Evelyn scrambled around the office. She would pick up a piece of paper, examine it, and then shove it to the side. John had given her a plentiful amount to chose from, and as she picked through each bit, it had begun to become overwhelming.

If he'd given this lot to Bill and Virginia the first time around, when they lost it, it was no wonder they had; she didn't understand how he found such time to create such a load of work when he always appeared to be doing something. In flipping through the old editions of the paper published in 1962, Evelyn found that the year had been full of action for the band. Almost each edition had some kind of notification about how the Beatles' progress was looking, or where they were heading off to, or when they were returning to their beloved Mersey.

If she were to be writing one of those brief check-ups today, in big black letters against the cream paper Mersey Beat was printed on, it would read "BEATLES PLAY CAVERN CLUB--MUSIC MARATHON." It was mere hours away from the approaching event, and nowhere near ready was she to attend it. While she was sure there'd be a place in that cellar for her--because the girl who worked the Cola bar had made certain there would be--Evelyn wasn't sure if she'd even have the time. It was a not to miss event, but she had a job, and obligations that extended past the Beatles and the Cavern Club.

She told herself she'd leave the office once she'd made her way through half the stack. Half the stack quickly became a third of it, and then, gradually, the whole of it, until there was one glimmering piece of hotel paper left. With little drawings on the bottom to illustrate the poem above it, the piece of work was a relief in more than just one way. Neatly arranged in stacks, Evelyn had a steady plan as to what the following publishing was going to look like. However, there was a downside to the upside.

Most were untitled, and while she could take that task upon herself, there were many difficulties with a large portion of them: Many were merely only drafts, but written quickly on hotel paper or odd bits of scraps, and she wasn't sure the underlines, the cross-outs, and etc. were meant to be there or not. She'd have to be the one to type them up, and she didn't want to make a mistake. It was all very hectic, so she grabbed the first months publications—two small comic poems—and put them in her black purse. After that, she laid her head against the wooden desk, collecting herself, and fighting off a headache before she bared the rest of her work.

A quick glance at her watch informed her it was three thirty. Thirty minutes, and the show would be off, stretching out until midnight. She'd make it to see at least some of the fun, she supposed. For the time being, she had an article to finish about the change in music, and she had to start on a band recommendation.

The hours passed steadily. The only break Evelyn took was a quick bit to the bathroom and a round for tea every now and again, but other than that, she sat at the brown desk and worked unbothered at the typewriter. She had seen Bill many times working furiously like this, and though she never expected it for herself at first, here she was. In two hours, she had a lengthy read about the then and now of Liverpool's music. The greatest contrast was represented in the Cavern itself, what with it being a jazz club then turned rock'n'roll venue now. She put it on Bill's desk, with a paper that read 'Read and re-edited. Sinclair—Final Edit.' After that, despite that she wanted to start on the other article, Evelyn packed it in. While one piece was done for the next publishing, another was not; John's needed editing properly before it could go out.

It was dead cold and dark. Evelyn wrapped her thick brown coat around her, covering the Mary Quant knee-length pinstripe skirt he parents had gifted her, and the fashionable black turtle neck that was popular at the Cavern. Anything black, the Cola girl informed her, was fashionable amongst the Beatles gerls. It was Beatnik culture seeping into the cellar, and Evelyn dressed this morning with the intention of not sticking out like a sore thumb.

Though, now that she reflected on as she walked down the street, the skirt was a bit outlandish. Black and white, and spilt three inches on the sides, the skirt wasn't something you'd only see in magazine ad. In fact, she had. Before she left early last year, she'd seen the dress positioned on a model and she remarked to her mother how she adored it. It was one of the few times she'd listened apparently, because it'd been sent in the mail with a note saying, 'Merry Christmas, darling. We do hope Liverpool is treating you as you'd wanted it to - Love from Mom and Father.'

Too late to change now.

It was madness. The club was packed to the halt, and she had to push here and there, elbow to elbow. It was hot and stank of sweat. The walls were already dripping, but the band, the Mersey Beats, where having a good go, and the people in the crowd were enjoying it thoroughly. It didn't matter that it was humid, or that there was no room, she still smiled widely. The room was filled with youth; teenagers peppered in the crowd, a new wave of music circled the room, and she truly felt, positioned in the back between two girls no older than herself, like one of them. Mary Quant wearer or not didn't matter. What counted was the tap her foot did, and the smile she wore as she watched the show.

"Ye'r awfully late, aren't you Evie?" the women asked as Evelyn finally reached the snack bar. She nodded her head. "Work held me late, but I made it. Thanks a ton for the spot. The guy gave me little trouble anyhow, though, even when I didn't have anything pulled out to show him. Just told me you were full—and he wasn't lying."

"That's Mal. 'e's a real sweetheart, you know. You should interview 'im sometime. 'e loves this scene more than we do." She joked, leaning against the bar. "What can I give ya tonight. Fab skirt, by the way."

Evelyn looked down grinning. "Thanks. Um, just a coke. I might come back for food in a bit, but I don't know. Depends on quickly how I get to John."

"John?"

"Lennon, of the Beatles."

"Ah. I'd bet he's in the dressing room, and there's a fat chance of anyone getting anywhere near that. The crowd's blocking it. Bunch of gerls looking to touch and chat 'em all tonight."

"If he comes over here by chance, could you send him my way?" Evelyn fished some money out of her purse, but the girl protested. "No need for that, luv, we've got you covered. I'll be sure too, yeah."

"Thank you!" Evelyn grabbed the cold bottle of coke, and squeezed once more into throng of people. She enjoyed the music and chatted with a few of the girls surrounding her. They talked about which bands they liked the most, and which ones they thought could improve a bit. Someone mentioned Pete Best and how they'd missed him, but Evelyn wasn't sure why; Pete still played, didnt he? Maybe it was just over her head, Cavern girls talking about happenings before her time.

The most interesting girl Evelyn had a chance to talk to was Lindy Ness, a blonde, baby faced girl, only 17. She told Evelyn all about her favorite bands. Notably, it was the Beatles who she favored, and who she was here for. It was only a quick chat, for she was to return to the front row, and Evelyn was all the way in the back, but it was good. She told her that she was John's friend, and with the seating arrangement she had, Evelyn didn't question it.

The night went by quickly. While she worried briefly about John, she mostly sat back and enjoyed the night. Once, she even danced with a bloke during a number. It was all great fun, and by the Beatles returned to the stage, she was spent. She leaned against the wall, sipping the last of her second coke. Everyone around her cheered for the boys, and Paul took the lead, introducing Long Tall Sally before swinging into the song.

It was magical. How else could one describe it? Even though it was nearing midnight, and they'd heard plenty of songs, from plenty of bands, the Beatles were so full of energy, it was contagious. The crowd danced, clapped, whooped, and screamed. She was captivated, to the very last number, which John introduced. An Elvis bit, that was handed over to Paul. The Cavern ate it up, swung and bopped, and cheered madly until Bob took the stage and ended the night with a good thanks and see ya next time. That was that; she'd witnessed seven hours of the fun, and wanted, surprisingly, more of it.

Bodies begun to slowly trickle out of the Cavern. Girls and boys alike walked up the slick with sweat stairs, and left a terrible stink in their wake. Evelyn sat back, and watched; each time a row would open, she'd go further up. It took a bit, because Paul, John, George, and Ringo hovered and signed autographs, and chatted with their front row fans. Eventually, though, she made her way to them.

"Autograph for me, please." She requested jokingly as she approached George. She hadn't spoken with him much, but she thought he was a nice looking enough. He offered her a crooked grin. "We though we'd seen the last of ya," he commented. "What d'ya want me to sign?"

Evelyn held out her arm. "This'll do, yeah?" It was all for laughs, so it surprised her when he surfaced a marker. Against the white canvas that was her skin, he signed in loopy letters 'The Beatles - Love George Harrison.' "There ya go."

"No one ever told you not t'mix business with pleasure, did they, Mrs. Sinclair?" Evelyn glanced upwards to find the Liverpudlian peering down his nose at them. He stood tall on the stage, wearing a grey sweater vest like George was, except his dress shirt was opened at the top. A heavy line of sweat formed along his brow. He grinned at her. "What brings you t'the lair, then, if not fer business?"

"Business," she told him plainly. He sighed deeply. "You've not lost the bleedin' things again, 'ave you?"

He paled, a shade lighter than he'd been before. John didn't appear angry, just upset as he awaited the news.

"No, no." She reached into her purse to pull out tangible pieces of evidence that she hadn't. "Look here, two pieces of it."

John nodded his head. "'m gonna start packin' up." George wiggled free between them. "Are you goin' to the Grapes tonight 'er are you stayin' in with—" George stopped short of finishing his sentence, hesitating. "Are you comin'?"

John shrugged. "I dunno, am I?" he looked at Evelyn. "I don't see why not. It shouldn't take long, this. A few minutes perhaps."

He replaced George on the edge of the stage. "Le's have a looksee then." She handed him his papers, pointing at the first ones errors. "There's no title, which doesn't matter much, but I don't know if these lines and the like are accidental or not."

He looked at his work carefully. "These are. That—" he pointed to a cross-out, "—is jus' a mistake. I was writin' on typewriter, so I had t'take upon myself t'fix the damage." He assessed the rest of it. "It's fine fer publishin' now. This is all shite." He laughed at the second piece. "This one," he grazed the whole first line with his finger, "Cross it out. It's silly. The rest is fine."

"Ya said it was shite."

"What's one man's shite is another's better shite." John handed the papers back to her, and she stored them away in her purse. "Are you comin' t'the Grapes?"

"What's tha'?"

"The club across from 'ere. A lot of the bands'll be there 'cause they want t'get properly pissed after the show."

Evelyn glanced at her watch. 30 minutes past midnight and she had work tomorrow. A six o'clock start time, if she was to make the bus on time. "I don't think I should."

John frowned. "Oh come off it then, it's yer bleedin' job t'get as much from me as you can. I'll give you a good story 'er two, and we'll ring Paul fer one too."

Could she do that? If she only had one drink, didn't drink it all, and was on her way...She couldn't. She shook her head. "I 'ave t'catch a ride home back with the girl who works the soda bar."

"You don't know her name?" he asked flatly.

"Never asked it, no." She shrugged. It did sound a bit rude, but it never struck her to do so. "I guess I'll be goin' t'find out."

John shook his head. He had begun to slide off the edge of the stage, his feet sliding slowly, so he repositioned himself. He laid his hands flat on the black boards. "I'll ask Nell to drop you off at yours if you have a drink with us 'nd the others. 've 'eard you don't get out much."

"From who?" she blushed. It wasn't far from the true, but she didn't like it much.

"Meself. I jus' figured." He let out a lighthearted laugh, and she shook her head in protest. "One drink Lennon, and then it'll be t'home I go."

He nodded his head, face going stern. "Yes, Majesty, anythin' yer Majesty." After that scene, he followed George into the darkened section of the Cavern that was their dressing room. She watched him until he was no longer visible, and then she replaced him on the stage.

"Jus' one drink," she repeated to herself, looking again at the clock. Tomorrow was looking to be long and arduous.

—————
This chapter took too many weeks to get to you, and I apologize deeply.

Also, a shout-out to Lindy Ness. While I don't know if she was truly there that night, I assume so; she's a lovely John fan who I think it's safe to say was a friend too. Up above, there's a photo of them together in 1962 outside of the Cavern.