65 Years Ago (A Beatles Story)

Back in the USSR

The first memory I have of my grandma was dancing with her to The Beatles. It was at my old house before we had to move. I don't think Grandma would dance anymore, but it's still my favourite memory. I swung the gate open, walking softly past the overgrown lawn and flowers that were being neglected. Something about my grandma's home brought me great joy, but the happiness and love that filled it were slowly whittling away. The key I had been given was very old and would often get stuck in the lock, but not today.

"Gran?" I shouted through the house.

A voice mumbled from the front room, "Hello, Martha, dear."

I walked through to the kitchen, settling the shopping I had bought on the way here on the counter.

"How much do I owe you?" My grandma appeared behind me, making me jump.

I smiled at her. "Don't worry, I think what you found should be plenty."

Her eyes lit up, and she hobbled quickly back to the front room. Then, staring and screaming at me was The White Album. Not just any copy, might I add, but the fiftieth. This album was very special to both me and my gran; we would listen to it together when I was growing up. This specific copy was found in a box that my grandma forgot she had. It was given to her by a special friend; that's the only thing she can remember. It was 50 years ago, though, so can you blame her?

I placed the needle on the obviously well-used record, and the familiar sound of Back in the USSR filled the room. I looked over to Gran and she was beaming. I suppose we hadn't listened to music together in a long time; it was a thing I'd missed. Ever since my father died, she'd struggled to do anything that she enjoyed. It was almost as if she felt guilty for being happy. No music, no gardening, no laughing - nothing. Maybe that was why the joyful aura of this house had fled. Just seeing the smile return to her face and her feet tapping on the old carpet filled me with hope that she could return, that happy friend I grew up with.

~

"Bye, Gran!" I shouted as I left the house, locking the door behind me. The walk to mine and my mum's flat was short and enjoyable, especially since it was a nice autumn day. I loved the crunching footsteps and the smell of fresh earth as I walked. Soon, I arrived. Paint peeled from the door frame, and the dull, bleak space made me want to roll my eyes. We used to live in a huge house that radiated bliss, but then we had to move. We ran out of money. I was mad at my mum for a while, but then I realised it was, of course, not her fault.

"Hi, Mum." I snuck up behind her and gave her a hug. She patted my hands that were wrapped around her shoulders.

"Hello, Marty." She unravelled from the hug and put her hands on my shoulders. "Was it just as amazing as you thought?"

I squealed in excitement. "Yes, yes. It was!"

"And how was Carol?" She asked slowly.

"Getting better." I bit my lip, almost as if I didn't believe it. You wouldn't either if your grandma hadn't smiled in three years. "I'm going to go shower."

Mum squeezed my shoulders and wandered to the living room.

My bedroom had a streak of sunlight pooling from the window, it lit up certain features, dazzling my eyes as I entered. I dropped my bag onto the bed, the record slipping from it. That's when a flash of white caught my eye. Walking over to it, I realised that it was a piece of paper that had fallen out of the album sleeve. I held it in my hand, gently thumbing the corner, and opening it. The creases were stiff, and I could tell it had not been opened since it was written.

Martha, my dear.

This album is a gift for you, love. Hopefully, you will listen to my songs one day, and hear my message. For now, Carol will look after it.

Love, your Paul.

The sickness that filled me, deep in the pit of my stomach, was horrific. My vision blurred, and I could hear my own heartbeat in my ears. Then it dawned on me, I was going to vomit. I stumbled clumsily to the bathroom, clawing at anything that was in my path to keep myself from falling. But I couldn't stop falling. I was tumbling, and plunging, and drowning into an abyss. The floor had opened up around me, and I was plummeting deep down, leaving my life behind me. I was engulfed by a sudden darkness, making me gradually drift into unconsciousness.

Almost by sheer force, my eyes snapped open. Wide. The sounds of birds chirping in nearby trees filled my ears. I rubbed my eyes, taking in my surroundings. I was standing outside a house with red bricks, suffocated by ivy. I had never seen this house before, but that same sickness from earlier began to gurgle in the pit of my stomach. Almost like deja-vu. Looking down at myself, I noticed I was wearing an outfit that was not mine. A green pleated skirt hugged my waist, with a pale green blouse matching it. The more I looked at myself, the more overwhelmed and panicked I felt. 

A sudden voice called out my name. I turned sharply to see a woman who looked exactly like my mother, only with old-fashioned clothes on. She was marching out of the red-bricked house, a small wicker basket in hand. My brows furrowed, and my palms began to sweat. I wiped them on my skirt as my 'mother' walked up the garden path towards me.

"Are you ready to go?" Her eyes grew cold and harsh. "Also, don't wipe your hands on your skirt, Marty. It's very unladylike."

My breath began to quicken as confusion and anxiety rose in my throat. 'I must be dreaming' was my overriding thought. How is this happening?

"Sorry." I mumbled under my breath, a shake present in my voice.

We walked side by side down a road that was packed with people. Mother went into a shop with a sign above it that read, 'Roseacre Stores'. I waited outside and took this time as a chance to truly take in where I was. My eyes wandered up the long street full of cars that looked to be around 70 years old. Beige and brown shops brightened the clothes that younger people wore, in contrast to the almost camouflaged elderly. Next to where I was standing was a newspaper stand. I picked up one and thumbed the pages gingerly, my fingertips stained black from the fresh ink. Then my heart sank.

July 6, 1957.