‘Ah, Jo-Jo,’ he says, smiling at me. ‘He’s not quite Paul or John, but he’s definitely got something there with his song-writing, and his singing is not too shabby either.’
‘So?’ I ask hopefully, ‘Do you think you might be able to work with him?’
George Martin smiles at me. ‘With a little work, yes.’
I nearly punch the air in a “Yes” fashion. But quickly realise that wouldn’t be ladylike behaviour for the sixties. ‘That’s fantastic! Thank you so much for coming along tonight, George, I mean Mr Martin,’ I hastily correct myself.
‘No, thank
you
, Jo-Jo, for asking me. Well perhaps I should say,
twisting my arm
to come,’ he winks. ‘There’s not many people who can persuade me to come down the King’s Road on a Thursday evening and sit in a pub listening to, what did you call it?’
‘Karaoke.’
‘Interesting. Tell your friend to call my secretary tomorrow morning, and we’ll try and make an appointment for a demo on Monday.’
‘Wow! I will, I will, and thank you again.’
‘Not a problem,’ he says, standing up now. ‘Just don’t forget those cakes you promised me – I’ll expect them up on my desk first thing tomorrow morning. The ones I had today at the office were delicious. You and your friend should be commended on them.’
‘Don’t you worry, Mr Martin, I won’t forget. It’s Ellie that does most of the baking, I’m just her – publicist, I guess you’d call me.’
George Martin smiles. ‘And a fine job you do of it too. It’s been noted, Jo-Jo. It’s been noted. Have a good rest of your evening. I’ll look forward to the cakes, and thank you once again.’
George Martin stands up to leave. He raises his hand casually to Harry who has just finished his second song, and is insisting to his eager crowd that that is it for him for tonight.
He comes rushing over just as George leaves the pub.
‘Was that George Martin you were talking to then?’ he asks breathlessly.
‘Yep.’
‘What on earth was he doing here tonight?’
‘I asked him to come.’
‘
You
did? Why?’
‘I asked him to come and listen to you play,’ I say, sitting down in the seat George Martin has just vacated.
Harry’s mouth drops open and he rubs his forehead with his hands. ‘Oh my lord! I just auditioned for George Martin and I didn’t know!’ He stares down at me, sheer panic and trepidation in his eyes. ‘And what did he think? Did he say anything to you?’
‘Relax, Harry, he thinks you’re fab, and he wants you to come and sing for him on Monday.’
Harry just stares at me again. Then he flops down on to the seat next to me. ‘Jo-Jo, you do know George was the one who signed the Beatles to Parlophone at EMI, don’t you?’ He shakes his head in disbelief. ‘Of course you do, sorry; I’m just in a state of shock. George Martin, music producer extraordinaire, has asked to see me!’ And without having time to feel awkward or nervous, he leans across, wraps his arms around me and kisses me on the cheek. ‘You’re bloody fantastic, do you know that!’
‘Yes, I have been told once or twice,’ I say, grinning, as I hug him back. This is starting to be fun, helping people out here in 1963. Maybe it isn’t so bad after all. And as I rest my head on Harry’s shoulder and hold him close to me, I spy the other George sitting across the pub, even more tucked away than George Martin was. He winks at me and mouths the words: ‘Nearly there.’
‘Welcome,’ Walter Maxwell says, looking out into the foyer of EMI House, where right now as many employees as humanly possible are squeezed in. ‘I hope you can all hear me at the back.’
There are a few murmurs of acknowledgment, and Walter continues.
‘The time has come to announce the winner of the tickets to the gala lunch with the Beatles, and,’ he adds with a flourish, ‘I’m pleased to say that the winner and guest will now have the morning off and receive free transport from their home in a Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud, kindly donated by Abbey Car Hire.’
Oohs and aahs fill the room.
I look at Walter Maxwell standing slightly raised up on a little footstool that someone has found for him to balance on. I haven’t had a chance to go back to his office and question him more about his photo, or the reason for him being here, or any of the hundred other questions I have for him, because he’s been out on business all day and has only just come back in time to make the big announcement. I’m determined to try and catch him tonight, though, after everyone leaves, and before he goes home himself.
It’s Friday night and we’re all gathered to find out who will win employee of the month, and, more importantly it would seem to everyone else, also win the ‘golden ticket’ to ride in the Rolls-Royce to the gala lunch and meet the Beatles. I smile at my choice of words. ‘Ticket to Ride’ – another Beatles song, but not quite out yet if my memory serves me correctly. Gosh, I really do know far too much about the Beatles – my parents have a lot to answer for.
‘So without further ado,’ Mr Maxwell says, ‘and in the best award ceremony style, I’m going to read you a shortlist of the top nominees, and we’re honoured that Sir Joseph has joined us to announce the winner.’
A friendly-looking man with thinning wispy hair raises his hand from the chair he waits patiently on. Ah, this must be the famous Sir Joseph Lockwood, MD of EMI. I’ve only heard about him; I’ve never actually seen him around the building.
I look back at Walter Maxwell again.
Can’t you get this over with quickly?
I implore him silently.
I need to ask you some questions
.
‘Cynthia Roper, for her sterling work in accounts this month. It’s been a busy month, and there have been many staff shortages with the measles epidemic that we experienced through a few departments, so we think you’ve coped admirably, Cynthia.’
Cynthia smiles and blushes profusely behind her tortoiseshell spectacles.
‘James Pepper in publicity for his latest campaign for Cliff Richard. A fantastic job in conjunction with the
Summer Holiday
film, I think we’ll all agree.’
‘Bloody great job,’ Harry murmurs, standing next to me. ‘Why would you release a summer movie in February? Jimmy had to sweat blood to counterbalance that.’
I think about the incredibly detailed thought process that will go into every inch of a publicity campaign in the future. Releasing a summer movie in the winter? It just wouldn’t happen.
‘Ellie Williams for her beautiful and incredibly tasty cakes that she generously baked for us all. A kind gesture, and one I understand you’re going to continue, Ellie, am I correct?’ Mr Maxwell looks around the room for Ellie.
I see a petite hand waving from beneath the sea of people. They part a little so Ellie can be seen.
Ellie, bright red, looks eagerly back at Mr Maxwell. ‘Yes, Mr Maxwell, of course, Mr Maxwell.’
‘But with recompense,’ Sir Joseph murmurs from his seat. ‘I hope you’ll be charging us all a small amount for your cakes in future, Ellie? I certainly won’t mind paying for them.’
‘You tried one, Sir Joseph?’ Ellie asks, stunned.
‘I certainly did and it was delicious.’ He smiles at Ellie. ‘I’ll take two dozen next week if you can manage it, Ellie – it’s my niece’s birthday on Tuesday.’
‘Yes, yes, of course, Sir Joseph. You just let me know when and where.’ She grins at me.
‘Our next nominee is Harry Rigby.’
Harry, usually so relaxed, stands bolt upright, like an iron rod has just been dropped down the back of his suit.
‘You’ve made the shortlist at the insistence of Mr Martin,’ Mr Maxwell says, almost begrudgingly. ‘It isn’t for your work here that you’ve been nominated, Harry, but Mr Martin insists that you have a raw musical talent that we rarely see, and therefore that makes you a unique EMI employee, eligible for this award, and a particularly suitable candidate for the prize.’
‘Wow!’ is all Harry can mutter.
‘And that completes the list of nominees. Now I’d like to hand over to Sir Joseph to announce the winner.’
Sir Joseph Lockwood stands and Mr Maxwell steps down from his stool to make way for him. But Sir Joseph waves a dismissive hand at it.
‘I think you’ll agree, everyone mentioned thus far has contributed to the company in very different and very special ways of late. But our winner has gone above and beyond all of the other nominees’ achievements. Not because they’ve made a significant difference to the company’s profits, nor have they done something out of the ordinary. No, they’ve simply helped and assisted everyone else, quietly and without fuss. It’s those people that we need to recognise more in life, and the sort of person who we at EMI House would like to recognise today.’ He pauses for a moment just to make sure he has everyone’s full attention. ‘So, the winner of employee of the month and the person who will be going to the gala lunch with the Beatles is…’ He looks between all the nominees. Then his glance falls on me. ‘Jo-Jo McKenzie.’
I stare at him for a few seconds before my voice eventually stutters into action. ‘What? How… I mean, why me?’
‘Because you, Jo-Jo, keep this company moving at the grass roots level. You’re the person our clients see when they first come into our building, and we’ve had some very favourable reports about you recently. But more importantly than that, I believe you helped out Cynthia when she was struggling up in accounts one day with some strategies about how she could make her department run that little bit more productively, am I correct?’
I nod. Last night when I’d come back for the guitar, I’d gone upstairs to deliver some files before going home, and found Cynthia getting herself in a complete state about how she was going to cope with half her staff off sick, so I’d suggested a few ways an accounts department might run a little more smoothly. But it wasn’t a big deal – accounts were my speciality.
‘And if I’m not mistaken,’ Sir Joseph continues, ‘you were also the person who helped Ellie bake the first of her cakes?’
I shoot a quick glance at Ellie. She always did have a big mouth.
I nod again.
‘
And
you were the person responsible for making sure Harry was discovered by Mr Martin the other evening. Am I correct, Jo-Jo?’
Blushing furiously now, I look up at Sir Joseph. ‘Yes, yes you are. But I didn’t do it for any credit, really I didn’t.’ I glance around the room. ‘I didn’t help James with Cliff Richard, did I?’
No way am I taking any blame for anything Cliff Richard does now or in the future
.
‘No, indeed you didn’t,’ Sir Joseph agrees. ‘But your efforts with the other three, and with the rest of the staff and clients in the company recently, haven’t gone unnoticed, and as a result, Jo-Jo, have earned you the title employee of the month and the prize that goes with it. So, everyone, I think that deserves a round of applause.’
Clapping, interspersed with the odd cheer breaks out in the foyer of EMI House.
‘Who are you going to take with you, Jo-Jo?’ someone shouts across the room. ‘Who will be your special guest at the luncheon on Monday?’
I look from Ellie to Harry. How on earth am I going to choose between them?
But luckily I don’t have to answer that question right then because both Sir Joseph and Mr Maxwell come over to congratulate me.
‘Well done, Jo-Jo,’ they say as the foyer begins to empty and the others begin to filter back upstairs to their offices. ‘Congratulations.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, shaking their hands. ‘I’m sure I don’t deserve it, though.’
‘Well, we’re sure you do,’ Walter Maxwell says. ‘In fact, I know you deserve it. Chances like this don’t come around more than once in a lifetime, you know.’ He nods knowingly at me, and gives my hand a little squeeze before letting it go.
I look at him. There are so many questions I want to ask him right now, but I can’t, I need to get him on his own.
‘So, do you know who you’ll take with you?’ Sir Joseph asks. ‘I hope you know someone who’s a huge Beatles fan?’
I’m about to ask them if it might be possible to have two tickets because there’s no way I’ll be able to choose between Ellie and Harry, when I stop.
‘You know something, I know just the person…’
As I hurry along the King’s Road, my mind is whizzing as fast as my legs. I haven’t got long; George will be shutting up his shop soon. He always stays open a bit later on a Friday night to try and catch keen music buyers on their way home from work with their weekly pay packets clutched in their hot little hands. He’s been doing it for years, he once told me. It was one of the best things he ever did when he first started up, and he’s been doing it ever since.
I can see now how George has kept that shop running for so long; he was way ahead of his time even back then – by which I mean now. Oh, this time travel thing is still confusing me, and I’ve been living in 1963 for nearly a week.
When I told Ellie and Harry what I was going to do with my spare ticket they were fully behind me. As Harry pointed out, he’d have enough excitement on Monday auditioning for George Martin without anything else happening, and Ellie’s response was much the same.
‘Jo-Jo, I’ll be up to me neck in flour and icing sugar on Sunday making these cakes for Sir Joseph’s niece on Tuesday. What sort of state would I be in for meeting the Beatles? You go and take George with you. He’ll really enjoy himself – you know what a huge fan he is.’
So here I am, hurrying towards Groovy Records. But there’s something else bothering me too as I walk. I’ve seen another newspaper with a photo of John F. Kennedy on the front, and I’ve worked out why this bothered me in the pub last night. 1963 was the year JFK was assassinated. I knew this because I’d had to do a project on American history at school and dates always stuck in my head. They’re numbers, aren’t they? And I’ve never had a problem remembering numbers. This event that will shape US history, probably world history, is going to happen a week today, on the twenty-second of November; in fact, the same day the second Beatles album is released. Is there anything I can do to prevent the assassination happening? And more to the point
should
I do something? Every time travel TV show or movie I’ve ever watched has always warned against changing the future. But now I’m here it seems different. Can I live with myself, knowing that something of that magnitude is about to occur, and not at least
trying
to do something to prevent it?
As I arrive at the zebra crossing opposite the World’s End pub, my mind is racing with this new dilemma. There’s already a mother pushing a big old-fashioned pram over the crossing in front of me. She’s managing to do this with one hand, because her other one is gripping tightly to the small hand of a young boy wearing school uniform. He’s wriggling and squirming as they cross, and just as they’re about to reach the other side I notice the boy has dropped something on the crossing.
I see him try to wrestle himself from his mother’s grip, so he can go back and retrieve it, and to prevent this I take a quick look either side of me and step out confidently on to the stripes, quickly picking up the dropped item as I cross. As I lift it up I’m surprised to see it’s an issue of the
Beano
comic. I wave it in the air for the little boy to see, and shout to his mother to wait.
But as they stand on the pavement watching me, it’s not joy that I’ve rescued their possession for them that I see in their faces, but looks of horror.
So I turn my face to see the cause of their dismay.
And as the white car hits me at full speed, everything goes cold. Again.