Rachel woke from a dream in which she had been called on to cover for Ringo Starr at the Beatles concert. She sighed. If only. Ringo was sick, but his cover was some guy called Jimmy Nicol, not a girl called Rachel Silverstein. Pity. Still - she had her ticket.

Mum bustled into her room, opened the blinds and bent over to give her a kiss. ‘Sorry to wake you, but you really need to eat before you go to school.’

Rachel stroked her mother’s huge belly. Mum was due any day now. ‘Call him Ringo, Mum? Pleeease?’ Mum laughed. ‘No. Not even if it is a boy. Now get up.’

In the kitchen, the radio was advertising free Beatles beakers with every thirty shillings spent at Spotless Dry Cleaners. Rachel, whose school uni form had to be drycleaned, had been nagging Mum, but there was only one uniform to clean at a time and it would take a lot of drycleaning to spend thirty shillings.

Dad looked up from the Sun, which had a front- page picture of a girl who had written an eighty thousand-word letter to the Beatles and was being flown to Melbourne for their concert. lf on!)! I’d done that, thought Rachel sourly. All I did was save up rrry paper-round money ...

‘Good morning, love.’ He smiled.

Rachel smiled back and poured cereal and milk into her bowl. ‘Dad, Mum, there’s a Beatles rally at the Southern Cross Hotel this Sunday. Can I go?’

‘Not by yourself,’ Mum said firmly. ‘There’ll be thousands of people. You could get lost, knocked over, hurt.’

‘So I can go if I’m with someone?’

‘We’ll see,’ said Dad. ‘Depends who. Now eat you’re going to be late for school. You were up late last night.’

‘Rehearsing for the school social,’ Rachel pointed out. ‘It’s my first gig. Only two weeks away; we have to get it right.’

‘Darling, what if that girl Hannah comes back from hospital?’ Mum said. ‘The band will want her, not you. You’ll have done all that rehearsing for nothing.’

‘Not for nothing, Mum. The Commas are a terrific band and I’ve learned so much from them. Please, can I go to the rally?’

‘I don’t know why you want to go anyway,’ Rachel’s older sister Beck said, looking up from her politics textbook. Beck was in her first year at Monash University. She went on a lot of protest marches. ‘If you’re going to go crazy over a musi cian, what’s wrong with Bob Dylan? “Blowin’ in the Wind” says something. But the Beatles? “I Wanna Hold Your Hand”? They’ll be forgotten in two years. I mean - priorities? There’s going to be a war in Vietnam. They’re already talking conscription. And you scream about a rock band!’

‘Come with me to the rally then?’ Rachel sug gested slyly. ‘Bring a protest placard?’

‘No way!’ Beck slammed her book shut and stomped to the bathroom.

Dad winked at Rachel. ‘Leave it to me.’

On the way to school she met Margaret, head of the school’s Beatles Fan Club. Rachel was a passion ate Beatles fan, but passionate wasn’t the same as crazy. Margaret was crazy.

‘.. . and there’s this girl, Suzette, who’s going to their reception and she said she could get me in, too.’ Rachel cringed. People like Margaret make the rest qf us look like idiots.

‘So are you coming?’

‘Urn. Maybe. I might have rehearsals.’

But she was at her locker when Andrea, the Commas’ lead singer, tapped her gently on the shoulder.

‘Rachel?’ Andrea was apologetic. ‘Look, sorry, but Hannah’s back. We won’t need you at rehearsal today after all. I’m really, really sorry. Maybe you can join us next year.’

Rachel tried to smile. ‘Sure. No problem.’

Damn!

At lunchtime she took her cheese-and-Vegemite sandwiches and sat with the Beatles Club under a tree. From the window of the music room, she heard the Commas playing.

Margaret looked up. ‘Hey, Rachel, I thought you were with the band?’

‘Hannah came back.’

‘Oh, well. Meet us at the rally, then?’ Rachel said nothing.

The Saturday Sun had a picture of a thrilled hairdresser clutching Beatie hairs she’d cut. There was another photo of Ringo cringing while two girls kissed him. He’d recovered and was on his way to meet the others.

Sunday morning, she and Beck went to the city.

‘You owe me,’ Beck said as they joined the huge crowd climbing Bourke Street towards the Southern Cross.

‘I owe you,’ Rachel agreed. Anything to be here.

‘Hi, Beck!’ called someone.

Beck turned and waved. ‘Hi, Jen! What are you doing here?’

Beck’s friend waded through the crowd, smiling.

‘Well, you know . . . When will we ever get to see them again? You?’

‘Taking my little sister.’

‘Yeah, sure.’ They laughed together. ‘Look, there’s

Sylvia and Barb -join us?’

Beck glanced at her sister. ‘Want to come with us, Rachel?’ Please sqy no, she meant.

‘Nah. I’ll meet you back at Flinders Street Station, under the clocks at two, right?’

Beck gave her a grateful grin and went off with her friends. Now Rachel really was alone in a mob of thousands.

Despite that, she recognised the girl slung over the saddle of a passing mounted policeman on his way to a first aid station. It was Margaret. Rachel rolled her eyes and pushed on.

The Southern Cross loomed over Exhibition Street. Girls pressed against the glass doors. Rachel wondered what would happen if the doors broke.

‘Look!’ someone shrieked. ‘They’re coming out onto the balcony!’ At once the crowd went wild, pushing forward, screaming, knocking Rachel to her knees.

‘Ow!’

Someone helped her to her feet. It was Mr Pearl, a young music teacher from her school. ‘What a crowd!’ he said. ‘I didn’t know there’d be this many people ... are you okay?’

‘Yes, I’m fine. I just wanted to see Ringo.’ She brushed down her knees, which were slightly grazed.

‘Well, he’ll be on TV tonight. Going to the concert at Festival Hall?’

She nodded shyly.

‘Lucky you! I couldn’t get tickets, they’re all sold out.’

‘I didn’t know you like them.’

He laughed. ‘I’m a musician. Of course I like them. They’re special.’

‘My sister says they’ll be forgotten in a couple of years.’

‘Don’t you believe it! We’ll be singing their songs with our grandchildren.’

She smiled.

Still, she was squashed, she was out of breath and she couldn’t see much anyway. Rachel decided she’d had enough. With the help of her teacher and her elbows, she managed to get to the station. The crowd was thinner here and they spotted Beck just coming out of a phone booth. Beck saw them and smiled.

‘Oh, hello, Mr Pearl. Nice to see you again, haven’t seen you since the Form Six formal! Rachel, I’ve just rung Mum and Dad. My friends live near Melbourne Uni and invited us to their place. Dad says it’s fine, as long as we ring the hospital.’

‘The hospital?’

‘Yeah, Mum’s going now and Dad is sitting with her. The baby is being born in the next few hours!’

‘Shouldn’t we be going home, then?’ She wasn’t sure she wanted to hang out with Beck’s friends for hours.

‘No. Dad doesn’t want to leave you by yourself and I haven’t seen Jen, Sylvia and Barb in months. I’d really like to catch up. Would you mind?’

Rachel did mind, but said, ‘Okay. I guess I do owe you one.’

‘See you Tuesday,’ said Mr Pearl. ‘Tell me all about the concert and the new baby.’

The girls walked up Swanston Street towards the university. Barb, Sylvia andJen shared a small house in Parkville.

They spent the rest of the day playing records and catching up on gossip while Rachel browsed the bookshelves. She found a book called New Writings in SF and settled down to read while her sister and the others chatted.

Still, she was bored. She wondered what was hap pening with the baby.

‘Do you have a phone?’ she asked the girls.

‘Nope. There’s a phone box on the corner, though,’ saidjen.

‘Good, you can call Dad for us.’ Beck handed her some change and the phone number.

‘Sorry, no news yet,’ Dad apologised. Would the girls let you stay the night? It’s getting a bit late to take the tram home, and I don’t want to leave the hospital now.’

Rachel’s heart sank, but she said, ‘Sure, Dad. I’ll call you first thing tomorrow.’

Beck and her friends were delighted at the excuse for a sleepover. Barb fried some fish-and-chips and they had dinner before some uni friends dropped in. The music became loud and the talk even louder. It was all about their studies, Vietnam and whether there would be a war, and a folk group called Peter, Paul and Mary. Rachel excused herself and found a spot on the floor to sleep as best she could with the racket going on.

It was early when she woke, cramped and uncom fortable. She slipped out of the house to go to the phone box. The staff couldn’t find Dad, but took her message. She decided to go to the hospital anyway; Beck could come or not. She went back to the house, but the door had locked behind her and no one was up.

Rachel made a decision. Beck might get mad but they’d sort it later. She began to walk into town.

It was early for trams to South Yarra, where the hospital was located, and too far to walk, but while she was waiting - why not? She grinned.

Breakfast was set up in the Southern Cross dining room. She had enough spare change for tea and toast. Rachel ordered, then glanced at the next table where a man was sitting, steaming mug in hand. He looked like a Beatie at first glance. He wasn’t.

Jimmy!’ A man in a suit approached him. ‘Where have you been? We were looking everywhere for you. You know you have to leave early today.’

‘Went for a drive, didn’t I?’ He had a soft accent.

‘Couldn’t sleep. Found this seaside place called

Beaumaris.’

‘Well, please don’t disappear again. The plane won’t wait for you. Have your breakfast while I get us some transport to Essendon.’

The man went outside.

Jimmy saw her looking at him and smiled.

‘A bit young to be out on your own this time of day, aren’t you?’

Rachel suddenly realised: ‘You’re Jimmy, aren’t you? I’m a drummer, too.’

‘And you want to know what it’s like playing with the Beatles, right?’

She did, but suspected he was tired of being asked and shook her head.

‘It says in the papers that this is going to help your career when you go home. Is it?’

He chuckled, a little sadly. ‘Maybe. I can start a band now. But - when you’ve played with the best - you know?’

She nodded. She did know.

The other man came back. ‘Come on, Jimmy, time to go. I can’t waste time - the lads have a busy day.’

Jimmy rose. He winked at her. ‘I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.Just so you know.’

She smiled back at him, and checked her watch. Time to go.

Dad and Beck were waiting for her in the hospital foyer. ‘Where were you?’ Beck demanded. ‘I was out of my mind! If Dad hadn’t told me when I rang .. .’

‘Shh,’ said Dad. ‘Let’s go and see your new brother.’

The baby was in his cot behind the window, red and wrinkled. Rachel loved him right away.

Then they went to see Mum. Rachel hugged her.

‘Ouch!’ Mum said. ‘Be careful! Well? Seen your brother?’

‘He’sgorgeous, Mum.’

‘He looks like Winston Churchill,’ said Beck, add ing, ‘like every other baby.’

‘Thanks for that inspiring comment,’ said Mum drily. ‘You know, Rachel, we might call him Richard. How’s that? Ringo’s real name?’

Rachel smiled, but shook her head. ‘No, Mum,’ she said softly. ‘Call himJimmy.’