Lipstick Lily

Day Tripper

"We were just trying to write songs about prostitutes and lesbians, that's all."

~Paul McCartney, 24th August, 1966~

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Her lipstick was smeared. A bright ruby red slash of colour over English rose cheeks.

And the mascara that had been etched so carefully, so artfully, was now streaked; laced with that lippy, diluted by her tears.

"Hurry up" The first lad pushed the second rough-housing and the man/ boy nearly spilled over the pavement like paint; arms flailing, legs skittered but managed to save himself right at the point of no return.

Number two was the instigator, the strong arms that lashed wildly without warning nor sound. Number one lad had held, helped and hit when number two needed to catch his wind.

She couldn't see them very well from here. Metres away she sat, the gutter like a home, for her rat like existence. And she felt lost and euphoric upon seeing the only man in her life sprawled, bloody and unmoving near the side of the pier, way down the second to last lane that led to the club, boringly named, Mersey Dockers Union.

The shady club with shadier characters where she had been, moments before, manhandled toward...

Father.... more like failure he was; Unable to work due to the daily consumption of booze and completely unbothered to stop those booze laden ways to give her a warm home. To give her anything of merit. No, she was never blessed with anything resembling safety nor security; And definitely never given hope.

"Hey we can't just leave her" Number two grumbled.

Number one looked over toward her and the eyes she levelled him brimmed teary with blank knowledge.

She was alone.

She sat in a puddle yet she didn't seem to have noticed, her legs naked of nylon were moreish but he shouldn't look. They'd seen her minutes before, being pulled, almost dragged along, then pushed and belted soundly around the midriff.

To keep bruises well out of a casual observer's sight.

Her final act of defiance to the treatment of her?
She had tried to slap away the man's hands as he wallopped her hard about the head.

They'd laughed at first, John snorting at the audacity of her moves, thinking that she had been talking back to her boyfriend, getting herself a right slapping to put her in her place.

George had covered his mouth to stifle a loud bray of youthful glee and he....
He had giggled at the girls tussles with her old boyfriend.

"Paul, we saved her. Now she goes home to her warm bed and her mummy. To her silly dreams of knights on white stallions... Or pie and chips whichever of the two. Hungry?" John turned to watch George running back from his lookout on the corner.

George dared one last glance at the fella John and Paul had bludged with bare hands. He shook his head and shivered a little, pulling at the collar of his cheap Hamburg purchase, his beloved leather jacket. If ever he had a fist fight with those two he wouldn't win, wouldn't have a hope in hades.

John sighed, flexing his aching knuckles. Paul was always being the steady one, the person of reason to his rough and ready carelessness and haphazard thinking. Paul was already stepping toward the puddle that surrounded the girl "George stay here, I'm off to be a white knight with King Paula here"

Paul paused and half turned scowling. "Bugger off. Just....... Let's get her up and see her to the bus stop, yeah?" Paul tapped the cigarette on the pack and lit up, offering the quickly depleting number to a harried Lennon. This wasn't good. No, no good to be idling away so close to a decidedly deathly looking man.