July

Two

July 6th

            Paul was beginning to regret the white jacket by the time he’d stepped off the bus. The sun was beating down on him (it was July, after all), and he was torn between the urge to tear it off and the compelling pull of the novelty of the jacket. He’d only had it a few days and had been anxious to wear it.

            A church loomed above, past the winding path that had been trod into the grass and that led away from the bus stop. Ivan was already there waiting for him, another one of his smiles on his face. This one might have meant anything from “I’m glad to see you” to “you’re about to discover my practical joke.”

            “They’re about to start,” Ivan said, nodding up towards the church where a cluster of people were milling around. Paul’s dubious expression suddenly illustrated all his reservations about Woolton and its fete and its bloody Rose Queen.

            Before Ivan could reassure Paul, a shout rang across the grass. “Oi, out of the way!”

            Paul jumped out of the way, and a lorry came rumbling through, with a few boys sitting on the back. Paul caught a glimpse of plaid shirts and guitars and they were gone. He turned to Ivan to hear whatever he was about to say before the lorry, but Ivan was staring off into the distance.

            “That was them,” Ivan said.

            “What?”

            “My mate John and his band.”

            Paul didn’t exactly like the tone of reverence Ivan used when referring to John. He hadn’t even met him properly yet, and already he was getting the impression he was worshipped everywhere. Well, Paul would decide for himself when he met him. His resolve strengthened within him.

            “Let’s go then,” Paul said impatiently, grabbing Ivan’s arm and dragging him a short distance further. Ivan soon snapped into a brisk pace, and they scaled the little hill that separated them from the church and the fete.

            “Is he really that good?” Paul asked thoughtfully as an afterthought.

            Ivan nodded. “’Sides, doesn’t matter if they’re any good as long as they’ve got John.”

            They’d reached the top of the hill and Paul looked down at the little scene below them. There was a graveyard with small, crooked gravestones littering the lawn behind the church, and old stone thing, with squat walls and oddly placed windows. Then the festivities sprawled out—people milling about, buying sweets from little stands, mothers talking together, and the children watching curiously at the movement on the stage.

            The lads from the lorry were now lifting instruments—a guitar, and a tea chest bass among them—onto the little stage that had been erected. One of the boys was trying to tie one of the corners of a banner onto the tree branches that loomed over the little stage, grazing the heads of the taller boys. The hand-painted letters said “The Quarry Men.” Or “Quarrymen” might have been one word instead of two, Paul couldn’t tell. He asked Ivan to point John out.