by Kal Smagh
"Guess who the Beatles are going to play for?"
Whatever it was has got to rhyme with Please Please Me or BBC...I honestly had no idea and I began to fathom an answer together when there was a loud and firm knock at the door.
In poked a head and then the full body of a man wearing a dark suit. He appeared very officious, and took off black gloves even though the weather was only slightly cool for October.
He stood before us giving a dismissive nod, "I’m looking for Mr. Brian Epstein. Does he work in this office?"
Freda, a tendon suddenly standing out on her neck, said, "He’s not in the office right now. I’ll get you a cup of coffee. Or we can take you to him."
"No time for coffee. I’ll speak to Epstein personally. And it needs to be immediate."
Chapter 2: Mr. Jenkins
He certainly was demanding.
Picking up the handset she said, "I’ll call his office right now, and then Helen will walk you over directly."
Odd. She was afraid of the stranger, or didn’t like his natural sneer that conveyed contempt for us without knowing us at all. Freda dialed the numbers for Brian’s office, clearly enunciating, "Hello I have a visitor for Mr. Epstein. She put her hand over the mouthpiece, asking, "May I tell him who will be visiting?"
"Reginald Jenkins, assistant to Mr. Randall Foley, secretary of the Home Office for security."
I saw Freda’s expression freeze at the weightiness of his title, and then she said into the phone, "A Mr. Jenkins. Yes, straight away." Freda hung up the phone and then said, "Helen, will you please take Mr. Jenkins to Mr. Epstein’s office."
I hopped up from my seat, still having my coat on and we proceeded out the door across the small walkway and into the outer office by Mr. Epstein. The door was open and Brian was on the phone and then when he saw us, he waved. We sat down, I stayed with him because I didn’t want to be rude, I made small talk.
I asked, "Did you travel far for this appointment?"
Mr. Jenkins sneered, "London."
He smelled of a putrid aftershave.
"London, my goodness. We have been doing some shows in London lately. The Beatles have."
"That is what I’ve come to talk about with Mr. Epstein."
He didn’t look like a typical Beatles fan, his hair was short, his mustache was very neatly groomed, and he had to be at least 40 years old. The demographic of our fans was twenty-five years younger, and screaming. He was neither of those. He didn’t look like he’d be much fun to be around anyway, let alone go to concerts.
I heard Brian finishing his phone call, and he came to his door, "Brian Epstein," he stuck out his hand to shake. He smelled lightly of aftershave lotion.
Mr. Jenkins accepted and together they went inside Brian’s office, closing the door behind them. I sat in the outer office for a moment trying to hear what they were saying but it was too muffled to follow. I’ve gotten into trouble for eavesdropping in the past, so I decided it would be smarter if I returned to my work for which I was hired, answering mail for the Beatles. I went back across the walkway into the office and Freda looked up.
She asked, "I don’t like that man. What is all of that about?"
"Said he had come up from London about the Boys. But he didn’t say anything else."
Her eyes flashed, "Did you even stay to listen to their conversation?"
She knew me well. "Only for a second, but they closed the door so I couldn’t make anything out."
This string of events seemed significant to Freda. She gazed up at the ceiling and then she looked back at me saying, "The man was from the Home Office. That’s high government stuff. And that the door was closed tells you that it must be something about a special deal. It’s unusual."
"Agree." I had never known Brian to close his door unless he was making a business deal.
"So...do you know what my secret is yet?"
"My guess? Is that what you want?"
"Does it rhyme with BBC or Please Please Me?"
"Not really."
"I’ll think harder."
We spent the morning sorting through the various inquiries and pleas. Of course, there were requests for clippings of the Beatles hair. I had been to the barber shop several times to collect those clippings and mail them out to faceless girls across England.
There were requests for sweaty handkerchiefs that could be folded neatly and put into return envelopes. Across England there were fans with handkerchiefs of dried Beatle sweat tucked away into dresser drawers as keepsakes to be shown to their friends. I am positive they were shown as authentic.
Conversely there were innocent requests for simple photographs of the Beatles. This is actually what the majority of the inquiries were for and we spent a lot of time stuffing envelopes with the photos that had been taken in the studio. In some cases, fans wanted autographed copies having a signature from each one of the four Beatles.
Those had come in such a high volume that I became concerned when George joked, shaking out his writing hand, it had the potential to affect his guitar playing. He was getting a hand cramp. After that we reduced the time and volume of the signature and autograph sessions. But the demand was relentless and the Beatles enjoyed signing these, at least until their hands grew tired.
#
Our door opened and in walked Brian. He had a curious look on his face.
Freda rang out quickly, "What was that visit all about?"
"And good morning to you Freda. And good morning to you, Helen. That’s what I came to talk about."
He stood, awkwardly looking for a chair in this whirlwind of paper. I met eyes with Freda. Should we move something to make room? He is the boss.
Brian shrugged, continuing standing, "Mr. Jenkins it appears, is representing the security portion of the Home Office in London. His job is to identify if there are any safety risks for an upcoming Royal command performance program, scheduled for November 4."
Checking the calendar, I said, "Three weeks from now."
"Yes, and we had a chat about the Beatles and their moral character to play a show for the royal family."
I gasped. Royal family.
Freda didn’t gasp. Why not?
I thought we would both be surprised at the same time.
Then it all occurred to me about her guessing game. Of course, it wasn't guessing for her.
Brian went on, "They are to be on a playbill with several other acts. They’ll only be allowed approximately 10 minutes. However, if they are deemed unfit to be on the playbill... he mentioned something about cavorting with undesirable people in Hamburg, and in general about Scousers, of which the boys can’t deny...then they won’t get this opportunity." He scratched his face.
I asked, feeling naive, "Is he the one who makes the decision?"
"I think he makes the recommendation. I spoke with him at length about how they were fine young men. I pointed to photographs of them wearing suits, and that even though their hair was long-ish, it was still combed. He made me promise they’d be neatly trimmed. And then I mentioned how popular they are and how such an opportunity for the royal family to connect with the Queen’s subjects would be a good thing for the nation."
Freda smirked, "Boy, you laid it on thick. Do you think he bought it?"
"Hard to tell. Typically, they like establishment types for acts. We are definitely not that. The boys are popular because they’re anti-establishment, a new generation."
I asked, "Did they cavort with undesirables in Germany?"
Freda deadpanned, "Helen, they are the undesirables that others cavort with." Her smile turned coy, "So you don’t need to guess anymore, now that it's out."
"About the royal family. Is that your secret?"
"It was."
"How did you know before Brian and I?"
"Connections with the newspapers. I know things sooner."
Intrigued, Brian asked, "How?"
"Don’t worry about it."
He whispered, "That could be brilliant."
Chapter 3: A Job To Do
Ka-whump!
"Oh!"
It came from outside.
Freda.
I bolted up from my seat running for the door, yanking it open.
There on the step was Freda rubbing her ankle. Two mail bags were slumped around where she sat on her bottom.
"Are you hurt?"
"Most definitely."
"Tripped?"
"Obviously. Help me up."
I grasped her hand and we clip-clopped to her chair. She smelled like flowers, pleasant.
"Do you need a doctor?"
"No. I’m fine." She kept working.
"It looks blue."
"My favorite color."
As the day went on her ankle became swollen and turned to purple. She saw me looking at her and she threw up her hands at my silent insistence, "I think the doctor is in order."
"I think so."
"We really need to do something about the mail storage situation."
I nodded, "At least how we receive it. Both you and Brian have tripped in the last year."
"As have you."
"Me?"
"You don’t remember? You planted your face on my lap before we even shook hands the first day."
"Oh that." I cringed at the memory of my walking in this office a year prior, brand new.
"Yes, oh that."
"We’ll need to figure this out."
"You do that while I get this ankle checked out."
She called her mother, explaining, no, she did not think it was broken, yes, it was because of the mail, no, she was not planning to have the mail sent to a different location, no, definitely she understood routing the mail to her home again was not in the plans. She hung up.
"Sheesh."
"Yeah, sheesh is right."
"Always like that?"
She shrugged, "Mothers ask questions."
A few minutes later her mother called back with an appointment time. It would be a few days to get in.
#
It was several days later when Brian called. Freda was at her doctor’s appointment so I picked up.
"Please come by, Helen. Now."
The last time I had been called to report to Brian’s office I thought I was going to be fired.
I felt the butterflies flitting about in my stomach as I walked across the short path and entered his outer office.
He was just finishing a phone call and waved me in with one flick of his wrist, pointing to a chair. Passing through the doorway I was again impressed with the rich brown wood, so shiny and polished and his envious view out the window to the street. I was seated along the wall by his desk.
He finished his call and hung up the handset. Turning toward me in his chair he said, "Helen, about this Royal Command Performance on Monday?"
I nodded in acknowledgment, "Variety Show, yes. There are few things more exciting than that right now."
"You and Freda both do such magnificent work. Well now, the boys have just called me and asked that you both would come down to London and support them at the hotel." He quickly reviewed a paper, setting it into a pile with others. "Unfortunately, Freda looks like she’s out of commission."
I felt my heart beating faster; they had asked about me? I asked, "What do they need done?"
"Run errands, in preparation for the show, and generally take care of them. They’ve been traveling so much, and they are concerned that their road crew, Mal Evans, and Neil Aspinall, are completely wiped out and tired. They’d like them to take the weekend to focus on their shows in the north and for you to help out setting things up in London."
I wasn't normally at a loss for words, but suddenly I didn’t know what to say, feeling flattered.
Also, he knew because I am small and mousy, I won’t cause anyone to look twice at me. I’m the kind of person who easily blends into the background. I know: I’m plain. A simple brown-haired girl who wears gray every day.
"It’s going to be hard work. You’ll go down and get access to the hotel. You’ll have your own room. And then you’ll need to be available for any errands that they need you to run. And to be absolutely responsive to any demands from the show producer."
I asked, "Where will you be?"
"There, too. However, I will be working arrangements for many things, and largely beyond reach." He showed me the tour schedule that I already knew by heart, rapid as it was.
Beatles Concert Schedule
Friday Nov 01: Live: Odeon Cinema, Cheltenham
Saturday Nov 02: Live: City Hall, Sheffield
Sunday Nov 03: Live: Odeon Cinema, Leeds
Monday Nov 04: Live: Royal Command Performance, London
Tuesday Nov 05: Live: Adelphi Cinema, Slough
Wednesday Nov 06: Live: ABC Cinema, Northampton
"After being south in Cheltenham, the boys will come back up north for two shows and then down to London and stay there before coming back north again."
He set the paper down on his desk and shook his head slightly. "It’s all too much to keep on top of, and I need your help."
With trepidation, my stomach doing flip flops for a new reason; a happy reason, I stammered, "I’ll do the best I can."
"You need to do better than your best. I know I’m asking for a lot. " He smiled halfway, "If anything, just don’t screw it up."
Chapter 4: Mother’s Pearls
Still in Brian’s office I took stock of his assignment to us. So, we’d be working for the Beatles, unsupervised, and in a hotel in London before a show for the Royal family. That was exactly the place this 18-year-old girl wanted to be with her best friend. "When do you need us to go?"
Shaking his head quizzically at me, "Well, it’s Friday now. I need you to go today, and stay through the weekend. The show is on Monday evening. And then you’ll check out afterwards."
"So, we need to leave today?"
He went from quizzical to exasperated, "In a few hours. Things pick up tomorrow early. Please go pack a bag and I’ll have you transported down there."
"I’ll tell Freda we need to get going."
"Freda?"
"Yes. The both of us."
His eyes widened and then he shook his head dismissing my question.
I’d said something dumb; I could tell. My cheeks warming.
"She’s not going, not with her ankle. We’d have her hobbling on those streets. I don't need another problem. No." His face brightening he added, "I have a different assignment for Freda. It’s an important one, too."
"What?"
He leaned toward me, "She is used to being in contact with the press. I need her to seek to have as many stories about the boys as are possible." He looked at me, and I could tell the seriousness in his eyes, "It’s just you. Alone."
"I don’t know what to say."
"Say yes. Though I’m more interested in what you do than what you say. Right now, what you need to do is go home and pack your luggage. You’re going to London."
I hopped up from my seat and proceeded to the door, "Thank you, Brian."
"Oh, and one more thing. Please don’t tell anybody that you’re going to do this."
"Not even my parents?"
"If your parents can keep a secret for the weekend, I would appreciate it."
"Why?"
"People seem to be coming out of the woodwork for tickets these days. This whole year has been wonderful and stressful and crazy. We don’t want a scene."
He loved being secretive. Discretion was Rule 1 for working for the Beatles.
#
Arriving home my mother was out at the market, and my father was at work. Thank goodness, because I was fit to burst inside. Outside of Freda I had no other friends to share this with anyway. But still, I could hardly contain myself.
I got out my blue hard-sided suitcase, ideal for overnight. But this would be for a few nights. Laying it on my bed I pressed the silver metal clasps and both released with a click.
I packed my pajam
as, some comfortable gray work clothing, and a nice black dress.
However, my shoes were crap. Really awful looking, weathered and scuffed like a school girl.
I just needed a pair of shiny heels, just in case, but would have to make do with these clunky black ones that made me look like my mother bought my clothes, which she did.
I could do shopping in London, the stores awaited me and for a moment I daydreamed of walking around with bags of elegant things, emerging from department stores like an actress on holiday.
Right.
I didn’t have any jewelry to speak of, so that was not hard to pass by.
Then on second thought, I went into my parent’s bedroom and opened up my mother’s jewelry box with a creak.
There was one pair of pearl earrings, and a pearl necklace, my father had given her for their tenth anniversary. I wonder if she would notice they were missing?
Of course she would. And she would alert the Bobbies and I would be also thought to be missing too. Would she think of her pearls first and then to look for me too? Or the other way around?
No.
We absolutely didn't want a scene.
So instead of being surreptitious, I thought better and decided to leave my parents a cryptic note, especially so my mother wouldn’t think I had been kidnapped, or that a burglar had broken in and stolen her precious pearls.
I looped my cursive on the paper while avoiding the subject of the Beatles in case she blabbed and was inundated by strangers in our front garden having materialized overnight.
Setting the note on the kitchen table I felt a surge of excitement, and I turned to burst out of the house.
Going out the front door with my blue suitcase a shiny black limousine car was waiting and I got into the back seat.
The chauffeur closed the door with a solid, expensive sounding, thunk and we proceeded to London.
Actually, that was just me daydreaming again.
I walked to my bus stop, carrying my luggage in one hand, waited, boarded a city bus, and then transferred to a London-bound bus from the Liverpool terminal.
Chapter 5: London Town
