Penny Lane ~ John Lennon

act one scene one

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† 1959 †
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The sound of an argument woke her up and like every other day it was probably over something completely ridiculous like an open window and like every other day, Nick had probably already gotten through half a dozen bottles of brandy.
She used to look forward to the weekend too until of course, she realised how unpredictable the upcoming days would be. She either woke up early enough to avoid the ruckus, late enough to have missed it and/or be woken in the midst of it. God, it's worse than the somme when it kicks off. They argued about the domesticated labours that our society believes that woman with children should carry out. A slap usually ended it but our heroine had fled the nest, with the youngest sister under her wing, to get the bus to the place in which she worked.

†

Strumming the last few chords, the four wrapped up their cover of a Chuck Berry song, with Ken ending a beat after the others.

"Need a drummer, don't we?" Paul said. The rest hummed in response.

"Go find one then." John huffed.

"Who are you bringing to the dance?" Paul changed the subject.

"George," John said.

"Aye, "

"There is, " John started again, in a matter-of-fact way. "A bird I'm thinking of."

"Okay, "

"From me calligraphy class." They weren't really that bothered. They weren't bothered if she was or wasn't. And she was not in his calligraphy class or any of his art classes. He rallied himself out of this soppy, poetic state he got himself into. "Anyone wanna come for a coffee and a fag somewhere?"

†

The royal blue paint on the walls had begun to chip away and the wooden window frame was beginning to look worn. A quiet piece of jazz music floated into the air where it conversed well with the overpowering scent of cooked food, coffee and the sweet odour of tobacco. Carnations of yellows and reds sat in a vase, (which actually used to serve as an old mayonnaise jar) and added a tiny bit of charm to the place. The flowers were actually stolen from outside a convenience store.

The bell went, disrupting the music that was playing. The same three lads who have been coming in each morning strolled in, bringing their cool, James Dean attitudes in and forgetting to leave it at the coat hanger. They stood awkwardly out of place with their guitar cases slung about their shoulders, ducktail hair, leather jackets and cigarettes clenched between their pearly whites. They made the hideous blue wallpaper which was peeling look odd. Or maybe the wallpaper made them look odd. They took their place in a corner booth.

"Why'd you keep coming 'ere, John?" One asked lethargically. "It's just like any other place." It was never busy there. The food was mediocre. It was a shock that it was still open after so many years.
John didn't say why; he couldn't. He cast his eyes to that girl with his back to him, taking orders from an elderly couple. And quickly diverted them.

"Just easy to get here, innit." He replied.

The other boy, the youngest, George, had wasted no time in unloading sheet music and papers covered with lyrics scrawled over them and letting it cover the table.

Paul, our inquisitive little lad, catches on and goes: "You come to see her don't ya?" John looks up, scoffs and denies it.

"You're in good company. No need for lies." George chimes in.

Paul leans in, his hands clasped together as if he was about to unleash the greatest story onto you. He brings this air on confidentiality to the table with him, the kind therapists have. "You wouldn't willingly come to a badly decorated café, which sells greasy tea and shit coffee-" he begins to slam a finger onto the sheets that blanketed the table as if he were delivering a heartfelt political speech. "-just because it's easy to get to. You're here because there are no decent birds in your art classes that you can be emotionally invested in."

John couldn't even explain to his best friend how he felt about this girl he had never spoken to. He didn't even want a quick shag. He wanted to know her. Talk about her family with her and her favourite books and philosophers and wake up to her each morning.

"That was a lovely observation, Paulie." He answered, unfazed by Paul's passionate outburst. "Is Watson about, Sherlock?"

"He is right yano." George said.

"And yano what?" Paul lowered his voice to a whisper. "That bird is in my music class, mine and George's. In our music theory class. Not that we go much, like. Classical musician. I'll leave you to find out the rest."

The waitress made her way over. John fully observed her this time and drank in her appearance as if she were wine and allowed her to leave him intoxicated. Dark hair in a low ponytail cascading to her waist, bangs that fell above the brow. Eyes that were once a shining blue had dulled like a sky carrying clouds of rain.

"D'you all know what youse are having?" She asked in that manner that all waitresses have.

"Two coffees for us," Paul said indicating to George. "And what would Johnny be having?" He asked in a patronising manner, the type you'd speak to a five-year-old with.

"Tea."

"Any food?"

A series of 'no's run across the three. She left and returned with piping hot beverages. George was the one to strike up the conversation this time: "you're in our music class, aren't ya?"

She paused for a moment and said "Teacher?"

"Curly hair and glasses."

Nodding in remembrance. "Theory class." Her voice was low and rapsy, like a bourdon note on a bass.
"Yeah, Paul and I are in your music." George continued.
"Our mate Johnny goes to the art uni." Paul blasted in.
"Johnny Lennon meet Nancy Roberts."