Tuesday the 14th of October 1958
Mrs Harrison had made me scalding hot tea whilst George, Paul and John relentlessly practised. The more I met her the more I grew to see that she was a kindly and sweet woman. She was eager to give me her best biscuits out of the tin and I felt my heart ache. I wondered what it was to have lived in her generation. To have lived through a war and lost and fought for so much. I knew of the rationing and sacrifices, the children playing on the rubble of houses blown to bits, the lives that were lost. It was apart of my own Australian history too.
I could see the struggle for work and to make ends meet shown to so many here in Liverpool. I could not fathom what I would have done if I had not met Paul the day I had somehow found myself back in the past. I was forever grateful.
"You make tea just like my nana," I commented with a warm smile and I ignored the pang in my heart. I really missed home. I missed my time and all those I held close to my heart. I forced away my thoughts and raised the cup of tea to my lips. I could hear the boys laughing in the next room.
In spending my time more and more in the past, I had noticed that the first floor of his house was merely two tight, neat yet cluttered rooms.
"I hope yer not commenting on my age dear," Louise spoke her tone playful with a smile brimming her lips.
"Of course not," I spoke neutrally, despite centring myself to this moment as much as I could, I still felt tremendously distant. I suddenly heard a loud noise from the next room. Those boys. "It just must be a British thing."
My nana's parents were English but I couldn't really suggest that.
"Daisy!" A Scouse voice called. George. "You must listen to this lar."
I rolled my eyes. "Pardon me," I spoke to Louise, stepping away from the kitchen table into the sitting room where the three boys practiced away.
The sitting room was lovely. I adored the floral wallpaper and the crackling fire and the picture frames on the mantelpiece. Bright ochre light shone through the window, casting an evening glow throughout the room. In my time here I could not notice the tight and cluttered oddity of London. It was not what I had grown up with.
I saw Paul first. He sat on the couch, hunched and working through various chords. John sat by him and they were working through it together. I marvelled at the sight. I was really seeing them working together in action. I had a few times before but this resembled much of what they would be in a mere few years time.
"You're lovely," I commented without resort. I was so fond of him, in awe at his very presence every time I breathed.
"Thank you, love," Paul smiled but I noticed a slight blush against his cheeks.
"I think ya meant me," John laughed with a batter of his eyelashes and the adornment that shone in his dark eyes. I felt a nervous sinking feeling. It did not matter how often I was around John or George. I could feel this glooming weight in knowing what was going to happen to them both. A part of me would break, shatter even.
John was hesitant of me in most ways and wasn't very chatty to some degree. I understood that I was some meddling girl that had stolen Paul to some degree away from him. I knew he disapproved of my presence for the most part but I could not help but see his perspective. But more importantly I understood the urgency in the time John and Paul deserved to have with one another. All those who remained would curse the person who took John away.
Yet in this moment in time and as I would forever be, I was strictly declared a 'friend' but how can you be strictly friends with someone you've kissed? I shamelessly still thought of it. Sometimes I longed to do it properly just once. It wouldn't be that bad. Could one simple kiss tarnish history? I would be fleeting, undetectable, forever remembered as a random girl that Paul once knew in his teenage years.
Paul would never speak of me and I would have no quotes in any history text or fancy film. My meetings with friends or their families or those in Liverpool were is minimal as I could make them. I always knew that this pressure would grow for as long as I remained here and I was always aching to know when I would be returning home.
I was forever paranoid.
"Um I-I, I meant the playing of the guitars and the songwriting."
"Mmmph," George responded. I didn't know what it meant. "That's likely."
"Isn't there others in your band?" I ask cooly, trying to be genuinely curious than not. It did not help me that I was from the future. Or, that I knew these boys would one day belong to the most celebrated and renown band in the world.
"Yes⎯⎯," Paul admitted but George cut him off. I knew of the recording The Quarrymen had done in this year itself but not much else. I knew eventually the other members would disband and one day become the Beatles from now to Hamburg.
"Daisy would you like some sandwiches, me mam made 'em?" George looks at me for a second, waiting for my responce, hovering the plate of neatly quarter cucumber and mayo sandwiches. I smooth my skirt and straighten my shoulders.
"Oh yes thank you. I might have a couple. I have to leave shortly."
I was humoured by the hospitality George's mother Mrs. Harrison provided. If it had just been George he would've made me marmalade toast or toast even with baked beans. She was one of the parents and guardian that were supportive of the boys in their dreams ⎯⎯ she was the first ever Beatles fan, and if she was, I was the second. Although, I tried to remain neutral and encourage both school and music.
"Leave?" Paul responded, his brows creased together.
"Why yes Paul," I said in a matter of fact tone, trying to as lady-like as possible as I took a bite of the cucumber and mayo sandwich, "I have much to do back at the house. I'm baby sitting tonight. It's a Tuesday."
I had started paying Mr. McCartney rent on my room with the baby sitting money I'd make. It was enough and the other few days I worked at the bakery was enough for me to start saving a little for who knows what.
"I'll walk yer home," Paul declared standing up, guitar in his left hand before reaching his case.
"Is that okay John?" I ask, trying not to hide how hesitant my words were. "I'm sorry if you wanted to practice more."
I tried to sound genuine. Paul would never say anything, yet I knew that my presence sometimes strained their writing partnership and even friendship.
John waves his hand to shush me, scribbling onto some paper, perching his glasses upon his nose. I look to Paul and he shrugs gently proving his guitar into the guitar case, almost was to say to me don't worry, that's just John.
"Thank you for the sandwiches, George. Please extend my thanks to Lousie."
George smiled for a moment, following myself and Paul out into the harsh cold.
"You'll have to show me what you were working on next time," I declare, finally remembering.
Paul gently took my hand whilst merrily saying goodbye to one of his mates. I couldn't refuse as he intertwined by hand with his own. Just this once, I told myself. Only ever this once. Together we turned down the street and over my shoulder I waved goodbye to George and for a split second I caught the strange looked etched upon George Harrison's face. George looked to me in a muddled kind of way, near distraught at the gesture.
From mere seconds I knew that this hand holding was a mistake but I couldn't let go of this warmth and connection I had found blooming between myself and Paul. It was a lifeline.
I knew what holding his hand meant.
I knew I had to go home. Now more than ever. How could I go home? Far from place a world away from my own. Think, I told myself. What can I remember before I ended up here. I touched the record when 'Yesterday' was playing and after that all I can remember is 1958. It must've been that. It had to be. Unless it was really something else, and well, what am I to do?
Then there was an issue. The song wouldn't be on a record until 1965. What was I going to do? I'd be twenty-two or twenty-three in 1965! That is years of my life. Goodness gracious! Should I try and find a way to get back home to Australia ⎯⎯ that is if I can't figure out to time travel back to my time? At least I will be home, even not in the time I belonged.
Oh, I was so very screwed in so many ways.
Paul walked beside me in dark washed jeans folded at the bottom and a black t-shirt. He was humming to himself and it sounded so much like what he was working on in front of me the other day, the song that he scribbled as my theme.
How would I explain it? How would I⎯⎯?
Paul gave my hand a gentle squeeze bringing me back to earth from the endless parade of thoughts that were drowning me. Somehow I had forgotten that I was holding his band. It seemed that it was impossible to forget, or maybe I was just slowly becoming conditioned to be in his presence.
"Do you ever wish to have children?" Paul asked me.
I blinked, gaining semblance at what he was asking me. I know that many years from now Paul was a family man, enamoured by his wife Linda and brood of children. A large, loud family was all he ever knew and I had witnessed tight knit, bubbly and joyous family relations.
"Are you trying to get into my knickers?" I ask, trying to sort myself out and soothe my heart rate. I knew that he knew what he was doing to me?
"You always mention that, love? If you insist I wouldn't mind."
"Because you asked about children. . . ," I attempt to defend myself but fail helplessly. "And have you spoken to girls like this before?"
"Mmhmm. Only the ones I like," Paul spoke with a wink. He was already such a Casanova at sixteen I could only think of what he was like when he was older and this was clearly a glimpse.
I think for a moment before giving my responce, "I'd like a few children. I'm an only child. I always wanted a sibling and if I can give my own children a few ⎯⎯ I wish for that. Does that answer your question princess Paulie? Now what brought this on?"
"I'm just scouting for my dream lady."
I couldn't deny to myself the effect he had on me. I was enraptured by him.
"Ah, the woman of your dreams?"
"Mmhmm, I've been searching high and low."
A comfortable silence wavered between us. It was unfair how truely charming he was. I couldn't flirt. I could barely talk complete sentences around him. I was completely and utterly helpless.
"Paul?" I ask, the his name rolls over my tongue.
"Yes, love?"
"I got a lemon tea cake from the bakery. Did you want to share it with me when I get back? It shouldn't be too late, maybe, uh, a quarter to nine?"
Paul returns to humming ⎯⎯ it was almost to evident at what it would one day be 'When I'm Sixty Four.'
"Paul should I cut my hair?" I ask softly. It seemed the most logical solution in having an existential crisis. "My hair never curls right. I think it's too long. I tend to style my hair a bit different at home."
Paul again squeezed my hand. "I think it's just right. You're a very pretty lass."
I blush and feel rather smug. Paul always knew what to say and make things better. I would forever be grateful for that. I felt helpless in this playing pretend like I was a little girl believing in her imagination playing pirates and fairies and whatever god else knows I did.
By the time we had gotten home ⎯⎯ back to 20 Forthlin Road, Paul had not let go of my hand.