Chapter Text
Thursday morning arrived with a hush. The skies had cleared some overnight, leaving behind that silvery sort of light Liverpool rarely bothered with — not sunny, exactly, but clean, washed out, and dry enough to hope it might stay that way.
George approached Queen’s Drive at a slower pace than usual. Not because he was stalling — though maybe he was — but because every step toward the house felt a bit exposed. He wasn’t in school clothes this time. No guitar slung across his back. Just a clean shirt under his jacket, boots polished (or, scrubbed with a kitchen rag) for once, and his hair combed with more intention than usual. Still him — still George — just a version that had checked the mirror twice before leaving.
He had half a mind to turn back. It was stupid, really. Just tea. Just talking. That’s what she’d said. Still, it felt different, not like band rehearsal, or larking around with the lads. This was her turf. Her garden. Her table. Her choice.
And she’d picked him.
The house came into view — small, familiar now — and he slowed instinctively, eyes scanning the garden for movement. The front gate was closed. The rosebushes had started to bud again. Somewhere nearby, a kettle whistled. A curtain twitched in the window of the house next door.
He reached the gate and paused, resting a hand on the top of it, thumb brushing absently over the worn paint. He didn’t open it yet. Just stood there for a second, steadying himself, hoping he didn’t look like someone who’d spent all morning trying not to seem like he cared as much as he did. Then he lifted his hand, cleared his throat lightly, and knocked once on the wooden post.
Ada appeared in the doorway, breathless. “Hi!” she chirped. “Here, wait just a moment — I thought we could sit in the garden. It’s nice in all the flowers.” Before he could answer, she disappeared back inside.
George blinked, caught off guard by her suddenness, like sunlight cutting through clouds before you’re ready for it. Then she reemerged with a tea tray balanced in her arms, stepping lightly into the garden. She gestured to the seat across from her usual typing spot, where no typewriter sat today. Just a red Transita radio on the table, American-made and proudly humming a faint crackle of jazz from the low-volume setting.
“I hope you like lemon cakes,” she said, setting the tray down. “I got up early to finish them.”
George watched her—not in a dazed, dreamy way, but with a sort of quiet study, like he was watching something unfold that didn’t quite feel real yet. She looked like she belonged there. Hair pinned up like a film star, sleeves rolled neatly, handling the tray like it was part of some elegant ritual. Not like the garden parties his mum used to throw with jam jars and doilies, but something cooler. Foreign. Intentional.
He slipped through the gate and took the seat she’d offered, nodding his thanks, unsure what to do with his hands now that they weren’t holding a guitar. The faint jazz crackled on like a soundtrack they hadn’t picked but suited the morning anyway.
“You made these?” he asked, eyeing the cakes with something bordering on suspicion—not of her, exactly, but of the notion that someone would go to the trouble of baking just for him. “They look… proper. Like something out of a bakery window.” He reached for one, careful not to take the biggest. “Don’t think I’ve had lemon cake before. Not unless it was disguised as something else.”
“My grandma made them whenever I brought friends over,” Ada replied, pouring his tea into one of her nicer mugs and handing him a saucer. “Figured it would suit.” She looked a little formal, stiff even, the kind of self-conscious that came from overthinking. George could tell. Maybe she thought this was how it was supposed to go — the proper English way. It made him want to say something easy, something to take the pressure off. He sat back, tried not to slouch, and failed a little.
“I like the radio,” he added, nodding toward the little red machine. “Looks like it costs more than my guitar.”
She nodded toward it with a fond smile. “It’s my prized possession. Saved up wages from the record store I worked at in New York, for a whole year to buy it. Now I bring it everywhere.”
George nodded, a bit of an awkward silence settling over them, as they both felt the pressure not to say the wrong thing. Finally, George cleared his throat, shifting again in his seat. “You always make tea for lads who nearly get hit by buses?”
She chuckled. “No, I usually just ask if they want to move to London with me and run away the next day.”
George broke into a real grin — one that reached his eyes and softened the planes of his face. “Well,” he said, lifting his cup in a mock-toast, “I’m flattered. Must’ve just missed the proposal.” He took a bite of the cake and paused, eyebrows lifting. “Alright, that’s unfair,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “Now you’re showin’ off.” His toe tapped under the table as he leaned back, trying to appear composed. “You really bring it everywhere?” he asked, motioning again to the radio. “Even across the Atlantic?” There was something like wonder in his voice — not just about the radio, but about someone who’d care enough to haul a piece of home across an ocean. “I like that,” he said softly. “That you kept it. Means somethin’.”
Ada took a thoughtful sip. “Oh yeah,” she said. “Some bloke on the train here made me turn the radio off. I think the Miracles came on, and he said something like the only tolerable rock 'n roll was Elvis. I told him Elvis was boring, and he got upset.” She snorted. “Smokey Robinson’s miles better than Elvis. But that guy probably listens to music hall anyway.”
George laughed into his tea. “Elvis’s alright,” he said, “but it’s always the blokes who look like Elvis that say that, isn’t it? Hair slicked back, collars too high, never heard a real groove in their life.”
Ada laughed. “Mmm, exactly. Elvis is just a cheap parody of real music anyway. Nothing original.”
George smiled, seeming pleased to have made her laugh. Then he paused, and said, more thoughtfully, “You told him off, though. Bet that was worth the train ride. John would’ve done something like that.” He took a sip of tea and considered it. Then, suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, he put the cup down, his eyebrows furrowing. “John and Paul talk like they’ve got it all figured out. Like they know what they want, where they’re goin’. But me…” He stared into his cup. “I dunno. Sometimes I think I’m just along for the ride. Holdin’ on.” His eyes found hers again, and there was something vulnerable in them. “D’you ever feel like that?”
Ada smiled reassuringly, seeming sympathetic. “Sometimes it’s nice to be a follower. But your time will come, I’m sure of it. You’re a bit younger than them anyway, aren’t you? You just have to be patient. And something tells me you are.” She gave him an encouraging nod. “I feel like that all the time. Especially at Melody Maker... I’m not climbing quite as quickly as I want. But I know if I just keep doing me, I’ll keep getting by. And that’s all I can ask for.”
George let her words settle before nodding, his smile faint but genuine. “They’ve got a couple of years on me. Doesn’t sound like much till you’re tryin’ to keep up.” He sat back, hand wrapped around his cup. “But I don’t mind bein’ the quiet one, most days. You learn more that way.” He gave her a crooked smile. “And… sometimes, I’m not that quiet.” The radio crackled again, as if agreeing. “I think you’re right, though,” he added. “About doin’ your own thing. I mean… look at you. You came from New York, you’re in Liverpool of all places, and you’re still dressing like a film star and makin’ lemon cakes before breakfast.” His grin tilted slightly. “Not bad, that.”
Her expression softened as she perched her chin on her hand. “I suppose. Although one day I hope to travel to places a bit more glamorous than Liverpool.” She sipped again. “A film star, you say? Well, that’s nice... Don’t feel like one much, cranking out interviews, hunched over the typewriter till I can’t feel my fingers. Maybe someday, though. Just need to write the right article.”
He nodded, then hesitated, looking at her again — really looked. “You’re easy to talk to. Most people… I dunno. You’ve got to work to find the bit of them that’s real. But with you, it’s just there.” Then, almost sheepishly: “Probably the accent.”
“Ah, yes,” Ada said sarcastically. “The Yank accent… notoriously soothing and comforting…” They shared a laugh at that.
George studied her, liking the way she didn’t try to be impressive. She just was. “You talk like someone who’s already halfway there,” he said. “It’s not just the look. It’s the way you talk. Like you know where you’re going, even if you’re not there yet.”
Ada beamed. “The world just isn’t ready for us, George. Give it a few years. I’ll be writing the covers of magazines, and you’ll be touring the world. We just need time.”
She paused, then added with a smirk, “And a lot of hard work. Maybe a bit of luck, too.”
“You’ll get there.” He replied confidently. “You’re already writing about music before most people your age even know what they like. That’s not luck. That’s direction.” He polished off the last of the cake and gave her a sheepish smile. “Also… they’re really good. Like… really good. Might be the highlight of my week, that.”
The morning wore on, and so did the conversation. Easy. Comfortable. George liked the tenor of her voice, the way she didn’t fill every gap with noise. He was used to the loud ones — the unpredictable, impossible-to-pin-down types. But Ada… she was different. He felt safe talking to her. And honest.
The tea was long gone. So were the cakes.
Eventually, Ada stood, brushing crumbs from her skirt. “Sadly, I think Margot’s going to be home soon. And like you said, she’s a dangerous woman to cross. She might turn me out if she found out I had a scruffy boy like you in her garden.”
George stood too, smirking. “Reckon I’ll clean up for the occasion, then. Wouldn’t want to give her another reason to chase me off with her bat.” He paused, hands tucked in his jacket pockets. “Thanks for the tea,” he said. “And the cakes. And the… company.” He turned to go, then glanced back over his shoulder. “Saturday,” he said. “I’ll be there.”
His eyes held hers for a moment longer than necessary. Then he nodded—not shy, not boastful, just George—and slipped out through the gate and back down the street, the gravel crunching softly beneath his boots.
For the first time in days, he didn’t look back.
The sun was out, which felt almost suspicious.
The courtyard outside St. Peter’s Church Hall in Woolton was already buzzing. Kids milled about, some in Sunday best with their shirts untucked, others in rolled-up sleeves and Brylcreem hair, trying to act cooler than their age allowed. Posters had gone up around the village for a Skiffle Night, mostly handwritten, all uneven, with “The Quarrymen” scrawled in big letters somewhere near the bottom.
Inside the hall, the air smelled like wood polish and sugar from the bake sale in the next room. A clatter of folding chairs echoed as the band set up near the back of the room on a raised stage barely three feet off the floor. It wasn’t much, but it was theirs for the night.
George stood tuning his guitar near a dusty piano, hair combed but already falling messily back into his eyes. He was dressed sharp, cleaner than usual, with his sleeves rolled just enough to look like he didn’t care, though he’d spent twenty minutes getting them right. He kept glancing toward the door every few minutes, like his brain couldn’t help but measure time by whether she was there yet.
Paul was winding cables, humming to himself as he double-checked the amp connections. His voice was cheerful, a little too cheerful — as if he’d been waiting for this all week. Because he had.
John, naturally, was holding court. He lounged against a chair with a bottle of cola in one hand and a crooked grin on his face, heckling anyone who passed within five feet. He had on his best jacket — the one with the lapels slightly too big — and was halfway through mocking the scout troop who’d been roped into helping with the sound equipment.
“Anyone who turns up sober to a church gig is either mad or lying,” he declared to no one in particular. “And if that blonde shows up, don’t say I didn’t warn you — I will be charming.”
He glanced sidelong at George, who gave him a look that was all narrowed eyes and unamused silence.
“Didn’t you say Cynthia was coming?” George pointed out. John chose to ignore that comment.
“Careful, mate,” Paul chimed in, tuning up his Hofner. “She’s bringing a notebook. Could immortalize our genius or our downfall.”
John snorted. “Or George’s tragic collapse under the weight of emotional pressure.”
The boys laughed, and the amp buzzed faintly to life. They were soon joined by Pete Shotton and Colin Hampton, who were on percussion for the night and had come by after their chores were done at home. Someone banged open the side door — more kids arriving.
The stage was set. The hall was filling. The noise grew louder, the kind of low din that always preceded something about to tip over into chaos or brilliance.
Ada twirled her hair into a neat French twist, swept on her usual dark eyeliner, and added a swipe of red lipstick. She pulled on the same blazer and skirt she wore to interviews, tucked her notebook into her purse, and slipped into her thick wool coat. The black scarf came next, then the beret, snug over her pinned hair. She was halfway out the door when a voice cut through the quiet.
“Where are you going at this hour?”
She froze, hand on the doorknob. Margot sat in her usual armchair, magazine open, cigarette balanced between two fingers. Her eyes flicked up over the rims of her spectacles.
“I’ve got a gig to cover,” Ada said smoothly. “At St. John’s Parish. For the magazine.”
Margot stared at her a moment longer, gave a noncommittal hmph, then turned the page. “Be back before eleven,” she called as Ada slipped out the door.
The streets were darker now, the amber glow of the lamplights catching in the cold air. A buzz had settled over Woolton, electric and warm despite the night’s chill. Teenagers loitered near the church — jackets unzipped, voices loud, girls clutching each other’s arms as they laughed.
Ada paused beneath one of the lamps, tugging her notebook from her purse. ‘ There’s something magnetic about the energy surrounding the Quarrymen’s gigs’ , she scribbled. ‘ As though everyone is holding their breath, waiting for the first chord to be struck.’
She tapped the pen against her lip, lost in the thought, and nearly didn’t notice the girl stepping toward the door at the same time she did. They bumped shoulders.
“Sorry!” Ada said quickly, turning to face her.
The girl had a light brown bob and a cardigan buttoned neatly over a dress — like a doll stepped out of a shop window. Her smile was polite, a little startled.
“No, it’s alright. I wasn’t lookin’, either,” she said, eyes scanning Ada's face. “You’re not from here, are you?”
“New York,” Ada replied, gesturing with her head as the crowd pushed past them. “Moved to London for uni. Here in Liverpool for work. Heading to Manchester tomorrow.” She rattled it off like a grocery list, then smiled sheepishly. “Gosh, I sound obnoxious when I say it like that.”
The girl only grinned, nodding politely. “Wow! America, really? That’s awfully far. I don’t think I’ve ever met an American before.” She held the door open, one shoulder bracing it against the press of bodies. “You here for the band?”
“Quarrymen, yeah. Met John and Paul last week. I know George, too. John invited me to see what they could do.” They stepped inside together, the air stuffy with anticipation and body heat, the clatter of tuning instruments just starting. The girl seemed to take it all in with a blend of curiosity and mild dread. “I write for Melody Maker,” Ada added, patting the notebook in her coat pocket. “I’m supposed to be investigating the skiffle craze, but I’m fairly sure it’s already dead. The old farts at the magazine just haven’t noticed yet.”
The girl gave a short laugh. “Still — Melody Maker, that’s proper. I thought maybe you were here on holiday or something.”
“I’m not writing about them seriously. I was thinking of sending John a fake review — absolutely scathing. Just to wind him up.”
That earned a smirk. “He’d love that. Probably pin it to the wall like a trophy. John’s got a sense of humor about himself, until he doesn’t.”
“You know him, too?” Ada tilted her head. “What about you? You seem a bit too… polished to be dragged here by the noise crowd. You a fan?”
The girl gave a small shrug. “I’m at the art college. Same as John, though he only shows up when it suits him. Always winding up the professors, nicking my supplies when he forgets his pens for Calligraphy class. He invited me tonight.”
“An artist? I would never have guessed. John's lucky you'd humor him enough to come along. He doesn't know when to turn off the wit, does he?" she mused, subconsciously pulling out her notebook again. “What kinda music are you into, then?”
Her eyes drifted toward the stage where the boys were setting up. “I like the real stuff. Chuck Berry. Fats Domino. Not so mad about the washboard racket.” She glanced back at Ada.
“Love Fats Domino. He and Chuck don't get enough credit. I was just saying to George the other day, how people are too obsessed with Elvis. But you've got real taste. I've found that in England, people seem to have a better opinion of real music. It's nice.” Ada said kindly. “What's your name, anyways?” She asked, as her pen found its way into her hand. She began to scribble something absent-mindedly, picking up from where she'd left off outside by the lamppost. ‘And indeed, everyone, from little boys still in their short trousers, to awe-struck art students, feels the pull of the stage as the Quarrymen take their places. Anticipation isn't a strong enough word - this is pure ecstasy.
“Cynthia.” She answered. “Cynthia Powell. Just started second year. Painting, mostly, but I like illustration too. Magazine work, maybe. You know — if there’s ever a world where girls like us get to do more than hold clipboards and smile at the camera.” She grinned. “And you?”
“Ada,” she replied with a smile. “Lovely to meet you.” They shook hands.
“You too.” She watched Ada scribble for a moment, intrigued by the ease with which the girl shifted from conversation to crafting sentences like it was second nature. It was like watching someone dance with their own thoughts. “You’ve got the look — like you’ve already half-written the article in your head.”
“Just half.” Ada grinned. “I like them all, truth be told. Paul’s got dimples to kill, and John — well, he’s a looker. Dangerous.” Her eyes flicked to the one still fiddling with his guitar, more serious than the rest. “But George... he seems to be the only one who doesn't know how handsome he is. Dark... brooding... mysterious. Every girl had the type they fancy, no?" As John stepped up to the microphone, Ada looked sideways at Cynthia. "Some of us like bawdy banter best, don't we?" She teased.
“Do we?” Cynthia raised an eyebrow, amused, then shrugged, the corners of her mouth twitching. “Won’t say you’re wrong.”
They watched John step up to the mic, grinning like a devil and spinning it with mock drama. He launched into some ridiculous bit about the band’s “recent tour of the Bahamas,” earning a mix of groans and cheers from the crowd.
“See?” Cynthia said under her breath. “Completely daft.”
“But charming,” Ada offered.
“Like gravity,” Cynthia said, not looking at her. “Pulls you in before you know it.”
On stage, George strummed an arpeggio, testing his strings. Paul adjusted the mic stand. The crowd was growing louder, pushing forward.
“If you do write something funny,” Cynthia added, “don’t be surprised if George keeps it in his coat pocket for a year. He wouldn’t say a word, but he’d treasure it. Quiet ones always do.”
Ada glanced sideways. “You know them well.”
Cynthia hesitated. “Enough.”
A flicker of light from the back of the hall signaled the show was about to start. The tuning stopped. The crowd leaned forward, like a single breath being held.
“You were right,” Cynthia said, her voice soft over the hum of the room. “Dangerous is the word.”
Ada smiled, just as the first chord struck and the room exploded with sound.
The lights in the parish hall weren’t much to speak of — mostly flickering fluorescents and a few dusty bulbs over the stage — but when the first crack of the amp gave life to the room, none of that mattered.
John leaned into the mic, his grin wide and wicked. “We’re The Quarrymen,” he said, his voice already straining the limits of the sound system. “You’re welcome.”
A ripple of laughter broke out across the crowd.
George, standing slightly to the side, adjusted the strap of his guitar and gave a sideways glance to Paul, who was grinning like he’d just won something. Paul stepped up to his mic and added, “We were going to call ourselves The Silver Beetles, but George thought it sounded too posh.”
More laughter. George gave a half-smile, shaking his head, clearly not planning to speak into the mic unless someone forced him.
Then they launched into it — a rollicking version of "Come Go With Me", with Paul on lead vocals, his voice smooth and strong even when he cracked the higher notes. George held steady beside him, his playing tight, his foot tapping just a half-beat ahead of the crowd’s.
John, of course, never missed a moment to throw in his own commentary between verses.
“This one’s for all the lads in the back who couldn’t find a date,” he shouted after the second chorus. “And for the girl who said I’d never make it past detention!” Someone whistled. Someone else threw a rolled-up programme at him. John dodged it and grinned.
They moved through " Twenty Flight Rock" , " That’s All Right", and a half-improvised version of " Maggie Mae" that dissolved into laughter after the second verse when Paul changed the lyrics to something borderline offensive. George actually cracked a visible grin at that — a quick flash of teeth — and for a second, he looked almost relaxed, like the stage was the only place he wasn’t trying to shrink himself smaller.
During one particularly chaotic number, John turned to the others and shouted over the amp, “Oi, George, think we’re winning her over?”
George, without missing a chord, muttered, “Which her?”
John winked at the crowd. “The one writing our downfall!”
That drew a loud cheer from the front of the crowd, and George’s ears went pink despite himself. Paul just laughed and launched into the next song like he hadn’t heard a word.
By the time they hit their final tune — " Whole Lotta Shakin’ Going On" — the hall was a sea of movement: stamping feet, clapping hands, shrieking laughter. The floorboards thudded beneath them like they might give out, and still, no one wanted it to end.
When the last note rang out, the applause was instant, messy, loud, and real.
Ada's notebook was forgotten, tucked away in her satchel, from the moment the first chord had rung out. Her pencil was tucked behind her ear, and an awestruck expression was on her face as she watched the show, mesmerized. They were... glowing. There was no other way to describe it.
The crowd was leaning towards them, like flowers towards a rising sun. They had captured something youthful, something innate, that she hadn't seen a live act do in so long. Everything else she had studied all week seemed so stale in comparison. The Quarrymen were just full of life. She spent the show clapping and singing along to the music, giggling at the japes John did on stage, counting how many girls Paul tossed a wink to. And before she even knew it, the show was over, and they were thanking the crowd before dashing off and disappearing through a doorway in the back of the parish.