It Started With The Crazy Lady

31/8/64, New Jersey

The Beatles had not been on stage for twenty four hours, and the tension was dissipating so fast that the four seemed almost comatose. The Lafayette Motel in New Jersey would not have been their first choice of a holiday venue, but a few days off anywhere were precious and to be enjoyed, at least when they were awake. At the moment they all were awake, after a fashion. John was stretched out on a sofa staring at an almost silent television. Paul was curled up on an armchair reading a newspaper. Ringo was sitting on the carpet with his back against another chair playing cards with himself, and George was lazing on another sofa reading a music paper which someone had left there. It was talking about the new English sensation which was rocking the States. And in a far corner of the huge suite Brian Epstein was crouched over a telephone talking business, to which no-one else in the room was listening. It was early evening, but they didn't have to get ready to run the gauntlet of the mob outside and then stand on stage having painful objects thrown at them. The relief was palpable.

From outside, like the constant waves of the ocean or like the wind playing in the branches of a forest, the sound of the fans outside in the streets went unheard by the group inside. It was just there, it was a part of their tour, of every tour, and they noticed it no more than they would notice the traffic noise in a city. They had been advised not to go to the windows, as this would excite the fans beyond the police's endurance, so they didn't, and instead just wandered the rooms and talked and played and, since their extraordinary meeting with Bob Dylan two days before, rolled ever more professional looking joints and got stoned and drank. They had charged Mal with finding the grass for them and somehow he'd managed. The supply kept coming, and so did the resulting giggles.

Three days off. It was bliss for four exhausted Beatles.

From outside the main door to the suite the sound of female voices fluttered in. Paul checked his watch, and smiled a very small smile to himself. Another task which Mal, and Neil, performed more than satisfactorily. Ringo looked up from his cards, and then cut glances with Paul. He always enjoyed this part. The door opened slightly and Neil poked his head around and looked an enquiry at the two Beatles looking at him, eyebrows raised interrogatively. Ringo and Paul both nodded; neither John nor George even looked up. The door closed.

"Eyup." John spoke, eyes still on the flickering television screen. "Watch out. Pussy about."

George dragged his eyes away from the article about them "Eh?"

"Neil's got some."

George nodded his understanding. "Ah," he said, and returned his attention to the paper.

An outer door opened, and excited shrill voices approached; clattering footsteps, excitable squeals, and then their door opened again and Neil ushered in five girls, all sporting smart clothes, impeccable make up and identical expressions of near delirious excitement. Ringo gathered up his cards. Paul folded his newspaper. John didn't budge. And George...

"I have to see George Harrison!"

The voice from outside the room pierced through the hubbub of excited girls; it was a female voice but not that of a happy fan. It was imperious, demanding and somehow desperate. "I must see George Harrison," said the voice again.

"Your lucky day, son," leered John, but George was sitting up, newspaper forgotten and a puzzled frown on his face.

"Er... excuse me..." Mal could be heard, clearly attempting to forestall whoever it was, but just as clearly failing to do so.

"George Harrison! Is he here?"

"He's..." but to no avail. The door was pushed open, and in surged a lady. Overweight, a dowdy overcoat which must surely have been too hot on this August day, scuffed flat shoes, and cropped grey hair which looked as if it had seldom if ever received the ministrations of a hairdresser. She stomped firmly into the centre of the room, and looked around.