She stood amidst the chaos, watching the frenzied running back and forth of assistants and pages. Other extras clumped around the coffee pot, gossiping and laughing. She was too nervous to join them.

Her short hair had been smartly parted on the side, and her eyes had begun to tear up. She’d never worn false eyelashes or so much mascara before.  Molly tugged at the hem of her skirt, its gray flannel skimming inches above her knee. She felt ridiculous and probably looked it, too.

Her body didn’t betray her feelings. She held herself like a prop, her knees locked stiffly, and her hands clasped each other in mock primness. But anyone who took a closer look could see that her knuckles had gone white. Her breath came in short gulps, even though Molly was trying her best not to hyperventilate. Her stomach quivered and she regretting having taken those tea sandwiches earlier. Prop, indeed, for that’s all she really was here.

She watched the action swirl around her. Make-up people scurrying around with powderpuffs and galaxies of new lashes, men carrying clipboards with checklists, girls rushing with coffee cups. It was too much, and made her dizzy.  She peered into the blackness beyond the spotlight and listened for her cue.

Molly had been cast as an extra—a student. It hadn’t been so long since she left school, and she thought she’d slip easily into the role. But when she learned who her co-stars were, all thoughts of having an easy time left her.  But here she was, dressed in a silly get-up, but looking the part. At least this job was in the daylight hours, and she a step away from being destitute.

“Okay…er…I’m sorry. You!” The director yelled through the looming darkness.

“Me?” answered Molly.

“Yes, you! I’ve forgotten your name.”

“It’s Molly.”

“Yes, whatever it is. I need you to go stand to the left. Beside those books near the counter.”

Molly snapped to attention and did as the director told her. She wanted everything to be just right. In her hurry, she tripped over a thick braid of cables taped to the floor. Her blunder caused her to kick over a pile of books, sending them crashing, destroying her corner of the library set.

“Jesus, girl! Can’t you get anything done right? All I need is for you to move a little to the left and you’ve gone and wrecked everything!” the director bellowed from his perch.

“I’m sorry, sir—I, I, just—“

“Look girl, I don’t care what you just were trying to do. I hired you to stand around and look pretty, to be good scenery. Now d’you think you can do that?” His voice was laced with sarcasm.

Molly shifted her feet and kept her eyes on the ground and bit her lip to keep from crying or shouting back. She squared her shoulders and turned her back on the man who’d been so cruel to her all week. She again wished for her stint as an actor to be finished, but she couldn’t help but feel grateful for the extra money. As she slid into her position as part of the background, she noticed some movement on the set.

“Okay, girl!  Ready? Are you gonna get it right this time?”

“Yes, I shall try,” whispered Molly.

“What?!?” roared the director.

“That’ll do just fine, mister.” A second voice emerged from the shadow outskirts of the set. Molly stiffened as she heard the voice approach closer. How could she avoid recognizing that familiar lilt and fall of a Liverpudlian accent?

There was a stirring behind the cameras and Molly watched, frozen, as he approached. He held a teacup in his hand and as he sat it on a saucer, she caught sight of his blue eyes—twin moons rising over the cup’s rim.

“Take it easy, luv. There’s nothing to be frightened of.”  He walked closer and took her hand in his gently, like a grade school teacher would. “Now, give us a smile. Ol’ Ring isn’t too graceful either.”

She tried to stammer thanks, but her words caught in her throat. She was so relived to hear a kind voice, not the sarcasm she’d endured for the past week here. Instinctively, she followed his lead.

“Okay, luv?”

Molly twitched under the gaze in the director, She was sure he was glaring at her through the darkness. Now that she’d drawn the attention of Ringo, she felt even more stupid.

“I’m sorry, “ she began, “I didn’t mean to bother you but—“

“You’re nervous, right?”

“Yes,” she sighed. “I’ve never done anything like this before and, well, I.”

“I’ve done it before, and it don’t get easier. People yelling at you, telling you this, stand here, move there. It’s all rather annoying. But let me show you how the scene’ll run. Maybe that’ll ease your mind?”

“Yes, I hope.” At this Molly almost relaxed. She almost forgot what she was doing and who she was. She focused on how Ringo went through the actions of the scene, pointing to where she would stand and telling her the cues. The director was thankfully quiet. Molly guessed he was off yelling at someone else or pestering one of his assistants. She listened to Ringo fixedly, smiling at the half jokes he slipped in.

“ I don’t know why he—“ Ringo jerked his thumb in the director of the director’s seat—“has been bothering you. You seem like a clever girl.”

“Well, I try. But it’s just that part of me feels so silly in this costume with the falsies and all.”

Ringo’s eyes widened at her candidness. She realized what she’d said and laughed heartily.

“False eyelashes, I mean!” His laughed joined hers and she placed her hand on the cuff of his jacket. Gray flannel like her skirt. She recoiled her hand as quickly as she had placed it there. Her nervousness flooded back and she blushed deeply.

“Sorry, “ she began to apologize.

“Don’t be, luv. I’m not gonna bite, “ he replied raising his eyebrows.

“Okay people! I’ve got a movie to make here. Now, girl, stand by those books, and see if you can do it without knocking things over. Ringo, I need you to get into place and walk in when I cue you. Remember you’re just passing through the library.”

Molly assumed her spot on the set as the director shouted for silence. Molly began to fidget, shifting her weight form one foot to the other. Again she clasped her hands tightly to avoid the temptation of chewing on her nails. The tick and hum of the advancing film sounded more immediate than her own breathing. She inhaled deeply and tried to put on the part. She feigned casualness and ran her fingertips along the cover of the books. She squinted at their titles printed faintly on their spines.

Maybe her fumbling did look like acting. In any case, she was distracted. The director had shut his mouth and she didn’t have time to consider her chance meeting with Ringo. If Molly stopped to think about it, she would have shattered—her stomach would lurch and toss like an unanchored lifeboat.

She was a nobody, a poor girl with nothing but her wits and her will keeping her off the streets. And he? Well, he was Ringo Starr, Richard Starkey of the Beatles. Born as poor as her, but his situation had changed so dramatically in recent months. Now, he couldn’t even ride a bus without being smothered by screaming girls. But he had taken the time to meet her, to speak to her and soothe her nerves. He could have easily passed her by, but he didn’t.

These thoughts began to enter her mind. She knitted her brows and frowned. Ringo did the only decent thing any real person would do; he was kind. He did her no great favor, only extended the human courtesy of comfort.  He was human, right?

Just as she considered this, the director snapped his cue and Ringo strolled on to the set. His hands were jammed into his jacket pockets as he wandered seemingly aimlessly about the library set. Molly pretended to be thoroughly interested in the books. She even lifted one from the stack, discovering that it was merely a paper mache prop. As she returned it, Ringo passed by, lightly brushing her. Her instinct was to look down, and as she did he caught her eye. He winked discretely as he finished his walk through the library.

“Cut! That was perfect. Good job everybody—even you!” Molly knew he was referring to her. At that moment, she wanted to spit on him. He couldn’t even call her by a name, any name. It was always and simply “girl.” She wanted so badly just to collect her wage and leave. She turned on her heels to leave and in turning, she ran into Ringo, nearly causing him to fall over.

“Oh, God! I’m so sorry.” Molly couldn’t take another minute of it. Her stomach heaved and she ran for the lavatory.

“Now where did she dash off to?” wondered Ringo as he brushed off his coat.

The makeshift door to the lavatory creaked as Molly eased it open. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, trying to make sure she looked normal again. She needed water to wash the sour taste from her mouth, so she slipped past the clutter to search for a refreshment cart.

A bunch of girls ringed the cart, laughing loudly and synchronically. They faced the same direction and a few wound wisps of hair around their fingers. What attracted their collective attention? As she neared the group, Molly saw what, or rather who, held them wrapped. The fabulously clever John Lennon was holding court and each girl listened to his every word.

“And then we was on stage,” she heard him say. Molly wanted to slip by unnoticed—no second bout of nervousness for her. Slowly she approached the cart trying to avoid any attention from Lennon or the girls. As he spoke, his hands fluttered like twin birds, punctuating his story. Molly sidled up to the cart and sneaked a paper cup between two girls who were hopelessly taller and more beautiful than her. Having her water, Molly fled as quickly as she’d come.

As she ducked down a corridor, she heard John’s voice call after her.  “Where ya goin, luv? You din’ hear my story!” The girls’ laughter followed him like a refrain.

“Now where should I go to get my money for this afternoon?” Molly wondered aloud. She was alone in one of the warren of halls, trying to navigate back to some place familiar and avoid people scurrying to do their various jobs. She wanted the day to be done, even though it would mean some extra quid in her pocket. “And what time is it?”

She turned left into another hall and saw a man standing near the end. Thankfully an exit sign loomed overhead.

“Pardon me,” she ventured, ‘But I suppose you haven’t got the time?”

“Yes, I do.”  He faced her and smiled. Molly started and her mouth fell open as he continued. “ It’s half past three.”

Her face colored deeply to her ears. “I’m sorry, Mr. Harrison. I don’t mean to natter on and bother you. But I didn’t expect to see you. What time did you say?’

“Half past. And you needn’t be sorry.”

“I must be going. Nice to have met you.”

“But I didn’t meet you! What’s your name?”

“ Sorry. I’ve got to go,” Molly called over her shoulder.

“What was that?” shouted George. He watched her getting smaller as she ran further into the distance.

“ Molly!” she called back. As she hurried, she ran her hands through her hair, tousling the part until it was gone. She pinched the line of false lashes and zipped them off in one swift pull. “Oh God, I'm going to be terribly late,” she sighed. Molly continued toward the exit, never looking back. She opened the door and disappeared into the gray English afternoon.

***

George shrugged his shoulders and blew a stray hair from his eyes. What a strange run-in. The girl seemed so frantic and rushed, which wasn’t uncommon when women approached him. George was used to the crush of celebrity—all sorts of people following him, fawning over him, completely losing their abilities to speak. But Molly’s reaction had nothing to do with him or his fame. His stomach rumbled and his ponderings ended as soon as they’d begun.

“’Ello, mate.”

“Hey Ring. Break time yet?”

“No,” sighed Ringo. “I think we’ve one more run through of one more scene. And then we’re done. Or that’s what they tell me.”

George answered his bandmate with a wry smile. They rarely finished shooting anything on time, even if it was the simplest background scene.

“How’s it goin’ so far, though?” asked George.

“Fine. Fine. Nothing too bothersome. I did have this curious meeting with this girl. She was quite nervous and the director was shoving her about, snapping at her. So I try to make her relax, but she was worse. Right when the scene was finished, she took off.”

“That’s very strange. I just ran into a girl who acted just the same. She left without collecting her pay. I know the extras haven’t been let go yet. They’re following John around like he’s God Almighty.”

“Really? Was her name—"

“Molly,” finished George.

“That’s her. Brown hair, rather small?”

“Yes. A lovely girl in a British way,” mused George.

Ringo tilted his head as if he were listening to far away bits of music. He recalled Molly’s pale face, her large brown eyes, the freckles scattered across her nose.

“Yes...she is lovely,” Ringo remarked. “ Did you see where she ran off to?”

George pointed to the door at the end of the hall. “She went through that door. From there, who knows?”

“ I really would have liked to talk to her. She seemed so preoccupied. And now, she’s missed her pay. It’s bothered me since.”

“Ringo, always the romantic. She’s just in love with you Mr. Famous Beatle Man, you wack. She probably just wanted the chance to meet you or me or whoever. She’ll never miss that money, with Da paying her bills.” George elbowed Ringo.

“You’re probably right, eh? But maybe there was something else.”

As Ringo spoke a voice broke into the intercom system: “George Harrison, Richard Starkey, report to Sound Stage Three!”

Both men exchanged looks. George rolled his eyes,  “Paulie’s gotten a hold of the PA again. I wonder what he wants.”

“Maybe he’s got some food.”

“I hope you’re right, mate. Let’s go see what he wants.”

Ringo and George took their time following the endless halls to Sound Stage Three. No doubt there’d be more than a few girls trying to make their ways to the same place.

“And with my luck, no food, either,” thought Ringo to himself.

When the two arrived, Ringo’s thoughts had proved true. Girls in all sorts of get-ups were everywhere, standing in line, elbowing each other to get a better gawking position. But as far as Ringo and George could tell, there was no John or Paul to be seen.

“This is just like them!” spat George. He seemed irritated, but his sideways grin betrayed his true feelings. Beatlemania was still new and shiny, and George loved the attention.

Ringo rolled his eyes. He wished only for a break in the action. This day seemed to drag on, and all he wanted was a bite to eat in a quiet corner—nothing more. As he began to loose himself the din of chatter, he felt a hand clamp down on his collar. Before he could protest, he was snatched into a tiny closet concealed by painted scenery and stacks of props.

“Not a word from you Starkey,” said a voice muffled thick beard and scarf. Instead of being frightened, Ringo erupted into laughter.

“You must be the mysterious Mr. Ramon,” replied Ringo using Paul’s pseudonym.

“Can’t fool you, right?”

“Nah. It’d take more than a silly costume for me not to know ya. What’s the story? Why are you dressed up like this?”

“I’m about to go mad on this set, Ring. We have to get out of here and do something else. Get some real food.”

“You’ve said the magic word, Paulie. I’m practically starving. Where’s John and George? Or are we leaving them with the birds?”

“I’m sure they’d like nothing better than to stay,” Paul said. “But I think a little adventure in the outside world would do them good. John’s getting George. We’re to meet outside as soon as we can get out. You’d better put this on.” Paul grabbed a tweed golfer’s hat and another scarf.

“I’m sure I look ridiculous.”

“Yes. I’m sure you do. Now, c’mon and let’s not get caught.”

Paul and Ringo dashed for an open door to the outside world. Shortly, John and George joined them in the growing mist.

“Shall we have a look about this little town?” asked John.

“Let’s,” replied George. Already his false moustache was askew.

***

She heard the noise from the street before she reached the place. The clock hadn’t chimed yet, so she knew she’d have a few moments to spare and no scolding from Rob.

She approached the alley that led to the Grey Eagle’s back door. A cat skittered across her path and back into the shadows. She shouldered the door open with a soft shove and her heels clicked across the paving brick in the kitchen. Warmth radiated from the stove—a welcome change from outside.

“’Ello Mol. Right on time, eh?”

“I didn’t think I was going to make it. Busy yet?”

“No, luv. It’s just tea time yet.”

“Good. I need a bite. I’ve been on me feet all morning.”

“There’s some things in the kitchen. Help yourself.” Robert indicated a plate with a small pastry on it, still steaming from being baked. Molly thanked him and watched him go back to his business of tending the bar. She smiled at his good heartedness.

He was about 50, she supposed, and had been as kind to her as a father. Kinder than her own father had been. Molly was sure she’d arrived at the Eagle late, but Robert would never have said anything cross. He knew Molly had to scrounge up work where she could. That’s why he had been so eager to hire her a few years early despite her youth. He could tell from her demeanor that she would be a hard and an honest worker.

She dug her fork into the golden crust of the pastry. Kidney pie—simple earthy food she loved.  After eating, she retrieved her apron from a nail and headed to the bar.

She could hear the music of talk. All the voices blended until the conversations became a hum; one man’s word’s finished another’s sentences.

“At least it’s crowded,” she thought, “I won’t have time to think about how tired I am.”

“Hey! Molly! It’s you!”

“It’s always me, silly! What’ll it be this evening, Bill?”

“The usual, if you please.”

The Eagle brought in regulars everyday. Molly noted most of her patrons. The postman sat on a corner stool and several lorry drivers crowded around a table, already sharing stories of their days. Molly knew most of them by name, since they all worked in town. She greeted them from across the bar with a lift of her chin. She knew their orders without asking. Soon, each person had a pint in front of him. The dark brew looked and smelled like molasses.

“Thanks, lassie,” said Bill.

“Anytime mate,” replied Molly.

She loved the bustle of this place; people finished their various shifts at their various jobs and gathered here for good cheer. Though she had put in a day’s work at the movie set, she felt refreshed each time the Eagle’s doors swung open to bring a rush of cold air and a new face.

In the corner of her vision, Molly saw another of her regular customers. Clean-shaven and blonde, he raised a finger in silent request of his usual order. Molly nodded back to him.

“Robbie, I need another of the house’s finest.”

“Coming up, Molly.” Robert pulled the pint steady and smooth. He could probably do it in his sleep, thought Molly. But each time she poured one, there was beer everywhere. She grabbed the glass and took it to the patron.

“Here you are, Des.”

“Workin’ all night again?”

“Yeah,” she said and offered him half a smile.

“I’ve got to get back soon myself. We’re busy down there.”

“That’s good,” she said, “keeps shoes on your feet and food in your belly.”

“One day, I won’t have to work so hard.”

“Eh, maybe not,” Molly sympathized. Her dream was the same. Work was tough and the hours were long for the both of them. But for someone like Des, it would pay off. He left a few coins on the bar.

“I’ve got to go.”

“Okay then. See you later?” She swept the coins into the pocket of her apron.

“Only if you give us a bit of a song.”

“Nah, not tonight, Des. I’m too tired.”

A person near them caught a bit of the conversation and he began to egg Molly on.

“Molly, come on. Sing one for us.”

“I told you no!” She playfully swatted at the men with a towel. The blush in her cheeks deepened, but she couldn’t stop the smile from breaking across her face.

“Just a little bit, Molly. Send a man off to his back-breaking labor with a song in his heart.” Des feigned fatigue.

“Oh, all right! Will you shut up about it if’n I sing?” Both men clapped joyously when she sat at the piano in the corner. She ran her fingers over the keys and played a few chords. The other customers lowered their glasses and paused their talk. Even Robert stopped his incessant pouring as Molly began to sing.

“Let me call you sweetheart…” She always selected a standard, a Tin Pan Alley number more than likely. It reminded her of her childhood when things were more certain. Her parents used to sing songs like that. Didn’t they? That was long ago; the memories were dim, but still glowed softly in back corners of her mind.

She sang and played on, blending one tune into another. The men joined her on chorus and applauded wildly when she’d finished. She sprang form her seat and curtsied in mock humility. Pound notes and coins littered the piano’s top.

“Wonderful, old girl,” cried one man.

“Ta. Thanks very much,” she answered. Molly went to retrieve the empty glasses and saw that Des had left, skipping the end of her performance. In the back booth, however, she noticed four strangely dressed and quite hairy men.

After collecting her tips, Molly made her way back to the bar. Bill nudged her as she passed.

“You know those blokes?” He discreetly nodded toward the back corner.

“No. You?”

“No, they look rather peculiar. Be careful when you go over there.”

“Peculiar you say? I’m used to peculiar after dealing with the likes of you.” The two shared a laugh. She had noticed that the quartet in the back booth did look a little out of the ordinary. All of them had on piles of scarves and wore their collars turned up; they hadn’t bothered to remove their hats once inside, either.

“We’ll see what they want,” Molly said to herself as she approached them. Indeed, working at the Eagle had introduced her to some odd characters—men who looked as if they hadn’t eaten in weeks, an occasional tourist who wandered in pissed and surly. In her own element, Molly was frank with them. Rarely did they did they question her no-nonsense manner. Truthfully, she was always a bit unnerved inside, but she managed to keep her wits and quell any conflicts that might have risen.

She arrived at the booth, “Hullo fellas. What can I get you?” Her voice was polite and even, tinged lightly with haughtiness.

“We’ll have beers,” said the man closest to her. His face was obscured by thick black whiskers. The others seemed to be intently studying the floor or the tabletop.

“You’ll have the house’s special, right? It’s a stout, y’know?”

“Yes. That will be fine,” he replied. His accent was strange, sounding almost Italian. But the intonation was certainly British.

“Having any food, Mr.…er..?”

“Mr. Ramon. Yes’s the day’s special will be fine as well.”

“Ramon, eh? Not from around here I take it? Spanish?”

“Yes. Well, not quite.” Molly narrowed her eyes and studied the man carefully.

“Okay. I’ll have your drinks out shortly.” When she had returned to the bar, the men erupted into laughter.

“Christ, Paul! Spanish? ‘ Well not quite.’ That’s yer best yet.”

“Shut up, Lennon! Don’t go blowing our cover.”

“Righto, Mr. Ramon,” said John in his proper English. “ I’m sure none of these lads have ever heard of us anyway.” He circled the room with his eyes.

“John, everybody knows who we are now,” remarked George. “Ringo, did you notice that girl?”

“I always notice girls, George.”

“Nah, didn’t she look familiar is what I mean.”

Ringo tapped his temple with his index finger. “ Now that you mention it…”

“I think she’s the girl from the set today—Molly.”

“Can’t be, George.”

“T’is! Look at her.” Ringo searched the bar and saw mostly male patrons. Molly was still behind the bar with her back to them, balancing glasses on her tray. “See Ring, what did I tell you? You’ll forget her like every other girl who’s wrote you a fan letter.”

“No, mate. That girl is not the same as the one before. The girl, Molly, was falling to pieces. This girl is different entirely.”

“Look at her, though, when she comes back.” As the words left George’s lips, Molly walked up with their drinks. All but Paul looked toward the floor.

“Here you are. Your food will be up in a jiff.”

“Thanks very much, “ Mr. Ramon replied.

“Your friends seem pretty shy.”

“They don’t speak good English.”

“I see. Neither do I.” She noticed one of the four shake slightly, as if he were stifling laughter. Did he follow her joke?

She sat each beer in front of each man, and to reach the ones sitting in the back, she had to lean over Ramon. Ringo, hoping to sneak a look at her face, forgot his guise. He reached out to take his beer and looked the girl squarely in the face. “Thanks, luv,” he said.

In the instant he spoke. Molly recognized him. The flash of his blue eyes confirmed her thoughts. Her mouth unhinged, and again, she felt cemented to the floor.

“Oh my” was all she could manage.

“Oh God! Look what you’ve gone and done now, Ringo!” circled John indignantly as he pinched Ringo’s arm.

“Look what you’ve done, Lennon. At least Ringo didn’t say ‘Ringo,’’’ George howled as he pushed John.

“I’m quite sorry,” Molly began, “ I, I just…” The room seemed to whirl before her eyes and all the faces blended into a streaky blur. Sounds became a monotone hum. She was jolted back into reality by Paul tugging at her sleeve.

“Molly? It’s Molly isn’t it?”

“Yes,” she managed.

“I’m Paul. And this is John. I think you’ve met Ringo and George right?”

She nodded.

“Now, we’ve sneaked away. We just wanted to have a bit of fun. Some beer and some proper pub food. No fans, no screams. Just a simple a night out. You won’t give us away, will you?” He looked up at her with pleading eyes.

“I doubt if any of these blokes would care who you are, really.”

“I see you’ve found your tongue, lassie.” Molly bristled and turned toward John, expecting to see a smirk. Instead he smiled back genuinely.

She softened and smiled back. “You’re secret’s safe. I’ll get your food.”

“See! I told you Ringo,” remarked George. Ringo’s gaze followed Molly back to the bar. He didn’t reply until Paul began to snap his fingers near Ringo’s ear.

“I just can’t believe it’s her,” he said.

“It is, boy-o. Now eat your pie and enjoy your freedom before we have to go back,” said Paul.

“Yes, Mother Macca,” answered John in falsetto.

They ate heartily and laughed freely. Not since the earlier days before they’d broken out had they been able to sit anywhere with any sort of anonymity. At the Eagle, they found their old voices and their old jokes. They traded faded stories and hoisted warm pints, filling themselves with the simplest and best things of life.

As they ate, Molly worked. She brought glasses for more men, cleared empty plates, gave ear to new pieces of gossip.

As Molly worked, Ringo wondered. Why was she here? She hardly looked old enough to be in a pub, much less behind the bar pouring up drinks. Neither did George, though, for that fact. Ringo chuckled to himself.

“Out with it, Ring.  You’ve been quiet all night.”

“I was just thinking’”

“Me too,” said Paul, “ I was thinking it was time we’d be getting back.”

“Not so soon,” whined George. His sloppy smile spoke for all the beer in his belly.

“C’mon. On your feet, Harrison.” John hauled his friend upright by his lapels. As they took their leave, they left a handsome tip on the table for Molly. John, Paul, and George had already exited when Ringo returned to the bar.

Molly was busy wiping up a spill.

“Ahem! Molly?”

“Yeah, gov. What’ll ya have?” She didn’t even look up.

“Um, I just…”

“Cat got your tongue?” Molly met Ringo’s eyes this time. “ Sorry. I thought you were someone else. Did you need anything ?”

“No, we’re fine. The boys are waiting outside. I saw that you didn’t collect your wage at the set today. I thought maybe I could—“

Molly cut him off. “ I couldn’t take your money.”

“No, please. I’ve got plenty.”

“Really, I couldn’t. It wasn’t much anyway. We’ve been busy tonight, and you all were kind enough to leave me a tip. I won’t miss it, really.”

“I hate to see you work and not get your pay, is all.”

“Really, it’s alright.” She pressed her hand against his sleeve.

“Well, at least let me buy you a drink.”

“Can’t. I’m working.”

“Tomorrow then?”

Molly pressed her lips together as she considered his offer. “I don’t know…”

“I’ll be back tomorrow. Around midnight when you’re closing up.”

Before she could protest, Ringo had slipped back into the night.

***

She hummed as she swept. Rob was busy emptying rubbish into the bin outside. A steady night at the Eagle had left molly with a decent wage for the night.

“In my mind, there’s no sorrow,

don’t you know that it’s so?

They’ll be no sad tomorrow,

Don’t you know that it’s so?” she sang softly for no one.

“You know, I was there when they wrote that song. And you sing it quite nicely yourself.” Molly looked up to see Ringo sitting on the nearest stool.

“So you came back.”

“I always keep me word. Now what’s that drink going to be?” Molly leaned on the bar, looking up considering her choices.

“How about a drop of the Dew?”

“I’ll join you,” replied Ringo as Molly poured two drams of the amber Irish whiskey. He watched her deft movements and marveled at the marked difference between her previous manner and her current one. While on the set she cowered at everything the director had said and when Ringo had spoken to her, she practically dissolved. But now, she behaved calmly, as if he were an old friend.

“You take it neat?”

“Ice, please.” Molly plunked a few cubes in his glass and let her own glass be.

They clinked their glasses. “ Cheers, luv.”

“Cheers.”

“Busy tonight?”

“Average, I suppose. Not too crowded. I really can’t believe you came back.”

“And I really can’t believe you’re the same person I ran into on the set. You sure you haven’t got a double?”

“No, I don’t think so. I was just a bit—“ she hesitated, “ out of sorts, you might say.”

“I would say.” Ringo smiled at her and she quickly looked down. “Well, maybe you are the same girl.”

“I promise I am. I was just out of my element.”

“You weren’t the only one.”

Molly flitted from task to task as she talked. She dried glasses and toweled up spills.

“Aren’t you going to enjoy your drink?” Ringo asked.

“I am enjoying it. And I am listening.” She stopped mid-motion and took a seat beside him. She sipped her drink and felt the alcohol warm her, like she’d swallowed a small sun.

“Being so well known isn’t so easy.”

“Don’t go telling me you don’t like being a rock and roll star,” said Molly.

“Oh I do. I’m just not used to it yet. Having all the things I could ever want and not being able to enjoy some of it. It’s not the same as when I was growing up. We lived in Dingle.”

“I know.”

Ringo sighed. “See. There’s nothing I can’t tell you that every other person in the world doesn’t know. They know every thing about us—the Beatles.”

Molly nodded in agreement. It was true. She wasn’t follower, but it seemed that she too knew all the details of their lives. They were smeared across every magazine and newspaper around.

“I never thought of it that way. I suppose I was a bit envious of you, seeing your hard work pay off like that. Have another?”

He raised his hand to protest. He looked at Molly, quietly appraising her. She was lovely as George had said—not the girl who you’d notice immediately in a crowded room, but one who grew more beautiful the longer you looked.

“I’m glad you came back, though,” she confessed.

“You are? Not as glad as me. You’re the first person in awhile who hasn’t stuck a pen in my face or told me how fab I am.”

“Should I tell you you’re horrid, then?”

Ringo’s smile broadened. “That would be something different at least! So you said you were envious of me? Don’t be, luv. It’s not all that it seems.”

“I’m sure,” answered Molly, “ But that’s not quite what I meant. I mean, I admire you, I guess. That you’ve worked so hard to go from where you came to where you are now. Makes me think a Northern girl like me has a chance.”

“A Northern girl, you say?”

“Yes. I come from Sheffield.”

“I should have heard it in your voice. How’d you get here?”

“It’s a long story.”

Before Ringo could reply, Rob’s voice boomed from the back. “I’m locking ‘er up Mol. Ready?”

“Damn! I’ve got to go. I haven’t got a key.”

Ringo couldn’t let Molly escape again. The connection he sensed earlier had only deepened.  “You mind if I come with you?’” he asked suddenly.

“I’m just walking to me flat.”

“Can I come then? I’ll walk you home.”

She bit her lower lip. She hardly knew this man no matter how much she’d read about him.

“It’s just that I wanted to finish our talk. You can leave me on the stoop and I’ll find my way back to the hotel. I don’t have to come in if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Molly flushed deeply, “I-I didn’t mean to suggest…”

“C’mon. I’ll just walk with you.”

“Okay,” Molly relented,” Just mind yourself, right?”

They stepped out into the night. The streets were silent in this barrow of the city. Their footfalls echoed as they headed toward Molly’s flat.

“Now, Molly, tell me how you got here.”

“I’m sure you don’t want to hear that.”

“I do. I’ve always liked gossip.” He glanced at her sideways.

“Oh all right.” As they walked, Molly described the events that lead up to her job at the Eagle, how her father had gone missing, how she had to leave school to help her siblings.

“Why did you leave Sheffield?”

“Just did. I figured there’d be more work here. And there is. Robbie let me start working at the Eagle. I do all right there. I’m able to keep my flat and eat; I’m saving some money too. One day, I won’t have to work like this, I hope. As they say ‘ Accentuate the positive, eliminate the negative.’” She sang the last bit.

“You have got a nice voice.”

The corners of her eyes crinkled as she smiled, “ You think so?”

“Yeah. Better than mine, but that’s not saying much.”

She playfully slugged Ringo’s upper arm. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, mate. I should like to know what it’s like to be a singer.”

“No. You wouldn’t. You’d change your mind after a few days of this, whatever it is.”

“Isn’t it funny? You want what I’ve got. And I want what you have.”

“Yes. T’is.” They stopped walking. The streetlights were dim, and Molly could barely see his face in the moonlight.

“You know, all this time we’ve been talking and I don’t even know what to call you.”

“Call me Ringo. That’s what everyone calls me.”

“ Okay, Ringo, me flat's a few blocks away.”

“That far?”

“Yes. It will give you time to tell me a story.”

“Okay. I’ll tell you.” He talked on, telling her about their tours. He gave her his account, not the typical description of what a splendid show they’d put on or how many girls fainted in the aisles. He told her about cris-crossing England in a beat-up van packed tightly with their gear and instruments, about staying up all night drinking liquor to keep warm, and the silly things they did to stave off boredom and loneliness. Molly laughed, and when she did, her breath came out in big silvery wisps.

Talking with her was like wearing you mother’s coat. It felt easy and familiar, warm and right. Ringo continued his tales, and before he knew it they had stopped in front of Molly’s flat.

“So that’s what it’s been like. A lot like working in a pub, I imagine. This your house, then?”

“Yes. It is.” She paused before continuing, “Do they really call you Ringo?”

“Lots of people do. Some call me by my name, though.”

“Ritchie, right?”

“Yes, That’s it.” When she spoke his name, he stepped closer to her. Molly lowered her eyes and shoved her hands deeper in her pockets. “Well, if this is your flat, then I’ll be going.”

She kept her eyes on the ground until she felt Ringo’s hand gently lifting her chin. She met his gaze.

“I wanted to tell you thanks, Molly.”

She looked puzzled. “ What for?”

“For treating me like an average chap. Not like Ringo, like Ritchie.” He bent closer to kiss her and this time she didn’t retreat. She could still taste the Toulamour on his mouth. He pulled her closer, his coat falling around her, enveloping her. They had forgotten how cold it was, until he broke away. Her hand flew to her mouth.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“No I—“ she sputtered.

“I can’t. I just—“

“It’s okay,” she managed.

“No. Let me finish.” He grabbed her hand and looked at her earnestly. “ You’re so kind to me, and you really are beautiful. I want you, but—“ He touched her cheek lightly. “But I’ve got someone. Maureen. It’s just. I mean, she waits on me every night. To call or come by. And, well, she loves me. And I love her.”

“I know,” Molly replied. “ I’ve got someone too.”

“What’s his name?”

“Des. Desmond Jones. We’re to be married, when we can.”

He smiled at her and released her hand.

“I’ve got to get some sleep.”

“Thanks very much, Molly.”

She turned to go up the stairs. “ The pleasure’s been all mine. God bless you, Richard Starkey. And Maureen, too.”

He stood on the sidewalk until the light in the uppermost window snapped off.

Britt Terry-Smith is a 25 year old graduate of Winthrop University with a masters degree in English. Currently, she works as a full time admissions counselor and a part time writing professor. Since she was small, she's been a Beatles fan, when her mom turned her on to them.  She also loves to read, attend concerts, tutor students, and spend time with her husband and dog. She also considers herself a raving Anglophile. Recently, she has begun to write creatively, and this story is one of her newest.

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