'Hello, love. Fancy seeing you.'

Della snapped her head up. 'Oh my God! What are you doing here?!'

Standing on the other side of the reception desk, Paul chuckled. He'd just handed her a shoebox sized parcel wrapped in brown paper and papers on a clipboard to sign. Della hadn't even looked at him properly until he spoke.

'Couldn't I ask you the same?' Paul said. 'I thought you worked at that chippy in Speke?'

'I did. I got fired months ago--' she explained, hurriedly. 'Paul, when... You're meant to be in Hamburg. When did you come-- When did you get a job delivering parcels?!'

Paul smoothed his ill fitting overalls down as if it was a Savile Row suit. 'Yeah, what do you reckon?' he asked, spinning around for her on the spot. 'I rather think brown is my colour.'

Paul wore baggy overalls, the type that fastened up the front with bright red poppers, like an enormous baby grow. They were a fawn brown with two applique embroidered badges, one announcing proudly SPD Ltd and the second, less triumphantly, Stanley Briggs.

Della laughed. 'Well, I've heard brown is all the rage this season.'

'SPD, Speedy Prompt Deliveries, Mr Stanley Briggs at your service, Ma'am,' Paul said, pointing to his name badge.

Della rested her elbows on the high shelf of the reception desk and leaned over it, towards him. 'So, Stan, what happened to the glitzy, glamourous world of showbiz? Is this a new career direction for you?'

Paul rolled his eyes. 'It is if my Dad's got anything to do with it.' He leaned an elbow on the counter too, resting his weight against the desk. 'He's livid I didn't come back and go to college. I can't start now til September next year, he won't let me hang around the house all day. He keeps sayin', "Satan finds work for idle hands", so I've got to do this.'

'You're giving up the band?'

Paul shifted his weight and his sunny disposition slipped, just for a split second. He plastered his familiar smile back on. 'Nah, this is just temporary. Christmas job. It's my only my fourth day, hence why I haven't been given my own overalls and name badge yet.'

'How's it going?'

'Not bad. This fella called Simon drives the van and I hop out at each stop and take the parcel in. It's easy enough but knackering. I've got to get to the Bally by half six every morning. That's where the depot is. We were only just getting to bed at that time back in Hamburg.'

She smiled and he took a small step closer to her.

'What about you? How long have you been at...' He leaned back to read the company name on the front of the desk. 'E Rex Makin and Co, Solicitors, then?'

'Not long either. Just about six weeks.'

'Temp?'

'No, mines for keeps. So long as they want to keep me. It's mostly making the tea, watering the plants, signing for parcels--' She nudged the one Paul had given her, still sitting in between them on the counter top. 'They're sending me to business school two days a week to learn typing and shorthand and that.'

'Better than serving fish 'n' chips.'

'Yes, it is. Working there made my hair smell like a frying pan all the time. Even after I'd washed it.'

Paul lifted himself onto his toes to look behind the desk at her. 'Well, you look good for it. You look loads better wearing that skirt and blouse than that nasty old gingham tabard you had at the chip shop.'

'Oh, I didn't know you'd noticed,' Della said, jokingly, and stood up straight with a flourish of her hand, but truthfully, she wasn't too taken with her new look herself.

Her skirt was tweed and fell mid way between her knee and her ankle. The blouse she wore with it had a bow collar, and a flouncy pleated shape with gathers at the shoulder and yoke. It was something her grandmother might have worn for church. Upon being offered the job at the solicitors, she'd been informed about how they wanted her to dress. Smart, neat, clean and professional, only in dresses or skirts, never trousers, and always with heels. And nothing too modern.

It couldn't be further away from how Della would normally choose to dress. She had nothing suitable. She'd had to borrow clothing from her mother and spend her first monthly pay packet shopping in the department stores of Liverpool. Then, only when she'd done that, did Evelyn tell her she expected her to pay rent now she was working "in a proper job", leaving Della penniless until her next payday, currently over a week away.

'You look very nice, love,' Paul said.

'I look old,' Della said. 'Not older, just old.'

'Rubbish,' Paul grinned. 'You'd look fantastic wearing a potato sack.'

'I just wear that at weekends,' she told him and Paul laughed. He didn't look that bad himself. He was a teddy boy in a jumpsuit; fresh faced, cheeks pink from the cold outside, and with a casual Elvis style hairdo. He looked like he could have fallen out of bed like that, though Della knew from watching George with his comb and his pomade, it'd probably taken a good half an hour or more to tease and brush his hair into this perfect mess.

'Looking forward to Christmas?' Paul asked, sliding his elbow over the counter, moving closer to her again.

'I haven't really thought about it.'

'Going to any parties?'

'Parties?'

'Yeah, Christmas parties. We normally have a New Year's Eve bash, but I'll be working. We're having a knees up on Boxing day too, if you wanna come? You could wear that potato sack we were talking about.'

He blinked his large brown eyes slowly and Della leaned her elbow on the desk facing him, her head on one hand.

'Boxing day party, eh?'

'Yeah.'

'At your house?'

'Yeah. Why don't you come, Della?'

'I don't know where you live.'

'I'll draw you a map.'

'Will your girlfriend be there?'

'She doesn't have to be,' he said, low.

'What?'

'I said I expect she will be,' Paul said, louder, and stood back from her, a cheeky, salacious smile on his lips.

Della raised an eyebrow. 'How is Dot?'

'Oh, fine. She's fine.'

'She must be glad to have you home.'

'Mmm...' He was only half-listening as he looked her up and down, rather deliberately. Everytime Della saw Paul he'd behave like this - joking, pretending to flirt, fooling around. At least, Della thought he was fooling around. Paul had a girlfriend. One he'd met at the Casbah last year and had been dating ever since. They'd planned to get married earlier on in the year and then suddenly it was all off. No one ever talked about why, but Della could take a guess.

'Continental living obviously agrees with you,' she said.

'Guess so.' Practically leaning over the desk now. Della moved to the side of the counter, blocking his view of her and Paul raised his eyes.

'When did you get back from Germany?'

'Just over two weeks ago.' He drew a deep breath and stepped back. 'Umm... There was a spot of bother. Both me and Pete came back at the same time.'

'What spot of bother?'

'We got booted out for arson, but honestly, it wasn't that. It was--'

'Arson?!' Della laughed. 'What happened to you lot out there? You've come back to England a hardened criminal!'

'I haven't! It wasn't arson!' he cried, spreading his hands to her. 'It was that guy, that Koschmider. George tell you about him? He just wanted to sabotage us because we were moving to the Top Ten. We pinned a rubber johnny to the wall and lit it. It was a joke, that's all. It wasn't the great fire of Hamburg or somethin'. It was cold, solid brick. It wasn't going to catch fire.'

'What's the Top Ten?'

'A club,' Paul said, plaintively raising his eyebrows. 'Well, anyway, we didn't get to play there since me and Pete were marched out of the country. That was that. Back to England, broke and desolate, new job at the parcel delivery company a week later.'

'So what's happened to the band? Are they playing without you?'

'John stayed over there for a while, but he's back now coz he's run out of money. Stu's stopping in Hamburg with his girlfriend. He's not coming home again until after new year.'

'What about George? When's he coming back?'

'George?' Paul repeated, confused.

'Yeah, remember him? Skinny, about five foot ten, ears like jug handles. Plays guitar in your band?'

'George came home ages ago. Before I did.'

'He's home? In Liverpool?'

'Yeah. Haven't you seen him?'

Della shook her head. 'No,' she said, tersely. 'I haven't. The little git didn't even tell me.'

'Oh, uh...' Paul said, uncomfortable, unsure if he'd put his foot in it. 'Sorry, love. I just... Uh... Perhaps he's been busy?'

'Yeah, busy doing nothing, eh? That's George.'

Outside a van blasted its horn several times in quick succession. 'Oh, that's for me! I'd better go,' Paul said, side stepping and hopping his way over to the door. 'Nice seeing you though, Della. Don't be a stranger, eh, love? See you over Christmas?'

Della nodded, but Paul had already disappeared through the door. She glanced down at the clipboard, still on the desk and finished signing her name, just as Paul crashed back through the doors and grabbed it from her.

'You bastard, George Harrison.'

Slowly, George lifted his dark eyes from the letter he was writing and smiled at her, half-sheepishly and half-smugly.

Della narrowed her eyes at him. 'You complete tosser. You're always doing this.'

She unbuttoned her coat and dropped it onto the wooden bench on the opposite side of George's table. It was freezing outside but humidly warm inside the Jacaranda coffee bar. It was packed for lunchtime, windows steamed up by the coffee machines constantly running. She'd come here on a hunch to find George. The boys often hung out here. The coffee bar owner, Allan Williams, was their manager, of sorts. He'd arranged the residency for them in Germany.

'I've done nothin',' George said, gruffly. He folded the letter he was writing in half so Della couldn't see it, and sat back against the tall, hard back of the wooden bench.

'That,' Della said and slid into bench opposite him. '--is just what I mean. I saw Paul. He says you've been home for weeks.'

'When have you seen Paul?'

'This morning. He delivered a parcel to us.'

George rolled his eyes. 'Oh. Yeah. The wally went and got a job, didn't he?'

'You don't tell me anything about what you're doing. I only live across the road from you. You couldn't have called in? I've sent two letters to you in Germany in the last fortnight and you aren't even there!'

'Have you?' George said, dully, and glanced towards the he coffee bar counter at the front. 'Oh, okay.'

'Okay?' Della repeated. She'd only intended her scolding in a jokey way, but his apathy and belligerence was starting to irritate her. Why wouldn't he bother to tell her he was home? He'd always written back to her letters while he was in Germany. He would have known she'd still be writing to him.

George gestured towards the counter, two young girls behind it trying to keep up with orders. 'Allan said there was some post here for me to pick up. A letter from Stu and something he'd sent back to me. It'll be your letters probably. It's what I came into town for. I was just waiting for Allan to get back.'

'Right,' Della nodded. 'Well, you needn't have bothered, eh? As they're just letters for me. You might as well get the bus home now.'

A sly, amused smile grew on his lips. 'Well, there's the one from Stu too. I'd like to get that.'

Della stood and picked up her coat. 'I don't know why I'm wasting my lunch hour here.'

George laughed. 'Della, come on, I'm kiddin'. Sit down.'

'No. I've got to go back to work.'

'You've just got here. Sit down and I'll get you a coffee.'

She pursed her lips. 'And a sandwich.'

'They don't do food.'

Della swept her coat around her shoulders.

'Alright, alright,' George said, getting to his feet. 'I'll find you somethin'. Please, sit. Allow me to right this terrible wrong I've committed against you.'

Della paused. George raised his eyebrows. Everything was always a joke to him.

She sat down heavily on the wooden seat, folding her arms in front of her chest defensively. 'Go 'ed then.'

He smiled, annoyingly so, and spinning on his - what the hell was he wearing on his feet?! - George meandered over the Jacaranda's counter bar, like he had all the time in the world. Probably because he did. She watched him give his order to the girl behind there and then Allan Williams came in and slapped him on the back. George grinned and they stood chatting, George nearly a foot taller than his manager.

George looked different. It wasn't just the clothes he was wearing either, which certainly were different too. A black leather bomber jacket with tight black drainpipe jeans, tucked into Cuban heel cowboy boots. They had to be from Hamburg. Nowhere in Liverpool would sell anything like that. You could get beaten up for walking around looking like that.

But it wasn't just the change of appearance. George seemed... aloof. Maybe now he was worldly travelled and experienced he would be. Della hadn't ever been further south than Ellesmere Port. It hurt that hadn't bothered to contacted her. She had missed him while he was away and now she felt stupid for it. They'd been thick as thieves as kids. Always round each other's houses, playing together as children, hanging around together as young teenagers. She'd seen him every day then, but since they'd left school it had dwindled down to hardly once a week. Della called George her best friend. She would have said he thought the same of her, but maybe not.

It'd started when she'd been dating Jim last year. She hadn't noticed George's absence while she was still going out with Jim. It was only after they broke up that suddenly George was there a lot more. He'd split up with his girlfriend too, so maybe that had been why. But he'd been busy since spring and she'd seen him less and less. His band had done a short tour of Scotland. There had been quite a few gigs on the Wirral and in Wallasey. A bit too far to travel to go to each one. She'd gone to as many as she could, but she'd worked evenings at the chip shop then. It was one of those gigs that had lost her the job. She'd called in sick so she could go to it and someone had seen her there.

But then came Germany. Allan Williams was sending some of the Liverpool groups over to play rock and roll clubs in Hamburg. The Silver Beatles had left in August. It was only supposed to be for a month and a half but they'd ended up extending their contract and staying longer. The last time Della could recall George mentioning anything about returning to Liverpool - or not - was when he'd written to say they might stay on into the new year at least.

'You look ridiculous,' she told him, meanly, as he brought two cups of coffee to the table. 'You look like a second rate Gene Vincent.'

'Thanks, Del,' he replied, smiling sarcastically. 'I can always count on you, eh?'

He returned to the counter and fetched a plate of assorted biscuits, pushing them under Della's nose.

'You can talk anyway. What have you come dressed as? A little old lady librarian?'

'I have to wear this for work. It's how they want me to dress.'

George sat down on the bench opposite her again. 'Well, same for me. This is what I wear to work.'

He didn't actually look bad. He looked quite good, the bomber jacket style suited him, but Della wasn't going to tell him that. She'd just picked on it to annoy him. She took a bourbon biscuit and ate it while George watched her.

'You never tell me what you're doing anymore. Don't you want to...'

'What?'

'Don't you want to know me anymore?' She tried to make it sound matter-of-fact. It didn't. She turned her head away, embarrassed.

'I sent you a letter. Just before I left Hamburg,' he said, softly. 'I've sent you lots of letters and postcards.'

'In the last letter I got from you, you were complaining all your socks had holes in them and your feet were always cold. There wasn't anything about you coming home.'

'Well, I... I didn't know I was coming back then. Not for sure.'

'You didn't think to mention that you might?'

Something over Della's shoulder caught his attention. 'What?' George asked, distracted.

'Only I'm not that bothered if I see you or not, George. I do have my own life. The new job is going fine by the way. I'm enjoying it. Thanks for asking.'

George wasn't listening, his eyes trained on something else. 'Fuck...' he said, under his breath and Della twisted round to see what it was.

Ruth, George's old girlfriend, was walking towards them. She evidently didn't see Della and George either until it was too late. She faltered, undecided whether to pretend she'd seen them or not, but she was already two feet from their table.

'Hi, Ruth,' Della said.

Ruth looked from Della to George, her eyes settling on him as he stared back at her, stonily silent. Della gave him a kick under the table and although he hardly moved, she knew it hurt because he sucked his cheeks in.

'Hi,' George said, finally.

'You're back then,' Ruth said, flatly.

'Looks like it.'

She regarded him coolly, like she was waiting for George to say something. When it became plain he wasn't going to, Ruth gave Della a look like she was something she'd just stepped in, stuck her nose in the air and stalked away across the coffee bar. She sat down with two other girls at a table behind George but still in Della's view, their heads coming together instantly as they spoke in hushed voices and Ruth pointed at Della.

Della sighed. 'You're a pain in the arse, George. I don't understand why you didn't just explain things to her.'

'What's to explain?'

'Exactly.'

George sucked in a deep breath and sat up straighter. 'Hasn't it occurred to you that I don't want to explain to her?'

'Whyever not?'

'Because, Della...' He looked around at the girls, still gossiping, then leaned over the table to Della and lowered his voice. 'If I tell her, she'll think I want to get back together with her.'

'And you don't?'

He cocked his head to one side, giving her a look like that was a ludicrous question.

'So it's fine for her to go around thinking I'm a slag that shags other people's boyfriends?'

He sat back. 'No one thinks that.'

'They do when Ruth tells them!'

'It was... It was one kiss. Over a year ago. It doesn't matter.'

'If it doesn't matter, then tell her.'

George set his jaw in defiance and stayed silent.

Della leaned towards George. 'And there's a rumour going around that we've been sleeping together since we were old enough to know how to do it.'

George blinked, a flash of embarrassment crossing his face. There was the George she knew.

'Sleeping... together?'

'Fucking, George. And I think that's come from her too.'

'Ruth's saying that?'

'This is what happens when you go to Germany for three months. I've had to deal with all this crap.'

He slouched down, like he didn't want to be seen. 'Well, I'll... I'll tell her about that then. She can't go round saying shit like that.'

'I've told her it's bollocks. She says Paul told her and you told Paul. Is that true?'

George folded his hands over his chest. 'Of course not. I wouldn't say that.'

'Then you need to tell Ruth that the kiss she saw was nothing. Nothing ever happened between us. I was upset because of Jim and you were... trying to cheer me up.'

That's what he'd said. He'd kissed her to cheer her up. It was to distract her from crying. Well, it'd done that in more ways than he'd intended. It was a pity Ruth had seen it. The worst timing in the world, but Della did think she was overreacting and dragging it on a bit now. One kiss. One meaningless kiss. George had just been messing about.

Della had sent him after Ruth but he hadn't gone to find her. When she went back down the stairs, Jim and his other girlfriend had gone, Ruth was nowhere to be seen and George was showing his guitar to someone, sitting with Paul on the stage.

The crowd had thinned in the break and Della went to the front, leaning on the wall at the side of the stage, wondering why he'd decided to kiss her just then, but George had looked at her and then turned away like he hadn't even seen her.

Ken Brown came in and told George that Ruth was sitting outside, crying. George wouldn't go out to her. He just plucked a couple of strings on his guitar and said, 'We're on again in a minute.'

George had apologised to Della the next day. He'd said it was a stupid joke and it had got out of hand. He hadn't apologised to Ruth.

Della pursed her lips and shook her head at him. 'This is a different side to you, George. I never would have said you were cruel.'

He laughed, a burst of mirthless noise. 'I'm not cruel!'

'What would you call it?'

George twisted round, looking for Ruth, Della supposed. She'd left again already. 'I was thinking of breaking up with her anyway. It's more than a year ago. I doubt she's really all that bothered about it now. I'm not being cruel to her.'

'Me! You're being cruel to me,' Della said, tapping her chest. 'I have to live here while you're off being a rocker in Hamburg. I have to see her at the Casbah or the Cavern or the Jac, and try to pretend I don't notice her whispering to her friends about me.'

'Well, you tell her then.'

'I have! I've told her it was nothing. She doesn't believe me, does she?! She thinks we were having it off the entire time you were going out with her.'

George twisted his mouth. 'Then... Then I suppose you'll just have to stay home every night. Reputation in tatters.'

Della laughed. 'Thanks,' she said, flatly. 'Thanks, that's a big help, George.'

'Take up knitting or somethin'. Fill your spare time.'

'I'll knit you in a minute.'

George laughed. 'What's that even mean?'

'It means--'

'Johnny!' George shouted, interrupting her.

Across the room, a tall man raised a hand in a wave and came over. He had dark hair that was not short short, but a lot shorter than most of the men around here. He was quite handsome. He stuck his hand out for George to shake and when he turned to Della to nod a hello and smile at her, she felt a strong twist of lust in her stomach.

'How long have you been back?' he asked George.

'About three week. Listen, are you still playing with The Casanovas?'

'Uh, no, Cass left. We kinda split up. Didn't you hear that?'

'Yeah, actually. Yeah, I did. That's why I was hoping to catch you. We need a bass player. Are you busy?'

Della gave George another swift kick under the table, harder than before. He whipped his head around and shot her a look. Della raised her eyebrows at him.

George sighed shortly. 'Sorry. Johnny, this is Della. Del, Johnny Gustafson from Cass and The Casanovas.'

'I thought I'd seen you somewhere,' Della said, sitting up. 'I've seen the Casanovas lots of times. You're a fabulous musician.'

'Thanks. It's nice to meet you, Della,' Johnny said. 'That's an unusual name.'

'Yes, my... um, mother picked it,' Della said, foolishly, and died a little inside.

Johnny smiled again and Della smiled back, ignoring George's puzzled looks.

'It's nice that you two are still together,' Johnny said, looking from Della to George and back again. 'You must have been going out for years now. Childhood sweethearts, eh?'

'We're not--' Della started but George waved his hand at her, telling her to shut up. Della sat back in her seat, annoyed with herself. Why was she always so terrible at flirting? Boys never seemed to understand that's what she was doing. It certainly wasn't genetic. Evelyn was a born flirt.

'What's happened to your bassist?' Johnny asked George.

'He's staying in Hamburg, but we've got gigs. One at the Casbah tomorrow night, then Christmas Eve and the day after boxing day--'

'What's Stu's girlfriend like?' Della asked. 'Why is he staying in Hamburg with her?'

George shot her a look but didn't answer her.

'Gigs yours if you want it?' he said to Johnny.

He twisted his mouth. 'Well, I can't really.'

'I thought you said Cass had left?'

'Yeah, but the other three of us are going to do something together.'

'Oh, right,' George said, disappointed.

'Did Stu fall in love with her?' Della asked. 'What was her name again?'

'Shouldn't you be getting back to work?' George replied.

'No,' Della said, sulkily.

'The Big Three,' Johnny said, smiling. 'That's what we're calling ourselves now.'

'Well, good luck with it, mate,' George said, affably.

'Thanks. Hope you find a bass player. Nice meeting you, Della.'

'You too-- ' Della said, but he'd already gone.

George turned back to her. 'Stu's girlfriend is called Astrid,' George said, tapping the letter he writing when Della arrived, still on the table between them. 'I writing to him to and try and convince him to come back sooner, but I doubt he will. Someone said Paul should do it.' He shook his head. 'Paul would make a crumby bass player.'

'He's staying there for Christmas?'

'Yeah, seems so.'

'Why didn't he come home with the rest of you?'

'He's... He's in love, I suppose,' George said, and shrugged. 'Leaves us in a hole though.'

'You've got gigs?'

'A couple, yeah.'

'You weren't going to tell me about them either?'

George smiled, smugly. 'Want to come?'

'Why are you being such a prick?'

George straightened his back, surprised. 'I'm not--'

'He's always a prick.' John Lennon sat down, sliding across the bench and bumping into George. John wore a black leather bomber jacket that matched George's perfectly.

'Oh, look,' Della said. 'Matching outfits. Like Tweedle dum and Tweedle dee.'

John laughed hollowly. 'She's a wit, your bird, isn't she?' he said to George.

'She's not my bird,' George said.

'Of course she's not.'

'Johnny Gus can't do it. They're forming a new band.'

'No matter. Pete's mate, Chas says he'll do it.'

George raised an eyebrow. 'Is he any good?'

'He has his own bass guitar. That's good enough.' John leaned over towards Della. 'Don't know where we can find a set of drums do you?'

'What do you need drums for?'

'Our drummer. He left his a couple of thousand miles that way when him and Paul got deported for setting cinemas on fire.'

Della laughed. 'Paul told me about that. If I hear of any drums falling off the back of a lorry, I'll let you know.'

'If they fall off the back of a lorry, we'll probably all hear them.' John grinned and sat back, putting his hands palm flat on the table. 'Could be worse, I suppose. It's only half the band who don't have instruments. At least George managed to grab his before they booted him out the door.'

'Booted him out?'

'Yeah, deported him.'

Della turned to George. 'You were deported too?'

George gave John a sideways look. 'Yeah.'

'Why didn't you say so?'

'I didn't think it was important.'

'So you set fire to the cinema too?'

'No. No, for another reason.'

'What?'

'If you two are going have a lovers quarrel, I've better things to do,' John said, and pinching a biscuit from the plate, left.

Della turned to George, questioningly.

'He's joking,' George said.

'You didn't get deported?'

'About having a... lovers quarrel. He was taking the mick.'

'Why?'

'Because John's just like that,' George said, and grinned. It faded. 'Because I'm... I'm twelve years old.'

Della frowned. George sighed, obviously uncomfortable, and looked down.

'I'm only seventeen. You need to be eighteen to work past eleven PM in Germany. They found out I was underage and sent me home.'

'Oh,' Della said.

He lifted his head. 'I'm--'

'George! Come 'ed!' John shouted from across the room. He stood in the coffee bar doorway, blocking it as someone tried to get inside behind him.

'Where?' George shouted back.

'We're rehearsing with Chas this aft. We've got to go and break Paul out of prison. Come on! Time is of the essence!' John barrelled through the door, with a 'Fuck me! It's bloody freezing!' and knocked the lad who was still trying to get inside out of the way.

George stood up. 'Come with?' he asked Della.

'Come with you?'

'Yeah. Come and watch us rehearse.'

'I've got to go back to work.'

'Can't you skive it? I'm sorry I've not seen you. I wasn't avoiding you, really. It's just happened like that.' He gave her a boyish smile and Della softened.

'I can't, George,' she said, regretfully.

'Alright. Well, come to one of the shows then. The Casbah, tomorrow. We're different now to when you saw us last.'

'Why?'

'We've... changed.'

'Do you do tricks now? Juggle fire?'

He smiled. 'Something like that.'

'I can't come tomorrow.'

'George!' John yelled, leaning back in the door. 'I'm freezing my tits off out here!'

'One of the others then. Christmas eve. Or the day after boxing day. This fella booked us for Litherland Town Hall. Come to that.'

'GEORGE!'

Della nodded.

'See you soon.' George said, stepping away to follow John. 'And I will. If you can't make it tomorrow, I'll come and find you, okay?'

Della nodded. 'This side of Christmas?'

'Yes. Promise.' And then he was gone.

Della rested the back of her head against the wall of the house and lit a cigarette while she waited. It was freezing out here but she wasn't going inside. Inside the kitchen, Evelyn and Alan were rowing. Again. An increasingly frequent occurrence of late. They'd been to Evelyn's work Christmas do this afternoon, but they were back home already, not even seven o'clock yet. That didn't bode well.

She thought about going across to George's but he probably would have gone out by now. She had seen him this morning. He'd been smoking a cigarette out of his bedroom window, bare chested despite the frost covering everything on Upton Green. He'd whistled to attract her attention and she'd waved to him thinking how odd it was that she hadn't seen him any other morning.

Della had gone into work today - a Saturday - to help sort out one of the file rooms. She was still on her probationary period and she thought volunteering to do it might make her look good. She'd hoped she would be home by lunch, but it'd taken all day and it still wasn't finished. She would have gone to the Casbah if she'd got home early enough. Now all she wanted was to soak in a warm bath and go to bed early.

She flicked the end of her cigarette away. They were still screaming at each other, but she wasn't standing out here in the cold any longer.

'People can hear you across the street,' Della said as she stepped inside the kitchen. 'Can't you keep your voices down?'

They both ignored her. Della's mother sat at the table glaring at Alan while he danced in the doorway to the hall, like he was trying to leave but always having to come back in for the last word.

'You're turning into a fucking lush, Evie,' Alan growled at her. 'One of those old slags, always down the boozer, always pissed, shag anyone who will buy them another drink.'

'A lush,' Evelyn repeated and smiled mirthlessly.

'Yes. A lush and an old tart. That's where you're headed if you don't stop.'

Della took her coat off and folded it over the back of one of the chairs at the table. Evelyn's eyes were glassy and her mouth tugged downwards at the corner, lipstick smeared on one side. Her hand waved as the cigarette she held burned away.

'It's Christmas. I can have a drink at Christmas if I want to.'

'And what about all the other days?'

'What other days?'

'How about a cup of tea?' Della suggested, crossing to the kettle and taking it to fill it at the kitchen sink. 'Or black coffee might be better...'

'Listen to me, Evie. You think I'm going to stay with you if you keep hitting the booze like this, you've another think coming.'

'Oh, get out then. Get the fuck out of my house. I don't want you here.'

'Your house?'

'Certainly isn't your house, is it? What have you ever put into it?'

'Not yours either though. If it's anyone's, then it's Jack Clarence's house. He pays for it.'

Della stopped, kettle still in her hand as she was taking it back to the oven, and stared at Alan. He glanced at her, a flicker of guilt crossing his face and then hardened his gaze at Evelyn.

'Don't try to come it, girl, making out you're always scrimping to pay the bloody mortgage. It's been--'

Evie picked up the sugar bowl from the table and hurled it at him. Della flinched as it hit the wall beside Alan's head, shattering in an explosion of white sugar and fragments of china.

'You fucking crazy bitch!' Alan yelled at her and stormed through the glass panelled door into the heart of the house, slamming it into the wall.

'Smash that door, Al, and you'll be leaving a lot sooner than you think!'

No reply but another door, upstairs, slammed. Evelyn put her head in her hands, swearing under her breath, her cigarette threatening to singe her hair. Della paused and gathered herself.

'Do you want a cup of coffee, Mum?' she asked, taking the cigarette out of her hand and resting it on the side of the ashtray in front of her.

'No.'

'I think you do. A strong one.' She took the kettle to the stove and lit the hob. 'What... what did Alan mean?'

'About what?'

'About this being my... dad's house?' Della still had her back to her. She closed her eyes.

'Nothing. He doesn't know what he's talking about.'

Della opened her eyes again. She didn't say anything else. There wasn't any point. She took two mugs from the draining board by the sink.

'Do you want to... go for a lie down?' Della asked, carefully. 'I'll bring a drink through to you.'

'You sound like him.'

'He's just trying to... look after you. You shouldn't get yourself into a state like this.'

'Not Alan. Him. Your father.'

Della paused, then ignored it and carried on, heaping instant coffee into the mugs.

'Your words. The words you use. You're just like Jack.'

She kept her back to her, hoping that ignoring her would mean she'd drop the subject. Della shouldn't have said anything, but then again, what different would that make? Wasn't every Christmas the same?

'And you look like him. Every time I look at your face, I see Jack Clarence there. In your eyes, your mouth. You have the same colour hair. We're all blondes in my family. You're definitely a Clarence, Della.'

'I'm... not a Clarence,' Della said, to appease her. Clarence was a dirty word in this house. His name was never uttered. There was an unspoken law about that, but it always ended up being broken around this time of year.

'He left us just before Christmas.'

'I know.'

'The start of December. We'd already bought Christmas presents for you.'

'I know, Mum. You've told me.'

'He said he would have felt like a fraud if he'd stayed. Pretending to be happy, celebrating Christmas with his wife and daughter, when he really wanted to be with that tart.'

'Mum, please.'

'What, Della? It's true. She--'

'You're just upsetting yourself. It was a long time ago now.'

'Every time I look at you, there he is.'

Della busied herself, taking the dustpan and brush from under the sink and sweeping up the sugar and the remains of the sugar bowl. She avoided looking at Evelyn as she did it, although she could feel her watching her, and an uncomfortable silence settled over them.

The kettle whistled.

'He didn't care about us,' Evelyn said as Della stood up to put the dustpan on the side and went to the kettle.

Della stifled a sigh. She lifted the kettle off the heat.

'He didn't love us, Della. The only things he ever loved was his bloody theatres and his bloody plays. He spent more time in the West End of London than at home with me.'

'Why don't you go through to the other room and I'll--'

'And his women. His fucking actress whores! He loved them too. He didn't think I knew, but I did. Coming home, stinking of perfume, lipstick all over his--'

'For Gods sakes, Mum...'

Evelyn got to her feet. 'And that's all he ever loved. Don't forget that, Della. He didn't love me and he didn't love you. We didn't even feature.'

Della switched the taps on over the sink in the pretence of doing the washing up that was waiting there. Behind her she heard Evelyn totter unsteadily across the kitchen in her high heels and go into the living room across the hall.

She exhaled. It wasn't true. She'd never dare say so to her mother, but what Evelyn always insisted on preaching to Della at this time of year, that he didn't want her, that he didn't love her - that wasn't true. He might have fallen out of love with Evelyn and in love with another woman, but Della was confident that her father hadn't wanted to sever contact and leave her.

The night he'd left, Della had sat at the top of the stairs and listened to her parents fighting. At the foot of the stairs was her father's suitcase. The one he took with him every time he went to London. He hadn't been home long, only a day. It hadn't been unpacked yet. Della stared at the suitcase. Brown leather, battered and worn with use. It was the one he'd had in the army. CAPT. JOHN A. CLARENCE was still printed on the side.

When he was going, he came into the hall, snatched up the suitcase and then saw Della. Evelyn had barricaded herself in the kitchen by that point, so casting a look at the locked door, he'd quietly climbed the stairs to Della. He kissed the top of her head and told her not to worry, that everything would be alright and that he loved her. 'I'll always take care of you,' he'd promised. His last words to her. She hadn't seen him since then. Not once, although Evelyn had for the divorce proceedings. Della suspected it was her mother who'd kept her father apart from her. She'd always told her Jack didn't want to see her anymore, but Della had always held onto those last words he'd said to her.

Maybe it was true that he still paid for their house? I'll always take care of you. Evelyn might not allow Jack to see Della, but that would be a way for her to keep his promise to her, wouldn't it?

She plunged her hands into the hot, soapy water in the sink and smiled to herself. He was still out there. Dad. He was still out there somewhere.

She jumped as she felt a palm against her rump. Hot, alcohol laden breath whispering in her ear. 'You should wear stuff like this more often, Della.'

She jumped away from Alan with a hiss, water from her hands splattering down her front. 'Get off me.'

'I don't think you look like your father. You look all woman to me.'

'Stop it,' Della warned.

'What? That's a compliment, love. You need to learn how to recognise one.' He reached and smoothed his hand over her hip. Della stepped backwards but the sink trapped her. 'This is a nice dress. You'd never wear dresses when you were a little girl. You were such a tomboy.'

'Keep your hands off me,' Della growled. 'Or I'll tell her.'

'Tell her what?' Alan said, but stepped back from Della anyway. 'I'm just having a joke with you. Just my little joke. Don't you have a sense of humour, love?'

Della glared at him, and as he always did, Alan turned nasty. His face twisted into a sneer.

'You're not like your father. You're just like your bloody mother,' he said and left the kitchen.

Della remained where she was until she was sure he wasn't going to come back. Then taking the tea towel from the side to dry her hands, she stole into the hall and picked up the phone there. It was answered in three rings, and thankfully, by him.

'Hi, it's me,' she whispered. 'Can you meet me somewhere?'

The Casbah was hot and crowded when Della arrived. She'd missed the first band already. Due to the increasing demand, they'd opened some of the smaller rooms. Three rooms had been knocked through into one large space, now named The Spider Room for it's enormous spider and cobweb painted on the wall behind the stage - a proper stage area, in contrast to the Rainbow Room's non-existent stage.

Della looked for George, finding him talking with Arthur Kelly and feeding coins into the jukebox that Mona Best had installed during the Beatles absence. Despite the heat inside the coffee club, he still wore his leather jacket with the collar pulled up.

'Don't put anymore in,' George told Arthur as Della approached. 'We're going on in a minute.'

George had his back to her, so she had to awkwardly tapped him on the shoulder. George turned around. He smiled when he saw her and she felt a rush of emotion that she had to control by clasping her hands together tightly in front of her.

'Hi,' Della said.

'Hi,' George said and frowned, searching her face. He could always tell when she was upset.

'Have you seen what he's got on his feet?' Arthur said to her, scuffing the floor near George's cowboy boots.

Della looked down and nodded. 'I saw them yesterday. He was wearing them then.'

'I said, "I'm not going out with you dressed like that!" I told him he's got to walk five feet behind me!'

Della laughed and George rolled his eyes. She felt instantly better for being here. It could have been another universe down here in the Casbah, with friends and music and laughter. All the better now George was home too. She could forget about her mother and Alan and all that rubbish. It helped just being here.

'Can I talk to you?' Della said, putting her hand on George's arm. George nodded and glanced at Arthur.

'Don't mind me,' Arthur said, and made no attempt to move. George raised his eyebrows at him. 'Oh. Oh, I see, one of those kind of conversations, is it?'

'Sorry,' Della said.

'No bother. I'll... Uh, just go and see if it's raining.'

Arthur ambled away and George turned to Della. 'What's the--' he started, before Della threw her arms around his neck, pulling him down towards her. She held him tightly. He smelled of cigarette smoke and old leather and what she knew was probably his brother's cologne.

'What's up?' George said, gently prising her off him, taking her hands from around his neck and holding them in both of his. 'I thought you couldn't come tonight. Somethin' happened?'

'No. No, just that I'm sorry. For yesterday. I didn't mean the things I said to you.'

George frowned like he didn't know what she was referring to. 'What things?'

'I was just peeved that you didn't tell me you were home,' Della said, unhappily. 'I missed you, you know. While you were away.'

George smiled, bashfully and let go of her. 'Well, I was going to tell you. I was going to yesterday. That's the truth, Del. I was going to ask you if you wanted to come to this.'

'It's like when you went hitchhiking with Paul and you didn't tell me you'd come back then either. I came to see you here, remember? It was the first night. Do you remember?'

'Of course I remember that night.' George gave her a puzzled look.'I wouldn't forget... that. Look, Del, I have been avoiding you, but not like you think. Not why you think. It was because...' He cast his eyes around the club. 'Because I'd written you all those letters saying how amazingly well we were doing and that, and then... it ended. Abruptly. And like you're always telling me, it was because I'm the always the kid in the band. I'm always the baby. It was embarrassing.'

'Georgie, I'm only teasing you when I say that.'

He ran his tongue across his bottom lip. 'I know, but... Still. It's true, isn't it? It's why I got booted out.' He moved closer, putting his head next to hers so he could speak low. 'Before Paul and Pete got sent home as well, I thought I was out of the band. Pete had already written to Chas Newby--' He pointed to a tall lad wearing a pale grey check shirt. He was on the opposite side of the room, talking to Pete Best. 'And asked him if he wanted to go out to Hamburg and take my place.' George stepped back and gave her a small, slightly sorrowful smile. 'As it is, he's subbing for Stu instead. But he goes to college. He can only play until the end of the year, so I don't know what we'll do after that.'

This had clearly been bothering him more than that aloof, snarky George Della had met in the Jacaranda yesterday had let on. She moved closer to him and slipped her hand onto his.

'Even if Paul and Pete hadn't been sent back, I'm sure they would have taken you back as soon as they came home. No one could replace you.'

George looked at her hand. He put his fingers through hers, squeezing. 'Maybe.'

'They would have.'

'Anyway, that's why I've not been round. No other reason. It wasn't that I didn't want to. I just thought you'd laugh at me.'

'I wouldn't have,' Della said, and George lifted his head to her. They both knew she probably would have teased him for it. 'Well, then... I won't,' she amended. 'I won't do it anymore. I'll stop taking the piss so much. I'm sorry.'

'No.' George shook his head. 'Don't do that. Otherwise you wouldn't be you anymore.'

Della smiled, but she was still unhappy with herself. No wonder George avoided her.

'We're on soon,' George said, lowering his voice. He jerked his head towards a hand drawn poster pinned to the wall.

The Beatles are coming! The Fabulous Beatles, direct from Hamburg!

'Not Silver Beatles anymore?'

'No. Just The Beatles. No one realises it's us,' George said and winked.

'What are you doing later?' Della asked.

'I don't know. Hanging round here, I expect. Why?'

'Could I stay at yours tonight?'

'Yeah. You don't have to ask, Del. Has, um... Is that what's wrong?'

She shook her head. 'No. Evelyn's just pissed and rowing with Alan. If I go home, I'll have to be the referee. I'm too tired for all that.'

George chuckled. 'You call your mam Evelyn now?'

'Well, not to her face.'

Across the room, Paul raised a hand in a wave to Della, then jerked his head to the side, indicating for George to come over.

'Show's on,' George said.

'I can stay with you though, Georgie?' Della asked, as George tried to let go of her hand and she held on to him.

He nodded. 'Yeah. I've already said--'

'No, with you,' Della repeated, keeping her voice low. 'But... Don't tell anyone about it. Okay? We just share the bed, that's all, but other people think...'

George paused. 'I wouldn't tell anyone.'

'You can't,' she emphasised. 'Because it would look odd, especially to Phil. He doesn't know.'

'Who's Phil?'

'I put it in my letter to you. The one you didn't get because you'd come back to Liverpool already. Haven't you read it yet? He's--'

'George, put her down you randy sod!' John Lennon bellowed from across the room.

George let go of Della's hand. 'I've got to go, love. Tell me after, eh? Stick around.'

Della nodded but George had already gone, dodging in between tables and chairs and disappearing out of the door on the other side of the room.

Della leaned against the wall by the jukebox and looked around. Phil was late. He said he'd be here by now. She'd wanted to introduce him to George.

The light was already dim in the Spider Room, but they turned it down to almost pitch black for them to walk out onto the stage. Nonetheless, as they came out - Pete, then John, then Paul and George together and lastly the new bassist - the audience recognised them and started to jeer, expecting a new band they hadn't seen before. Della waited for them to say something, to reveal the joke. Instead, they exchanged looks amongst themselves, sly smiles and conspiratorial nods. They picked up their instruments, got into place and Paul stepped up to the mic, centre stage.

'Gonna tell Aunt Mary, 'bout Uncle John--' Paul, with the band behind him, launched into their signature opening song, the one they'd done a hundred times before, it'd always been in the show. Sometimes they'd opened and closed with it in the same set.

But this time, it was different.

This time, they were perfect. Sharp, synchronised, and LOUD.

The audience, and Della, took a gasp, shocked into silence. This was not the band that left for Hamburg four months ago. This was new. This was a band they'd never witnessed before and they were... extraordinary.

They thundered through Long Tall Sally and went straight into Shimmy Like Kate, not even pausing for their rapturous applause. Della moved closer, towards the front of the stage, on the side where George was standing. He saw her and grinned. Della shook her head, disbelief. The song ended abruptly, but all in perfect time with one another - with the exception of the new bass player who was visibly struggling to keep up. He looked around at the others, wide eyed.

George bent down to Della so she could hear him. 'I told you we'd changed,' he said, flippantly.

Della nodded, the only thing she could do before they flew into the next song. She stood at the side, a little dumbfounded and watched the show. It really was a show now. Not a local band playing songs, but a slick act, not exactly polished, but so unique from anything else she'd seen. They were amazing.

Fifteen minutes in, Phil finally arrived, sidling up to Della and surprising her when he put his arm around her. She'd been engrossed in The Beatles performance.

'This is The Beatles!' she shouted in his ear, because anything quieter wouldn't be heard over the music. Phil looked at her blankly, so she added, 'George's band?! You remember I told you about George? That's him, there. On guitar.'

'Oh, I see,' Phil said in her ear.

'No,' she said, frustrated. 'You don't understand. They're bloody amazing!'

He smiled. 'Don't swear, love.'

'Sorry,' she said, but pointed to George. 'That's George, look.'

She thought George was watching them, she thought, but perhaps not because his expression was blank. She smiled and waved to him and George seemed to snap out of it and smiled back.

'Come on, let's get out of here,' Phil said in Della's ear.

'Where are we going?' Della asked.

'It stinks down here. It's too hot. Let's go and get a drink.'

'I want to talk to George. They're good, anyway. Watch them. '

'We can come back later.'

Della was about to argue, but she acquiesced. 'Okay,' she agreed, taking one last look at them as she slipped her hand into Phil's. George turned his head back to her just as she did. 'I'll be back later!' she tried to shout to him over the music. She couldn't tell if he heard her or not. Probably not. He didn't react.