by Kal Smagh
George whispered, "Can’t be true."
Brian continued, "And we are being asked to leave in the morning. To vacate the hotel."
All four Beatles looked at me and then looked at Brian and then looked back at me.
John's eyes landed on me, "I hope it was worth it, whatever you did."
Ringo looked down, "And this means I don’t get to meet Marlene Dietrich."
Paul looked to Ringo, "Pay attention. Helen is going to jail."
Whap!
There was a single knock at the door with a sharp object. It sounded like a nightstick.
John smiled, "Give them hell, honey."
Mal opened the door and the Bobbie stood there with Mr. Jenkins and Mr. Foley.
The dark uniformed Bobbie directed, "It’s time to go, young lady."
Each one of the Beatles came to me and gave me a quick hug, saying I would be all right.
Then I walked towards the door and stepping across the threshold I reflected on John’s words, give them hell. It was now or never, time to be brave and bold. I’d come too far to stop.
I blurted to Mr. Foley, "Marjorie Guilford, Lady Guilford, is being added onto the playbill instead of the Beatles. She is doing that at the direction of Mr. Jenkins. It’s because Mr. Jenkins is blackmailing the show producer about an affair that Lady Guilford is having with Mr. Andrews."
Mr. Jenkins sneered, "Lies."
"It’s the truth."
Mr. Jenkins smiled icily, "Take her away."
"No! We need to speak to Mr. Andrews right now."
"Mr. Andrews is not here. He is preparing for the show tomorrow."
"No, he’s not."
In my boldest, bravest voice I sought to cover my nervousness, pointing in the distance, "Follow me."
I didn’t know how this would work out, but anywhere was better than here, the butterflies bouncing around again in my stomach.
Maybe it was the confidence in my voice but I saw the Beatles rise from inside their room and actually come out into the hallway. I expected it was more out of curiosity than anything.
But they really did want to play for the Royals, and their presence showed they were up for anything to make that break happen.
Brian asked, "Where are we going?"
I whispered, "I’m not exactly sure."
And with that we all boarded the freight elevator: me, the Bobbie, Mr. Foley, Mr. Jenkins, Brian Epstein, John, Paul, George, Ringo, and Mal.
George cupped both hands over his nose and mouth. I wanted to think it was because of Jenkins' breath, but my track record wasn't very good.
The elevator shook a bit as the last few boarded, the weight near capacity and heavy at what had to be nearly two thousand pounds.
The doors closed and my heart was beating rapidly as we descended. I could see my future dwindling down as well.
Mr. Foley stated, "I’ll give you one minute. Now where?"
Mr. Jenkins half shouted, "To jail with her. We should not be following her around."
The elevator doors parted; my stomach was packed with fear.
I pointed, again, "Follow me," and stepped forward and walked around the corner from the service elevator into the bustling Mapleton lobby to whatever may come.
Chapter 22: Room 306
Oh, great.
As we all disembarked in the lobby, in front of us were Annette Chisholm and the sour faced man, both angry representatives for Marlene Dietrich.
Miss Chisholm sneered, curling her lip, "Oh good, she’s being arrested. It’s about time."
Archie emerged from somewhere in his red coat. He and I made eye contact and he whispered, "306."
I turned behind me addressing the group of impatient authorities and oddly interested Beatles, "Up to the third-floor."
Mr. Jenkins mocked "We’ve just come down." He turned to Mr. Foley, "This is a wild goose chase. I’m stopping it right here."
Mr. Foley impatiently addressed me, "Let her proceed. I gave one minute. But no further than this." He looked at me, "Your time is half gone."
Jenkins scoffed, throwing up his hands.
At the guest elevator, not everyone would fit in at the same time, so me, Mr. Foley, Mr. Jenkins, and the Bobbie boarded first.
As the doors were closing a few gawkers from the lobby, seeing the Beatles and wanting to join our group, were being held at bay by big Mal, facing the teens, arms outstretched.
The Beatles looked at me in the elevator with a mixture of hope and, as if they were witnessing a motorcycle stunt rider considering jumping over fifteen city busses, a spectacle that would just as likely end in a crack up.
I swallowed the lump in my throat as the elevator doors closed and we took off upward.
We disembarked on the third floor and then the elevator descended to pick up the rest of the group.
Mr. Jenkins ridiculed while we were waiting, "It's a trap of some kind. As a government official," he looked at Mr. Foley, "you should not be here."
At that point I would have tackled Foley if he’d acted on that advice.
The elevator dinged and out walked the rest of our troop, including Annette Chisholm and the piteous Dietrich man.
I felt sweat at the top of my back as I walked towards room 306.
Here it was.
I knocked on the door three times loudly. Waiting for a respectful moment, a pang in my stomach.
There was no answer.
There was no sound at all except Mr. Jenkins' mouth breathing.
I suddenly felt nauseous, and a little bit lightheaded. My heart was pounding.
I knocked again, three times, louder, then three more times. My knuckles stung from the blows.
God, it felt hot in here. Did I have sweat running down my face?
From inside I heard whispers and then sudden movements meant to be quiet.
Mr. Jenkins jeered, talking over the faint noises, "There’s no one inside. This is a waste of time."
And then I heard the door’s lock switch open, seeing the latch turn and the door ajar just a crack.
Looking back at me was brown bearded Mr. Andrews. He was wearing a white bathrobe.
I asked, feeling my voice quavering, "May I come in?"
He looked at me, then with fear in his eyes he looked past me at the Bobbie and Mr. Jenkins. He looked like he wanted to cry, weakly throwing up a hand, "Give me a moment to put on my clothes."
He closed the door quickly, with a snap.
I looked back at everyone. So far we knew nothing, except that Mr. Andrews was undressed.
John had a giant grin of wonder and surprise on his face, his mouth open, his eyes lit.
A moment later the door popped open and a dressed Mr. Andrews stepped out into the hall, shutting it behind him.
He asked, "What is this about?"
Mr. Jenkins jumped out with a statement, taking charge, "This is about the young lady making threats against the royal family. Can you confirm that she made those statements, when we were speaking in the Theatre?"
I noticed that he leveled a steely gaze on Andrews while he spoke. That seemed to make Mr. Andrews shrink away.
Mr. Andrews admitted, without eye contact as he looked down to the floor, "It’s true."
Time for the truth!
I wouldn’t contain myself any longer.
"No it’s not. The truth is that Lady Marjorie Guilford is in your room right now. You’re having an affair with her. And Mr. Jenkins is blackmailing you, threatening you to tell Lord Guilford about it."
Mr. Andrews shook his head to the negative. "Not true."
Mr. Jenkins grew more shrill, "Lies."
I continued, "But why would you be worried about the blackmail? Lady Guilford is the one who is at risk. Her scandal would become her husband's scandal. This whole thing is a charade about people with German background."
I pointed at Jenkins', "It’s a sham saying the Beatles are a risk just because they played shows in Hamburg and might know some people. So what?"
<
br /> Paul whispered to George, "We do know some people."
"It is also phony that Marlene Dietrich is a risk because she was born in Germany.”
I shook my head with more strength than I was really feeling, “None of those are the reasons why this blackmail worries you, Mr. Andrews."
Mr. Jenkins wheezed, "We’ve heard enough."
Mr. Foley shushed him, and then looked to me, interested, "Is that it? So what?"
"The real reason: the Guilfords."
Mr. Foley’s eyes met mine, "Come again?"
That got him.
He was suddenly extraordinarily interested, his eyes peering hard into mine, weighing my words with the utmost attention.
I felt my cheeks turning hot, "The Guilford's are seeking to discredit the new prime minister. It’s true that Lady Guilford wants to sing for the variety show. But the reason why Mr. Jenkins is blackmailing Mr. Andrews is because Lord Guilford wants this show to be an embarrassment that he is helping to avoid...for his own ambitions.”
“How?”
"I think..."
John cut in, taking over, speaking forcefully, “By taking the Beatles off the review, and Marlene Dietrich, then Lady Guilford is the next most prominent act on the entire playbill. And then Lord Guilford can trumpet she is British and has no ties to Germany.”
Foley said under his breath, fully realizing the threat at hand, “A political scandal.”
He stared at me for a long few seconds, then added, grappling with the facts he'd been presented, “And as a patriotic act he should be considered...No!”
He grit his teeth, “...can it be? To be put in place as the next Prime Minister?"
He clapped his hands together, "Because this new Prime Minister is not careful of who is in the room..."
I finished for him, "With the royal family."
"Ridiculous." Jenkins slapped his hands to his thighs. "This is rich."
I silently thanked my father for reading the daily news at the kitchen table.
Paul said, "Look at the thousands of fans outside. They want to see the Beatles."
Ms. Chisholm interjected "And Marlene Dietrich, too."
At the mention of the name Dietrich Ringo turned to Ms. Chisholm, saying, "You know her?"
"Oh yes," she smiled.
"Love to meet her."
"Well, you know she’s busy. But expect we could arrange something."
There was silence as Mr. Foley let our words sink in.
Mr. Foley asked curtly, "Andrews, is Lady Guilford in the room?"
The door opened behind Mr. Andrews, and Lady Guilford looked out grimly on the group, dressed but disheveled. Her lipstick was half applied, her hair messy.
She pleaded to no one and everyone, "All I want to do is sing."
Mr. Foley’s furrowed brow indicated he was examining what he’d heard, and bent on taking immediate action.
He looked to Jenkins, "Reginald, do you deny that you’re blackmailing Andrews?"
Mr. Jenkins was suddenly at a loss for words, sputtering, "I… I…it's lies. All lies!"
Mr. Foley looked to the Bobbie, pointing directly at Jenkins, his arm a steel rod, "Arrest this man."
Placing his hands on his hips Mr. Foley addressed Mr. Jenkins, "Blackmail is against the law. You know this. What I don’t know is what Guilford has on you. But I will find out."
Turning back to me he said, "We’ve done you a disservice, young lady. Apologies."
And then to Mr. Andrews he directed, "Reinstate the playbill as it has been advertised."
Lady Guilford asked, "Where will I sing?"
Paul offered, "How about in the bar with us after the show?"
Then her eyes locked onto me, recognizing me, "He likes the cufflinks."
Then she added, still talking to me, but so others could hear, "My husband has a foul temper. No one will be spared."
"It goes with the air around here," George offered. "Seriously, you need a shower, Helen."
Chapter 23: Monday Calamities
Time was short.
The show was today.
In a few hours.
In the Prince of Wales Theatre, the Beatles waited in the wings for their opportunity to practice at this dress rehearsal.
The schedule was very tightly regimented and from where I sat in the audience it looked like it was mayhem up on stage.
The curtains were all pulled back with every one of the acts waiting in the wings, the line snaking into the back hallway. Dancers mixed with suited men all eager to practice for this most important Command Performance.
Mal and Neil worked feverishly to set up the Beatles and identify how the light should work as well as adjusting Ringo’s drums. They only had such a short time and focused, talking to one another.
Brian leaned over from his seat next to me saying, "There’s only enough time for four songs. There was a terrific argument in the car coming down yesterday and John will make the call. There were recommendations for She Loves You, as well as Twist and Shout. But it seems like there needs to be something more dignified too."
"Did they figure it out?"
He shook his head tiredly, "They’re struggling for what to play."
Up on the stage the boys took their places, wearing their white shirts and black suits.
I felt a major burst of electricity gripping the room as they stepped forward. Like the lights had been plugged in , and while a few people like myself squealed, the dignified voices around me quieted.
The stage manager was pointing and there was some discussion about opening and closing the curtains, as well as where the microphones would be placed. Neil and Mal were just finishing putting Ringo’s drums in place, and raising one cymbal to be at the correct height while Ringo stood aside awaiting them to clear the way.
Now John was pointing and it seemed that the boys had decided where they would be standing when the curtains opened.
Paul asked, "Can we try it one time just to see how it feels?"
John shook his head in agreement.
The stage manager directed with his arms.
The heavy red curtains were closed and then from behind the curtains was the practice for the announcement, in calm language a man’s voice came over the public address system, "Ladies and gentlemen, the Beatles."
As the curtains were opening, I heard Paul say in his normal way, "1, 2…"
Then everything fell apart. They stopped playing.
I recognized the song. Ringo, John, and George had begun playing a song called From Me To You. At least the opening chords.
But Paul’s familiar bass had not struck any notes.
In fact, it looked like Paul was tied up in the curtain somehow.
The stage crew came over to see what was the matter. John let his guitar go to hang by the strap over his shoulder and George walked up holding his guitar in both hands.
John pointed, "You’re caught in the bloody curtains."
Paul, irritated, offered, "I should cut one of the strings. I’ll loosen it."
But it wasn’t a simple matter, and it seemed to take several minutes before Paul disengaged the head of his guitar and his guitar strings from where they had been caught up.
The clock was still ticking, and the Beatles went to reset themselves, Paul pulling his microphone stand further back into the stage area and away from the curtain.
The stage manager directed, "From the top."
Again, the curtains were closed and the announcer came over the public address system saying, "Ladies and gentlemen, the Beatles."
This time I heard Paul say one...two... and then the band began to play, this time all in harmony.
They were so good, so polished. It was molten energy up there.
This time it worked better and they went completely through From Me To You. After they completed the song there were only a few minutes left. They decided to go with She Loves You which they had been playing nonstop.
Oh boy.
That song rocked
!
And I had them practically all to myself in this big theatre. The room was mesmerized, and from the corner of my eye I even saw people dancing.
After the last 'Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeeeaaaah' there was a discussion between Paul and George about what should be the third song.
John cut in, mindful of the time, "Till There Was You."
George said, "I’ll need to practice the solo."
The stage manager came back up, checking his watch, "We need to move to the next act, please. Mr. Dickie Henderson...please come to center stage."
Mal and Neil came on from the wings and began moving Ringo's drums, and the boys with their guitars in hand walked off.
None of them looked satisfied, and they were engaged in a vigorous discussion.
I asked Brian, "What do you think they’re saying?"
Brian shrugged his shoulders, "They’ll work it out. They’ll need to, the show is in a few hours."
Chapter 24: Lord Guilford
As the boys were backstage Brian excused himself and I went out into the lobby area.
There in the distance was Lord Guilford.
He was berating the Home Office man, Mr. Foley, whose arms were crossed.
It was obvious Lord Guilford was livid, speaking and pointing very vigorously, poking his finger at the stage area and upstairs at where the office was for the producer.
I tried to find a way to get closer. But then I didn’t need to because Mr. Foley saw me and turned his head and threw a thumb over his shoulder at me.
Lord Guilford's eyes landed on me, and I could almost feel the heat. It seemed to take a little wind out of his sails, and then he threw both of his hands into the air and slapped them down to his thighs in a gesture of anger and disgust. Stomping away he left Mr. Foley standing in the lobby.
I focused on Mr. Foley as he watched Lord Guilford depart.
I shouldn't be here.
I turned to go back into the seating area when Mr. Foley half shouted, "Young lady." He knew I could hear him.
I froze in place and turned to face him. What was going to happen to me now? I stood ready to face the fire.
He came closer, mentioning, "As you probably saw, Lord Guilford is unhappy. It’s not unexpected."
