Chapter Text
31/8/64, New Jersey
The Beatles had not been on stage for twenty four hours, and the tension was dissipating so fast that the four seemed almost comatose. The Lafayette Motel in New Jersey would not have been their first choice of a holiday venue, but a few days off anywhere were precious and to be enjoyed, at least when they were awake. At the moment they all were awake, after a fashion. John was stretched out on a sofa staring at an almost silent television. Paul was curled up on an armchair reading a newspaper. Ringo was sitting on the carpet with his back against another chair playing cards with himself, and George was lazing on another sofa reading a music paper which someone had left there. It was talking about the new English sensation which was rocking the States. And in a far corner of the huge suite Brian Epstein was crouched over a telephone talking business, to which no-one else in the room was listening. It was early evening, but they didn’t have to get ready to run the gauntlet of the mob outside and then stand on stage having painful objects thrown at them. The relief was palpable.
From outside, like the constant waves of the ocean or like the wind playing in the branches of a forest, the sound of the fans outside in the streets went unheard by the group inside. It was just there, it was a part of their tour, of every tour, and they noticed it no more than they would notice the traffic noise in a city. They had been advised not to go to the windows, as this would excite the fans beyond the police’s endurance, so they didn’t, and instead just wandered the rooms and talked and played and, since their extraordinary meeting with Bob Dylan two days before, rolled ever more professional looking joints and got stoned and drank. They had charged Mal with finding the grass for them and somehow he’d managed. The supply kept coming, and so did the resulting giggles.
Three days off. It was bliss for four exhausted Beatles.
From outside the main door to the suite the sound of female voices fluttered in. Paul checked his watch, and smiled a very small smile to himself. Another task which Mal, and Neil, performed more than satisfactorily. Ringo looked up from his cards, and then cut glances with Paul. He always enjoyed this part. The door opened slightly and Neil poked his head around and looked an enquiry at the two Beatles looking at him, eyebrows raised interrogatively. Ringo and Paul both nodded; neither John nor George even looked up. The door closed.
“Eyup.” John spoke, eyes still on the flickering television screen. “Watch out. Pussy about.”
George dragged his eyes away from the article about them “Eh?”
“Neil’s got some.”
George nodded his understanding. “Ah,” he said, and returned his attention to the paper.
An outer door opened, and excited shrill voices approached; clattering footsteps, excitable squeals, and then their door opened again and Neil ushered in five girls, all sporting smart clothes, impeccable make up and identical expressions of near delirious excitement. Ringo gathered up his cards. Paul folded his newspaper. John didn’t budge. And George…
“I have to see George Harrison!”
The voice from outside the room pierced through the hubbub of excited girls; it was a female voice but not that of a happy fan. It was imperious, demanding and somehow desperate. “I must see George Harrison,” said the voice again.
“Your lucky day, son,” leered John, but George was sitting up, newspaper forgotten and a puzzled frown on his face.
“Er… excuse me…” Mal could be heard, clearly attempting to forestall whoever it was, but just as clearly failing to do so.
“George Harrison! Is he here?”
“He’s…” but to no avail. The door was pushed open, and in surged a lady. Overweight, a dowdy overcoat which must surely have been too hot on this August day, scuffed flat shoes, and cropped grey hair which looked as if it had seldom if ever received the ministrations of a hairdresser. She stomped firmly into the centre of the room, and looked around.
“Which one is George Harrison? Ah, it’s you, isn’t it!” and so saying she pointed triumphantly at the wide eyed lead guitarist.
The room had fallen silent, the only sounds being the indistinct mumbling from the television and the ceaseless noise from the fans outside. Everyone, girls and Beatles alike, stared in utter astonishment at the newcomer. Her appearance was unusual for an invader into a Beatles suite but would nevertheless have passed unnoticed outside in the street, and it was not that which had struck everyone dumb. It was the singular demand, unheard in the States for at least six months – “Which one is George Harrison.”
George Harrison got slowly to his feet. His eyes were wide and his mouth was open. “What…? Who…?”
She stepped closer towards him. “I need to speak to you, dear. It’s desperately important. Is there somewhere we can go to talk?”
Three Beatles dissolved into hysterical laughter. “Go on dear,” John managed through his convulsions. “Off you go dear, there’s a good boy!” Paul was clutching his stomach, Ringo was wiping tears from his eyes.
“Excuse me, madam.” The cultured tones of Brian Epstein carried across the room. All but three pairs of eyes turned to him, but somehow his intervention only served to increase the hysteria of the three Beatles and they howled helplessly. “What exactly is it that you want here?” he went on, determinedly.
“Look, why don’t you come this way.” Neil had hold of her arm and was trying to hustle her back towards the door. “We’ll talk about it out there.”
“No!” She shook her arm out of his grasp and turned back. “I must talk to George Harrison!”
“Look…”
“No.” George spoke up. He looked across at the lady, the frown on his face deepening. “No,” he repeated to Neil, and then looked at Brian. “Let’s…” He trailed off again, but now he had everyone’s attention, and even the other Beatles began to calm down and to look up at him with interest. George turned to face the woman, his head shaking slowly. “Who are you? What do you want?”
The lady turned and took a few more steps towards him. With those few words from George, that combination of imperiousness and desperation seemed to drop away; she had his attention and that was evidently what she had most wanted. “I’ll tell you my name, not that it’s important, and why I’m here - but can we talk privately? I’ll explain everything to you.” She paused. “Please,” she added.
George looked over at Brian, and shrugged his shoulders, and Brian could do little but shrug back. Now that no-one was trying to get her out of the room she had calmed down and seemed, almost, normal. Apart from the fact that she looked old enough to be grandmother to any of those girls in the room, and the fact that she had burst in the room demanding to speak to George Harrison when she apparently didn’t know who he was. George looked behind him at his open bedroom door and then back at the lady; a somewhat different kind of female he’d anticipated inviting in, but…
“Okay.” His voice was uncharacteristically small and unsure. He gestured with his head towards the bedroom door. “In there.” He looked around for the other Beatles, his gaze resting on each of them as though seeking that solidarity which had sustained him for the last four years. Whatever the help was that he gained in those moments, imperceptible to anyone else in the room, it seemed to reassure him. He turned around and walked into his room, and the strange women toddled briskly after him and closed the door behind them.
Once inside, George sat on the bed and then hastily got up again; he faced the woman with an air of someone who actually didn’t dare turn his back on her. His eyes were wide and his mouth was dry. “What’s this about?” he rasped.
She clearly sensed his anxiety; indeed, would have to have been blind not to, and she raised her hands, palms up, to indicate that she meant no harm. It wasn’t clear whether or not the message got through to him, but she spoke, as soothingly as though she was talking to a frightened animal. “Now dear,” George inwardly winced at the repeated endearment, “it’s alright, there’s nothing to be worried about. Well…” She paused, and then seemed to think better of what she was about to say, and changed tack. “Look, I know this looks crazy. I know I look crazy, And when I’ve finished you might still think I’m crazy – most people do!” With that she let out a shrill little laugh; George felt and probably looked even more alarmed, yet the bizarreness of the situation had him almost mesmerised. “My name is Amanda Dalton. And I’m a psychic.”
George spun away from her with a snarl of anger. “Not another one!” he snapped. “What is it this time? The plane’s gonna crash? We’re all gonna get blown up? Which one is it?”
“I don’t know!” she broke in to the diatribe. “I don’t know at all. There’s only one thing I know – please hear me out!” This last was because George was pacing back towards the door with the obvious intention of pushing her out. “Please dear! Give me a moment and then I’ll be gone.”
By the conclusion of this speech his hand was resting on the door handle, but he paused at her impassioned entreaty, though he later couldn’t have told anyone why he didn’t just sling her out of the room as he’d intended to. Yet he didn’t; instead, he stood, hand still on the handle but his head down, thick dark hair obscuring his face from her. “What then?” he snapped roughly. ”Go on. Get on with it!”
“As I said, I’m a psychic,” she went on, her voice deliberately low and calm. “And all I know is that my guides…” George let out a hiss of irritation at the psychic-speak, which she ignored, “have urged me to find you and…” Here she paused, and seemed to be searching for the least inflammatory words to use, “give you a gift which will help you see… things for yourself…”
“A gift?? What things??” George was scowling at her. For anyone else that would have been a daunting sight, yet she ploughed on.
“Please dear,” there it was again, “I don’t know why I’ve been told to do this. But I’ve been told I must, I absolutely must, it’s so urgent. Goodness me, dear, do you think it was easy getting through that barricade around you to find you? It was like battling through a war zone! I have got other things to do, you know. Today’s the day I go and help muck out at the animal sanctuary and do poor Mrs Wallington’s shopping!.”
By the end of this she sounded so utterly outraged, so furious at the sheer inconvenience of having to fight her way in to see a Beatle rather than pick up shit and go shopping for an old lady, that George realised that, whatever else she was, she was probably more or less harmless. Mad, obviously, but harmless. The fact that she’d rather be anywhere but here seemed to him to be strangely reassuring. He looked up at her slowly. “What do you mean, a gift?” he muttered.
She nodded quickly. “I’ll show you dear.” He was beginning to get used to it. “Please, come and sit down here. Just for a moment.” She pointed to the bed, and stood back, inviting him to pass her and sit down. Tentatively, he almost tiptoed across and sat down gingerly, looking up at her nervously. She moved closer to him, and then reached out with both hands towards the crown of his head. George jerked his head away and recoiled back, but she gave him that palms up gesture again and shook her head. “I’m not going to touch you,” she said. “Not at all. Just sit there. You can close your eyes or keep them open, whatever you like.” George reflected to himself that he wasn’t going to close his eyes for any money. “Now, I’m just going to reach out and have my hands a couple of inches about your head. Like this. Good. Now dear, just sit there and let me do the work.”
He sat, still, not daring to move. His eyes were open but he couldn’t see what her hands doing above his head, he was just aware that they were moving. He found his eyes closing, didn’t try to stop them; and then, as if out of the corners of his eyes, but his eyes were closed, he thought that he could see figures moving. People? He couldn’t tell, but something, or someone, moving – near him? Around him? He found that his breathing was becoming deeper and slower, his shoulders were relaxing, the – people? – were close to him, yet if he tried to focus on any of them they sort of disappeared.
“There, dear. I’ve finished.”
He was aware of her stepping away from him, but he remained, motionless, his breathing still deep and slow, and he reflected that every muscle in his body felt so completely relaxed that it was debatable whether he would ever move again. He waited a long moment, and then told his eyes to open, and they did so. Then he told his neck muscles to hold his head upright, and they did so. He looked up at her. He opened and shut his eyes a couple of times and then, with difficulty, spoke to her.
“What did you do?” His voice sounded slurred to his ears.
She smiled down at him, a smile which now seemed not crazy or patronising but truly kind and benevolent. “Just some healing dear.”
“Healing?” He thought about that for a moment. Then, “Was I ill?”
“Oh no, dear, but we can all do with some healing sometimes. And…” She paused again, but this time he felt no anxiety as he waited for her to continue. “And… from now on… you might… be given guidance. When you need it.”
“What about?”
“Anything. But…” she paused again, and then continued strongly, “You might find yourself getting little flashes of insight. Of places. Or people. It’s absolutely vital that you pay attention to them. Don’t dismiss them. Don’t think you’re going mad. It will be easy for you to think that, but don’t. Because that’s why I’ve been led to you. That’s the reason for all this. Do you understand me dear?” She peered down at him intently.
“I don’t know,” he answered, truthfully.
“I know. But when it happens, you will. And now,” her voice suddenly reverted back to its previous brisk and nannyish tone, “I really must be getting along. Mrs Wallington will be wondering where I am. Do you think you could get one of those nice young men to get me out, through all those awful crowds?”
George pushed himself up to his feet, wondering as he did so who the ‘nice young men’ were and then concluded that she must mean Neil or Mal. He couldn’t imagine John or Paul attempting to conduct this stout and shabby lady through a thousand hysterical fans. He nodded, but then reached out his hand to halt her passage to the door. “Wait! What…” he paused as he searched for the words. “Who… who were those people?”
She didn’t ask him to explain, just nodded understandingly. “They were just there to help you, dear. They’ll be looking after you. Now,” she turned back to the door. “I really do have to be going.” She opened the door and strode through, and she and George were confronted with the sight of an entire room of people standing stock still, staring at the door, clearly agog with curiosity as to what on earth had been going on in there. Amanda Dalton ignored the scrutiny, and bustled over to Neil, who, it has to be said, looked somewhat alarmed, as though worried that she was going to say it was his turn. He looked across at George, worriedly.
“Neil.” George was gratified to find that his voice seemed to have returned to its normal strength. “Could you help her to get out?”
“Ah… yeah.” With a backwards glance over his shoulder at George, a glance which said as clearly as if he’d spoken aloud, ‘what the fuck??’ the bemused roadie gestured to the main door and followed the lady out. He left behind him a silence, followed by what was to George a cacophonous assault of questions.
“Who the fuck…?”
“What happened?”
“What did she do?”
“What did she want?”
“Are you alright?” This last from Ringo, whom George found at his elbow, an extremely concerned look on his face. “You look weird.”
George looked back at him, and then around at the assembled Beatles, employees and guests, if those girls who’d been brought in could be described as such. And came to an instant decision, knew without a doubt, that there were only three people to whom he was going to describe the experience. Anything else would be out of the question. He met the gaze of each in turn, John, Paul and then Ringo, and then jerked his head back towards his bedroom door, back from where he’d just come. “Come ‘ead. I’ll tell you.”
Three Beatles trooped unhesitatingly after the fourth into the bedroom and closed the door behind them, leaving behind them some desperately disappointed fangirls and the rest of the madly curious entourage.