Tuesday the 28th of September 1958

There was a sharp agonising and splintering pain at the nape of my neck that made me let out a whimper. Somehow I had hit the back of my head. My eyes fluttered open and I blinked sharply, squinting my eyes as tried to focus through the pouring rain that thundered heavily against my skin. How on earth was I outside? Seconds ago I was inside with my grandmother, listening to a beautiful record called Yesterday by the downright awesome band The Beatles. Thinking about it deeper the only logical explanation I could think of what that I had fallen asleep or fainted from my fear of thunderstorms. Oddly, I was dreaming up someplace I had never been before.

From the corner of my eye, I watched a very very old car pass by me, one that you didn't see very often in my time. It was like the car I used to play in when I was little on my grandfather's farm. I tried to piece together where the hell I was and clearly I was extremely far away from home and even my time period. I rolled my eyes at my subconsciousness, I was dreaming of the past... Wow, of course, I would choose to dream of the 1950s or 1960s, how creative of me. This dream of mine was probably the most vivid dream I could ever recall having, no dream of mine ever felt so real, I could even smell faint burnt tar, the strong smell of cigarette smoke, even the dampness from the rain. Why couldn't I have dreamt of somewhere warm and holiday-like, for example, Bali?

I was sprawled out on my back on some concrete sidewalk of some street in some suburb that was far away from home. I diffidently wasn't in Australia anymore. I attempted to sit up over to my back the pain in my head doubling but settling once I stayed still, feeling the cold rain against my face as I shivered violently looking up at the darkening grey clouds. There wouldn't be much daylight left soon. I winced again at the painful throbbing at the back of my head as I forced myself to stand, even if it took a few times and brought tears to my eyes. I knew that it would be better to move than to stay sprawled on my back on the sidewalk. By now the cold rain had drenched me even more as I sat by the concrete curb despite the protection of my raincoat and my feet were like ice, sadly, I had no shoes.

I tucked my cold and numb hands into the pockets my old yellow rain jacket, my gaze swiftly examining the cracks in the concrete as I walked down the street. Somehow, my shoulder hit someone else's with a little too much force and I found myself falling onto my behind. Now dazed with discomfort and pain, I looked up, only to find concerned yet startlingly beautiful hazel doe-like eyes of a very handsome teenage boy looking down at me with immense worry.

"Sorry. Are yer alright, lass?" The boy asked in a soothing British accent and if I was dreaming I was grateful for my subconscious — because I had always believed accents made boys a hundred times more attractive. The Britsh boy, wait – the Scouse boy, who was kneeling beside me, was gazing down at me. Oddly, he seemed familiar and I just couldn't place who this person was. The rain seemed to grow heavier as the boy brushed his dark hair out of his pretty eyes — I realised he was waiting for a response, for me to say something.

I felt my cheeks flush with embarrassment and bob my head up and down as a yes, but the boy didn't seem convinced. 

"I'm alright—," then it hit me and I cut myself off as I realised if my grandmother was here she would have been ashamed of me for not noticing who this teenage boy was. The teenage boy in front of me was a young and teenage Paul McCartney and he was from the infamous band of my childhood, the Beatles. I could feel my eyes widen as I laughed at myself, shaking my head even if it hurt to move, "What a peculiar dream I am having..." 

A frown came over Paul's face and the concern in his hazel doe-like eyes only grew as he spoke again, his voice so mesmerising, I knew that I could listen to it for hours and not grow tired of it. "I think yer hit yer head a lil' too hard, love." 

Why the hell was I dreaming of Liverpool?! And Paul McCartney?!

There was so much truth in his words because I could feel my face pale a considerable amount because Paul only frowned again at my reaction, rain-catching in his long eyelashes as he blinked in a politely confused manner. 

"No, this is a dream," I muttered in disbelief, not able to comprehend this situation, "I'm dreaming." 

Paul didn't utter another word and I knew must have seemed insane to him. I took a deep breath, no matter what I had to stay calm. I looked found myself examining Paul's appearance for evidence and comfort. Paul was a lot younger than what my all-round memory of him was, which was mainly different mental pictures of him I had absorbed over my childhood, but even now they seemed to blur and mesh together into one. In this dream or whatever it was, Paul was a teenager and surely that was something to go off. I wished I had paid attention to my grandmother's rants about the Beatles over the years. I barely knew anything and that was worrying for me.

"What year is it?" I asked softly and Paul seemed more worried than before. 

"1958," Paul muttered cooly but there was a hint of worry behind the surface. I knew now, that I wasn't going to say anything more about this being a dream and I knew I would be pushing it if I asked for the date as well. 

Bewildered at the year, knowing that I was 62 years in the past, I found the courage to meet his gaze, "Really?" 

I found a sudden truth in the possibility of this being so real, I knew that there was no way I could have dreamt all this, I don't think I was smart enough too. 

"Aye, it is. Yer seem to have rather hurt yerself, love, let's get out of this rain and inside."

I wanted to trust this young and teenage Paul but I definitely needed to clarify that he was the actual Paul. "What's your name?" I asked in a nervous manner, this had to be real now, but if the possibility it was I had made a complete fool of myself in front of one of the coolest people ever to exist. 

"I'm Paul McCartney. We can talk and get acquainted once we're inside, alright?" Well, at least I knew he was really Paul.

— ❁ —

"Are yer alright there?" I found myself almost spitting out the tea in both shock and embarrassment, Paul McCartney caught me starring at him and sadly I thought he wouldn't notice. Paul smiled a rather smug and boyish grin across from me as we both sat crosslegged by the warm fireplace in his living room. I knew that I was blushing and I knew that millions of girls in the future would have the exact same reactions. Oh, how I want nothing more in the world than to wake up right now. "

Yes, I'm fine, thank you," I muttered, unable to meet his gaze.

After walking down the street for a good five to ten minutes in the rain to get to his house which I knew now as 20 Forthlin Road, in Liverpool. Paul invited me into his small house for a cup of nice, hot tea — which wasn't half bad since I didn't really like any sort of tea, but it this tea I was drinking needed some sugar and I was too embarrassed and cold to ask. Although I did wonder where his family was. Paul settled his cup of tea down carefully on the tiled hearth by the fireplace and I knew he was going to ask me questions now. Who wouldn't? I was a stranger in his home. I suddenly felt dizzy and I knew it wasn't just from hitting my head. 

"Now, love, yer can tell me yer name if yer wish."

There was a sudden jolt of panic at his words. If I was really back in time and after watching so many films and television shows and knowing the complexations of changing one little thing in the past could have disastrous consequences in the future. I knew I shouldn't tell Paul my actual name just in case, even if my name wasn't all that modern I suppose. I needed a name suitable to this era in time and nothing was coming to my mind, I was taking way to long to say my name and I think Paul had noticed that. 

"My name is...D-Dasiy. Daisy Twist."

"Daisy," Paul repeated rolling the syllables across his tongue in his Scouse accent. I looked and instantly found myself lost in his gorgeous hazel eyes by accident. Although he seemed only sixteen or seventeen, my age or a little bit older, I was a little starstruck by his presence even if he hadn't accomplished so many amazing things yet. Now I understood another reason why my grandmother and my mother loved the Beatles because Paul McCartney was extremely handsome and I knew that he was an extremely talented musician. It made sense to me now of why he was referred to as the 'cute' Beatle.

I took a sip of my tea and swallowed it quickly due to the taste, although I was thankful for the warmth the cup brought to my icy fingers. I stole a quick glance at Paul from the corner of my eye and then I turned my gaze back to the dancing and crackling flames in the fireplace. "Where are ya from? Yer have a funny accent. I can tell yer not from around here." 

I blinked a few times, hesitating, how much could I tell him about my interests, my family, my life — me in general?! I didn't want to lie, I had only ever lied a few times in my life, purely because I was a terrible liar but lying wasn't a too great thing to do anyway. Suddenly Paul leant away from away with a gentle sigh escaping his lips as I met his hazel eyes which had much more concern than before and I knew that must have been saying a real lot.

"Australia," I answered simply rolling the words across my tongue unable to stop myself from growing tense. 

"Tell me, is it normal for an Australian bird like yer not to wear shoes?" Paul asked with that signature boyish grin of his and for a moment I did want to laugh but the urge to do so vanished in an instant. Instead, I said nothing, I just allowed myself to meet his pretty eyes again, trying to find comfort and perhaps a small sense of familiarity in them. "Ah, alright then. Not much of a talker are ya, love?"

My vision began to blur and tears begin to stream down my face. The weight of this possibility came to a roaring crash down on my shoulders. I had lost my understanding of the world, which was clear to me because now nothing even made sense to me anymore. I knew that there were two possibilities, the first possibility was that this was real, that somehow I had managed to go back in time and the second possibility that I was dreaming or hit my head or something along those lines. Even if this was real, why in the world did I come to the year 1958 — what had made me want to me here or was it just at random?

I quickly brought the sleeve of my thankfully dry red woollen sweater to dab my eyes, I was making a fool of myself in front of Paul but somehow I didn't care. Something full of emotion had crossed Paul's face and it was an empathetic look and I think that he knew I wasn't crying from the fact that I had no shoes. I guess I knew that was my cue of why I had to leave.

In an unbalanced manner, I shakily stood up. I had dried off a lot and it was only my jeans that were still a little damp. 

"Th-hank you-u so much for letting me dry off and into you're home, it was very kind of you. I must go now, it was such a pleasure to meet you, P-Paul McCartney." Paul seemed dazed as I walked out of the living room, moving towards the front door to receive my raincoat from the rack by the front door. 

"Wait! It's wild out there! Daisy!—," Somehow Paul had managed to catch me by the wrist and had turned me to face him. "At least wait til' it stops and I can have a look at yer head. My mum was a nurse. I'll know what I'm doing."

"Please, I must go. I have to go home. My grandmother must be worried sick about me." Tears were falling and all I wanted was to go home to my loving grandmother — even to my father and my step-mother-to-be. My life wasn't perfect, it was far from it but no matter what it was mine, my life and I missed it. This dream or whatever it was, was starting to feel like a nightmare. 

"Yer in no condition to be out in that rain, love. Yer all wobbly. And you'll get soaked again. And I'll even walk ya home once this bloody rain stops." My head did hurt. I was unbalanced. I would get soaked again if I went outside. But Paul wouldn't be able to walk me home seeing that the place I called home was on the other side of the world. I was in Liverpool, England, the infamous birthplace of the Beatles and I was all alone.

"Fine then," I muttered as an ecstatic grin stretched across Paul's face as he took my raincoat from my arms and hung it back on the rack. I was stuck here. I was stuck in 1958. I had no idea how to get home, back to the future — where I belonged.