February 15^th 1965

 

George closed the door, making sure it clicked shut behind him, and walked to the car. His breath was icy in the night air and the frost had already settled on the windscreen. He scraped away a patch with his fingernails, making a gap big enough to see through and got into the driving seat. He started the engine and waited for it to warm up.

 

It was nearly half past one in the morning. John, Paul and Ringo had left almost three hours ago for a post session drink. George had stayed behind to try something, a tune that might turn into a song. He had said he would catch them up, but the time had slipped away in the studio and as he sat in the car, blowing on his cold hands, the last thing on his tired mind was clubbing.

 

George placed his hands on the cold leather steering wheel and put the car in gear. His was the only car left in the tiny Abbey Road car park. The houses surrounding were all in darkness. There might not have been another soul for miles around. There might not have been.

 

George pushed down on the accelerator and the car shot backwards towards the mouth of the car park. The tyres skidded a little on the icy tarmac, but George had reversed out of here a hundred times before. He wasn’t even looking as his car met the road.

 

There was one yelp, a sound more of surprise than of pain. But it was followed shortly by a sickening, dull thud. George stamped on the break and the vehicle stopped dead.

 

For one moment it was as if time had stopped. Everything was still and silent in that pause. George wished it would last forever.

 

He listened. The dread knotted in his stomach. He looked up to the rear view mirror but it was covered in condensation. He turned to look out of the rear windscreen, but it was too frosted over to see anything through apart from dark shapes.

 

Suddenly George was moving, his heart in his mouth. Something breaking under the wheels, he told himself fumbling with his seatbelt. Some poor stray animal, he told himself getting out of the car. His mouth dried as he reached the back of the car.

 

She was lying half on the pavement, half in the gutter, almost in a parallel to the car. Her eyes were closed and blood ran from a cut above her eyebrow. Her head was rolled away from him. He stepped over her and crouched down, brushing her dark hair away from her face.

 

“Fuck,” George breathed, and then repeated it louder as panic started to replace the dread. “Hey?” he said softly, and patted her cheek as he had seen it done on TV shows and films,  “Wake up? Please?”

 

To his amazement and immense relief, she stirred. She put her hand up and pushed George’s away before opening her eyes. “Don’t move,” he told her, “I’ll call an ambulance.”

 

“No,” she said weakly, “No, I’m okay,” and she propped herself up on her elbows.

 

“Jesus, I’m so sorry…”

 

“Help me up?” she asked and offered George her hand.

 

George took it and put his other arm behind her to steady her. “Be careful,” he said, as she stood, “Not too fast…”

 

“I’m fine,” she said and then nearly fainted. George caught her gently and she leaned against him. “Maybe not,” she said looking up at him sheepishly, “I feel dizzy…”

 

“You were unconscious,” George said, holding her tightly, scared she may slip, “Did you hit your head?”

 

“I don’t know…” she said, “ I don’t know what happened.”

 

“You’d better come inside for a moment,” he said, realising the car’s engine was still running.

 

“Oh, no, I don’t want to put you to any trouble…”

 

“Hey, the least I can do after I knock you down is make you a cup of tea,” he smiled and leaned into the car, switching the engine off, still propping the girl up.

 

Two minutes later they were in the small studio kitchen. George filled the kettle and leaned on the worktop as he waited for it to boil. The girl sat at the table, holding a tissue to the cut above her eyebrow.

 

“Cure for all ills, tea, isn’t it?” George said.

 

“What?”

 

“A cup of tea. It sorts everything out. No matter what happens, you have a cuppa and things look better. Even when some idiot knocks you over with his Aston Martin.” He smiled sheepishly.

 

In the better light George could see the girls hair was lighter than he thought, more of a deep red than a brunette. She was as tall as George but there was no meat on her, she looked liable to blow away in a strong wind.

 

The kettle whistled and George poured the tea. He offered the girl a cup and came to sit at the table with her.

 

“Are you sure you’re alright?” he asked, “You don’t want a doctor or something? That cut looks deep.”

 

“No, I’ll be okay,” she said, taking the tissue off her head, “Few bruises maybe, but nothing broken. You weren’t going very fast.”

 

George shook his head, “I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I feel terrible.”

 

“You feel terrible?” she teased and smiled warmly.

 

George laughed, “It’s John who should be running people over, not me. He passed his test this morning.”

 

“Who’s John?”

 

“Just a friend,” George put his head to one side, “Were you waiting out there?” he asked.

 

For a moment a look of shock crossed her face, but she replied, “Of course not. What would I be waiting for?”

 

“Oh, some girls just do,” he said, “to see a pop star or two.”

 

“Oh. Well, no. I was just going home.”

 

“You were walking home alone? At this time?”

 

“I only live down the road,” she explained, “Well, I’m staying there.” She spoke with a very refined accent George couldn’t quite place. He nodded. “Do you work here?” she asked looking around the room.

 

“Yeah,” George smiled, “For now anyway.”

 

“Are you an engineer then? Do you record any famous people?”

 

That made George laugh out loud, the girl blinked at him in surprise. “No, I’m one of them they record,” George said.

 

“Oh,” she said shyly, “Should I know who you are, then?”

 

Obviously the Beatlemania of the past twelve months had managed to completely bypass this girl. Even George had begun to get sick of seeing their four faces everywhere. “There’s no reason why you should,” he said, kindly.

 

“You’re a musician?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Do you sing?”

 

“It’s been known.”

 

“I wish I was musical. I never got any further than grade three on the piano.”

 

George smiled. ‘Grade three piano’ meant nothing to him.

 

“What have you played on then? Perhaps I’ve heard it?”

 

“Um, well… ‘I Feel Fine’ was a recent one.”

 

“’I Feel Fine’? No, doesn’t ring a bell. How does it go?”

 

George cleared his throat, suddenly feeling self conscious by being put on the spot, then feeling silly about that, “I should be used to performing in public,” he said, shyly, after a pause.

 

The girl grinned, ‘Go on, its only me and you here.”

 

George sang softly, “ Baby’s good to me, you know she’s happy as can be, you know she said so, I’m in love with her and I feel fine…” his voice trailed off.

 

“How sweet,” she said without a hint of recognition.

 

“You haven’t heard it?”

 

“No, I’m sorry,” she laughed and put her hand on top of George’s on the table in mock apology.

 

“Well, it was only number one for a few weeks,” George said.

 

She laughed, “Was it really? Oh dear. I’m afraid I don’t listen to pop music much. I prefer classical.”

 

The phone in the next room began to ring, making them both jump. George took his hand out from under hers and stood up. “Who can that be?” he said, walking to the door.

 

George lifted the receiver, “Hello?”

 

“George, I knew you’d still be there! Did you fall asleep?”

 

“Pattie,” George said, looking at his watch. It was five past two. “No, something happened. There was an accident.”

 

“An accident? Are you alright? Is there anyone hurt?” Concern filled her voice and George wished he had phrased it better.

 

“No, everyone’s okay. I, er, knocked someone over.”

 

Pattie gasped, “George!”

 

“I know,” he said, “I was reversing out of the car park. I guess I just didn’t see her.”

 

“Is she okay?”

 

“I think so. She seems alright. She was unconscious though.”

 

“You should get her a doctor, just to make sure.”

 

“She won’t have one.” He wrapped the phone cord around his fingers idly, “I shouldn’t be too long anyway. I’ll leave in a minute.”

 

“Mmm, okay. Don’t run anyone else over,” she told him, half sternly.

 

George grinned, “I’ll try not to,” he promised and hung up.

 

“Can I give you a lift?” he asked coming back into the kitchen.

 

“Oh,” the girl said flatly, “No, I’ll be fine. Thanks.”

 

George ran his fingers over the stubble growing on his jaw. “Its two in the morning. I don’t think you should be walking home,” he said, “besides, if you’re inside the car it’ll be harder for me to injure you.”

 

She smiled, a neat row of even white teeth, “Okay, thank you.” She stood up, putting her empty cup on the draining board to her left.

 

“I’m George, by the way,” he said as he held the door open for her.

 

“Grace,” she said, holding out her hand, slightly palm down, “Grace Burgess.”