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Disclaimer: I do not own the Beatles or anything else you might recognize.
Blackbird Singing in the Dead of Night
Chapter Five: This Bird Flies
The doorbell rang.
George lay flat on his back and gazed at the ceiling. Today, he could lie for as long as liked in bed, because Meg had gone to visit her parents. Only there was something nagging him - something not right. His ... his guitar!
Oh, wait, the doorbell rang?
George jumped out of bed and hurried to the door. 'Shit, shit, shit,' cursed George. His guitar. What was wrong with him? How could he leave it? His one true love? It was probably stolen, or broken by those damn drunks, or thrown out or goddammit how could he be so effing stupid? He opened the door. It was Leah. She pointed at her feet. 'Figured you'd want this back,' she said matter-of-factly. George looked down: his guitar case was there.
George stared at the guitar case. It was just lying there. Was it empty? Heart in his mouth, George fell to his knees and threw the case open. Inside lay his guitar, beautiful and whole. His lovely gorgeous guitar. George swallowed the lump in his throat, then tenderly shut the case. 'Thank you,' he mumbled, and then threw his arms around her. Then, slightly embarrassed, he withdrew. 'I can't thank you enough. Is there anything I can do to repay you?'
'I'll save it for another day.' Leah grinned. 'I didn't actually get it back. Some guy called Brian told me that it's your stuff and asked me to get it back for you.' George made a mental note in his head to thank the owner of the local record shop, Brian Epstein. 'Oh, wait, I forgot your jacket. It's upstairs.' George followed Leah up the stairs. She let him into her apartment: there were more things in it now than last time. There was a pot of tea sitting on the table. George loved tea; that looked like some exotic tea from someplace interesting. Leah noticed him eyeing it. 'Want a cup of tea?' she asked. George blushed and nodded. She threw his jacket at him and poured him a cup. It tasted amazing; spicy and sweet. 'It's from Assam,' she told him. George wondered where on earth that was, but they sure made amazing tea.
The doorbell rang. Leah opened the door. George recognized him as the drummer of the band that had played after the Quarrymen: cute, dark-haired, green-eyed, charming. 'I forgot my shoes,' he said. Leah picked up a pair of shoes from next to the door and handed them to him. 'So, uh, call me maybe?' he asked. She pecked him on the lips and shut the door in his face. 'Won't be seeing him in a long time,' she said to George confidentially, with a mischievous grin. So she's a fast one, thought George. And she likes drummers. George finished his tea. 'Good tea,' said George.
'See you later,' said Leah.
Leah fell in love with the shop the moment she saw it.
In post-war Liverpool, most things were grey and dull, except for dance clubs after nine o'clock. Leah hated dull and grey. Since she moved around so much, and couldn't find stability in a home, she made her home in her things. Little belongings. Each thing that belonged to her had a story and origin, and she kept it for a reason. Each one was like a friend; a memory. Which was why this shop appealed to her so much. It was full of old trinkets: bowls of beads and ancient books propped up with painted-tile bookends. Fabrics and old clothes, paintings, scented candles, wooden ships, looking-glasses. There was an elderly woman standing behind the counter. 'How much is this ring for?' asked Leah, handling a beautiful blue-glass ring. She was already wearing a ring on every single finger except the ring finger of her right hand, but hey, who couldn't use another ring?
'Oh, you can have that old thing for free, dearie,' replied the old woman. Leah beamed. She walked around the shop. 'Say, are you from Liverpool?' the old lady squinted at Leah though round tortoiseshell glasses. Leah shook her head. 'Just moved in,' she answered. Just was not very true anymore: she'd been here for two months. Then an idea struck her. She didn't particularly like her waitress job and this old lady looked like she could use help: Leah noted a walker by the old lady's desk, and the dust on the shelves (though, personally, Leah thought dust was mysterious and added an air of discovering old treasures - the best secrets were always hidden with dust).
Ten minutes later, Leah walked out of the store with a blue-glass ring, an appointment with the old lady on Monday morning to start work at The Silver Chair, and a ceramic frog with bulbous eyes that she just could not resist because of the golden crown on its head - to date, her favourite Disney movie was The Princess and the Frog, mostly because Tiana was the only Disney princess who wasn't 'as white as snow'.
'Mm, you taste so good.'
'It's called cherry lip balm, baby.'
Kissing noises.
George stood outside his bedroom door, aghast. Those voices belonged to Meg and - and someone. In his bedroom. On his bed. She was cheating on him in his own bed. George put his hand decisively on the knob, then cringed: did he really want to see what was going on in there? Well ... he also wanted them to get the hell out of his bedroom! He threw the door open. Meg and that - that same guy from last week's gig who was making out with her - jumped apart. 'It's not what you think it is!' screamed Meg. The other guy pulled on his pants and shirt. His underwear was lying on George's pillow. Oh my god, this room would have to be fumigated. George held back the urge to puke. 'Just ... just get out,' he choked.
They got out.
'Tough luck, man,' said Paul sympathetically. He, Stu and John were helping George clean up his room. It was basically a mess. 'Ya better chuck these out,' he added, throwing all of George's bedsheets into his arms. George nodded glumly and took the sheets out. He wondered where to throw them - the dumpster would be best. Except he couldn't quite see over the top of the pile in his arms. 'Need help?' The voice was Leah's, but he couldn't see her face. 'Um. I'm not sure you want to touch these,' mumbled George.
'Why, what happened?'
George let the sheets tumble out of his arms and flutter across the staircase, and sat down on the top step. Then he poured out his story. He didn't know why he was telling her. Did she even care? At the end of his story, he looked up at Leah for a reaction.
She looked completely bored.
'Sorry to hear that,' she said in a flat voice. 'But you kind of had it coming.'
Well, that was not nice, George thought. In fact, that was very mean and harsh of Leah. But she was kind of right. He did have it coming. Some comfort would've been nice though. 'Are you busy right now?' he asked hesitantly. He could use a cup of that awesome tea right now.
'Actually, yeah,' she said. 'Dinner plans.'
'Oh. So you actually called him back?'
Leah frowned. 'Who?'
'The guy who was at your apartment after the gig last week,' George reminded her.
Leah laughed. 'This bird has flown,' she informed him. Then she got up, brushed her hand over the top of his head lightly and disappeared up the stairs.
Hey, all my other OCs were sickeningly nice. This one gets to be a bit harsh. Thanks for reading! :D -Jen.