“I swear to you,” my cousin Nan begged, her British accent making her pleas sound more imploring than they really were. “They are adorable, and I know how you are about British men.”

I observed Nan’s stylish clothes, her edgy haircut, and the easel that she carried under her arm.  If anyone else were carrying the easel, it would look awkward, as would the paintbrushes that Nan had tucked under her bra strap and had sticking out from the collar of her black shirt.  She didn’t seem to care that garish red paint had made its way onto her elegant neck, or that accepting this invitation from some band that played the Cavern Club last night would put off at least one of her other ‘teddy boys.’

“You need to have some fun,” she pleaded, “but we’ll have to make you over.  I mean, the only mod on your bod has got to be those glasses.”  She reached for my book, only to succeed in aggravating me further.  She slammed the book shut on my hands and then snatched it, as I remained on the sofa nursing my pained finger. 

“Sir-tray,” she sounded.

“Jean-Paul Sartre,” I corrected proudly. “He’s a very important philosopher.  The fundamental existentialist.”

Her eyes lit up in response.

“Well, love, I have got a John for me and a Paul for you!  That is, if you would like to come tonight, instead of pulling your typical ‘I’m a boring American student visiting here just to read books that I dragged along’ stuff all night.”

“Fine,” I replied. “I’ll make a deal with you, Nan.  I’ll go with you tonight if – and only if – you promise to sit quietly and read with me tomorrow night… and not in one of your coffeehouses.  Right here at home.  And I’m not letting you dress me, and I will be wearing knee socks.”

“Deal!  I’ll read anything you want, even if the words are too long.  Even Sir-tray!”

***

I followed Nan up the stairs to the flat.  I would never have done this alone, or in any situation where anyone I had ever met would see me.  I felt like a common floozy… or more precisely, like one of my cousin’s friends.

One more flight of stairs until we reached the flat.  Nan’s dress was short, tight, and sleek.  She tugged on it as she knocked on the door.  There was no response.

“I’m sure the chap is just detained for a moment,” Nan chattered. “He’s real nice, though, love.  John’s his name, and-“

The door creaked open, and the neck of an electric guitar greeted us.  Even I laughed nervously, but my laughter was quickly covered with what I would later learn was  feedback from amplifiers. 

“Sorry, sorry... just a moment,” called a polite voice that sounded almost inviting.  “It’s the chicks!” he whispered loudly to whomever else was inside.

“Will… grab… birds…” A hand grabbed the doorknob.  The door flew open, and the guitar neck fell into the hand of a man about my age.  According to Nan, he was an art student.

“John, love, nice to see you, have got a present for you.” She shoved her canvas at him.  The painting featured abstract images that were as foreign to me as philosophy was to Nan.  John hastily put his cigarette to his mouth to enable a free hand.  He accepted the canvas and thanked my cousin.

“Hello, American,” he mumbled, looking me over and smiling with the cigarette hanging from his mouth.  “Do come in.  Pick your drink, and roll your own fag.”

I shot a very anxious and confused glance at Nan.  “Cigarette,” she whispered. “A fag is a cigarette.  And just ask for vodka.”

“John Lennon, this is my cousin Boring-a from Americ-a.”  She shut the door behind her as John leaned the guitar and canvas next to each other against the wall.  He was having a hard time deciding which to admire, and then he turned to me, cigarette still in mouth and hand outstretched.  I felt as if he were a clown, and I was a child -- a frightened child. 

“Pleasure, there, Boring-a.”

“It’s Erin, I… I am Erin,” I clarified, dismissively frowning at my kin.

John Lennon shook my hand firmly.   He then took the opportunity to shake Nan’s hand thereafter, also kissing it.  The natural flirt as always, Nan giggled.

“Erin… so we’ve got an Irish one today, then?” It seemed like the eyes of the man on the mattress were talking to me.  Right about the time I realized that there was only one room to this flat, barely decorated, I realized that John’s friend was quite intriguing.  I laughed nervously, clasping my hands together in front of my stomach.

“Irish-American… you know, potato famine, poverty…” I looked about the room and hope I didn’t offend anyone.  My eyes caught black leather pants tossed upon the floor.  The air smelled mostly of smoke, but there was definitely a hint of rotten food permeating the smell.  The man with the liquid eyes stood up and nobly opened the only window in the room. 

“Me own family’s got some from Ireland.  Lots of us do, since this area is so close and all.  It’s like a big family, really.”  He crossed the room toward me, and I then realized that Nan and John were watching us with amusement.  The man with the eyes ignored it, so I did also.

“I’m Paul, Paul McCartney.  Would you like something to drink?”

I wondered more about Paul already… about how he lived, hopefully not with John.  He sounded like he enjoyed the idea of family, and I wondered more about his own.  I wondered what books he liked, and how he still managed to look so clean with his hair so greasy.  I wondered why such a seemingly sensible man was dressed so insensibly, and I asked myself if I could be the woman to launder his clothes and attend all of his gigs.  I wondered if he liked jazz, and knew how revolutionary it was.  How it founded everything rock and roll stood for…

“Erin?”  Paul asked again, “something to drink, dear?”

“Vodka,” I responded solidly, not really knowing just what vodka was.

“She likes it straight, ladies and gentlemen!” John announced. “Let’s all have a bit of it, Paulie.”

As Paul fixed the drinks, John led my cousin to the mattress.  Interesting, I thought, he really doesn’t waste time, does he?  The pair chatted amongst themselves, leaving me awkwardly staring at the blank walls.

“You should join the class,” my cousin chattered, “my friend Cynthia and I are taking it together.  It’s really not that hard, not academic-like at all.”  Nan forwardly kissed John’s forehead while Paul continued to pour drinks into glasses on the floor.  I noticed that one glass was only half full.  Tactfully, Paul covered the top half of it with his hand and raised his eyebrows toward me.

“For you, Miss Erin.”

***

Feeling a bit loosened up, and having had my first cigarette (a habit that was horrid to break seven years later), Paul and I walked toward the Cavern Club.  His arm found its way around my back, and Nan and John, walking behind us, were no doubt kissing. 

“So how loud and crowded is it in this club?” I asked Paul.

“Not bad at all.  If you have a few drinks, it feels a bit better…but as for you, love, just stand up front, and if you feel funny or faint, just dash toward the loo or backstage.  It gets a little warm in there.”  I noted his tight leather pants, figuring it must be even warmer for him in there.  I suddenly felt a need to punish myself for those thoughts.

“I’ve never really been to a club before…I mean, just a jazz club once, and I really liked it.”

“You know, er, um, Johnny’s going to this art show, and I’m not that intellectual and all really, and I was just wondering if, you know, you’d like to come along, and help me out.”

“Yes…I mean, when?”  We were approaching the club, where a small crowd waited outside.  Were they waving at us?

“Tomorrow night at eight.  I’ll come by first and get you.”

Then came the fans.  About five screaming girls were pulling at Paul’s leather jacket and intentionally pushing me away.  This continued all night, and I felt considerably more than faint, while Nan waited backstage talking to the other members of the band. 

The pushing continued until I was rammed against the stage.  Loud noises blared in my ear, and the whiskey sloshed around in my stomach as I was pushed and pushed against the stage by fans.  I stumbled about, looking for my cousin, or an exit.  Paul was having fun, but his sweaty self squinted nervously at me as I crouched forward.

Somehow I made it to the back of the room and exited.  The contents of my stomach exited as well.  Feeling only slightly better, I gradually lifted my body to notice that I’d just mortified myself in front of a blue eyed man with cigarette smoke trailing from his mouth in rings.

“Need a hand?”  He offered an entire arm, perhaps more than he intended.  Weakly, I grabbed it, and he lowered me toward the steps, a few safe feet away from the former contents of my stomach.

“You seem new here.  And different.  I’m John Bensen.  Not the John, mind you,” he pointed toward the band inside, “but John.  Hope that’ll do.”

“Nice to meet you.  I wish I felt better, but… I’m Erin.”  I felt so sick still that I did not even notice the music stopping, the rushing, or the screaming inside of the club.

“So what do you do here…what brings you to England?” he asked coolly, noting my accent.

“Studies.  I’m a literature student.  I read, and write.”

“I’d like to think of myself as somewhat literate as well,” he joked, “but I mostly play piano.”

“For John and Paul’s band?”  He seemed amused at my question for some reason.  Perhaps it was because I didn’t know the name, or the number of people in the band.  Perhaps it was because they’d just finished playing, and this John had obviously not been with them.

“No, just in a slew of quartets and the like.  Jazz, mostly.”

That was the buzz word: jazz.  We talked for what seemed like moments, and I held my stomach more, and he laughed. 

I was on my third vomit when Paul was suddenly there, too.  Apparently, the once-sensitive man had not noticed my vomit, but had noticed that I was deeply conversing with another man.  He left abruptly, and I felt terrible.

“I should go,” John Bensen said.  I felt almost too sick to notice, but he’d slipped a piece of paper beneath my leg as I was sitting there.  I remembered John, accompanied by a blonde woman who was not my cousin, helping me up.  Fool, I was, for not thinking more of that at the time.  I hastily unfolded the paper that John Bensen left with me.

TOMORROW 8 PM, MERSEYSIDE DOCK 2

My eyes widened.  Eyes, I thought.  How I must have hurt Paul’s eyes.

***

I felt absolutely terrible.

“I think the right thing to do would be to tell them both I have the flu,” I confessed to Nan.

I probably looked as if I did.

“You can’t go and tell them both your stomach hurts when it’s your heart hurting over a quick decision,” Nan said.  “Listen, Paul McCartney is gorgeous, and he’s going somewhere.  I’ve never heard of this fellow you met outside.  He probably couldn’t even afford a ticket in, love.   And meeting someone on the docks is just a little…unbecoming for a woman of your…manner.”

“I talked with John Bensen for over an hour and didn’t even realize it,” I mused, “Even Paul didn’t make me feel that way.  I mean, just as we were starting to get along well, all of those fans showed up-“

“Bloody fans!” Nan put in.

“Then,” I continued, “I don’t know.  It seemed like fate.  How many men can be attracted to a woman who vomits consistently?  Besides, you’re not going to that art show anyway, are you?  Paul didn’t mention it.”

“I am, of course, with the famous John Lennon.  Well, locally famous, anyway.”  Nan produced a copy of the latest issue of Mersey Beat.  It featured John himself.  “I will be there.”

“Well, I promised Paul a date first,” I sat up, “and you’re right…meeting someone at the docks in Liverpool does sound a bit seedy, doesn’t it?  I’ll go with Paul.”

***

I was dressed.  I was ready to go.  Paul would be here momentarily.  The door opened, and I thought it odd that Paul would not knock.  He had accepted my apologies on account of my being sick and needing help from the other John fellow, and had again agreed to pick me up at eight.  And now the door burst open.

Nan stormed inside, leaving the door wide open.

“I am not going to the art show, because a certain John Lennon is attending with my best friend Cynthia!  They’ve…they’ve already been seeing each other!”  Nan was furious, and the fury was turning into tears.  “The Beatles have potential!” she went on, “and so did I!  Now, I just…”

“Look,” I said, motioning for her to sit down beside me, “you know I fancy Paul, but I can ring him up if he hasn’t left yet and cancel.  I can’t stand to see you this way, or to leave you home.  We’ll sit right here and read, like we were going to, and you’ll learn that there are other ways to advance in this world besides getting mixed up with some dumb so-called Beatle!”

“So that’s how you see it?”  A male voice startled me and I looked up to see Paul leaning against the doorframe. “Advancing in this world by getting mixed up with a so-called Beatle?  You don’t know me.  You don’t understand how hard we work on our music.  All your talk about jazz and intellectual depth, and you don’t know for an instant how bloody hard we work.” 

I was upset about this, and wanted to explain – apparently Paul had only caught the last part of my attempt to comfort my cousin.  However, I decided that Nan was more important.  Even though that was, of course, the right decision, I felt terrible. 

But that night, I stayed with Nan.

***

Since Nan had become interested enough in my studies to join a Philosophy class that I had been taking, I decided to transfer into her art class.  It certainly eased the tension between Nan and former best friend Cynthia, and I definitely learned a lot about art.  I also learned that Nan did more than just throw paint on a canvas- that she had studied the basics before she’d ever even started dabbling in abstract art.  She drew so well, and helped me along daily.

One day, as I got up to leave class, I noticed a familiar face.  John Bensen.  The man I’d never gone to meet at the docks after we’d talked of jazz and laughed about my first vodka experience. 

I still felt awful about how I’d slighted Paul McCartney.  But I knew that I’d never want to do that again, not to anyone else.  I approached John Bensen and explained about my cousin’s situation, and that I had felt a bit uncomfortable about the docks, but that I had not meant to stand him up.  Nan watched with a smile, indicating that my experience was healing her own hurt.  Behind her, Cynthia glanced at her with sympathy, a hand surreptitiously placed upon her own stomach.

Right there, John Bensen agreed to my suggestion that we try another date.  The wedding was three years later.

***

It’s the first time I can really look back on the experience with Paul McCartney.  How many women can say they’ve turned him down?  When I saw that it didn’t work out with Jane Asher, I felt terribly for Paul, and so guilty.  And I wondered what really happened, and were the stories true, and what went through Jane’s mind?  My husband caught me reading the tabloid papers – rags, they’re called here in England, where we decided to live permanently, but he was always kind and patient.

I went to every gig I could, and he read every story I produced.  It was my husband who suggested I write this down in the first place.  Not to publish, but just ‘for kicks,’ and posterity, really.  My daughter is becoming such a beautiful singer, attending choir college I hope.  Hopefully for her and others, I can verify Andy Warhol’s statement about fame.  Yes, I agree, everyone does get their fifteen minutes worth, but sometimes nothing can replace blue eyes and jazz piano.

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