Love In Her Eyes

1

• London 1968 •

The day started perfectly.

The sky was clear, the sun was shining, and the weather was warm, but not too much, with just the slightest breeze.

It was the kind of day that made you want to lay in the grass under a tree and catch up on your favorite book.

And that is exactly what I might be doing if I weren't heading into the city right now.

The windows were rolled all the way down on my '66 Volkswagen bug.

On the radio, to no one's surprise, the Beatles are on. I turned up the volume and listened as doe eyed Paul crooned the lyrics of their latest song,
Hey Jude.

If my brother Jack were here, he'd complain that the song was already over played.

If my father were here, he'd shake his head good heartedly, encouraging Jack to simply appreciate the music.
He was a Beatles fan, to say the least, especially since he was born and raised in Liverpool, too.

And mum, a hopeless romantic like myself, well she'd just nod and listen, probably day dreaming about George. He was her favorite and, in her opinion, 'devastatingly handsome.'

As for myself, I was more of a John girl.

My car comes to a stop at the four way intersection. I'm the only one present, so I quickly glance both ways before turning right, which will take me into the city.

My family and I live some twenty five miles Northeast of London.
Our house, which is a century old and has been in the family for almost as many years, is nestled on a lovely little acreage of farm land.

The gentle rolling hills, the simplicity, the calmness of life in the country was wonderful- I couldn't deny it.

But equally so, the pleasure I felt when I drove into bustling, exuberant London on a sunny Saturday like today, was also undeniable.

As I slowed at a red light, a taxi pulled up in the lane beside me.
The driver, an old man with a cigar wedged between his lips, waved at me.

I returned the gesture, then looked forward again. Did he think I belonged behind the wheel?
I'm only fifteen. Fortunately, I'd always looked older than my age, so I'd never been questioned by anyone while driving. I didn't do it all the time, either. Only on occasion.
I tapped my finger nails absentmindedly on the steering wheel, wishing the light would hurry and turn green.

My destination today, as it was on most weekends, was my boyfriend's house. His name was Keith.

Keith was the lead singer in a well known band called The Yardbirds.

We met rather unconventionally, some might say, after one of their concerts last Spring.

As I cruised through good old London town, the memory of that night came back to me like it was just yesterday.

* * *

My best friend Cynthia, who was a year older than me but also a huge fan of the Yardbirds, had talked her parents into buying us tickets.

Cynthia always got the best of everything, so of course these tickets were front row, center stage.
We had the best seats in the house!

The show that night was fantastic, but it's what happened after the show that I'll never forget.

There had been a handsome boy about our age sitting on the other side of Cynthia, who'd really fancied her, and vice versa, as the show went on.
When the Yardbirds had left the stage for the last time, I gathered my purse from under the seat, stood, and turned to Cynthia- prepared to gush about the concert in true fan fashion. But to my dismay, she was deep in conversation with the boy beside her.

I wasn't all that surprised when she turned to me, her big brown eyes full of guilt, and told me she was going to leave with her new friend.

"Are you sure you don't mind going home by yourself?" she asked. "It shouldn't be hard to get a taxi, the streets will be full of them tonight."

"Ummm.... No, no I don't mind," I lied. "Go on, have fun. But be careful."

I glanced suspiciously at the curly headed bloke behind Cynthia- His hands were deep in his pockets and he was glancing around the room, pretending to be oblivious.

Cynthia gave me a quick hug, told me she'd see me at school on Monday, and then she was off.

And just like that, I was on my own.

The arena slowly cleared out as groups of people began flooding all of the exits. I glanced at the stage in awe one last time, wanting to somehow hold onto the magic I'd witnessed up there. With a sigh, I turned and began to make my way out of the building.

I was almost out the door- and pondering what my first taxi ride alone would be like- when a hand came down on my shoulder.

Startled, I turned around and saw a man that I didn't recognize.

He was very large, shockingly so, and he looked right at me with sharp, determined blue eyes.

"May I have a word with you, miss?" He asked, his voice nearly a shout.

Even then, I barely heard him over the loud conversation of all the exiting fans.

I should've kept walking I know, but for some reason I nodded, and followed him back inside to a quieter area.

"What is it?" I asked, trying to keep my voice calm.

"Forgive me if I scared you. My name is Peter Grant, and I'm the manager of the Yardbirds."

"Oh." Surprise colored my voice.

The band's manager?
What did he want with me?

"I'd be lying if I said this was my favorite part of the job. But, nonetheless, here we are."
He chuckled, and his big belly shook.

Peter continued: "It seems Keith noticed you during the show and would love to make your acquaintance."