1963 | J.Lennon

Chapter Two: To Know Him

Bill and Virginia sat around the office, chatting to the animated pair that was Lennon and McCartney, while Evelyn sat back in her swivel chair, feeling a bit of omission from the combo.

She figured it must not have been on purpose--Bill had strived a great deal to make her feel important in the space she already felt foreign in--and rather, merely something that happened. They bounced back and forth off one another, cracking jokes and taking the 'mickey' out of each other. Evelyn settled into the chair, attentively looking at the two guest in the office with an unyielding curiosity, succumbing to the lack of attention they turned her way. They were friends, she reminded herself, not being hard on her bosses or the guests. It happened.

Besides, even if they hadn't been friends, it wasn't that that had made Evelyn upset in the first place. Today was January 15th--ten days after the initial meeting with Brian and John, one of the Beatles' only day off, and the day she found out if she got John's article or if it was going to be handed out to another.

Her heart had thumped rapidly against her chest when she saw the Liverpool native in the large, clear glass. Wrapped in a long black trench coat, he made his way shiftly into the warm cofinements of the office, McCartney entering on his coattail. She had been sure it was to give the news. However, she found it was not the case when it was only Paul who offered her a kind introduction and, "Alright then, luv?"

Maybe she was giving off the wrong image? Sat behind this typewriter and all, glasses propped on the bridge of her nose looking like some kind of bland workhorse. The two most sought after men in Liverpool were standing in their offices, and she was sat there, made up like a librarian as they chatted with her bosses. She hadn't even attempted to make conversation with them, but in all honesty, she hadn't know where to start.

Having grown mindless in her reviere, she lacked to acknowledge that John's auburn orbs met her own. A wry grin set on his thin lips, and he looked over at Bill. "Doesn't talk then, does she, Billy?"

Bill looked in her direction, grinning. Evelyn's cheeks redended, and she offered a sheepish grin. "Sorry."

"Ah, don't be. He doesn't know what t'think when a pretty bird looks at 'im, yanno." Paul said, mocking seriousness. "Our John is a bit daft when it comes t'birds."

"I know birds, Macca," he pushed a finger into the man's shoulder, offended. "Chickens, black ones, crows--the like, mind ya. Not one of 'em makes me potty--not even parrots." John looked over at Bill, pushing a tablet towards him. "Catch that, Bill, fer the article."

The smile on her lips began to fight the urge to decrease. That had been it, hadn't it? The line that certified it was Bill's column to be attend to, to bring up from the dead. She turned her attention away and grapped an unused paper, shoving it in the typewriter. All that came to her was the swift and impacting blow which came with disappointment, and that reflected onto the blank paper: "Mersey Misery: Where Has the Jazz Gone?"

Well, she thought, right here, in the palm of these men's hands. In the callouses of their fingers. In the grasp and roughness of their well practiced voices. That's where the Jazz had gone. It had transformed, with the help of their generation and these men, into a thing called rock'n'roll. She hardly got it anyways--maybe that's why Bill had assigned her to this stuff and not John's column. She had no right to be upset, she knew; Bill was good to her, and she loved this job. He was a better fit for the job, was all. It wasn't personal.

She stopped typing after the title, her mind elsewhere. She keep staring at the keys, but not a word came to her mind to follow the bold title. She was still listening to the rambling of the men in the front of the office. He acted just as he wrote, and Evelyn was filled with brimming jealously. She felt like one of those made birds in the line for one of the Beatles Cavern Club shows, made up and hysterical because of their 'boys.' Except, it was for selfish reasons, really. Had she loved them half as much as those girls did, this alone would be gift enough. Even the notion of working with John would've had her happy for the rest of her life. But it didn't, because she was a struggling journalist, damnit, and his name was one she could easily ride off of, and more importantly, he was one she could learn from. It had been only one silly poem, but it was one silly poem she thought about a lot. Whatever those girls found in the Beatles' music at the Cavern, she found in his writing.