Growing Up Beside You [John Lennon/Beatles Fanfiction]

38. The more the merrier (3)

Sunday 10th February 1957 (Cont'd)

♪ My boy Lollipop,
You make my heart go giddy-up.
You set the world on fire.
You are my one desire.
Whoa, my Lollipop ♪

Barbie Gaye's chirpy hit proclaimed through the wireless  as Celia entered the Lennon's living room. The wide space appeared to be the heart of the house, and reflective of the woman whom it belonged to. It oozed exuberance and character; a room that new its duty of providing life and comfort.

Beige carpet coated the flooring, and the walls were decorated with a flamboyant floral wallpaper. A bold melody of blue, green and yellow carnations adorned a plum-coloured backdrop. The room spoke of joviality. A place of musical expression, which was evident by the Upright piano positioned against the back wall, and the long, dark sideboard upon which a radio and record player sat with a heap of indistinguishable LPs.

On the opposite side of the room, a tall, teal bookcase was filled with a myriad of decorations. Hardbacks; paperbacks; a few scattered biscuits tins (which were no doubt filled with anything other than biscuits); pretty, ceramic vases; a tiny globe, and strange-looking statuettes. The room was overly furnished, but not in a way that looked cluttered or unsightly. It was homely. Expressive. Well-lived in. Everything Celia thought a living room should be. None of that minimalistic rubbish that her mother adopted.

John had draped himself across the mustard-coloured sofa; his face obscured by yesterday's copy of The Echo. He huffed and threw the newspaper on the rectangular, wooden coffee table opposite him. Celia noticed his glasses were resting on there too; now half-concealed underneath the paper.

"Christ, I'm going spare listening to this lousy crap!"

John quickly rolled off the three-seater sofa and strode over to the sideboard. His fingers flew to the tuning dial of the wireless, and with his back to Celia, he attempted to station the machine with a song more fitting to his taste.

Celia was glad to hear that stupid song go. It had played non-stop last summer and she'd grown to hate it. Barbie Gaye's voice was the equivalent to an ice-cream sundae drizzled in syrup and sprinkled with chocolate shreddings. Sickeningly sweet. Celia'd always wondered how someone could be so possessed by love that their world became a blazing intensity of passion? She'd never had a boy to call her own, but surely love wasn't all lollipops and chirping melodies? From what she'd witnessed on screen, it was like trying to eat soup with a fork. Infuriating, messy and consuming. 

The radio crackled and fuzzed as music tuned out of one genre and into another. A fraction of yet another perky pop song replaced a string quartet of some composer that nobody knew the name of. A snippet of a weather report— torrential rain. The Archers theme song. A chart-topping folk song. No station was good enough for John who was mumbling to himself, as he turned the dial.

"Shite..shite..more shite. It's all a big lump of dog shite."

Celia couldn't disagree with him there. Good music rarely played live. Rock n' Roll was yet to summit and take its place on the podium of superiority. The few that did play were old and repetitive. Disc Jockeys had a habit of playing the same few tunes over and over until the discs became worn out pieces of plastic. You'd have to go searching for the better stuff. Wait for imports. Head to the niche record stores and flick through one lousy record after another until you find a hidden gem amongst a load of pebbles.