And Your Girl Can Sing

Chapter 90: Be Careful What You Wish For

    "Hello girls," we all nodded at them, Paul giving a group of them his classic grin. I wondered how many of them knew about Dot.

    The stage sat there, ready for us. Unpacking and plugging in were second nature to us by now.

    "Long line of birds out there," Pete commented, tossing a drumstick in the air where it missed his catch and hit George's head, bending down to plug in a cable.

    "Shite, Best," George groaned, rubbing his head and chucking the drumstick in the dressing room, which was about the size of a broom closet. "Go get that."

    "Here come the birds," John hummed. The doors opened and the people came pouring in like the ocean. I attached a cable to my bass and started to tune it. "There's boys in the crowd too, John."

    "But not as many," Paul winked. "And I like it that way. Speaking of which... Cora, ye might want to turn around."

    I turned and saw him, tall and skinny, and my eyes went wide for a second. "D—Martin!"

    "Cora. Cora, been ignoring me for the past month, have you now?" He looked different. For one thing, no glasses, no more Edwardian coat, but more conventional looking.

    "Wha-what's happened to yer glasses?" was the first thing I asked. "Thought ye was someone else for a minute."

    "Got contacts. What do you think?" he asked, that familiar smile appearing on his face.

    "John tried contacts but they—oh, fuck it, Martin, come here," I said, and we hugged, a tight bear hug, but not long before I felt John's presence behind me and I quickly let go.

    "Jones," John said with a grin. "Good to see you. You've lost several pounds of velvet."

    "Shut it," Martin smirked back. "I see you're still retrained all that leather."

    John drifted away, having said his hellos. Over the chattering of the crowd, I found I didn't have much to say. Martin stood holding a drink, his eyes flitting left and right. "What's happened in your life so far?" was what we were working with, but it suddenly seemed daft to talk about John and I getting a flat and moving in together, even though I had been the happiest girl in the world for the time that we had spent together there. I wanted to tell him about feeling like I was a woman now, renting a flat and paying rent, and I knew this conversation came naturally, but today I felt like my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth when I tried to bring this up. As for Martin, he explained that he was working in an accounting office, which sort of explained his new look.

    "Oh, oh, you've come to see us play," I said, grabbing him by the hands in excitement. There was a squeak of a microphone and I knew Bob Wooler was starting his announcements. "Good afternoon, Cavern Club!"

    "I'll see you in the audience," I told Martin.

    "—special guest—" went Bob.

    "I want to tell you something," Martin said. "After this. Someone's come to visit me. He says he knows you."

    "—and now the Beatles...!"

    "Let's get tea. I'll talk to you later!" I squeezed his hand and let go quickly. John didn't like me touching Martin.

    The show began. We started out with an original, something I didn't recognize, and then went into some covers. The entire time we were playing, I felt something different in the air. Like the audience was waiting with bated breath.

    I think I first noticed Alistair Taylor. He was hard to make out because an eon ago, I only saw glimpses of his photograph, unlike the fab four. But once I recognized him it wasn't hard to place the man next to him, and wonder why I hadn't recognized him first. He had short, wavy brown hair, wearing a black suit that clashed sharply with the t-shirts and slim cut pants that the room held. He was with Alistair, looking slightly nervous, wearing glasses and the same sort of outfit as the first man. The expression on the first man's face was uneasy, almost nervous looking, but his warm brown eyes held a yearning, like a pill had been inhaled and its effects were being spread through his whole body. He stood in the back with his hands in his pockets, silently observing the sweaty Cavern Club full of dancing teens, some of which turned to glance at him in surprise before getting back into their dancing, his assistant fluttering about nearby.

    I inhaled sharply.

    "Epstein," I whispered, so soft that only I could hear it. "Bloody hell. Brian Epstein." I could feel my jaw tighten in an inane nervousness. This was it, this was the defining moment in which he would discover the Beatles.

    I... I just had to disappear.

    Attempting to be as still as possible, I slowly began to slide the bass off my shoulders before it hit me like a ton of bricks. I was the bass player. I couldn't leave. They'd have no one; a bass player was essential to a band. Paul didn't know how to play; no one knew. Two choices lay ahead of me, to play in a sultry way that only a female among a group of males could, or encompass the energy of the Beatles and become one of them.

    I chose the third option. Slide into the background. I watched Epstein's face, but it was impossible to make out from where he and Alistair were standing. Maybe Epstein would like the boys and insist I go, like poor Pete would get the boot from the band. My bass lines became single notes, my singing followed the melody lines, I melted from three dimensions into one, a singing robot. I tried to focus on the dancing teens in the crowd, on the girl in front's sparkly silver shoes, on the way that the previously trendy Elvis haircuts were slowly morphing into mop-tops (the Paris trip really sealed the deal) until Paul nudged me.

    "Cut the shite, Cora. There's a bloke in fancy clobber right there. He could make history, buck up, play louder." His mouth moved away from my ear and sung a harmony line with John. Make history. This is bad for the course of human history. Really awful. If you don't leave him and come back in the book the whole course of human history will be rearranged. I froze mentally, having to choose between playing louder and diminishing into the background.

    I cast a glance at Epstein. He was still standing in the corner, his facial expression hidden by shadow. Time slowed down. This was the defining moment of history, and I held it in my hands. And so what did I do?

    Buck up and play louder. What else could I do? I swallowed my guilt easily; it was becoming easier and easier these days. The tiredness John had noticed about me when he had come back from Paris was diminishing. It had flared up, almost like a wake up call, but I didn't like it.

    The show ended. I saw him speak to Paddy Delaney, a bouncer at the Cavern, and suddenly Brian was there in our pathetically small dressing room: Epstein and Alistair and the five of us and I wanted to disappear. As I saw him up close I saw history being made.

    John reached for my hand but I kept it tightly around the neck of my instrument.

    "And what brings Mr. Epstein here?" George was the first to address him cheekily. The atmosphere save my thoughts were light. The difference between Epstein's pressed suit and the small jam stain on George's jacket was evident, and we acknowledged it and laughed, and I saw Epstein relax. Words like personal charm, music, beat, sense of humor popped up in my head: all things Epstein cited he liked about us.

    Us. Where was the Us?

    Them.

    I felt a strange sense of isolation as Paul asked if he liked our show.

    "It was a very good show." He paused. His accent was Liverpudlian, but so different. "I enjoyed it. You boys might be looking at something bigger here with me, if you'd want to take that offer." I didn't expect him to give so much away, but I was even more surprised when he turned to me and said, "I especially like what the lady brings to the table. I'll be back to hear her play." The small wink was enough to make me dizzy, but not in a good sense, more like the world was going to end, and I was the one who had a hand in it.