January had come and gone, the first month of the new year providing Evelyn with a sense of relief. The first article had drawn more eyes to the Mersey Beat than it had collected i️n a while. The Cavern Club dwellers were interested in hearing about anything as long as the Beatles were concerned, and the article gave them something they yearned for. The last time she had saw John—the end of January, only last week—he'd told her it was potty the way they acted over them, but he grinned at the news. It satisfied a yearning in himself as well, to be accepted, not as a Beatle, but as a writer. She knew it had.

Why it satisfied her, she didn't know. Not a trace of her abilities laid in that first publishing. All but the fact that she threaded the two broken fragments of unfinished work together was credited to John. She wasn't a ghost writer as much as she was a babysitter, but nonetheless, she felt successful with her position.

It was nice, to be apart of something that wasn't her mother's or her father's. Delightful even, to know that a success could be attributed to herself without the shadow of her father's successes towering forbiddingly over her own. John's name was clearly marked all over that article and no one knew the role she played in publishing it, but it was hers still; a tangible piece of evidence to prove that she was more than a Sinclair production. She was more than clothing lines and fragrances. She was more than London and little corner shops. 1963 was going to see her becoming a journalist.

"Have you ever considered a pseudonym?" Ellie peeked above her news article. Evelyn had asked her to brief it, tell her what she thought was good and what she thought needed correcting. Ellie, despite not being a writer, was intelligent and she liked rock. It was a swell enough combination for a second opinion. "You know, to get away from the poshness. You sound posh with that name."

"I️ 'aven't, no," Evelyn filled a kettle with water, setting it on the stove. She turned and leaned against the ashen-grey countertops. She faced Ellie, a hint of a grin playing into her pale features and illuminating her dark orbs. "No one's brought that to my concern before, not before you."

"Ye've said it yerself, ye don't like bein' connected to that 'ere, love." Ellie sat the paper down. "Think 'bout it, takin' up a fancy name. 'ow secretive and...I️ dunno, dreamlike. I️ used t'dream up all sorts of names when I️ was a child. My mum says I️ was fit t'be a rich person, what with the way I️ tried so 'ard pretendin' t'be one."

"It's alright, not ideal." Evelyn shrugged. "It's lonely, growing up like that. In order to be wealthy, you must be absent to a certain degree."

"So what, ye'r tellin' me ye didn't enjoy any of it?"

"I'm saying it was alright but there's a reason I'm 'ere and not there." She stated. Evelyn crossed her arms before continuing, "If I️ were t'make up a name, I'd make it sound workin' class."

"That'd give them all a blind sense of hope, wouldn't it? People will read yer papers and think, shite, she's made it so can we!" Ellie grinned. "Don't fill us with potty ideas."

"S'not potty." Evelyn smiled. "What's potty is a fake name. It's too elegant, too...Literary."

"Ye've gone to Uni 'aven't ye? Ye are like that."

The kettle began to screech, interrupting the conversation. Evelyn turned the burner off and grabbed two cups from the cabinet. "I️ always forget—tea before water or water then tea?"

"Tea and then water," Ellie responded. "No sugar in mine. I'm stayin' slim because I've jus' bought an evenin' gown an' I️ expect to fit in December. It was too beautiful t'pass up, but all my week's tips."

"Don't diet, that's potty." Evelyn poured the tea over the tea bag, as instructed, before serving Ellie at the table. She responded with a grateful 'ta' before waving her off. "Oh no it's s'not. Look at me!" she grabbed at her stomach. "It's all those fish'n'chips."

"Smoke a ciggie then, if ye'r worried about weight. I've read that helps with weight." Evelyn plopped in two sugar cubes, an excessive amount but she liked her tea sweet, almost too much. Her mother had always scolded her for the habit but she'd never learned from it.

Evelyn of course did fret over her appearance every now and again but not enough to let it bother her too much. She fluctuated and didn't mind, and thought Ellie shouldn't either. Ellie was mad, even, for thinking she anything but fit. She had the hour-glass figure women envied, and though she wasn't all that petite, she was thin. Even if she wasn't, even if she did exceed normal standards, Evelyn doubted Ellie would be anything but beautiful because Ellie simply was beautiful in a way that transcended body
shape and that load of shite. But it wasn't her place, so Evelyn wouldn't interfere.

"My mum says proper birds don't smoke and think she's right for it."

"My mum smokes." Evelyn shrugged. "My mum does the stuff other women don't typically do, though."

"Ye'r a bastard then, are ye?"

She furrowed her eyebrows, "Wha'—" the meaning came to her after a beat, and she laughed, "No, no. I️ was born in wedlock jus' like most. I️ didn't mean that way. My mum's jus' always been...different from other mum's. She never had a nanny fer us, but she also never really took care of us. My father did."

"Me mum would kill over if she 'eard that." Ellie smirked. "She's old-fashioned."

"To the old-fashioned and the insensitive who raised us, then." They raised their cups, clinking the china together. "Second that, luv." Ellie chimed mirthfully.

They sat for the remainder of the afternoon sunk into silence. Evelyn read Bill's articles, checked Brian's record review, and jotted down a list of activities completed that day, and ones she needed to do tomorrow. The list was minimal and doable, but she'd found much more comfort in staying in as the cold winds blew of the Mersey. It was biting cold out there, and even the warmest jumper couldn't save a person from the weather Liverpool saw in February.

Ellie went home around six, after discussing Cavern Club gossip and dinner with Evelyn. Something about a Judy chatting up one of the girls' boys, and how peeved that girl (was it Carly? Evelyn hadn't paid her any mind at the beginning) was the whole fuggin' night because of it. Then she packed it in, and left Evelyn with promises of another Cavern Club visit just as soon as her schedule would permit it.

After watching her friend off to the station, Evelyn cleaned the dishes and settled down in front of the telly. Saturday meant Dixon of Dock Green for her, a ritual that hadn't been broken since she'd moved into the small flat months ago. Sad as it was, 6:30pm on every Saturday saw her sat in her flowered recliner, a cuppa beside the chair and some biscuits in her hand, invested in some silly show she remembered her brother enjoying.

Half way into the programme came
an irregular occurrence. The phone began ringing loudly through her home. Evelyn shuffled to the kitchen. "Hello, Sinclair residence," she answered as professionally as possible.

"I don't know 'ow ya did it, but John Lennon's sent us another pile of his work, except this time it's on your desk and not mine."

"What?" she asked, puzzled. "What d'you mean a pile, Bill?"

"He's given you thirty 'er so little poems." She head scuffling on the other side of the telephone. "A note that reads 'for all the dates I'm missing with the tour. Forgive me—John.' I've the impression he's quite fond of being cared about, because he did this last time too."

"Well that's great!" Evelyn hadn't been vocal about it, but she had worried what she'd do with John's article, what with him away on that tour with Helen...Helen something. She hadn't quite gotten the young woman's name down, but she knew she was young, and she knew she was talented. That was as she'd gotten with the girl, being that John had begun to take up a good portion of her work time. Last week it had been the article, earlier this week it had been listening to the recommendations, and now it was going to be sorting and deciding. He never gave her a shortage of work.

"It is. Mind if Virginia and I give them a read?"

Evelyn shook her head. "Not at'all," she replied. "Do you happen t'have address er phone numbers I can reach him at? I'd like to thank him."

"He's left you a note in an envelope that's secured, so I'm betting he's either takin' the mickey out of me and he doesn't want me t'see it, or it's important information he doesn't want t'mixed in with this lot." Bill replied, laughing. "That Lennon has always been somethin'."

So I've heard, Evelyn thought to herself. "Yeah," she said. "Listen Bill, I've got t'go because I've still got articles t'write, but I'll be in tomorrow t'see the scene he's left me."

"Yes, well goodbye then. See you tomorrow, Evelyn."

"See you tomorrow, Bill."

Evelyn hung the phone on the receiver, and did a small jump for joy. John, no matter what people had gathered up about him for her, had been nothing but a breeze this far. He was cooperative, considerate, and helpful. John was shaping into her favorite rock'n'roller merely because he had become the easiest to work with.

Once her joy has dimmed, Evelyn went back to the telly. As her programme ran on, Evelyn wondered what was in the slip, and relaxed easy with the reassurance that her fortnightly published articles would remain so.