A Day in the Life by Vanessa Dodge
He took a mouthful of the Lambrusco, and the sweetness made him shudder.
Below, on Moreland Road, the butcher's daughter (who never wore any
tights) came out of the newsagent with "The Sunday Sport" tucked under
her arm. Despite the fact she was barely eighteen, she was pregnant
again for the third time. She stroked her belly absently, lit a
cigarette, and waddled off in the direction of the sea front on marbled
legs. Silly tart. Across the street, a group of children congregated
outside of the confectioners, gazing forlornly upon the imprisoned
sweets within the darkened interior. Snot-nosed brats. The mad coot from
three doors up wandered by, armed, as usual, with earphones, metal
detector, and a small trowel. Suddenly, obeying a summons only he could
hear, he veered into Mrs. Leigh's front garden and began digging
furiously until he found a few pence, which he pocketed. Daft git.
Derek grew bored with people watching and found himself once again
pondering The Question. It was the question which had plagued him most
of his life -- more so than "Is there life after death?" or "Why am I
here?" -- the same question he had asked his father thirty two years
ago.
"Dad, what if the Beatles lived with us?"
It was a damned good question, and one which deserved a damned good
answer. But instead of giving him one his father had instead given him a
whack and said, "Don't talk rubbish."
Derek felt a familiar up-welling of rage at the memory, and took a big
slug of the Lambrusco. Why hadn't his father given him an answer? It
didn't even have to be the right answer. A theory, an approximation, an
educated guess would have been better than that brusque dismissal.
Anyway, the old bastard couldn't give him an answer now. Derek refilled
his glass.
Fat Mrs. Hayman from downstairs was taking Sharon for her afternoon
walk. Or rather, her afternoon drag. Sharon, paralyzed from the waist
down, lay listlessly on her makeshift trolley while Mrs. Hayman pulled
her along, pointing out neighbors or squirrels or places where dogs had
urinated. Pathetic. Derek drained his glass. If he and John had got a
dog, they would never have chosen one as pathetic as Sharon. A poodle,
for God's sake. Bloody poof dog. Maybe John would have when he was with
Yoko. But not the real John. The real John would have chosen a real dog.
Like a pitbull, or a rottweiler. He and Derek would have called him
Elvis. Paul, George and Ringo would have approved heartily of the name,
and there would have been many jokes between them about how Elvis was
"nothing but a hound dog".
The five of them would walk Elvis every afternoon in Walliscote Park.
One day Elvis might get loose and run off after a female cocker spaniel.
Derek, Paul, and Ringo would have to chase him round the trees, through
the flower beds, and right across the bowling green. Oh, the looks on
the faces of those old geezers in their bowling whites! The
groundskeeper would come after them brandishing a hoe, but the five of
them (six, counting Elvis) would easily outrun him. Later, hiding in a
bus shelter on the sea front, they'd laugh themselves sick. What a lark!
When they got home, Mum would have tea ready: Steak and kidney pie, new
potatoes, and peas. While his parents were watching "Songs of Praise",
Derek would flick a pea at George. The small, green missile would hit
the quiet Beatle between the eyes. Mischievously, George would flick one
back, but it would go wide and hit Paul. And Ringo, who could never
resist a food fight, would flick one at Derek for the hell of it. Pretty
soon peas would be flying every which way, and laughter would fill the
dining room. But Dad, as usual, would lose his temper and spoil the fun,
demanding to know "who started this?" Before Derek was able to own up to
anything, John would rise from his seat and say "I did sir. I'm sorry."
knowing full well he could expect several lashes from Dad's belt as his
reward. But John was tough, he could take it -- and later he'd respond
to Derek's outpouring of gratitude with "Forget it mate. What are friends
for?" And without another word he'd put the decals on Derek's Spitfire
model, just like he'd promised.
"Don't worry about that, Lad" George would say as Derek struggled with
his Geometry homework, "I'll do that. Ringo's outside kicking the
football around. Why don't you give him a game?" So Derek would go out
into the garden, and Ringo would head him the ball. The match would be
close, but just as Mum called them in, Ringo would score the winning
goal. Oh how he'd gloat, singing "Liverpool, champions" all night. Smug
sod!
Derek refilled his glass and looked out the window. A gang of local
yobbos were smoking and rough-housing on the corner outside the
newsagent. A boy and girl walked past them, arms wrapped tightly around
one another. One of the louts followed them a little way, jeering them
with obscenities while the others laughed. Derek turned from the window
in disgust. Of course, the lads would have teased him when he brought
home girls, but in a nice way. They'd be proud that he could pull such
gorgeous ones. "I thought I had a way with the birds," Paul would say,
shaking his head in admiration, "but I've got nothing on you! Lucky
Bastard." But he'd only be joking, because all five of them would have
no lack of girlfriends. They'd have their pick of the best-looking girls
in Weston, and all the blokes would be jealous but want to hang out with
them anyway. After all, weren't they The Beatles?
One Friday they'd come home late after a night out on the town, and Dad
would be absolutely fuming. He'd give them all an earful and to
emphasize his point he'd cuff Derek upside the head. John would be fed
up with Dad's bullying and the two would have it out, once and for all,
on the front doorstep. Afterwards, nursing a broken nose, Dad would
leave home and never trouble them again.
Once Dad was gone, they'd go down the pub every night, buy a few rounds,
and have a laugh. But some nights, Ringo would stay home. He'd noticed,
as they all had, that Mum had been at the sherry a little too much. But
Ringo knew what to do about it, because he'd been there himself. With
kind words of understanding and encouragement, he'd get her into a
twelve step program, and within a few months she'd be her old self
again.
Sundays would be the best. While Mum and Ringo cooked Sunday dinner,
George would write Derek's history essay, leaving Derek free to help
John and Paul polish up their latest song. John was always enthusiastic
to start writing something new, but lacked the patience to finish it.
Paul could finish things, but leaned toward sentimental lyrics. Derek
balanced out these imperfections, bringing both discipline and punch to
the song-writing team.
On Derek's advice, the mop-tops would snub London and build their
recording studio here in Weston. Instead of "Abbey Road", the last album
they recorded would have been "Moreland Road" -- but then again, there
would have been no last album. With Derek as the cohesive force of The
Beatles, the five of them would have never split up, and to this day
they would continue to top the charts and change the face of music.
Outside, the street was deserted. Everyone was at home having tea and
watching the match on telly. Derek gulped another mouthful of Lambrusco.
So many wonderful might-have-beens. But he would never know what would
have been. Because John was dead. And the Beatles would never, could
never get back together again. That grim truth echoed in his mind as he
went to refill his glass. The bottle was empty.
Derek pulled a ten pound note from his pocket, the last of his dole
money. "Get us another bottle, mate," he said.
Taking the tenner, George tiptoed to the door and shut it softly behind
him, so as not to wake Paul, who was asleep on the couch.
"Bugger." Ringo cursed from the kitchen. "I've burnt the roast."
Derek poured himself a glass of Lambrusco and peered out through the
dingy lace curtain. He hated Sundays. Especially grey Sundays like this
one where the sun couldn't break free from the clouds and the wind
wouldn't stop blowing and he didn't have a telly and all there was to do was look
out the window. Bloody weather. Bloody Weston.
Derek grew bored with people watching and found himself once
again pondering The Question. It was the question which had plagued him
most of his life -- more so than "Is there life after death?" or "Why am
I here?"
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