I Learnt To Love In Liverpool | George Harrison ✅

♥ 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞 ♥

September 1942

As Myrtle Hopkins slaved away in the diner, she hummed her favourite song, which was never played on the jukebox by the door.

In her dainty little apron and short skirt with an updo of blonde hair and bright red lipstick smile, she was the very picture of a 1950s American diner waitress.

She wiped tables and mopped floors, served milkshakes and smiled all day until her face hurt. It was a never ending cycle, and one that she was just begging for a way out of.

The day that she met him, it began like no other. She got up in her dingy little apartment with a mouldy ceiling and dim light which filtered in through the window. She washed with cold water to save money and then put on her outfit - unwashed - from the day before.

How much longer can I go on like this? She asked herself for the umpteenth time since she had first started working at the diner centuries ago - or that's what it felt like, anyway.

When she got to work, she was given a long list of things to clean and so she immediately set about doing it.

She was on her hands and knees scrubbing the black and white chequered floor when the bell hanging over the door rang. Myrtle didn't bother looking up at the approaching customer because this was in no way unusual. Instead, she continued slaving away, her joints already screaming for a hard-earned break.

"OUCH!" She exclaimed, sitting bolt upright immediately and waving her finger around like it was on fire.

She looked up at the man who had trodden on her finger. He looked kind, and undoubtedly hadn't meant to step on her. He had obviously not been looking where he was going.

"Oh!" He said in a worried, apologetic tone as he bent over, "I'm so sorry, Miss." He had a British accent, but a strange one. Myrtle wondered where he was from. "Let me help you up from there -"

She wanted to tell him that she had a job to finish, but her finger was practically throbbing. For a few seconds, she wondered if she should go to the hospital to see if it was broken or sprained, but the second that the man put his arms around her and helped Myrtle to her feet, her mind was wiped clean and all she could think about was his intoxicating smell and how close she was to his lips.

He led her over to a spare booth in the window of the diner and sat her down on one side while he sat opposite. "My name's Jim," he said with a small smile, "McCartney, that is." He held out his hand on the table.

"Myrtle." She told him. "Myrtle Hopkins."

He offered her a kind smile before he said, "let me see that finger."

She put her hand in his and felt a spark connect them - was that normal, she wondered?

"McCartney, eh?" She asked as he gently touched one of his fingers to her throbbing one. He nodded, humming in reply without looking up at her, "you're not from 'round here, are you?"

"Liverpool." Jim answered.

"I've heard of that place." Myrtle continued to talk, "is it nice there?"

Jim didn't reply immediately because he was too busy looking at the girl's swelling finger.

After a few seconds, he answered, "it's... dirty..."

"Oh." She paused. "Why'd you leave?"

"Work." Jim paused as he pushed her finger up so that it was hunched over. Myrtle winced and tried not to whine and let him know how much he had hurt her. He seemed like a decent guy, and the last thing she wanted was for him to feel bad.

"Are you staying in town?"

"Just for the night - it's back to Liverpool for little old me in the morning." Jim sighed as he looked over her finger some more. "I think it's only a bruised bone," he said after another ten seconds of examining her. "I'm really sorry about that -"

"It's no problem." Myrtle assured him. "It'll be painful for a few days, but probably fine by Monday or Tuesday."

"I feel awful."

"Myrtle!" Myrtle and Jim turned at the sound of her name being called in a sharp tone. It was her boss, Mr Landry, who had called her. He had his hands on his waist and was glaring at her from the entrance to the public payphone. "What're you doing!? Get back to work!"

"She's hurt her finger, Sir." Jim said as he stood up from the table and went over to Mr Landry.

Myrtle wanted to tell Jim to sit down, but she kept her mouth closed - Landry scared her.

"Hurt her finger, you say?" Mr Landry asked when Jim reached him.

"Aye, Sir, that's right." Jim confirmed. "My fault entirely - it's bruised, so I don't think she'll be able to work anymore today -"

"But I need my waitress."

"Well she needs to rest that finger." Jim said in an equally terse tone as that of what Mr Landry had just used to him.

"I won't pay her if she isn't working -"

"But she's injured -"

"Through no fault of my own." Mr Landry looked back at Myrtle, who had been watching the entire thing with baited breath. "Get back to work -"

"Actually," Jim said in a calm, measured tone of voice, "Myrtle won't be able to work today - she's injured, and needs to rest her finger or it could get a lot worse." Jim turned to the waitress he had just met, "get your things, luv."

Something about the way he said it made her want to go with him and not resist him. She nodded, stood up and went to grab her bag and coat from the backroom.

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