65 Years Ago (A Beatles Story)

Glass Onion

"Martha Grace Beasly!" I turned around to see my mother. Shit. I had no idea that she had followed me. My eyes darted around, trying to find a way out of the situation, until a slender hand slipped into mine, and I was dragged from the hustle and bustle of the garden. "Tha' tis your ma, right?" A Liverpudlian accent slurred into my ear, a definite smile on his lips.

"Yes." I giggled back. We ran, intertwined, down a small alley around the back of the church.

I looked up, trying to catch a glimpse of this random boy that was leading me astray. A scream nearly escaped my lips as I realised who it was. Paul McCartney. Paul McCartney that on this very day was going to meet John Lennon for the first time. What have I done?! I needed to return him to the fete; otherwise, The Beatles will never be formed. I began to slow, Paul doing the same.

"Y'alright, love?" He said with confusion spread across his face.

My words were trapped in my throat, and it didn't help that Paul's hazel eyes were piercing into mine. All I could do was stare.

"I-" was all I could muster the courage to say.

"Well, okay, then. I'm Paul; and if I'm remembering correctly, your name is Martha?"

"I-Uh, yes, it is." My response made me cringe. I am behaving like a bumbling idiot.

"Well. You 'ave a very pretty name, Martha. And a very pretty face." A blush creeped across my face. But I shook my head and snapped out of it. I needed to get him back to the fete.

"Can we go back to St. Pete's? I'm sure that my mother will have gone home."

Paul's lips curled into a slight smirk. "So. You're a London bird." My accent! I didn't even think. "That's why I've never seen you before."

I began the short walk back with a nod, Paul following close behind me. 

We arrived back at St. Peter's Fete around 10 minutes later, thankfully, before The Quarrymen had finished their set. Paul pointed to a boy who was chatting up a brown-haired girl.

"That's me mate, Ivan Vaughan. He's the one who dragged me to this thing." That surprised me.

"What, you don't like them?" I gestured up to the band, who had now started on a rendition of Maggie Mae.

"No, It ain't anythin' like that. They have musical talent; they're just all dicks." He spoke with genuine sincerity. I had always been under the impression that he saw John as a role model right from the beginning, but I guess not.

"Do you play anything?" Of course, I knew the answer; all I wanted was for him to talk about it.

"Oh yes, I play. I can do guitar and piano." His eyes were filled with pride. "I'm best at guitar; me dad does the piano really." It was incredible to witness a young Paul so passionate about his music, just knowing what he was going to become. As we talked, Ivan walked up to us.

"Paul, d'you want to meet John now?" He inquired before his gaze drifted to me, looking me up and down. "Hello. I'm Ivan. Don't believe we've met."

Paul butted in, "She's a Londoner!" Ivan's face grew shocked, as if I was a celebrity.

"Well. Say something! I want to hear yer accent." My lips curled into a shy smile.

"What should I say?" Both the boys laughed.

"That's good enough!" Ivan remarked. Like always, when I'm embarrassed, my cheeks turned a horrid shade of red.

~

I had left Paul and Ivan so they could meet with John. Thank the Lord, I didn't endanger The Beatles' future, and that pivotal event would still happen. Being alone with my thoughts made the reality of my situation begin to hit me. How the hell was I in Liverpool in 1957? Something about that note did something to me, and I have no idea what. I cannot even begin to describe to you what that sickness felt like. All I can say is that it was like a severe sense of deja-vu, but how? I have never seen that letter in my life, I don't think anyone but the writer had seen it judging by the way it had been creased. I began to think about home, about my mother and grandma. What will happen to them now that I am gone? Will I ever end up back home? 

I arrived back at the house with anxiety in my chest. I sort of wanted my mother to be there. I'm not sure what I would do with myself if that's not 'our house'. With a deep breath, I approached the front door. The silver knocker glistened in the British summer sun. Now, this could go two ways: I get yelled at by my mother, or she is not there and I have nowhere to go. With a trembling hand, I knocked, the sound echoing through the house. The door swung dramatically open.

"Well. Look who's home."