The Certainty Of Chance (Beatles Fan Fiction)

5

“She loves you! And you know that can’t be bad!”

The record spun round on the turntable. “She loves you! And you know you should be glad!” The Beatles sang and May sang along with them as she cleaned the windows, futilely attempting not to leave streaks. She had played the record about twenty times over, but it still sounded fresh and new each time Ringo beat out the drum introduction.

“Wooo!” went the record player, joyously.

May stepped back from the window and admired it. “Can actually see out now, George,” she told his picture, “Bet you didn’t know the sky was that colour did you?!”

George, of course, remained stoically silent.

Twelve o’clock, May thought looking at the clock on the wall, lunchtime! Having foregone breakfast so Jack could eat what was left of the cornflakes, she was starving. She had spent what had remained from the money her mother had sent her after the record, entirely on food and the cupboards were unusually well stocked. “What do you think to a cheese and pickle sandwich?” she asked George. “A bit bland for your cosmopolitan tastes, eh, Georgie?”

She made the sandwich and sat down, putting the needle to the start of the song again. “You think you’ve lost your love…” The Beatles sang.

The front door burst open, making May jump and nearly drop her lunch off her lap. Jack came in and sat down heavily on the chair. He had a face like thunder and an air of foreboding hung heavily around him.

“What are you doing here?” May asked, apprehensive of the answer.

“This is what you do all day, is it?” he said. “Stuff your face and listen to ya stupid bloody records.”

“No,” she replied calmly, “I did the shopping this morning, and I’ve done the windows and swept the…”

“Is this a new one?!” he interrupted, pointing to the record.

“No,” May said carefully choosing her words, “It was released months ago.” She was slightly surprised that Jack, who loathed the Beatles almost as much as she loved them, would notice so quickly when she was playing a new addition to her collection. Then again, it was quite a meagre collection, only the two albums, ‘Please, Please Me’ and ‘With The Beatles’, a couple of singles and the ‘Twist and Shout’ EP, so perhaps anything not heard before would stick out like a sore thumb. And the fact she played the records every day, for the best part of it, couldn’t help either.

“So you’re spending money on records when you had the cheek to tell me that you couldn’t afford a loaf yesterday?” Jack continued with a threatening tone.

“No…” May denied, her mind racing to come up with an excuse. “My…My Mother sent it to me.” It was kind of true.

Jack looked at her, unsure whether to believe her or not.

“What are you doing back so early?” she asked again, trying to change the subject.

“Live here, don’t I?” he said aggressively, “Don’t I have the right to come here when I want?”

“Of course you do,” she smiled. “I just wasn’t… expecting you.”

“Yeah, well, got laid off, didn’t I?”

I knew it, May thought, but she tried to be optimistic. “Well, never mind, love. You didn’t like it anyway. You’ll be able to find something better now.” And perhaps go back to London, she added silently in her head.

“And what are we going to do for money ‘til then?” He snarled the question at her.

“I don’t know. We’ll manage…” she said hopefully.

“This is all your fuckin’ fault!” he burst out suddenly, “You’re holding me back! I would’ve got that job before if I hadn’t had you in tow! And now you’ve lost me that fucking job as well!” The venom in his voice surprised May.

“How do you figure that one?” she said, quietly.

“They sacked me for being hung-over,” he explained, “and it’s you with yer naggin’ and yer bloody Beatles, who drove me down the pub!”

“I didn’t pour booze down your neck,” she replied calmly.

Jack leapt to his feet, his face colouring with anger. “You little whore!” he hissed as he stood over her. “I wish I’d never married you! You’re the worst mistake of my life!”

His words stung like a slap in the face. She stared up at him, speechless.

“I want you out. Out of this house and out of my life!”

“Jack…” she tried, tears welling up in her eyes.

“Don’t start blarting,” he said coldly. “Your crocodile tears won’t wash this time.”

“Jack, please, don’t…”

“You don’t care about me!” He spat the words out. “You only care about what’s in your fucking purse, and your precious George Harrison!”

He kicked out at the stool that supported the record player. The stool tipped and the record player tumbled. The needle arm snapped off when it hit the floor. But Jack wasn’t happy yet. He started on the records, ripping each one out of its sleeve and snapping the vinyl, dropping the pieces to the floor. May leapt up.

It was probably an accident. He didn’t mean to do it. It was just because she grabbed out at him. It was as much her fault as his. That’s how she justified it to herself after he’d gone.

Jack was on the last remaining intact record, ‘With The Beatles.’ May tried to pull it away, reaching out from behind Jack. His elbow came up and shot back, hitting her hard in the face. The blow knocked her to the floor. She reached up to her eye, feeling it swelling shut already. Jack turned around.

Standing above her, he held out the black record and judiciously broke it in two. He let the pieces fall on her. “That’ll learn you,” he said, sounding eerily calm. Then, as a final gesture, tore George’s picture from the wall and ripped it into four.