Chapter Text
11:00 July 30th 1958
You sit in the back seat, hands folded in your lap, watching London slide past and give way to the countryside. Fields you don’t recognise ripple past in unfamiliar swathes as you go. Rain streaks the glass, blurring everything outside into shifting grey shapes. The driver’s voice is a distant thing; you’re not really listening, only offering polite hums when appropriate. Liverpool. A promise of new life, wanted or not, not yet within reach. You press your forehead to the cool glass and let the motion lull you into a gentle hush.
You were fifteen when the news arrived: your mother was gone, and Mrs Smith (your late mother’s close friend), who had insisted you call her Mimi when you spoke on the phone, stepped forward with an offer you could not refuse. She had already taken in her orphaned nephew, seventeen-year-old John Lennon, and now she opened her modest home to you as well. Accustomed to the polished life of London and genteel routines, the idea of relocating to Liverpool felt like a brusque dislocation, a plunge into a life far removed from the comforts you knew. Still, beneath your initial reserve, there was a quiet gratitude for Mimis’s charity. You resolved to meet the upheaval of your life with dignity, and to repay the kindness on which you’ll now depend.
Prior to this, life now feels far off, the circumstances giving you little time to process your late mother’s passing. But you seem to handle it well, for now at least, not breaking down in tears like most would. Because you and your mother weren’t very close, only seeing her occasionally due to her work, you never formed a strong bond.
You rouse at the sudden halt of the car. You come to with the moonlight streaming into the car. How long have I been asleep, you think to yourself? The car is still breathing around you, a low, steady thrum. The seatbelt presses into your collarbone; the dashboard clock blinks in the pale wash of a streetlamp. 22:36. Christ. You contemplate to yourself. But in your resolve, you are glad your body let you rest after the tumultuous past couple of weeks; a silent way of recuperating.
Outside Mrs Smith's house sits, awaiting your arrival, the quaint Liverpudlian home; the lights appear to be on. The overall appearance of Mrs Smith's home would be well-kept if described as such, as you notice the trimmed hedges in the garden. The driver’s voice sliced through your quiet observation of the home.
“We’re here. I’ll get your suitcase out for you from the back,” he says with a trace of sympathy lacing his voice.
He takes the keys out of the car. The engines protest dwindling to nothing; the car settled into silence as he got out of the car, retrieving your suitcase. You place your hand against the cool metal of the car door handle as you unbuckle your seat belt. You step out, the driver hands you your suitcase; when it lands in your hand the leather of the strap briefly bites into your palm, while he smooths the front of your skirt with a quick, practical motion - a small, paternal gesture that straightens the fabric and removes the crease left by the the drive - The movement is brisk and unobtrusive, offering comfort and steadies you. The case is heavier than you remember.
A week prior.
You packed with quiet, efficient grief, hands moving with practised efficiency, not putting much thought into it. The leather suitcase sat open in the bed, its worn with use brass buckles catching the lamplight; you folded each garment with care, smoothing its creases soothingly. Every motion is deliberate as there is no time for sentimentality, yet everything you touch seems to carry the weight of memory. You made sure to pack your schoolbooks, slipping in a small photograph of your mother so it wouldn't bend. You managed to fit in most of your clothes, prioritising them as you’re not sure what you’ll be doing in Liverpool, so thinking it’s better to be prepared than not. Practicalities intrude: you folded school reports and letters, thread a ribbon around them and into a separate pocket they went. You fastened the case and tested the catch; the sound of the metal closing felt final.
22:40 July 30th 1958
Suitcase in hand, your feet find the pavement with a soft scrape; the soles of your small heels pick up grit. You pull your coat tighter around not because it’s cold, but to soothe your nerves. Your driver closes the door before retreating back into the car, seeing you off to the door. You turn to face the home; ahead, Mrs Smith's house waits. You cautiously approach the door.
Your hand hovers above the brass knob; the metal is cool and unfamiliar beneath your palm. Calmly, you tell yourself to breathe, be composed, but your breath comes in shallow and quick, a series of small, shaky inhales that do nothing to steady the tremor in your fingers.
Imagine the sound your knock will make and rehearse it in your head until the motion incites less fear. Behind that rehearsal, other thoughts crowd in: the absurdity of being here at all, the suddenness of loss, the way your life has been folded and handed to strangers. Politeness sits on your tongue.
For a moment, you consider retreating, slipping back into the safety of the street. Absurd. This is your only option, and you must accept it gratefully.
Your knuckles finally lift and fall, two, careful raps that announce your arrival. The sound seems louder than it should. Immediately, you chastise yourself for the noise, for the tremor that made it uneven, for the way your heart thuds against your ribs while you wait for a reply. Smoothing your skirt nervously as you wait, tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear as if arranging your appearance could arrange your fate.
The door opens. You are met with a middle-aged woman. Taking in her appearance, you notice: her steady figure in a floral modest dress, the fabric light against the July heat, her hair is swept into a neat bun with a few silver threads weaving through, a thin cotton apron is tied at her waist, her sensible shoes are scuffed at the toes, clearly worn in. She speaks clearly as she says your name sternly.
“I’ve been expecting you.” She states matter-of-factly. You shuffle slightly under the scrutiny of her gaze before replying, trying to keep your voice steady.
“Yes, Mrs Smith, sorry for the delay. There was some traffic on the way up.” She raises an eyebrow at your formality. She pauses a moment before observing you sharply. When she speaks next, her words are measured, low and plain.
“Come in then, it’s late, so I’ll show you to your room”, she ushers you in, so surprised at your demeanour. As she steps aside with a quiet sigh. The weight of her responsibilities settling visibly on her shoulders. She doesn’t smile-not quite- but there was no harshness in her expression, just weary acceptance.
As you walk through the hallway, it smells of lavender polish and something you can’t place… whatever must have been on for tea. A small coat rack stood by the door as you carefully pad your way into the hallway. Mrs Smith gestures at the coat rack. You slip off your coat and place it on, a small, polite smile forming aimed in her direction. She takes little notice of it but starts to walk towards the stairs. You follow tentatively, taking in the black and white pictures on the walls of people you don’t yet recognise. As you reach the top of the stairs, she says in a voice softer than the previous exchange.
“This will be your room.” She gestures to the room in-front of us, as you push the door open revealing a prettily furnished room, the lightly coloured wallpaper went well with the lace curtains you thought as you let your eyes rake over the room: a twin sized bed was in the middle with a nightstand next to it, to the left of the room there was a window with a white dainty dressing table infront of it. You turn your eyes to the right side of the room and see the modest white wardrobes.
“Thank you, Mrs Smith, this is a lovely room.” You say politely, smiling.
“Do call me Mimi.” She finally proposes a small smile forming on her lips. Approval washes over her features, getting the impression that you’re a well-mannered girl, and it’s a nice change from the usual youth in the house…
You nod politely before retreating into your room. The stairs creak as Mimi then shuffles back downstairs. A long exhale escapes you as you gently click your door shut, finally getting some time to yourself. You pad over to your bed. Running your fingertips over the bedsheets, the material soft under your skin, before sitting down.
Mulling over the day's events, you feel a quiet relief after getting through the day. As you surely thought, moving to Liverpool would be much worse than it is turning out to be. The kindness from Mimi definitely helped. Even though some trepidation for the coming days fills you, you are still glad to be in the position you have ended up in. Glad to not be with a complete stranger at least…
You get changed into your pyjamas and slip under your covers, trying to make yourself comfortable. Content with the state of yourself, you finally let your eyes flutter shut. After not long, fatigue finally takes over, you drift into sleep only to be awoken, pale moonlight streaming in through the lace curtains making you squint- by harshly hissed words coming from the hallway. You decide to press yourself to the door, cool wood against your side as you listen.
“John, I don’t care how you feel about her being in the house. ” Mimi declares. Voice firm enough to let John know the seriousness of her thoughts.
Your breath hitches. John. That must be Mimis' nephew, you deem.
“Please just give her a chance, I’m sure you might even like her if you do. She’s a lovely young girl.” Mimi pleads firmly.
John scoffs. “Doubt it. Posh bird from London proper, little angel.” John quipped mockingly.
A slight frown laces your expression as you nibble on your lip nervously, he’s never even met me?, but still continue to listen.
“Why d’we have t’ take her in?” John challenges, voice coming out huskier than his aunt's, with a thicker accent.
“Enough of this, she’s staying here, and you'd better sort this attitude before you speak to her.” Mimi cautions. Voice firmly setting a boundary.
Then John again, louder this time:
“She’s not even bloody related! Ya don’t just bring in some stranger ‘cause she lost her mum!”
The cruelty of it stung, not because it was about you, of course, that contributed some, but because of how callous it sounded. No sympathy at all.
Mimi's voice comes out scolding, “She lost her mother just like you did, John! Don’t be so selfish.” A beat of silence followed; you could almost feel the weight of the truth hanging in the air.
“Don’t mean I want a stranger in m’ house,” John mumbles indignantly, but still no less harsh.
The silence was broken by footsteps against the floorboards. Followed by the slam of his bedroom door.
You stay frozen against the bedroom door, still clad in your neat pyjamas, long after the argument ends, fingertips curled into the wood so tightly they ache. The silence afterwards feels worse somehow.