"Still, no matter how much time passes,
no matter what takes place in the interim,
there are some things we can never assign to oblivion,
memories we can never rub away.
They remain with us forever, like a touchstone."
-Haruki Murakami.
***
January 1964
Celia wipes away the watery mascara from underneath her lashes. No time to cry when there was ironing to do. No one else was gonna do it, that's for sure. She switches on the telly in need of a bit of background noise while she works. She's forbidden herself from listening to the radio or the record player while she uses the iron. See, the thing is, she gets too carried away dancing to the music, which is a problem because she ended up burning a hole in a shirt and the second time a dress. Music and dancing are strictly off limits. Anyway, the TV will take her mind off things for a little while, and my god does she need a break from the antagonising thoughts playing in her mind.
Celia bends down and switches on the TV set. A few seconds later, the image on the screen makes her stomach flip and her breath hitch. There they are suited and booted in the middle of an interview. The four mop-tops. Her boys.
She thought she'd be used to seeing them by now, they are everywhere- in every magazine, on every billboard, on everybody's lips- but she can't wrap her head around it still. Celia is overcome with so many emotions every time she sees them. Him especially. Excitement, curiosity, anger, sadness, but most of all, if not always, she feels pride. That emotion is never absent. She's proud seeing how far they'd come since the crummy streets of Liverpool and how much they'd grown since.
"Yeah, Paul loves slappin that bass, don't you? He slaps that lovely big bass all night long."
Okay, so maybe they haven't grown in maturity, but they've most definitely grown in talent since their days performing in dance halls and sweaty crowded nightclubs. The United States will be a whirlwind for them. America won't know what's hit them- she can tell already. If Celia's face was any closer to the flickering screen, she'd fall into it. The camera zooms into his face, and he turns his head, looking directly into the lens. He's looking right at her. Right into her. Her heart skips a beat. Celia raises her hand to the screen and gently brushes it against his cheek.
"I can see you, John," she whispers. She can feel the softness of his skin against her fingertips. "Can you see me?"
Ah, but he can't, can he? He's there, and she's here. It's not his cheek she's so delicately caressing, it's glass. And what she feels against her fingertips is the tv's static. Celia shakes her head, quietly tutting at herself. She's being ridiculous.
She hesitates for a moment, thinking to switch over the channel, but the girl can't bring herself to do it. She never can. How can she switch off the people she loves so dearly? She sits through all their TV appearances when she's home alone. When Celia isn't alone, she's always scolded with "none of that Beatle rubbish!" and the channel gets changed immediately. Well, they aren't rubbish to her. In fact, she's very fond of them and so is the whole nation by the looks of it. Only a few weeks ago Celia had been thrown out from a shop for reading almost every single Beatle magazine with no intention to purchase them. She had wanted to, but she couldn't- it wouldn't be fair. Celia didn't need those bits of paper, anyhow. She has enough photographs and memories stored in her mind to last her a lifetime. Because that's what she's doing really, isn't it? Living through those memories. He isn't though. Of course, he isn't. Why would he with the lavish lifestyle he's living? He's on a rollercoaster that only goes up. And she's...well she's still here. Motionless.
Anyway, yes, she'll leave the channel on. How else would she keep herself updated on their whereabouts if she didn't keep it on? Just for a little bit, she thinks. Not once does she draw her eyes away from the screen as she walks towards her ironing board. A thirty-something-year-old interviewer sits on a chair next to the boys who are sitting on a small plush-looking sofa. Well, everyone apart from John who's sat on the arm of it. Many empty champagne glasses perch on the mantelpiece behind them.
"So you must tell us, boys because your fans are dying to know. Are there any women out there that you are keeping hidden from us?"
"Oh, there's always women."
Everyone laughs.
"Yeah, Ringo's right. We love women," Paul grins.
"Yes, but any in particular? I mean, you're always singing romantic songs, there must be some source of inspiration. Someone you're in love with perhaps?"
The interviewer was really pushing his luck with that one. He holds out his microphone to Ringo- so close, in fact, it's almost up his nose. He takes a drag on his cigarette before answering.
"Erm...i'm in love with me'self."
"Me too," Paul affirms, patting Ringo's shoulder. "I'm in love with Ringo."
The interviewer frowns slightly but then tries to brush it off with a fake laugh. Well, what does he expect? Really? As if the question isn't personal enough, it would take a lot for one of them to break that juicy secret. Has John found someone new to love after all these years? Celia doesn't want to know. Her stomach knots at the unbearable thought of it.
"Yeah, he's who we write our songs about."
Ringo looks up at John and gives him a solid nod of gratitude.
"Yeah, look at him." George turns to Ringo and squeezes his cheeks, with the cheekiest grin on his face. God, Celia misses that boy so much. Ringo scoffs and brushes George away.
"What about you, Paul?"
"Erm...Grace Kelly. Yeah she's quite nice, isn't she? Her in that white gown n' all."
"Yeah, that one she wears in Rear Window. Good film that too," Ringo adds.
George lifts his legs onto the sofa, making himself a little too comfortable on a show broadcasted to the whole of the UK. He sits with his limbs wide apart, resting his arms loosely across his kneecaps. Ringo has to shuffle across to make room for him.
"Brigitte Bardot, too," mentions George, swaying into John slightly. "She's one of John's favourites, isn't she John?"
"Yeah."
And doesn't Celia know it. Celia's own Bardot blonde hair has worn out, and she's back to her mousy brown roots. She's given up dying it- she's seen no point, though she is still rather fond of the blonde colour.
"Hmm, so it's only Hollywood stars you're all in love with?"
"No, not John," giggles George. "He's in love with his Chetchi, he is."
Celia's head snapped up to the TV. Did he just...
Ringo's blue eyes widen, and John- whose face turns a whiter shade of pale-quickly slaps his hand over George's grinning mouth. Paul has his palm across his own mouth failing to hide his loud stifling giggles. And Celia? Well, Celia's heart is hammering tumultuously against her rib cage.
With his hand still across George's mouth, John bends his head towards George and says something inaudible to him. Ringo inconspicuously nudges George too, but George can't help but sit there and grin. Why? Because the little lightweight is drunk.
"What's-who's Chetchi?"
"No one, it's me car," John quickly replies. He glimpses at the camera and then over to the interviewer. John smiles thinly, but it's easy to tell he isn't in the least bit happy about what's just been revealed.
"Oh, is that right?" challenges Paul, smirking over at John.
"Yes."
"I didn't know you had a car, John," Ringo says all too innocently. He stubs his cigarette on the ashtray beside John's thigh.
"Yeah, you can't even drive. Not proper anyway." They are all gaining pleasure teasing and provoking John now.
"I'll batter ya" mutters John, glaring down at George. It only makes the little sod laugh even more.
"What colour is your car then, eh mate?"
"Green."
"Can we all go for a ride in your Chetchi then?" asks George, grinning at John.
"Pack it in," warns John, through gritted teeth.
"Funny name for a car isn't it?" asks the interviewer.
"Careful, he cherishes that car, y'know." Ringo playfully shakes his finger at the interviewer.
"Sorry. Well, we all like a nice car, there's nothing wrong with that."
Is the interviewer really that naive or is he just going along with the joke for the sake of John? Celia can't tell. Whatever one is is, he doesn't pester the poor boy for more information.
"Anyway gentlemen, I've not got long left so-"
"Oh, shame that."
"Yes, it is John," responds the interviewer, seemingly undetected of John's sarcasm. So, before you leave us, can you confirm when your next album will be out for us folks to buy?"
"Er, not for a good couple of months, yet," answers Paul wiping the corner of his mouth with his middle finger.
"All in Good time," Ringo smiles.
"Yeah, so you're gonna have to keep playin' our last records for a while longer. You better be, they're great!" George exclaims, leaning his body forward. Ringo has to push him back a little before he falls off the sofa.
"You can't rush perfection," George adds, raising his eyebrows at the camera. Paul whacks his leg, chuckling.
"Yeah, wear them out," winks Ringo.
"Well, i'm sure it will be worth the wait in the end. Boys thank you for joining me here today. Enjoy Paris, won't you? And I hope to speak with you again very soon, it's been a blast."
"Cheers."
"Ta."
"Thank you."
John hasn't said anything. Instead, he has his head down, fiddling with a thin strip of thread from the tassel of the sofa. His thick brows are knitted together as he focuses on pulling apart the tassels loose strands with his fingernails. Celia knows that quirk of his all too well. Pretending he's focussing on doing something trivial to conceal his discomfort or humiliation from others.
Just like that, the boys were gone. Up-popped the adverts and Celia soon starts to feel a throbbing pain in her left hand. It's only when she lifts it to inspect it, does she realise she's been digging her nails into the palm of her clammy skin.
He's in love with his Chetchi. She thinks she'd never hear that name again.
InloveInloveInlove
HisHisHis
ChetchiChetchiChetchi
George's words circle her mind again and again like a merry-go-round. John can't be. Not after all this time. How dare he? The Chetchi he's in love with no longer exists. Neither does the iron board that she's accidentally burned with the iron. The iron lets off a low hissing sound as it stains the fabric brown and the thick black smoke rises into Celia's nostrils.
He's in love with his Chetchi. No, it's a lie.
Celia quickly sits the iron upright and curses out loud as she runs through to the kitchen. Turning on the taps, she fills up a glass of cold water and runs back to the iron board.
He's in love with his Chetchi. Shut up.
The smoke hisses and simmers down as she throws the water over it. Celia exhales a heavy breath she hasn't even realised she was holding. Why can't she do anything bloody right?
He's in love with his Chetchi.
All of a sudden the telephone rings. Celia lets out a shriek as she jumps out of her skin. In doing so, her hand accidentally knocks the cup on the iron board, and it drops to the floor, smashing into a thousand little shards of glass. She swears again- screeching the curses this time, and she stomps her foot heavily against the wooden floorboards. Only- she can't stop. She's like a child having a tantrum. She keeps stomping and stomping and stomping, and before she knows it, she's crying. Again. What has done it this time, she isn't so sure.
He's in love with his Chetchi.
Composing herself, she tucks the loose strands of her long hair behind her ears and clears her throat before picking up the phone.
"Yes, hello?" she sniffles, wiping her nose with the collar of her shirt.
"Celia! You'll never guess what's happened..."
♡♡♡
Hope you enjoyed the first part! Please let me know if you'd love to read more. I'm taking you back to 1957 in the next chapter! Votes, feedback and comments are very much welcomed and appreciated!
Scarlett. xo