8. The Amateur Show.

When the plane landed in the Big Apple I was fast asleep. I had to be, considering I had cried for the larger part of the trip. By the time we touched ground, mum said I was actually snoring. When I sat up, my hair was a mess and my eyes were red and swollen. I made a quick trip to the loo to fix up a bit and then joined mum as she started down the isle to the exit. As soon as I caught a whiff of American air, everything felt different and I swooned, almost toppling down the stairs on top of my mother. I was instantly overwhelmed by the magnitude of everything and my eyes were absorbing it like a sponge faster than I could breathe. Everywhere I turned I was caught by a billboard or an advertisement of some sort: Drink Coca-Cola…. Pepsi, the drink for the new generation…. Come to Marlboro Country… Do the un-thing with the un-cola, 7Up… Alka-seltzer, think of what it can do…

Through the taxi drive home I could not stop staring at the world around me. Liverpool was at that time a dilapidated little industrial city, cold and swank, with little to see other than maybe the art gallery and the Sefton Park greenhouses. This, in contrast, was enormous. Parks and gardens all over the place, buildings so tall it hurt your neck to look at them, huge cars, luxury, poverty, all commingled in a single town called Manhattan. To say I was shocked was an understatement. For the first time since I left the Pool, I stopped thinking about Paul long enough to allow myself to let the surroundings sink in. Mum was no better, either. She kept her mouth slacked open and gasped and nudged me every five seconds. –Look at tha’, luv!! Oh, Lord, that’s so big! Val, can you see tha’ woman there?? She’s wearing MINK!!- I’m not sure mum even knew what mink was, but she was probably right on the money anyway.

It took us roughly an hour of a non-stop gawking ride to get to the house on 505 Spring Street in Soho. According to mum, Walter had managed to repossess the home from an old relative of his after the war and was where he had intended to bring mum all along. The house itself was actually quite big and was situated right next to a very old red brick apartment building with its fire escape staircase facing the street. Mum paid the taxi driver and stared at the house. We went up the flight of stairs and as mum was ruffling through her purse for her lipstick, the taxi driver pulled our luggage from the trunk. Just then, some lady that looked like the spitting image of Joan Crawford opened the door with a huge smile on her face. –Oh, you must be Eve and Valerie Coskin! - She smiled with a huge American accent as she held her hand out to mum. –I’m Tracy Spencer, the realtor. I have arranged all of your paperwork and licence for your home, Mrs. Coskin… won’t you come in?

- I’m Eve Coskin…- Mum greeted her. –But Val is not a Coskin, her name is still McNaughton…

- Oh, it’s…- Tracy looked through her folder of papers. –It says here about a Valerie Anne Coskin… I don’t understand…

- My father died in the war. –I answered. –Walter Coskin was my stepfather for a very brief time. We didn’t even proceed to change any names legally.

- Oh. - She smiled at me. –I suppose it shouldn’t be a problem with the council if I explain the situation. – She looked at both of us. –Welcome to America. Please come in…

If I had been overwhelmed before, I was about to faint from shock now. The house was huge and lavishly decorated from cellar to loft in Art Nouveau style. According to Tracy, the house dated back to the early 19th century and had belonged to the Coskin family since then. The Coskins had apparently been divided in two in 1901 when the four brothers had decided to split ways in the family business of ladies tailoring, one heading back to Britain where they belonged and the other three remaining in New York. One of the four, John Coskin, had taken his wife and their two sons, Walter and Allan, back to Liverpool, where he had every intention of opening the family business there. During World War One, however, the demand for uniforms gave the Liverpool branch of the family business a twist, and by the end of the war in 1919, they were bankrupt. Walter was fourteen and forced to start work to help sustain the family as well as Allan, who was thirteen at the time. When John Coskin died of pneumonia in 1920, Walter joined a barber on Lime Street as an apprentice for ten shillings a week. Although it wasn’t a lot of money, Walter was so taken with the trade that the man in charge decided to give him a little space of his own as a fully functional assistant barber instead of just having him around as a lather boy. Walter soon began to earn a little more and aside from helping his mother, he began to put his pennies away until after twenty years he had saved enough money to set up his own barber shop on Penny Lane. By then, Hitler’s boys were giving Liverpool a hell of a time and most of the district lay in ruins. Walter’s barber shop, however, would remain standing with the magazine clippings of different hairstyles firmly attached to the windows. It would stay like that until the day of his death.

- By then, the Coskins in New York had also died out. - Tracy continued to explain. –Most of them in World War Two, much like your first husband. The last living Coskin in this house managed to get in touch with your husband, Walter, and his brother Allan, telling him that he had willed this house to them, together with a home pension for its caretaking. I’m afraid Allan too had died in the war, so that left Walter as the sole possessor of it. Mr. Eric Coskin died three years ago from a stroke; the house became Walter’s instantly. And apparently he had had it willed to you, Mrs. Coskin, and to your daughter Valerie, even before you were married…

- No wonder ‘e was in such a hurry…- I mumbled as I looked at a stain glass lamp at the bottom of the stairs.

- Val, shush…- Mum hushed me. – Is there anything I need to sign, Miss Spencer?

- Yes, just a couple of papers…- she walked to mum and placed the papers by her lap. –So tell me Mrs. Coskin, what’s Liverpool like? I’ve never been in England….

It was rather weird to hear this lady calling my mother something other than Mrs. McNaughton which I had grown accustomed to over the years, so while mum signed and talked about our former home, I took the liberty of getting to know the huge house. It was at least four stories high and had a door at every turn. The mahogany staircase creaked with every step and I soon found myself browsing through the first floor. It gave me the chills; it was huge and luxurious, but gave me the impression of the typical haunted house you fear to approach when you’re a child. I paced from one room to the other, pulling away white sheets to reveal expensive artwork, stain glass lamps and statuettes, old desks and secreteurs with a million little drawers in every one of them, crystal ashtrays, bronze pen holders, paintings, four poster beds… All in classical style. This was too cold and grand; I didn’t feel at home; I felt like I was visiting a museum. I probably wouldn’t be able to touch a single thing from there, and I suddenly felt like a little kid staring at the biscuit jar from way down as it sat on top of the refrigerator. I shivered and continued exploring. There had to be at least one corner of this place that felt like home, but I hadn’t found it yet. Just when I thought I never would, I saw the narrow staircase that led up to the loft. I stepped up, stairs creaking, and opened the door. There was plenty of light under the huge glass windows that could be flipped open to a view of the street. It was much smaller than all the other rooms and had a few children’s things scattered around, making it look like some sort of nursery. I pulled the sheet from a bed with white steel bar head and foot boards and figured that this was were the nanny probably slept once. It looked far less luxurious than the rest of the place and that alone instantly warmed up to me. I continued to pull sheets to reveal what was now obviously the nursery of the house. A white little closet and chest of drawers, a huge but empty toy chest, a little wooden riding horse… I knew then this would be my room.

- Val! - Came mum’s voice from the door. –Been calling you from downstairs! Where ‘ave you been??

- Up ‘ere…- I smiled as I looked around. –I like this room.

- Please don’t tell me you want to sleep in the loft!

- Aye, I do….

- All the way up ‘ere? - She huffed. –You won’t ‘ear me when I call you!

- See that??- I pointed at some bells on the wall. -You tug on them little ribbons from any part of this place and I’ll ‘ear the bells up ‘ere. - I turned to her. –Mum, this place is too big fer just the two of us, I won’t see you in weeks! Can’t we just sell it and go back ‘ome?

Mum sighed and touched my shoulder. –Darling, we talked about this. It’s the only thing Walter left fer us…

- And ‘ow do you suppose we’ll be able to sustain a place like this? Won’t cum in cheap, mum! - I pointed all around. –Just treating this thing fer termites will cost at least a year’s wages, and we don’t even ‘ave a job!

- Oh, you have nothing to worry about! - Tracy smiled from the door and walked to us. –The home has a fund; another little precaution the Coskins took. You’ll have a pension of three hundred dollars a week as well. It’s all part of the home will and testament. You may take your time in finding a job...- She walked to me, pressing her papers to her Channel dressed chest and her huge, coiffed bouffant hairstyle standing almost a foot atop her head. –And just what line of work would you do, darling? I could also help you with that. I would have thought a young girl like you would like to go to College first, but I suppose things in England are a bit different.

- I… have an O-level in English. –I swallowed. –I sort of ‘oped to find a job as an English teacher… I’m good with children, and…- I shrugged. –I can also… sing a little. I suppose I could maybe teach children how to sing.

- A singer and an English teacher! How charming. - She smiled. –There is a children’s school right around the corner. I’m sure that with that charming British accent of yours you’d get the job right away.

Charming British accent? This lady obviously couldn’t tell the thick burly Scouse from the Queen’s English. I chuckled and shrugged as I tried my best to grin.

- I ‘ave no previous experience…

- Oh, but I know the headmaster! - She laughed. –I’ll just tell her you are more than ready, dear. When can you start?

I looked at mum. I had no clue when I could start at all; the boxes we had shipped the week before would probably be delivered within the next few days and mum and I had our work cut out for maybe a week or two.

- If… you give me a chance, I’ll get back to you on that one…- I shrugged. –I mean, we just got ‘ere, we’re going to be doing a lot of work and…

- Oh, nonsense, Val! - Mum chimed in, ever the merry one. –You can start right away, luv! Leave the ‘ouse business to the old ‘ousewife! I can manage. You need to start working, luv, getting to know people, or you’ll go mental.

I was mentally grateful to my mum. I seriously wanted to do anything to keep my mind off Paul and my former home, and standing around a huge, cold house, unpacking goods, clothes and memories (the music box was going to be a killer, I knew that now) would really be no help at all. I turned my face to Tracy and grinned shyly. –I suppose I can start as soon as possible…

- Great! I’ll take note to tell Amanda of you. Valerie McCormick?

- McNaughton…. Val. - I pointed at her sheet of paper.

- Val McNaughton…- She wrote down. – Very well. I’ll get back to you tomorrow, dear. - She looked at her watch. –Oh, my, is that the time? - She laughed. –I was supposed to be over at the babysitter’s place to pick up my kids fifteen minutes ago!

- You ‘ave kids? - Mum grunted. –And you work as well?

- Aw, dear, this is America! - She laughed as she closed her folder. –I’m guessing things are done differently in the U.K., but be ready for a few surprises. Just in case you’re interested, there’s a community centre a couple of blocks from here. You might want to sign in as soon as possible, you know, get the community to know you. - She produced a business card and gave it to mum. – It also has my home number there. If you need anything else, give me a call. I already have the number to this place, so I’ll give Val here a call when I know anything about the school. - She shook mum’s hand. –Remember, anything at all, ok dears? I have to get going. It was great meeting you both…

And off she went. Mum and I looked out the window and saw four stories down as she flashed down a huge yellow taxi from the street and left. The overwhelming silence of the place took over and while mum seemed fascinated by it, it sent a cold shiver up my spine. I could have sworn the place had cold spots, but it’s pretty logical to find them on such a big place.

The first thing I did was place the two photos Paul had given me on my new bedside table. No sooner had I placed them down, tears once again threatened to escape my eyes and I had to sit down on the bed. That was when I discovered that it was probably the softest, most incredible bed ever. It was a little squeaky but it felt great. I decided that before I even spent a night there I’d buy new bed linen.

While mum stayed behind to remove more white blankets and dust a little, I decided to take a spin around the block. I could not stay cooped up in there with nothing but Paul’s photograph to torture me. I knew that if I was to survive at all, I had to start making something out of my new life, and that meant first and foremost becoming familiar with the neighbourhood. I tied my hair back, put a hankie around my head, put on a cardigan and stepped out to the cold day. It was October, 1962, and fall was rather windy and cold, somewhat similar to the beginning of a Liverpool winter. Stuffing my hands into my cardigan pockets, I stood outside on the steps that led to the street and stared into both directions. I felt woozy and a little jet-lagged, but I knew that if I was to overcome my sad situation, I had to start getting a move-on and finding things to do. I couldn’t wait for Tracy Spencer to set up an appointment with what’s-her-face school director. What would I do till then? I then remembered that she had mentioned something about a community centre and I decided that that was the place to go. I wasn’t sure if people even knew what a pub was in America, but if there wasn’t a pub here I’d have to make do with the community centre instead. I stepped down and turned to my right. After a short walk I came across three young beatnik girls standing around their doorway. I had often heard of beatniks and knew on instinct what they were as soon as I saw them, but having never seen one before, I stared a little bit. They were all dressed in black and two of them wore little fluffy berets. Only one of them was wearing a skirt, and the other two wore black drainpipe pants so tight they made John Lennon seem like a college pudding. They had with them a small, portable record player and had plugged it from the inside of a house with an extension cable that hung all the way from the house, through the window and to the little Grundig. The little speakers blared with Jazz and the three seemed to relish in their chat, cigarettes steaming in their hands. Even from that distance I could see the makeup; thick, black exaggerated lines in their eyes and pale, white lipstick. The two in pants had long, slick black hair and the third wore her hair short and cropped, but very, very blonde.

I quickened my pace and stepped past them, continuing to absorb the look and the feel of Soho in NYC.

- Hey, you, cutie, pie!

I turned my head back and found the blonde beatnik staring at me defiantly.

- Pardon?

- Yeah, you! - She sneered. –I saw you looking at us from back there, you got a problem?

- N… No…- I stammered, fearing I’d soon get beaten to a pulp. –No, I just…- I shrugged and tried my best to grin. –I’m new ‘ere in the neighbourhood… I’m just looking fer the community centre.

The blonde exhaled smoke and dropped her cigarette on the floor, quickly putting and end to its life with her very pointy high heeled shoe. –Well, doll, it ain’t here. Barking up the wrong tree.

- I… don’t suppose you could tell us if I’m going the right way, could you? - I asked.

- I suppose I could…- She walked up to me, flanked by the other two beatnik girls. – What’s your name?

- Val…

- Val…- She nodded. –Where are you from, Val? That accent is definitely not New York.

- I’m… English…- I shrugged, gulping with fear. –From Liverpool.

- Liverpool! - She smiled. – And what brings the country mouse to the big city?

- Liverpool is not the countryside! - I defended my Scouse honour, raising my chin as high as I could. –It’s a city, a port city! All yer American imports and exports go in and out of Europe through the Pool.

- Whoa, down girl! - She raised her hands with a sassy smile. –I’m not much of a traveller. I have no clue what Liverpool is like. - She produced a packet of cigarettes and after sticking one in her mouth she held her hand back. One of the other girls promptly handed her a lighter and as she blazed up her fag. I knew then that I was dealing with the little gang leader there. – So, England…. What the hell are you doing in our side of the puddle??

- Ask me mum. – I shook my head and shivered. – She got this ‘ouse from ‘er late husband…

- I take it the late husband’s not your dad.

- No. Me dad died in the war.

- Huh… so did mine. - She nodded and suddenly seemed more amiable than before. –I’m Kelly. I’m sorry about the attitude back there, but you know, sometimes we have to deal with the prissy ones because of the way we look and all that. Cigarette?

I took a cigarette from her packet and one of the girls behind her lit it up.

- This is Tina. – Kelly pointed at the girl with the lighter and then turned her hand to the other attaché as she spoke to me. –This is Elena. So, Val is short for Valerie, I take it…

- Yes…

- You know…- She pressed her lips together. –You’re kinda cute, Val. I’m sure you left a few broken hearts back home in Liverpool, huh? - I must have looked like I was about to cry because she pulled me back to the little staircase with the record player and sat me down. – Was he good looking?

- Gorgeous…- I began to sob. – Abso-bloody-lutely gorgeous…

- And? - Elena sat next to me. –Does “gorgeous” have a name?

- Yes…- I sniffled. –Paul. Paul McCartney. God, I’ve known ‘im my whole life, I can’t even begin to think what I’ll do without ‘im…

- Aw…- Kelly sat to my other side. –There are plenty of cute guys in America!

- Not like Paul…

- You have any pictures of him? - Tina asked.

- Only two… and they’re at ‘ome.

- Let me guess…- Kelly sighed. – Love everlasting, right? Jump-from-the-Empire-State, true-blue, unyielding, unending love…

I chuckled. –You could say that…

- Then he’ll wait. - Tina nodded with a smile. –If that’s the way things are made, he’ll wait…

Armed with the full knowledge of the Hamburg experience and knowing quite well he’d find someone new faster than I ever would, I realised that having that same old discussion with three beatniks would probably be as futile as talking to a brick wall.

- So, do you lot know where the community centre is? - I cleaned my eyes with my sleeve. –I really need to know.

- Ugh. - Kelly turned away. –That fucking thing.

- They never let us in. - Tina pressed her lips together. – We’re not within the… ahem, margin of protocol…

- What’s that supposed to mean? - I looked at her with a scorn.

- It means that they want nice little girls like you only. –Elena added. –We’re bohos to the core, sweetie. They wouldn’t DREAM of letting us in their crummy little clubs.

- Just a load of apple pie contests. - Kelly nodded aggressively. - They had a local college homecoming queen the other day as a judge, too. – She eyed me from head to toe and back into my eyes. –One look at you and it’s finishing school for the bunch of us. They won’t let us in simply because of the way we dress. Prejudiced bigotry if you ask me…

And there I was, thinking I was the bad girl Maria DiCarlo had made of me back in Liverpool. The Brigitte Bardot feel I had suddenly vanished and I suddenly felt as prudish as a nun and blushed.

- Whoa look, we made the socialite sheepish! - Tina laughed. –Don’t worry, Val, we’re harmless…

- We’re only dysfunctional and funny looking, but harmless…- Kelly giggled and the others laughed with her. I found myself giggling along with them.

- I’m… sorry I stared at you back there…- I Looked at my hands clasped in front of me. –I just… I’d never seen beatniks before.

- Are you kidding? - Kelly nudged me. –You made Liverpool sound like the Capital of the world!

- I swear, I used to go to school right next to the Art College, and I never saw one.

- Well, Val, there’s a first time for everything. – Kelly stood up and smiled at me. –If you wanna find the joint you’re looking for, you’re walking down the wrong way. - She pointed at the other direction. –Just go down three blocks and take a left. It’s there with huge lettering printed on it, you can’t miss it.

- Ok…- I stood up and turned to look at them. – Maybe I’ll see you lot ‘ere sometime.

- Where do you live? Where is this house your mum’s fella left for you? - Elena asked.

- Down the road…- I pointed in the direction of the house. – Number 505…

- Holy shit! - Kelly stood suddenly. –The Coskin place?

- That’s right. Me mum’s Mrs. Coskin.

- Now I know I’m hanging out with the beautiful people! - Kelly smiled and put a hand on her chest. –That place is huge!

- We always used to trick the local little kids into believing it was haunted! - Tina giggled. –I suppose we’ll know for sure now… is it?

- I hope not! - I smiled back. –Just got ‘ere about two hours ago.

- Well, maybe sometime you’ll ask us over. –Kelly grinned. –I swear, we’re beatniks but we’re not the pot smoking sort. We’ll keep the place decent…

- Your mum won’t even know we’re there. –Elena added.

- I’m sure she won’t. - I laughed. –The place is so big; I doubt she’ll even know I’M there at all!

- So anyway, I’m right here…- Kelly pointed at the house where the cable connecting the record player came from. – Number 296. Elena and I are roommates. Tina lives across the road. If you need anything, just let us know…

- Just don’t ask us to go with you to the community centre. - Elena shook her head. –They’d never let us in…

- And we wouldn’t want in, anyway…- Tina concluded.

- Oh…- I nodded. –I’m sure you lot wouldn’t mind if I… you know…

- Oh, Christ! - Kelly laughed. –We say, live and let live! You do your own thing kiddo! We don’t judge people the way people judge us…- Or maybe the way I had judged them was more accurate. –Go on, go do your thing. We’ll drop by sometime, see how you’re settling, so we can meet this Paul character. Pretty big place for just you and dear ol’ mamma.

- I agree. - I nodded with a grin. –Well, best get going, then…

- Ok, girl. We’ll see you soon.

- Bye…

I hated to think of it, but I felt a whole lot better. I followed the mental map I had made under Kelly’s instruction and I soon stumbled upon an old building on the corner of Spring and West Broadway. It was roughly the same size as my new house (or relatively new anyway) and had a few notices attached to a cork notice board by the door. “Attention Choirgirls of Soho, rehearsal cancelled until further notice.”, “Puppies for sale, pedigree Border Collies looking for a home”, “Nanny wanted during working hours, Priscilla Jones, 626 Lafayette street”, and the one that caught my eye, “Amateur Talent Show rehearsals! Sign up now and make your debut on our Christmas pageant!”

Knowing I had little to lose, I stepped in and went directly to the counter, where a very plump woman in her forties with a colourful Hawaiian patterned dress and a beehive atop her head sat behind the desk.

- Ahem, excuse me…

- Oh...- She raised her face and smiled a friendly smile. –Hello, dear!

- Hi...- I grinned. –I was… looking at the notice for the talent show…

- Oh, you wanna sign up? - She said and opened a drawer. –Do you have your membership number handy, dear?

- Well you see…- I smiled again. –That’s the thing, I’m new ‘ere in the neighbourhood… Rather…- I rubbed my forearm nervously. -… I’m new in the country.

- Oh, my! - She reached for her glasses which hung around her neck on a white lace. –We’ll have to sign you up first, darling, the talent show gets booked up pretty fast. –She opened another drawer and handed me a little white card. –Here, you fill out that little application and I’ll fill out the form for the show. We’ll have your membership card ready in a minute.

- Ok...- I said as I took a pen and filled out the little blanks. Valerie Anne McNaughton, age twenty, Place of Birth, Liverpool, England, Date of Birth, July 29, 1942, Address, 505 Spring Street, Soho, profession or school… I wasn’t really a teacher yet, and the only thing I had ever really done was sing at the Cavern Club, so I wrote down “singer”.

- Ok, I’ll have that now…- She kindly took the card and read it. –A singer! - She grinned. –That’s lovely dear; where do you usually sing?

- Oh…- I shrugged, knowing she had probably never heard of The Cavern Club. –I used to sing quite a bit at a club back ‘ome in Liverpool… it’s the only thing I’ve done in me life, really…

- You’re British! How charming! No wonder you have such a gorgeous accent!

What was it about Americans that made them think Scouse was “gorgeous”? Back home, Liverpudlians were shunned from many top circles in the south of the country due to that “ungodly accent”, so I figured that to American people a British accent was a British accent, no matter where it came from. It probably all sounded the same to them.

- So…- I smiled. –Is there like a programme to follow? I mean, should I start practising something?

- Honey, you have until December, it’s only October now! - She laughed. –But what you can do is have a look around the centre while I fill in your data and find you a number. Go on, take a look!

Nodding, I stood up from the desk and stepped into the building. It had doors that led to large hallways, some had a piano installed in them and had notices on the door, things like “prayer group at 5:00 today” and the like. Some were empty; some had little girls learning ballet and tap dance. I felt warm suddenly and the place seemed as inviting as they come. Kelly, Tina and Elena were definitely not the sort of people who would feel at home here, but in spite of it, I had a warm spot in my heart for the newly acquired Beatnik friends anyway. Like Kelly had told me, live and let live. It was a wise thing to say.

When I came back out, fat lady had already finished my new credential and was working on signing me up for the amateur contest. I figured there was little else I could do to there so I turned and walked back out, heading for home.

__________________________________________________________________________________________

It hadn’t been a month when I received the very first letter, as it was to be expected, from Paul. It was a huge letter, roughly eight pages on both sides, telling me how he had coped through the days. Before I even opened it, I held it to me, knowing it was as close as I could get to him at that moment. He told me about how they all got a sweet response to “love Me Do”, how they were now on the seventeenth place in the charts and had some really groovy telly dates booked. They were working now on something called “Please Please Me” which he and John had written as a follow up to Love Me Do and were doing quite well in the studio. George Martin, the producer, had finally accepted Ringo and had been now signed as a part of the band. It was all similar chatter about everything; But the part that brought tears to my eyes was a more personal one. It read as follows:

From the day you left and up until yesterday, I hadn’t had a bite to eat. I’m missing you, love, like there was no tomorrow. Tell no one, but I’ve cried myself to sleep like I hadn’t done since mum died. I have been a wreck without you (ask John; he’s put up with me getting drunk every sodding night!); Knowing I’ll see you again sometime is always a good thing to look forward to, and I know that this band making it big would be a good way to hasten that up! So wish me luck, love. The Beatles will be the means to us being together again. That is, if you don’t find yerself a big, strapping blonde yank with large biceps and a full moustache before then! I think I’ll have to understand if you do. I’ll hate it, but you do have your heart in the right place and I wouldn’t want you to sit there pining for me for a decade if the band doesn’t make it. In any case, I would prefer you to be happy, so if at any moment you feel it’s time to let go of what we had, then please do it! It’ll be bad on me, but it would be worse to think of you being miserable. Don’t misinterpret this, love. I don’t mean to encourage you to forget me so easily… But if to any extent you find the opportunity to be happy, then I want you to promise me you’ll take it and never look back. I think maybe we’d end up as bezzie mates, anyway, and we’d look back on it all when we’re sixty and have a laugh. But for now, you still hold my heart in your hand, Val McNaughton. Hold on to it for as long as you think you can, and I will do so too. Remember, I’ve had you in my mind since the day you were born! And as far as I’m concerned, it’ll be that way till the day I die (not soon, hopefully!). On a different topic, I saw Maria the other day; she’s gained weight! She says she’ll be going to see you as soon as she can get the dosh for it. George might be going to see you soon, too, since he’s planning on visiting his big sister Louise who lives right in your town with her hubby. Whoever goes there first, I’ll send you a bundle of things; but you have to send me a photo of you, love, because I gave you the only two I had! I hope you do keep them close to you. Mike and Dad send all their love, and John sends his regrets (he means regards, just in case you still don’t get John, ha ha!).

I’ve written you a song. I’ll give you some lines to close this letter. I hope you’re in good health and I will always look forward to being together again.

Close your eyes and I’ll kiss you and tomorrow I’ll miss you; remember, I’ll always be true. I’ll pretend that I’m kissing those lips that I’m missing in hopes that my dreams will come true. While you’re away, please write home every day, and I’ll send all my loving to you.

Loving you with all my heart like I’ve always done and always will, and missing you brutally. Goodnight, sweet princess of the silver seas!

Paul.

A song! For me! That alone made me suddenly miss home terribly and I had to press the pillow to my face to stifle a long teary squeal. The thought that I’d ever be the one to find another seemed preposterous! I had always pinned Paul to make the first move and find himself a new girl, and here he was, telling me just how miserable he felt without me and how he’d understand if I got on with my life with some other fella. God, how I wished to have him there at that very moment!

I wrote back immediately and just before closing the envelope, asked mum for some money, ran out to the local photo studio and had a nice photo session. I had to wait till the next day to seal the letter, but if Paul wanted a photo of me, that’s what he’d get. I noticed I looked terribly sad in spite of the ten million quid smile I had plastered on my mouth and the ton of makeup I had put on for the picture. He’d be able to see through it.

America wasn’t an easy thing to get used to; Only a month into our arrival, on October 22nd, the very real threat of a nuclear war arose when the president went on telly talking about some Russian missiles being harboured in Cuba and how they either dismantled them and went home or the U.S. would launch a counteroffensive… and this could ignite World War Three. God Bless A-bloody-merica! For a moment there I made a sick wish for it all to come true so mum and I could have a good excuse to return to the Pool, but immediately had second thoughts on such a bad wish against all humanity . I loved Paul, yes, but not enough to kill half a continent of mankind over him. All that went to hell when they announced on telly that the scare was over and families could once again come out from their nuclear fallout shelters to continue with life’s amenities. Then there was the accent thing: To most of the people I encountered, the Scouse accent seemed like a pleasurable advantage; they must have thought I was la crème de la crème. Little did those poor souls know that Scouse is sneered upon in England! But to some cultured few, I was instantly pointed out as a non-American and I became a target of mockery. Some fascist Italian folk from the community centre were so damn narrow-minded, they still thought of me as “the enemy”. That was odd, considering that World War Two had been over now for seventeen years… and they were living in America, who by the way, was England’s Number One Ally during the war. But the worst bit came from the schoolchildren. Mrs. Spencer came through for me and found me a great teaching job in a catholic school for girls that stood around the corner from my new home, a school called St. Catherine’s. The personnel and staff were charmed by my accent (again, no clue about the difference between Scouse and Queen’s English), but the girls were another thing altogether. I had thought that I’d be teaching children… but these were teenagers, barely some five years younger than I was. They saw through me completely and could not see me as a figure of authority. I remembered caning with a grudge and had never been in favour of it, but for the first time in my life, I really felt like whacking some bloody American arses with a three incher! I had to put up with everything, from glue and thumbtacks on the chair to direct insults, and caning was not a legal thing in America. It all stopped one day when I grabbed one of the leader misfit cows and sat her on the chair she herself had prepared with quick-dry super glue. - Now you sit tight, there, luv, and finish yer work there. - Naturally, when she stood up, a part of her uniform skirt tore off and she had to go home with her knickers showing. When her angered parents complained to me, all I had to tell them was what she had done and they chastised her right in front of me and the rest of the class. And that put an end to the entire bad girl attitude from the lot of them. From then on, they were all darlings to me. Miss McNaughton, I was called.

It was a dull Christmas. I sat there in the early morning, opening presents from mum and my three beatnik friends. Mum appeared to be feeling equally bored but I could tell she was putting a brave front for me so I tried to do the same for her. Paul had sent a Christmas card well in advance, together with lines and lines of poems and stories. But the real treat came two hours later, when he called me up. I hadn’t heard his voice in so long, I cried. It was nine a.m. New York time and it was two o’clock in the afternoon in Liverpool. It took me by surprise to hear him tell me that he wasn’t in Liverpool, however, but in Germany again, playing at the Star Club. He sounded very excited; I could hear his own voice cracking a little but he quickly composed himself and we had a long chat. When I told him he’d better hang up or he’d pay a dear phone bill that month, he simply told me he was calling from Eppy’s hotel room (Eppy being Brian’s new nickname) and he wouldn’t pay a dime. We talked about a million things. Apparently, the Beatles were really doing very well now and Brian had them slated for a march release of the Please Please Me single. According to George Martin, Paul said, this one would definitely be a Number One. I told Paul about the amateur Talent Contest I’d go to later that day and he told me with a chuckle that I’d probably be discovered by some big shot representative of Tin Pan Alley with a million Yankee songs for me to sing. –And if tha’ ‘appens, luv, you ‘ave to give us all a pull ‘ere, ok?

- A pull…- I laughed. –Like you bloody needed it!!

- Do too! - He laughed. –Ask anyone if they know the bloody Beatles in America!

- I think not.

- There you go!

- But they will, you know. –I sighed. –You HAVE to. You said it in your letter…

- Yes…- He whispered to me. –That’s the ticket, isn’t it?

- Unless I make it first!- I laughed

He laughed with me. –You might and all! You ‘ave a fab singing voice, love.

- I miss you, Paul…- I spoke softly, changing the topic and hoping mum wouldn’t hear what I was about to say. –I miss… being with you… you know…

- Making love, you mean? - He went silent for a short while. –God, I miss it too. So much…

- I dream about it sometimes. – I sighed.

- Me too… And then I wake up and…- He chuckled. –Well, I wind up taking matters into me own ‘ands, if you know what I mean…

- You don’t!

- I think of you all along, I swear!

I had to laugh. I couldn’t very well have a go at him for it.

- Got anything else planned for later, then?

- No, no gigs tonight. ‘No gigs till Scotland.

- Scotland?

- Yes, Brian booked us a tour of Scotland, we leave on January.

- Scotland, luv? Are you that famous?- I laughed again.

- You’d be surprised, Val, we ‘ave blokes coming in from London to ‘ear us play! I think the word is spreading…

- It better.

- It will. We’ll hit America, you’ll see.

We talked for roughly one hour and twenty, and as soon as I hung up the phone I once again felt the way I had felt that day at the airport. The feeling didn’t last long, however, because five minutes hadn’t passed when the phone rang again; This time it was Brenda. It was so good to hear her voice after three months. She told us everything was fine and that the pregnancy was going swimmingly. She also told me how people already knew about “your boyfriend’s band” all the way to Blackpool and how girls in her beauty salon always kept talking about those “Liverpool Lads with the mucky ‘airdos”. I felt my chest swell with pride, knowing that one of these Mucky Plucky Lads was none other than the man I loved and that one day I’d see him on the cover of a magazine, adorning it with all his gorgeousness, his and the other lads too. Brenda also informed us that she had serious plans to open a new salon in the Pool and how she and Glenn had been toying with the thought of moving back. Business for him had been good and they had their eyes on some property in Woolton. A definite step up for both of them, they claimed.

Christmas went much better after that. Mum had bought me a new pair of shoes and a gorgeous dressing gown and I had gotten her a pair of red house shoes which Americans liked to call slippers, a book on gardening and seeds to go with the book and to plant in that huge, drab looking American garden of ours.

Later on that afternoon, I went with mum to the community centre for the talent show. I had somehow expected to sing before a crowd of at least two hundred heads, but when I saw the turn-up, I was nearly sick to my stomach. The large hall (the one with a built in stage) had at least one thousand standing, staring at the acts as they passed one by one. On the stage stood a magician doing his best stuff before the not-too-impressed crowd.

I pushed my way through and checked for my name in a tall list by the stage. I was programmed to go after the a Majorette from Jersey (the American term for her was Baton Girl).

I had been practicing a song by Lesley Gore called You Don’t own Me, which had very recently exploded into the Billboard and had swept teenagers off their feet. I figured it was a good choice and I was ten times as pleased when I saw that many families had brought along their teenage sons and daughters. I held the music score nervously under my arm as I nervously tapped my foot on the floor. For the occasion, I had spent an extra hour on my hair, doing a little flip at the bottom with rollers and a very puffy, teased up crown atop my blonde head with a headband dividing the crown and the bangs that hung above my brow. In order to preserve my voice a little I had not touched a cigarette in a week and the proof of it came together with the nervous jitters I was having as the magician finished his act and the majorette started her own.

“Val McNaughton, you’ve sang the Cavern Club at night, this thing ought to be a doddle”, I thought to myself in a futile attempt to give myself a moral boost.

- All right! Big hand for Ellie from New Jersey!!- The announcer came on as baton girl took a bow and walked off the stage, zooming right past me. –And now, for our next act, we have someone who is relatively new here in the community. She was already a talented singer back in her home town of Liverpool, England, and is now our very own English teacher from St. Catherine’s. Everyone, please give a warm welcome to the gorgeous vocal talents of Val McNaughton!!-

Through a disbelieving and mild applause, I coyly climbed onstage and I could feel a thousand stares burning my skin. I grinned and handed my music score to a piano player seated with a small band and silently took the microphone from the announcer.

- H… Hello…- I grinned nervously.

The piano player gave me a nod and I nodded back while the crowd stared expectantly. I sighed, pushed another grin and took a deep breath.

The pianist started with the three opening chords. I tried and failed miserably at appearing confident as the music wound on and my cue came closer. I closed my eyes and thought of the Cavern Club; Cilla singing “The Night Has A Thousand Eyes”, the sound of my voice with “To Know Him Is To Love Him” and our impromptu night-saving version of “Lollipop”… Paul’s reassuring voice in my ear. “You’ll thank me later…”

- You don’t own me…- I opened my eyes and stared at a blank point beyond the audience as I plunged into the song. – I began to feel more and more confident and slowly began to move along to the rhythm. –You don’t own me… don’t say I can’t go with other boys…-

The pianist smiled and picked up the tempo as I picked up confidence, and the rest of the band began to follow, slow drums and guitars and bass. –And don’t tell me what to do, and don’t tell me what to say… and please, when I go out with you, don’t put me on display, cos… You don’t own me…- I moved my sight over to the audience and felt relieved to see them smile and sway to the beat of the music. Some younger people had approached the edge of the stage and I was shocked to recognize Kelly, Tina and Elena dressed to the tees, with huge smiles. I knew they probably hated dressing up that way, but it gave me a boost to know their friendship was strong enough for them to do it for me. –Don’t try to change me in any way… You don’t own me; don’t tie me down cos I’ll never stay. - I took a deep breath and gave them the full vocal scale. –I don’t tell you what to say, I don’t tell you what to do, so just let me be myself, that’s all I ask of you….- I took three steps to the front and opened one arm to the audience while I held the mike in the other. –I’m young, and I love to be young; I’m free, and I love to be free, to live my life the way that I want, to say and do whatever I please!- The musical interlude was a chance for me to take a deep breath and do a little dance. –And don’t tell me what to do and don’t tell me what to say…- I could feel my face gesturing to every emotion of the song, knowing that deep inside I felt completely opposite to what I really felt when it came to my fickle love life. –And please, when I go out with you, don’t put me on display… I don’t tell you what to say, I don’t tell you what to do, so just let me be myself; That’s all I ask of you. I’m young, and I love to be young, I’m free, and I love to be free, to live my life the way that I want, to say and do whatever I please, you don’t own me!

I closed my eyes real tight and as I finished the song took a bow without opening them. At first, all I heard was silence and I thought for a brief moment that I’d be thanked for my performance with a torrent of rotten tomatoes. But when I raised my face I was astonished to notice that for some reason I hadn’t been listening to the thundering, deafening round of applause from the community centre.

I smiled sheepishly as the sound increased and I took a second bow before whispering a shy “Thank you” into the mike and waving my fingers at my hip cat buddies in disguise, applauding like everyone at the very front row. My mum stood by them, almost in tears of joy and an inerasable smile plastered on her face.

- Wow!! A big hand for Val, everyone!!- The announcer climbed back on the stage with his pinstripe suit and round, chubby face to take the microphone from me. He turned to me and shook my hand vigorously as he lowered the mike. –You’ve been the best so far, kid; you have a talent. Is every kid as good as you are back in Liverpool?-

Having been raised a Catholic and having gone to a lot of catechism classes, I instantly remembered a passage by the prophet John the Baptist, which read something like “there is one on his way, one so grand I’0m not even worthy of tying up the laces of his sandals” . The same line of thought crossed my mind when I thought of the Beatles and how convinced I was that it was only a matter of time before they took over the world and their names were in everybody’s mouths.

- They are even better…- I shrugged with a grin as I bowed one final time and ran off the stage.

I was met by an ecstatic mother and friends that had nothing but hugs and squeaks to go. As we all jumped up and down excitedly, some chap in a brown suit and hat tapped on my shoulder. I turned and took a good look; If Paul had written prophetically about a blonde, strapping Yank, this bloke fit the description. He was at least six feet tall, looked like he was in his mid thirties, had enormous blue eyes and a fuzzy moustache above fat lips.

- Hi. – He took off his hat and I saw bundles of curly, blonde hair. –I’m Bill, Bill Hoffman.- He reached

into his coat pocket and produced a business card which he promptly handed to me. I took it with a shaky hand and read it. “Bill W. Hoffman, Public Relations, Parlophone.”

- Parlophone?

- Yes…- He grinned. –We’re forming a group of female singers… Nothing too spectacular, mind you, just… for backing vocals for some recording artists in the New York area. You may have just saved my life, kid, I was one chick short of a contract!-

- Lord love a duck…- Mum gasped.

- Of course, we’d pay a handsome sum…

- A…‘Andsome?- I stuttered back.

- Yeah, roughly some six to seven hundred bucks per recording day. –He chuckled. I usually don’t charge into the business side of the deal, but hey! I’m seeing you’re dubious and I’m a desperate man, so maybe that’s the ticket.

Dubious? I wasn’t dubious, I was speechless! Six hundred dollars per recording day? I still didn’t have a clear idea how much that was and I was still adjusting to the decimal system of American currency, but from the look on Kelly’s face I figured it was probably a handsome sum indeed.

- It’s Valerie, isn’t it? He took out a pen and a little notebook. -Valerie McNaughton?

- Y… yes…

- So, Valerie, -He looked at me with a friendly grin. –You want in? I’m telling you, kid; it’s a good job if there ever was one.

- Well…- I looked at my mother knowing I probably wouldn’t go far without her blessing. She nodded excitedly together with Tina, Elena and Kelly. I turned back to Bill. –Is it a day job?

He laughed out loud. – For most of the times! Except if the singer’s wasted, then we might use some of the night. But it’s all usually done during daytime, Valerie…

- Val, please.

- Ok, Val… Are you in? With a voice like yours, God knows you could make a career of it.

I smiled broadly and nodded. –Ok. I just… I’ll have to quit the school.

Now that wasn’t something I was too terribly sorry for, either. I somehow thought that singing in a studio for a few hours with a few other people sure beat the hell out of teaching English to a bunch of spoiled catty female teens who hated me for the mere issue of being young, if that could at all be called an issue.

I agreed to meet Mr. Hoffman as soon as the holidays were over. As it turned out, there were three other girls and two guys also doing backing vocals, and the job consisted in the studio giving us a call during times they’d need us, for maybe two or three week periods at a time, but never more than that. It wasn’t a steady job and I began to fear for the income, although for the time being, six hundred dollars per day would provide a comfortable backup. We started singing for a fella called Johnny D. Voight, whom I knew from the get go would not amount to much with such a rock n’ roll sounding name. Then there was a girl that sounded exactly like Petula Clark but shaded in comparison. The Big Tamale came when we did backup vocals for Debbie Reynolds, for some radio advertisement. We had at least seventy-five different outtakes (Miss Reynolds was a perfectionist that would have made Lennon and McCartney seem like an amateur duo) and three days work. But during the recordings, Bill Hoffman and the producer, called Mitch Hudson, had a private chat with me. Mitch was a good looking guy, younger than Bill and probably two or three years older than I was, which made him pretty darn young to be a producer, but there he was. He was a little taller than me, had black hair, blue eyes and a Ricky Nelson kind of smile that could melt the sturdiest girl into frothy goo.

- We have a Tin Pan Alley song we’d like you to try on for size…- Bill told me in a hush-hush meeting so as to not upset my workmates. – Just to see how it sounds on you, kiddo…

- Tin Pan Alley? - I shrugged. – But I thought you’d ‘ave all the artists booked and ready with their own…

- No, kid, we don’t mean it as a background singer…- Mitch interrupted. – It’s for you. I’d like to make a demo of you singing solo, how does that sound?

I froze. For the first time, Paul’s thoughts that I might make it big in America sometime and probably before they did suddenly seemed dangerously close to reality.

- But… what about the others?

- Look…- Mitch sat down and held his hands out. –There are two kinds of talents in this world; the goods and the holy-shits. The rest of the guys are ok, you know, for back-ups, but Bill here told me from day one to keep an eye on you… and I have.

- So?

- So this means you are one of the holy-shits, Val. - Bill chuckled. –You could be one of America’s number one girls…

- I’m English. - I smiled and put a strand of hair behind my ear. – I don’t think…

- You’ll have to be marketed as an American Artist. –Mitch interrupted again. –It’s just because you are here. We’ll work on a residential Visa for you. And for your mum, also. But you’ll have to sign a contract with us.

- Come again? Marketed? Contract? - I paled and sat down.

- Val, we’re talking about making it big, honey…- Bill sat next to me. – We can’t keep you cooped up with the others like this. Your voice stands out between all the others. It’s almost like they’re doing backup vocals for YOU. You don’t seem to believe this, but you have a voice to die for…

- And the looks aren’t too bad, either…- Mitch gave me his charming little grin. –You have what it takes, Val. You have to trust us…

- But…-

- Really, Val, we believe you have all you need. You could be on top of the charts tomorrow, who knows. But it would be a crime against God and all humanity to keep that voice hidden. People have to hear you…- Bill spoke cunningly.

I took a long hard look at Bill and instantly thought of Paul once again. For all his business savvy, Paul still lacked what guys like Bill and Brian Epstein had, and that was the touch of businessmanship that made them sound so damn convincing. While Paul was a “superb bullshiter” and could sell water to a drowning guy, Bill could also sell him life insurance and a new toothbrush. He was that good.

I had trouble visualising my name in the marquee; I had never thought of myself as a spectacular singer, even if Paul and John and the rest of the Cavern Club seemed to think so. But for the first time, I managed to let go of my thoughts of Paul and Liverpool enough to give myself a little space. Why not?

- Ok…- I spoke softly and then turned to grab my cardigan from the couch. –Just let me know when…

- Next week. - Mitch promptly replied as he stood up to help me put my cardy on. –Everything’s settled.

- So quick?

- You’re that good. –Bill smiled confidently. –I’d be your manager, Mitch here would be your producer, we’d take only 35% of your net income, and that would cover our fee as well as studio hours and expenses. Tax, we’d have to figure it all out later. We’ll discuss it with the contract in hand, what do you say?

I was stumped, but I knew that if I was to do anything I had to go with these guys. Little did I know then what I was getting myself into.

- Fine. - I sighed. –See you on Monday.

_______________________________________________________________________________________

I had another phone call from Paul during New Year’s Eve. It was sometime between five and six in the morning in Liverpool, and just after midnight in New York. I was a little hammered by then and was overly happy to hear him. He had just returned from Hamburg that very day (or rather, the day before, on the 31st) and he claimed to be so knackered he would have rather just slept clean through his family’s New Year’s Eve celebration. He told me that even then, he’d have to sleep on a Neil’s van, since they had to leave for the mini tour of Scotland at ten in the morning and he found little point in going to bed when he had to unpack from his Hamburg trip, find some clean clothes and re-pack his suitcase to go to Scotland anyway. It had snowed in England that year and he told me it was terribly gloomy and grey, but that the work that kept him busy served its purpose as a factor of distraction from moping over me. I was still his number one girl, according to him. It made me wonder if perhaps this meant there was a number two or a number three or more. But since I had promised myself to let him go as soon as he asked for it I made no fuzz and simply continued to listen. But the chat took an odd turn when I mentioned that he had been right and I had been signed for a pre-recording contract- Like a trial period, it could be said. If the single they would choose for me made it to a good position on the charts, I’d have the real deal.

Paul went numb for a few seconds and I wondered what was going through his head. From miles away I could see his face in my mind, his lips pressed hard against each other, a furrowed brow under the shiny black bangs and his big, grey eyes sparkling with the electricity generated by the movement of coils and bolts swirling and twirling in his brain. That was generally not good news, and I could tell even without seeing his face that he was not too happy.

- You’ll be big in a year…- He finally spoke, dead serious. – And what then?

- Don’t be silly. –I tried to laugh it off. –It’ll be over in a month, it won’t amount to a thing…

- Don’t be daft! - He snapped.

- Say what?

- You know you’ll do something good, Valerie, don’t give me that crap… I sneered at his sudden snappy reaction. –What got yer knickers in a twist, then? You were the one who told me “I’d thank you” someday, and now tha’ I ‘ave a bash at it you’re getting all stroppy!

- Isn’t it enough with me, then? - He barked. –I’m not too sure whether or not we’ll be lucky to be around as a band tomorrow, but when the shit ‘it’s the fan I sure as ‘ell ‘ave Val McNaughton to look up to, won’t I?

Jealous?? Paul was jealous? It had never crossed my mind that he’d be this way, and much as I loved him I felt terribly irritated by his attitude.

- Oh, my god…- I mumbled. –YOU were the one who gave me the idea to begin with! You were the one saying you’d let Brian keep an eye on Cilla and I! Was that all rubbish, then?

- It was just fer laughs! - He shouted back. –You were really good, so we figured we’d keep ‘em all busy! If I ‘ad known you’d take the whole “Val McNaughton and the Poolettes” thing seriously, I’d never…

- Oh, yeh…- I cut in aggressively. -Just the little garnish between the main courses, eh? “What a pair we’d make”, ‘e said all fuckin’ cocky, and then when she turned out to be as good as ‘e was ‘e couldn’t bloody take it! Is tha’ it, then Paul? You thought it was good fer the fun but you never thought it would materialise, did you? I’m like Adam’s bloody rib to you, aren’t I? And it makes yer balls ache when you think of me as possible competition!!

- Val…

- Now, look ‘ere! - I went on. –I’ve done nothing but praise your bloody Beatles over ‘ere in America! I’ve supported you from over ‘ere like you’ll never know. And I’m bloody confident the Beatles will make it. But hear me out: If we do get back together I’m not going to stop so YOU can be the little big-shit and me just the stupid little cow under yer bloody arm!

There was a long silence, only now I could no longer picture what was going on in his mind.

- “If”, Val? “If” we get back together? –

Oh, no…

- I meant “when”…

- No. - He spoke calmly. –You said “if”…

- Don’t change the topic, Paul!

- I’m not changing anything. - He replied, and I could tell by the tone of his voice that the anger had dissipated and had been replaced by sadness. –The only one changed ‘ere is you.

- That’s bollocks, McCartney, and you know it!

- Straight up! - He said. – Why do you think I’m not too ‘appy about this, eh? Because it’ll only get in the way of us, that’s why! It’ll be mad enough with the Beatles, now you going off ‘aving this big career! But ‘ere you are, thinking we might not make it at all!

- Rubbish! It burns you up to think of me as a success, Paul! That’s the truth and yer ‘aving a dig!

- No! - He shouted at me. – If yer bloody thinking I’m jealous, well think again! I’m not jealous! I’m fuckin’ worried! We’ll never be able to find space fer us this way, don’t you see? It’ll be ‘ard enough with one of us doing it! If you were ‘ere in Liverpool, you’d bloody well know what I mean! Cyn’s at ‘ome all the time with ‘er pregnant self and where is John, eh? This is the way it is! But we try, dammit! We try to make it ‘appen as much as possible! Now with you doing this, we might never get a chance to! You’ll be busy, I’ll be busy, you’re over there, and I’m over ‘ere! Isn’t that mad enough? I’m willing to ‘ave a bash at it, if it’s fer you! But now yer even thinking we might not make it at all! What is it then?

- What is it? - I sneered.

- Yeh, go on, let us ‘ave it! You’ve met a bloke, ‘aven’t you?

- What??

- That’s the thing… You probably ‘ave a fella over there, shagging you out better than I used to and you just can’t come up to tell me! It’s been three months, Val; don’t think I didn’t see it coming… That’s it, isn’t it?

If I was a bit annoyed at first, now I was furious. How could he even begin to believe I’d let go of him so easy?

- No, Paul. –I replied coldly. –Some people go off to another country to find someone else… But I’m not like you.

From the stone cold silence I heard I knew I had hit home and hurt the un-hurtable Beatle Paul. I could hear the line cracking and I began to hate myself for opening my mouth.

- Paul?

Transatlantic silence.

- I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that…- I said softly.

- You know…- He said. –It’s too bad you still feel like tha’ over what ‘appened in Germany. And I’m made up about yer new career, honest. Congratulations. Maybe we’ll meet backstage sometime and ‘ave a laugh.

- Paul… Please…

- Goodnight, Val. ‘Appy new year. I ‘ope I can redo me life as well as you’ve redone yours. - He chuckled. – Maybe if you wished on it like you did that day at the Cavern it might actually ‘appen, you know… Bye.

- Paul! Paul?

The line went dead… and a part of me did too.

I had hoped for a letter. During the early days of 1963… or a call. But nothing came. The time I had tried calling him I was told by Mike he was out at a gig in Birkenhead. A part of me suspected he had probably had enough of me, and the thought alone spurred another depression that would go unnoticed all through 1963… and would meet an odd end in 1964.

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