them… and little did I know what was about to hit me.

Previous Back to Cream's Fix Next