I usually don't like watching films alone.
Sometimes I do, though, when I need a little time to myself. I could smuggle some chocolate into the theater using my coat pocket and find a cozy corner against a wall. But The Parent Trap was going to be shown in theaters tomorrow, July 21st, and I didn't want to watch this type of film alone.
John was a sure bet to go with before we had broken up. Blimey, I loved watching films with him because he loved watching films and I loved watching him enjoy the film as well as watch the film itself. We would go to the theater and find a good seat, normally against a wall somewhere in a private corner where we could make the room seem as small as possible to fit just the two of us. If the film wasn't good we would neck, feeling simultaneously private and public in the dark space filled with people, but I always enjoyed going with him. He was my go-to film partner. Well, for this film I was going to have to find another go-to film partner, I thought with a pang of sadness.
Martin agreed to go with me in the end. I had called him and we had chatted for a bit, and then I asked him brusquely if he wanted to see The Parent Trap. I could feel him hesitate, but he must have noted the shifting tones in my voice because he said to meet him at the theater in half an hour.
"The film was amusing," I told him after the film as we sipped drinks inside a large restaurant. The owner didn't do anything to hide his annoyance as we stepped in fifteen minutes before closing time but Martin, looking sharp as usual had wordlessly requested a table for two.
"The ending was amusing, but it was expected," he commented.
"Well, what else were they supposed to do?"
"I liked Psycho," he said dryly, knitting his eyebrows, which pushed his glasses further up on his nose. "It had an open ending."
I nodded. A member of the wait staff came round with a broom and dustpan and started poking under tables and chairs with the instruments. "When are you going to come see our shows?"
The right corner of his mouth turned upwards. "Hmm. Rock and Roll."
"Rock and Roll," I imitated him. "You know, there aren't a lot of differences between rock and roll and your classical music."
"Oh?" he asked and reached for the cookie that came with his drink. "Like what?"
"Both have secondary dominants," I pointed out. "Till There was You. Diminished chords and the like. You know, a lot of rock n' roll musicians were probably directly or indirectly influenced by musicians like Chopin and Ravel."
He pondered this. "I don't want to admit you're right. So... I'll just leave it open."
"Martin!" I said. "You know I'm right." Smiling, I shook my head. The waiter came round again with the broom, giving us a look like We're going to close soon, and I'd like to get home. "Please, please say you'll come tomorrow," I told him, ignoring the waiter's body language for a minute. "It'll be so fun. You can analyze the music if you'd like."
Martin stood, pushing in his chair and putting his spoon gently against the side of his glass. "You know what? Maybe I'll go. Maybe you'll see me there. I'll be the one calling out 'Five seven of Four'."
"Walk me to the bus stop, five-seven-of-four."
***
"And now..." George mock-announced, putting the beer bottle close to his lips in an impersonation of a microphone, tilting his head and giving us his best smirk. "Welcome back to the Ed Sullivan Show! We have with us today," he roared, stealing a swipe of drink from his microphone, "Elvis... and...and..."
"Cogan—Cogan! Alma Cogan!" John put in. He leapt to his feet and pursed his lips, fluttering his eyelashes and opened his mouth to expel a drawn out phrase in a sing-songy voice: "Sugar in the morning, sugar in the evening, sugar at suppertime!"
George had put down his beer and picked up his guitar, improvising a little off the song that John was singing in a falsetto, raising his arms in a mock pleading motion. "Sugar in the morning..." He certainly loved imitating her, I thought. I suppose she was really very imitable. All I knew was that she was so large in the fifties and now was a joke, at least to John, kind of like Oasis, who I had idolized back then, and now Wonderwall was a joke.
Paul had jumped into the scene as Elvis, moving his hips forwards in the promiscuous way Elvis did, shooting a look around his dining room that made me unconsciously lick my lips and then blush. I picked up a guitar to disguise this and joined George, who called at me, "Come on, Sinatra! Ed Sullivan wants you!"
"Me?" I said. Paul smirked and continued playing. "Yes, you!"
I shook my head, laughing, before giving in and diving into my best Sinatra impression, letting my voice dwindle to the lowest I could get it to me. It came out in a Western accent, singing, "Fly me to the moon, let me play among your stars..."
"Cause you ain't nothing but a hound dog!"
"That doesn't even make sense," Pete complained at Paul's jumping in, tapping the head of a bottle against Paul's dining table. George cut in with a deadpan expression, sidestepping in front of the dining room table. "Ladies and gentlemen, we apologize for the performance tonight, it seems our guests have—"
"Had too much sugar!" John said, and we all exploded in laughter at his facial expression, pulled to the sappiest it would get to. "Oh, oh!" I felt a pang of sympathy for Alma, whoever she was, but I brushed it off as there was a knock at the door and Jim came inside, a smile on his face accompanied by his index finger in the air, "A little quieter if you would, boys." His eye took in the pre-show alcohol around but he decided to turn a blind eye and the dining room door closed.
"We've got to go anyways," Pete said, putting a stop to the mock show. "Mum's waiting." I watched George take another swig from the bottle and didn't notice John walk over to me and stick his hand out. Perplexed, I noticed my right hand tremble holding onto the neck of the guitar, wanting to connect with the invitation.
"What?" I asked quietly.
"My guitar, Cora, I need that back."
"Oh." I took the strap off my shoulders and gently placed it in his hand. My fingers made contact with his and he held on for a while before releasing my grasp. It had been twelve days since the anniversary of his mother's death. That day I was avoiding him after the disastrous July 13th performance. Funny, oh so funny how after our breakup we could talk more liberally about his pain. And now he wanted me back, citing it would never happen again.
I wondered if I would take him back as we neared the Cavern Club and did the usual unloading and setting up. I had no interest in anyone else, although Paul's Elvis impression stirred up feelings I remembered so long ago, but they were all purely physical. Now that I knew the boys, I saw them so differently. Blimey, John—how could I have fallen for John, John who shoplifted at the Tate and was so touchy and irritating when I met him but he had a magnetism I couldn't resist in the end. Was it his ability to discuss anything with me under the sun, how he was so easygoing? Or was it how he had the ability to make you feel like the most special person in the world, gazing at you with a look like he had nowhere else to be for the remainder of time and all he wanted to do was be with you? I was deep into the investment of our relationship and when it broke off, it left shards of broken glass behind.
Bastard cheated on me, though.
But still...
"Check, check, the Beatles to come check the microphones," rang out a voice near the stage, bouncing off the curved brick walls.
"Beatles, Beatles," George murmured, as if testing out the word like a new ice cream flavor at the shopping centre. "Beatles."
I let out a noise of amusement at his curiosity as we felt the familiar wood beneath our feet. Paul tinkled with the piano in the corner for a minute, a new melody I hadn't heard yet, before taking his place at his microphone. I was only half listening when soundcheck ended and Mona beckoned us into a corner.
"You lot will be sharing the stage tonight," she told us, tucking a piece of her dark hair behind her ear. "Pricilla White. You should know the songs she's singing."
"I know Cilla," George put in. "We all do. She does the cloakroom here." We all nodded in agreement. I knew her, or at least recognized her. We often smiled at each other, brought together by the Cavern. And now here she was, sporting a bobbed haircut which was so popular at the time, grinning cheekily at us. The boys all welcomed her and we all said our hellos. I liked her, she radiated a sort of easygoing energy. Pricilla White—Cilla Black! As we walked towards the stage, and took my arm a little and smiled, and I knew she was going to be all right.
***
My eyes bounced occasionally towards the familiar form of Ivy for the show. She had come back again for another Cavern show, wearing a new dress, American-styled. Almost like a guardian angel, I thought to myself. The fans will always come back. I wondered where brother Sam was, but I noticed Ivy was chatting with a tall blonde bloke. Maybe a new boyfriend. With the show almost over, Paul stepped forwards to chat with the crowd and John made a joke, muttering something with a boyish grin as he bent to pick up a drink someone left by the side of the stage. Blue jeans and a shirt—a dirty shirt in George's case, but only if you squinted could you see the beer stain—that was the uniform tonight. The cheers and laughter resonated until they gradually diminished to give way to a noise near the front of the cavern. Someone was saying, "Sorry, love, it's quite full at the moment, just wait a minute—" and the a girl saying tearfully, "It's my last night here, please, please let me in!"
"Let 'er in," John unexpectedly called from the stage towards the bouncer, and the crowd followed suit, saying, "Let her in!"
He obliged John's wish. The waves of many bobbed heads parted and a blonde entered the room. I took a glance at George, but he didn't seem to recognize Marta as she gleefully mad her way towards Ivy and the blonde bloke, wearing a shiny sort of shirt. The show ended; the usual fans clustered around as we made our way towards the back room. Withering comments like, She's the bass player, you know, the fat bloke that plucks about in the corner and complete witch to John, she doesn't deserve him were common a few months ago but perhaps the news had gotten around that John and I weren't together any more that they had stopped.
In the back room John had wandered over to the corner in which Cilla was sitting, sipping out of a glass. Out of the corner of my eye I watched him say something to her and her laughing back. She scooted over and he gently sat down next to her, folding his hands and leaning towards her, listening to her say something.
"—from a musical we wrote," Paul finished. I blinked at him. "Sorry, what?"
"The song we wrote," Paul said. "I was saying that John and I once wrote a musical long ago but we scrapped it. We started writing a song about one of the characters. He's a writer of some sort—John made him up."
"Oh, really?" I asked him. "You lot should have done a musical. Bill could've highlighted you both as the multitalented duo—songwriting and a musical."
"You're not bad yerself, love, with that voice and your nimble fingers," he winked at me. "The bass line for Saints! Da, da... da da da..." he started and we both jumped in, reducing the notes to vocal waves as we sung the bass line with gusto. "Do it like Elvis," I begged. "Like before the show. No wait, don't. Half the birds in here might die of excitement."
"That good, huh?" he said, the beginnings of a confident smirk appearing on his face, but then someone tapped him on the shoulder. "Hi, jolly good show tonight." It was the blonde boy from before. Ivy popped up next to him. "This is Charlie. He's from America—he's come to take me and Marta overseas. We're moving."
"Overseas!" Paul said. "Golly, that's exciting. Sorry," he accidentally mimicked, an automatic reaction from all of our imitations of the country and he blushed at Charlie, who laughed. "Don't worry about it, mate. Listen to me. One week here and I'm already picking up the lingo." Paul was looking up and down at Charlie as if he was a rare specimen, but I understood. America was someplace exotic, filled with high school lockers and bobby socks and Mississippi, where Elvis was from. Charlie was dressed in a letter jacket, automatically labelling him as a non-Scouser and his blonde hair was slicked back, revealing red rosy cheeks. American.
"Thanks," Paul said. "Huge compliment from you, coming from Elvis's home and all."
"It's a good noise," Charlie said, smiling. "I play guitar at home. What model have you got?"
"Oh, let's not care about him, Cora," Ivy said, pulling me away from the two of them. "I have a special favor to ask..." she had barreled straight into the sentence but stopped hesitantly, as if putting the brakes on full force.
"Please, what is it love? You lot have been coming to all of our shows and I want to thank you. Especially you, being so kind and supportive."
"I... erm... I was wondering if you'd teach me a bit of the electric bass. Charlie says they cost less in America." She nodded to the blonde and he grinned affectionally down at her.
"Yes, yes of course!" I grinned. Paul nudged me in the side. "Please show her, teacher."
"Shut it, Macca. C'mon, Ivy, let's go out where it's quieter." The Cavern was small so we made our way outside through a back door, me holding my case, her following excitedly behind. No one stopped me, only a few who congratulated me on a good show. The air outside was fresher, cooler, and we found ourselves at the back of the cavern club on the left side of the back area. We found a corner and settled down. I took out the bass and sat her down with it, both of us sitting with our backs against the cold building. "Here are the strings—E, A, D, and G, from bottom to top. They're separated by the same interval—a fourth—which makes it easier to play. See, if you put your index finger here on the E string, you can get an F sharp." I demonstrated Mary Had A Little Lamb and she smiled in delight.
Someone exited out the back door, a brunette bird and her friend, one of us giving us a strange look and the other smiling a goodnight as they passed us. Ivy had done a shaky version of the children's song and I began telling her about Hound Dog when I heard a familiar Scouse voice as the back door swung open. "—wanted to see me about, love?"
Ivy's mouth opened in recognition as she heard the second voice. "Well, Johnny, I'm going to America and I wanted to give you something before I left. You know, your little band is fantastic. It wouldn't be a shocker to hear that you all make it big." There was a shuffle. The two of them had turned to the right of the back door walking to the farthest corner of the building, opposite where Ivy and I were sitting. I made to get up, not wanting to hear anything else but Ivy barred me, whispering in the slightest of whispers, "They'll hear you move."
"What the hell is she doing?" I said with the most neutral tone I could muster, but I could feel my fingers tap tap tapping against the concrete.
"I don't know."
Marta had finished whatever she was saying and I sat there, hard against the wall, closing my eyes, not wanting to hear anything that was going to happen.
"So, what was it that ye wanted to give me?"
Blimey, voices carried in the night.
"Well, John Lennon, want to find out?" This was said in a seductive voice. "I don't know, but I think you would."
"She's bloody unbuttoning her shirt! She knows about you, I can't believe she would do that," came from next to me and I inhaled quietly and Ivy quieted. There was a clink of a belt being undone and the soft thud of fabric against the ground. I will not go through this again, I thought to myself as Ivy gripped my hand, concerned for either me or her friend, I don't know, and I sat there, waiting. I wasn't his anymore, I fought to tell myself, sudden tears coming to my eyes, waiting for him to kiss her and then fuck her.
Ivy squeezed my hand. "She's trying to kiss him. She's—wait—oh, he's pushing her away?"
"Marta." This came not from one of us but from John, interrupting Ivy's narrative. "Stop. Please." He sounded choky.
"But John—"
"I appreciate the affections, love, I do but I—" he sighed, moving backward from the wall and putting a fist to his head.
"It's her," Marta said sharply like a slicing knife, kneeling to pick up her shirt.
"Blimey, she's got large baps," Ivy whispered.
"Ivy," I reprimanded, half torn between amusement and concern.
"It's her. You still love her," Marta said, a voice rising. "Well I don't see why you do! Bloody hell, she's awful. You could do so much better than her—"
"Shut it," John said, his voice as hard as iron. "Listen, you don't know anything about her. She chucked me for being a bloody arsehole and I'm the one not good enough for her. You don't know anything! I—"
He paused. She made a noise of discontent but and there was silence before he said quietly and I had to strain in order to catch his next few words. "I'm not sure how much longer I can go about this, though. She doesn't want me back and I'm not sure if I can stand here and keep loving her from afar."
"Well, I'm still around but I'll be at my aunt's if you want to swing round, if you know what I mean," she said, cutting me out of the conversation and stringing her belt back round her hips.
"Mmm."
"Whatever you say, Lennon." She swung the back door open and walked back inside. I moved gently so I could see John's silhouette against the wall of the Cavern Club. He mirrored us and sank into a seated position against the wall. His white t-shirt caught on a bit of the wall and he whispered a curse, and I almost thought I heard hm murmur the beginnings of my name.
The energy of the sixteen year old beside me was practically radiating off of her and I put a hand on hers gently. She reciprocated, moving her pinky so it was sitting on a part of my hand. The small act brought together emotional feelings inside me. Hell, John... I had no idea what to think. I had to process it. I had to think about. I bent my head into my hand and released similar feelings into my hand, now wet from my tears, trying to be as quiet as possible. I'm not sure if Ivy noticed, but she leaned over and put her other hand over mine.
There was a sudden bang of the door for the third time. I jumped; someone stumbled out, clutching their head. He was obviously injured. I caught the smell of a fight in the air. My tears were halted as I tried to inconspicuously see who this injured being was. I drew in a breath sharply as they said with an air of desperation, "Cora?"
"He—" I started, my throat thick, the moonlight falling on his face, a streak of blood wiped across his cheek. "Here! Martin?"
I wrenched myself off the ground and ran towards him, not caring about being exposed, the bass falling into Ivy's lap. "Bloody—oh, Martin! You're—are you all right? What's happened?" He gave me an unexpected disgusted look of anger and fear that made me shudder. I caught the beginnings of a black eye. "I don't want to talk about it. This shouldn't have happened," he said in a voice I had never heard before, so different rom his dry humor.
There was sudden movement; John had left his corner. "Fuckin' hell, Jones, you're coming with me." He attempted to pick him up, but Martin stepped free and said curtly, "I don't want your help, Lennon."
John's eyes met mine for a second, clearly stating I didn't know you were here, what the bloody hell! before turning back to Martin and taking his arm, looping it round his shoulders. "You're coming with me." Martin quieted, surprisingly. "You can stay if you'd like," John shot at me, red faced from knowing I was there and I snapped back into attention. "Shite no. I'm coming, whether ye like it or not."
"Both of ye have rotten mouths," Martin whispered, a trace of relief on his half closed eyes as he was led away by people of familiarity.