Hello there Beatle People! The next installment of my story; we finally get to meet a new character (I sure hope I do him justice!) Enjoy!
“The gate’s not gonna be openin’ itself,” a thick Liverpudlian accent called in a rather smug way. I turned to my left to face the house next door to see a boy of about sixteen standing at his identical gate. He started walking towards me with cockiness in his step, his brown eyes laughing impishly at me. He wore black drainpipe trousers, a faded black jacket that was a bit too big for him, a checkered shirt underneath, and black crepe soled shoes. His hair was slicked back on the sides with the top curly in a DA haircut, obviously trying to mimic the style of the Teddy Boys back home, who, in Melrose at least, were punks that cut class and smoked in the bathrooms.
“This must be the famous Lennon kid,” I thought, looking him up and down. “I don’t like the look of him already; seems very full of himself.”
John Lennon had reached the gate by the time this train of thought had finished, and he leaned against my aunt’s gate with his hands deep in his pocket, shamelessly looking me up and down. I crossed my arms over my chest and stared pointedly at him, causing him to smirk at me.
“Hello John,” Anne said, coming up between the two of us to get through the gate. She had my bag in her hand, and as she passed she handed it to me. “I see you’ve met Liz, my niece.”
“Yeah,” he drawled, drawing out the syllables still with that infuriating smirk on his face. “I was just tellin’ ‘er how she needed to open the gate herself stead of lookin’ at it.” He looked at me and spoke in a way one might to a child. “I dunno how things are in America but ‘ere gates don open just by starin’ at ‘em, love.”
“I figured as much,” I shot back, tired from my flight and not at all amused by his sarcasm. I wanted to sleep so much it hurt, and his pointless prodding was not helping.
He raised his eyebrows at me, surprised at my retort, and Anne broke the silence that followed it by saying tentatively, “Well. I’ll leave you two to it then. I’ll go put these cases in the house for you, Liz,” she added, taking my suitcases from me and walking up the walkway to the front door.
I almost followed her, not wanting to stay any longer with this Lennon boy, but she was gone too soon, so I had no choice but to put up with his teasing until I could politely excuse myself.
John went back to staring at me before finally sticking out his hand and saying, “I’m John. John Lennon.”
I reluctantly took his hand and shook, replying, “I’m Elizabeth, Elizabeth Callet.”
I immediately regretted telling him my full name as he replied with a sardonic, “Well Miss Elizabeth, I coulda sworn I heard yer auntie call you Liz, or was that me old ears failing me?”
“My friends call me Liz,” I retorted, irritated with his prodding.
He gave me a mock insulted look, saying, “Oh, so you’ve already decided I’m not your friend ‘ave you?”
“Well you are a lot older than me,” I pointed out.
“Maybe so,” he replied, grinning devilishly and then saying decidedly, “Then I guess I’m in between then, so I’ll be callin’ you Miss Lizzy till I-” he pulled a proper face and said in a butler-style British accent, “-gain your approval, m’lady.”
I said nothing, but I probably had a look of dismay showing on my face, as he dropped his act, his mouth growing into a satisfied smile, obviously very proud of himself for successfully annoying me. He then asked, “How old are you anyways?”
“Thirteen, going to be fourteen this summer,” I answered indifferently, wanting nothing more than to be rid of him.
“Oh well I’ll have to play something for you at your party,” he said winking at me.
“Play me something?” I asked, surprised at how quickly he brought up his band.
“Yeah, I got a guitar from me mum, so I can play you something on it. I even got meself a band, the Quarrymen. We’re gonna be playing at fete in a few weeks, if you wanna see us. Gonna be bigger than Elvis, we are,” he finished proudly.
There was an excited glint in his eye when he talked about his band, a passion that I didn’t expect. He forced it into the conversation, as if this was the first thing he wanted me to know about him. Despite this, I still didn’t feel like talking, so I tapped my foot impatiently, wishing for the conversation to end. This didn’t get by John, saying as he noticed my foot, “You got somewhere else to be?”
I didn’t answer, so he nodded towards my bag and asked, as he pulled a cigarette out of his pocket, “What’re you hiding in the bag?”
“Not hiding anything,” I said, my patience wearing thin. “Just got some records and my notebook and things.”
“What kind of records do you got?” he asked, lighting his cig.
“Mostly Little Richard, one or two Elvis’, and an Eddie Cochran,” I rattled off automatically, no longer caring much about what was coming out of my mouth.
Surprisingly, John’s eyes lit up when I mentioned all these, saying in an excited voice he was trying to hide, “You’ll ‘ave to show me sometime, I’m always lookin’ for a good Little Richard record.” His attitude screamed that he was desperate to get a hold of these, a fact that I found interesting as I now actually had something to hold over him. I raised my eyebrows at him appraisingly, as if to say, “What would you do for them?”
It was obvious that he regretted showing his interest, as he quickly changed the subject, his eyes reverting back to their teasing look. “Whaddyou do with your notebook then?”
I really wanted to get him off my case, so I replied with as much sarcasm as I could: “I’m a writer; gonna be bigger than Shakespeare.”
Unfortunately, this plan backfired: my response made him throw back his head and laugh hysterically, his cigarette almost falling out of his mouth. His laugh was startling to me; it was almost a cackle, the laugh of a deranged person. Yet it seemed to fit him.
We were then mercifully interrupted by a long shrill voice: “JOHN!” a woman yelled from the house next door. We both looked towards the house, where a small and slim woman of about fifty years of age stood outside the door, wearing a blouse and pencil skirt, with her short hair curled remarkably like my mothers.
She motioned for him to the door, to which he shouted back, “I’m comin’ Mimi!” John turned to me, wiggled his eyebrows, and said, “Catch ya later little bird.” With that, he turned on his heel and sauntered back up the sidewalk, taking his own sweet time to annoy his aunt and taking large puffs on the cig. When he reached the door, John took the cigarette out of his mouth and threw it, still lit, into the bushes in the front of the house, simultaneously exhaling a big puff of smoke. The door shut sharply once he was inside, and I could almost hear his aunt scolding him from where I was.
“Did he just call me a bird?” I thought, wondering if he had meant chick instead. “No, he definitely said bird. Weird.”
Though I had wished the whole time that he would leave, I found myself standing there for a moment or two, still looking at the spot he had just vacated. John Lennon was a character, that was for sure. I had surely never met anyone like him before, and I almost missed his flippant voice asking me ridiculous questions. Nevertheless, I soon felt a chill, so I pushed open the gate and hurried inside to get warm.
Chapter 2 To Be Continued
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