Blimey, what a dream!
My eyes still closed, I buried my face in my pillow and tried to taste the last drops of my dream before it slipped away. A leather jacket, the roof of my house, a mention of the Vaterland—?
I gave a start as my pillow moved, but stubbornness won out and I stubbornly tried to catch a few drops of sleep on my rare Saturday, with no mum to wake me and demand I get out of bed at a normal time. Slowly, though, my mind closed around the conclusion that a breathing pillow was problematic and I reluctantly opened my eyes. The large black mass in front of me unblurred until it took the shape of my dream form.
That wasn't a dream.
"Lennon, you'd better not be real, or am I in so, so much hot water," I mumbled to no one in particular, finally opening my eyes. I sat up amongst the morning sunlight flooding through my window. The clock read 11:34, my room looked ridiculously patchy, and a Beatle was snoozing next to me, his arm around my waist, his socked feet in my bed. At least he remembered to take his shoes off.
I think we both had fallen asleep. Six in the morning was early for both me and a John Lennon who probably went to sleep at six in the morning every day. I reached over and took his arm off my waist, feeling the thick leather with the pads of my fingertips, but he stubbornly replaced it, nestling it in the curve of my waist in his sleep.
I prodded him and said, "Wake up, sunshine. My mum'll have my head when she realizes..." and then I realized that she was gone. Gone for four days. "What a bloody coincidence," I mumbled.
"Our bird's got a filthy mouth," John suddenly mumbled into his side, his eyes still shut and I jumped on him. "Probably picked it up from you. C'mon, sunshine, the sky is blue, it's ready for you."
"Regular Edgar Allan Poe, aren't we?"
"Regular William Brown, then, aren't we?" I shot back. A spark of amusement shone in his eye with the familiarity. "You know William Brown?"
"Who doesn't?" I laughed. "William, Henry, Ginger—"
"Douglas," John finished. "The band of outlaws. Used to read those when I was a boy."
"You're still a boy," I pointed out, grinning.
"The bird's got it right. And I won't pretend I don't read them now and again." With a sudden movement he was by my bookshelf and examining it. "Harry Potter, Fangirl, The Hunger Games, what is all this futuristic shite? Ahh, this is it." His fingers closed around my one Richmal Crompton book, Just William, and opened it, sounding out the voices in a posh British accent. "She started and stared up at him with big blue eyes. 'Oh William! Is it—is it your—lungs? I've got an aunt that's got lungs and she coughs and coughs. Oh William, I do hope you haven't got lungs.'" John looked up, with a grin I gestured at him to keep going. "William considered a minute. 'I suppose I have got lungs, but I don't make a fuss about 'em.' He coughed again. 'What does the doctor say about it?' William considered a minute. 'He says it's lungs all right,' he said at last. He says I got to be jolly careful—" John's boyish peal of laughter stopped the narrative. "I've got lungs, Cora, really I do—"
"All right, lungs," I told him. "Get outside. I've got to get dressed." I shoved him out, and after a moment's hesitation, tossed the book out with him. "Read that to entertain yourself," I told him through the crack. As I shut the door, I heard mournfully, "Leaving a man who has lungs all by himself, that's not proper like, it isn't."
***
John had found other ways to amuse himself, apparently. After I had pulled on a pair of denim shorts and a brown sweater and tied my hair back, I opened the door to find nothing but the book on the ground. Sighing, I replaced it on the shelf and took a look at my room. Patchy as usual. I ought to ask June to bring round a poster of Harry Styles to cover up the large gap over my dresser where the Sgt. Pepper poster usually hung.
"John?" I called as I walked downstairs. I found him in the kitchen, his back against the sink, a piece of china in his hands from the cabinet.
"What's this?" He asked, holding up the china. "It's a tiny teapot. Too small for serving tea. My aunt has a ridiculous amount of teacups but I've never seen any so tiny."
"Mim—mum, That's my mum's," I told him, biting my tongue at my mistake. I almost reached out to take the tiny object from him but didn't. He looked so fascinated by the tiny designs on the china. "She collects bits of useless items like that."
"She's not around, is she, Cora?"
"She's not—hey!" I rolled my eyes at his suggestive tone, but I wasn't about to let him relish in it. "C'mon, breakfast. Eggs? Eggs and toast and tea?"
He nodded and I opened the fridge, taking out four eggs, and turned the stove on. I multitasked, putting the kettle on, using my hip to close the utensil drawer. I noticed John's eyes watching my movements and I said, "What, never seen anyone make brekkie before?"
"Dear Cora, please enlighten me," he said, bowing low to the ground. "What is this brekkie you speak of?"
"Naff off," I laughed, pouring the tea into two cups. "Sugar, milk?"
"Bird's got more of a sense of humor than I thought she did." He took both. We sat. He ate like he hadn't eaten in days, wolfing down his toast and eggs, scalding his mouth on the tea, earning a judgemental glance from me. "What are you looking at?"
"You," I told him.
"Is it because I'm so pretty?" He batted his eyelashes at me and I said, "Watch the ego, I've got a hot cuppa here. Besides," I said, and before I could stop myself, "Isn't Paul supposed to be the pretty one?"
His reaction was spectacular—he stopped chewing and gazed at me with widened eyes, unable to say anything, and then after a while, "You know Macca?"
Despite my mistake, I was pleased with the shock value it had produced. "S'pose you could say that."
"How? Only way is, well, either he's yer great great grandfather or some such or... hmm, perhaps our little band got famous."
Now it was my turn to react, or try and hide my reaction. I could not let him know of this, my senses told me. I cannot let him know too much about the future. It might set everything off. And suddenly I was worried about the trolley outside and the One Direction music on the radio and even the bathtub built into the wall.
"Something bothering you?" John asked. I realized I had gotten up, retrieved a pack of biscuits, and left them in front of him. "No." I changed the topic. "Tomorrow you're cooking breakfast."
"Men don't cook," he shot back.
"Well, this is the future, Mr. Lungs. Take a look." I grabbed his hand and led him into the living room where I took the remote and snapped on the television (he couldn't avoid it forever), attempting to find a cooking channel with a particular man, and I was in luck. "In 2013 they do. Look at Gordon Ramsay."
"Is he that bloke, that one doing—ah."
We watched for a while.
"He doesn't cook," John remarked in a sense of fascination. "He yells."
"He does both," I reminded him, and walked back to the kitchen. I heard him whisper, "This bloody telly is so huge..."
The very first silence appeared, creeping its way into the kitchen where we both stood in. It was unfamiliar; either me or John's wit had kept the conversation flowing. At that moment I found myself either staring at the ground or staring at him, taking in his face, a face so unique it couldn't have been anyone else's.
"So, what are we doing today?" John asked, putting his hands in his pockets, turning his head towards me.
"What are we doing today?" I repeated. "We need to figure out how to get you back home."
"Why?"
The question struck me. Why? Because without you the Beatles would never have existed and we need them to exist, that's why. And I'd never know Paul McCartney. I swallowed these thoughts and said instead, "Because you belong back in 1960."
"No, this is a dream. And I don't want to go back yet." He hesitated, and then plunged forwards. "Give me a tour of the house, a tour of London, a tour of 2013, let me stay overnight. Then I'll go."
"All right, Lennon, you've got yourself a one off deal," I grinned. Then he spoke. "John. You can call me John."
***
I made him do the dishes.
"But it's the bird's job, Cora," he protested feebly, but I ignored this and tied an apron round him for fun. "Come on, you're already in the attire. I won't tell anyone, and you owe me for breakfast." He looked so funny, standing over the sink clad in black leather, his hair done up in the typical Teddy boy style, with a pink floral apron round his waist. I couldn't help but giggle as I reached out for my phone to take a photo of him. Suddenly I found a hand round my wrist. "You said you wouldn't tell anyone," John hissed, and I was scared for a minute, searching for the laughter in his eyes. I meekly nodded, and he released my arm.
"Sorry," he said shortly, reaching for the dish soap. My phone lay on the counter next to the sink, slightly wet. "If the lads knew they'd never let me hear the end of it."
I was silent. And then, "Because you washed dishes?"
"Told ye. It's not a man's job."
Slightly shaken, I breathed out, letting the air escape through my front teeth. "John, 1960 was so different than nowadays. It's actually barmy." He nodded. "I'm seeing that, love. Hey, we always make George do the dishes anyways, and he's a man of sorts... oh, you don't know about George, or maybe you do," he threw in. "You knew about Macca."
I tried to rearrange my Yes, I know about George Harrison face into a face that asked, Oh really? Tell me more?
"Ask no questions and hear no lies," I told him instead.
"I'm in a band," he said, leaning against the countertop while I dried the dishes. "Ain't got a name, but we're currently called the Silver Beetles," he said, throwing the Americanism into his phrase. The sun bathed his face in light, and I could see his eyes light up as he talked about his beloved band. He was still wearing his leather outfit from the night before and two different colored socks, one black and one white, having taken the boots off at my request.
"I want to be in a band too," I told him.
"Ye play anything?" he asked.
"Bassist," I said confidently, not expecting his reaction—laughter. "What? What's so funny?"
"Cora? A bassist? I mean, what we think when someone says bassist is a fat guy in a corner, not a teenage bird! Bass is one of the easiest and most idiotic instruments. No one wants to be the bassist. Stu is our bassist," he told me. "He can't really play—that's why he—"
"All right, Lennon," I said, dying to tell him the names of the world's best bass players: James Jamerson, Jaco Pastorius, and of course, Paul McCartney, but I settled for, "You stick around and see what happens to the instrument in twenty, thirty years." And your bandmate, I thought to myself.
"Ye do anything else besides play that ridiculous instrument?"
I'm sure I looked like I was ready to kill him, but I managed to mutter, "I sing a little. I think."
"All right, all right, I was only kidding about the bass, kind of. I'd like to hear you," he said, looking impressed.
"On the useless instrument, huh?" I managed a smirk. "I'd like to hear you," I shot back. "Deal," he said, and I tried to stop my hands from shaking. I was about to jam with John Lennon. Admittedly, pre-Beatles John Lennon, but still—!
"C'mon," I said, heading towards the stairs. "Guitar is this way."
Soon we were sitting in the small office space that was my mum's. I had taken the bass and guitar out of their cases, and John and I sat across from one another, I holding the bass and him holding the guitar. "Give it here," I said, and I saw the right corner of his mouth turn up, impressed, as I tuned the guitar.
"You can tune it."
"Why, yes, I can," I told him. "I happen to have a pretty good ear."
We sat. "What can you play?" I asked. "I mean, I know more than you as I've had a whole fifty years of music to choose from that doesn't exist yet."
"You know "Hound Dog, Cora?" John asked me. I nodded and plucked out the bass notes. He joined me.
"You're not singing," we both said simultaneously as the twelve bar blues went around for the second time. "Okay, after this repeat," he said. "You have to promise to sing."
"Will do if you do," I laughed. The blues came round again, and we both started, "You ain't nothing but a hound dog, crying all the time..." Once John started, he dipped into a decent Presley impression. When we ended, he looked away, a little embarrassed.
"You nutter, that was brilliant," I told him, laughing. "You really do Elvis all right."
"How do you even know about Elvis?" he asked.
"My dad was a big fan of him," I told him.
"Hmm. He into tiny teacups as well like yer mum?"
"Actually, yes, but he's not Chinese like she is." I prayed he wouldn't ask anything else, and when he didn't I was relieved, and the look showed on my face. A snippet of understanding passed between us; I shrugged uncomfortably and John quickly said, "Play me something else."
I thought for a moment, then took the guitar and said, "Right, here's some music from 2008. It's a song called, "I'm yours." I knew better than to play any of the Beatles' things, especially (God forbid!) my latest conquest, Dear Prudence and the finger-plucking style that John utilized beautifully. Singing the song half-heartedly but putting in full effort with the guitar, I somehow managed to get through the song, still slightly embarrassed about my voice.
"That's brilliant!" John said as soon as I had finished. "That's fucking brilliant! Did you write that one?"
"Blimey, no," I told him. "It's by a bloke called Jason Mraz."
"Do you have his record?"
"They're called CD's now," I told him. "I can show them to you later."
"Play it again," he told me, looking excited. I did. He half hummed the tune, and by the third time, he had gotten it.
I was experimenting with the harmony bit, and wondering why John wasn't singing louder. "John, you're part of a band, why don't you sing louder?"
There was a silence. He tapped his fingers on the wood of the guitar. "I don't like my voice," he said finally, shifting himself on my mum's hand seen blue and white quilt so that he faced me holding the guitar.
My jaw dropped. John Lennon, the best musician in the world, hated his voice?
"Me too," I said quietly. "John Lennon, I bloody hate my voice."
There was another silence.
"Hey, Cora, sing for me again. Let's do it together. It won't be so bad then, the both of us, love," he said in a voice I had never heard before, scooting closer to me on the quilt. He leaned his head in closer to me, and I met him in the middle, and we started, him somehow picking up the chords already, and I was so, so close to him, caught in a mesmerizing circle of music as we started. "Well, you done done me and you bet I felt it..."
The trance was broken when after the second time through he observed, "I've never heard that style of music before. Those four chords in that order. Feels like one could just get by with a voice and a guitar." At those words, I felt a little uncomfortable. What if I influenced him on something that wasn't meant to be there? If he copied Mraz's style and wound up never composing I Want to Hold Your Hand?
I shoved the thought out of my mind. "C'mon," I told him hurriedly. "Let's get you some new clothes."
"What's wrong with mine?" he asked. His black t shirt and jeans were actually fine, but I told him, "You reek of alcohol."
"I do not reek," he said, laughing.
"You really do," I said wryly.
"All right, I suppose I could give it a go," he said. We got up and I led him into mum's closet.
"These were my dad's things," I told him in what I hoped was a nonchalant voice, careful not to let my voice crack as we entered my mother's closet. I heard John stop behind me.
"Y/n, you don't need to give me the clothes that your da—wherever he is—"
"He left," I told him shortly. "You can have them."
He exhaled slowly, and then said, "Mine—" and then stopped, thinking the better of it. I was suddenly aware of the small closet and the dark and John, and I almost felt him touch the small of my back but stop. I stood, strangely pensive, and jumped when John said, "Bloody hell, ye going to take all day?"
"I'm getting them, quit mucking about," I mumbled caught off guard. My foot hit a plastic bin. "Here's the stuff." I followed him outside, shaking my head, and swatted his arm. "Bloody rude of ye," to which he stuck out his tongue and made a face.
I lay aside several shirts and took out a pair of casual black sweatpants that had the general shape of his jeans. My fingers extracted a Hawaiian shirt from the plastic bin. "Oh, perfect," I said and at the same time John said, "No."
"Oh but yes," I said wickedly. "It's perfect. No, I'm knackered already. If you wear this with your black jeans—I'll let you wear your jeans—it'll be ace."
"Naff off," John said, laughing and sticking his hands out, palms out. "I'm not wearing that."
But I we made our way out of the closet and he turned around and without warning took off his shirt in one fluid movement. My eyes bounced away from the sudden exposure of male skin, something I was not familiar with.
The silence was met with an innuendo, obviously. "You can look," he said as he pulled the shirt on, "But you can't taste."
"As if I'd want to," I shot back, but then he turned around. "You look fantastic," I said, giggling behind the sleeve of my brown sweater. "You have to see yourself."
I dragged him to the upstairs mirror in the bathroom. "Look at you. Look at us, we match so well. I'm gobsmacked."
I watched his expression change from annoyed to bemused. "Look at us," he said, and we were howling in laughter. His smile was infectious; it was a little boy's smile, and I loved how the genuine laugh broke his harsh demeanor.
***
"Right, I hope this is comfy enough for you," I told him. He looked at the kitchy looking couch with its strange colors and quilt. "What is this?"
"A couch. Never heard of one before, have you? Suppose it's a modern invention. Well, it's shaped like an "L" to accommodate the sitting person. A couch may have comfortable cushions on them, in fact most do, but ours happens to—" I rattled off, standing next to the couch and feeling like a salesperson, save that I was wearing a tank top and flannel shorts instead of a suit.
"Darling, I know what a couch is. What I'm wondering is why I must sleep down here when I could be sleeping—" his eyes bounced towards my bare legs and I flicked at his chin. "Eyes up here. Couch or the floor," I said.
"But the floor is so... hard," he whined.
As am I, the automatic retaliation almost fell out of my mouth, like a Michael Scott That's what she said, but I stopped myself. It was eleven at night. We had finished watching another Gordon Ramsay special where he yelled at all the contestants but it was time for bed, and I needed to find a place where John could sleep. The couch-turned-futon seemed like a good bet. "Night," I told him, turning to leave. I was halfway to the door of the living room when I heard John say, "I think I know why you're so posh, Cora."
I turned around to face him. He was lying on his side, a thoughtful expression on his face which was framed by the moonlight.
"You're nervous." John chuckled.
"I am not," I said, my face growing hot.
"Maybe you were a little nervous today when I showed up."
"You?" I grinned. "Why would you make me nervous."
"Wouldn't you be nervous if someone from the past came to visit you?"
"You have a point," I said. I walked over to him and smiled sleepily. "But I know why you joke around all the time."
"Why," he said, more of a statement than a question.
"You're nervous as well. You talk more and think it'll fill up the silence. Your jokes make people laugh so they don't have time to think about nervousness." I sat down next to him on the rug and he made a space on the futon.
"All right, Dr. Freud," John smiled. "Enough consultation. Yer going to be asking me to identify what the inkblots look like next." He turned on his back and stared at the ceiling. I suddenly remembered my poster of Paul McCartney upstairs, and how it was missing. There was just an empty space, as if it had never existed.
Right as if he had read my mind, John suddenly said, "If my mate gave you his puppy dog eyes, he'd definitely be sleeping in that bed tonight."
"Oh really," I said, reclining a little against the pillows on the bed. "Who is this mate of yours?"
"Macca, you naff, Paul McCartney," John said from the darkness, and I could tell he was smiling. "He gets all the birds with that smile and those eyes of his. He's the prettiest, you know."
I know, my brain half told me, but I was brought back with the image of John lying on my bed next to me, looking at the ceiling, the sharp outline of his nose illuminated by the moon, feeling slightly conflicted.
"You're not so bad yourself," I heard myself whisper, and then he said, "Aha! So can I come up?"
"Nope."
"C'mon, Ms. Posh."
"Maybe tomorrow night," I said, and then I remembered he had to leave. I took one last gaze at him before I closed my eyes. He looked sleepy, like a large cat.