Katie Green’s Tale
Around the age of seven, I realised that the Beatles were watching me. I would become aware, every so often, that there were four heads lined up alongside my bedroom door or peering around the wall. The tops of torsos would be just visible, reassuringly constrained in jackets, white collars and black ties. They would make their presence felt at an awkward moment – when I was getting dressed, for instance. I would hastily rearrange my clothes, pulling pyjamas off and on through underwear, so that at no point was any flesh exposed. I thought the Beatles might be rather impressed, both by my modesty and dexterity.
Generally though, like the black mammies in old films, they were there for the big moments. When I finished a race on sports day, they were there at the touchline, clapping their hands. If I sustained an injury in the playground, they would be there, peering round nurse’s door, shaking their heads and clicking their tongues, doubtless noting how brave I was being.
I wanted to contain the Beatles within my thoughts; there they would stay the same, protected from the vicissitudes of reality. Unfortunately, the real Beatles endlessly changed. The Beatles of my thoughts were usually about two changes behind. No sooner had I grown accustomed to them in casual clothes (Revolver) than I had to learn to visualise them in weird silk soldiers’ uniforms (Sgt. Pepper).
I first heard Sgt. Pepper with my friend Fiona. My dislike of change meant I was always the last to hear new albums. And my conviction that the Beatles should have been frozen in time in 1964 was borne out by what seemed to me a downward spiral of sex and drugs. I was told of allusions to drugs in several songs; I myself came across shocking allusions to sex such as ‘Girl, you let your knickers down’ in ‘I am the Walrus’. I was in Fiona’s playroom when I examined with horror a poster of John in the nude. So that was what John really looked like; what he had really looked like all along. For a moment I felt duped.
I began a Lett’s schoolgirl diary in 1969. After months of ‘nothing much happened today’, I introduced a mysterious new character, an older brother, ‘Alicky’. I savoured imaginary conversations in which I revealed to my friends, under appropriate duress, the real identity of Alicky – Paul McCartney.
I pictured their expressions of amazement and admiration. Alas, despite months of intriguing entries – ‘Went to Abbey Road’, ‘Saw John today’ – nobody other than myself ever saw the diary.
When the Beatles broke up in 1970, I had a small sense of heartbreak. Noting that my friends had moved on and were indifferent, I snatched up the mantle of grief with righteous relish. I can’t recall to what extent I was pretending. I know I would get a drawing ache in the chest and then remember, with a slight pang of anguish, what had gone wrong. I know I felt amazed that this change had happened without my having the least intimation of it.
But I didn’t cry. This was awkward, as I felt that in order to serve honour I ought to shed tears every night. Instead, I had to lie in bed imagining certain songs in my head – ‘And I Love Her’ or ‘Let it Be’ – in order to squeeze a tear from each eye. As the long-awaited drops finally trickled over the bridge of my nose I felt sure the Beatles would be moved by my devotion.
By the time I was thirty, I wanted to embrace classical music but found the Beatles endlessly impinging. Jumbles of lyrics continued to flow through my head like so many unruly, uninvited guests: like ‘rain into a paper cup’. And whenever I heard the date 18 June, I would try to prevent the association springing up – but I was never quick enough to quell the tiny, jubilant voice: ‘It’s Paul’s birthday!’