The Space Between Us All, part 92
But when I get home to you, I find the things that you do
Will make me feel all right
Title: The Space Between Us All
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Violence and occasional strong language
Disclaimer and summary: Please see Part 1.
Jeanette
They arrived at Heathrow too late to
join the throng on the tarmac. Although it wasn't yet 10 in the morning, a
least a hundred bobbies already had been deployed to keep the growing crowd at
bay. A dozen horse officers urged their huge, gentle mounts to help their
colleagues on foot push the many spectators out of the way.
Upon seeing the massive crowds,
Jeanette and her friends decided to take their position on the roof of the
terminal building. It was a bit of a disappointment, because it guaranteed they
wouldn't be close enough to have the boys actually pass them-unlike those lucky
stiffs down in the swaying horde, rippling like a human stream as the police
pushed their numbers into line.
However, Jeanette's little group
would be compensated for their loss by a better view. The top tier was as yet
lightly populated. Jeanette had met most of the gang at Helen's pub an hour
earlier. Angie was there, with all her recent enthusiasm very much in evidence.
She'd been one of the first to hear the news of the boys' arrival, and had
spent some time constructing a mammoth "Welcome Home Boys" sign to
show her joy. The resulting banner was 30 feet long, with the message written
in letters four feet tall. Upon displaying it, everyone else jumped in to add
their two bits. Soon the banner was covered with hearts, kisses, and personal
greetings to each of the boys.
Jeanette was a little uncertain how
to act around Angelica, considering the last time she'd seen her friend she'd
been setting fire to a great public monument. Jeanette couldn't help giving her
fellow fan cautious sideways glances, wondering if and when the zestful music
lover would transform into a shrieking banshee.
This did not seem about to happen.
Angelica was bubbling over with excitement, but no more so than anyone else in
the room. As soon as Philippa arrived, the lot of them-fourteen girls from
various parts of town-caught the nearest bus to the airport. They had a time
crowding aboard. Not only was their group large to begin with, but more girls
besides Angelica were carrying signs. Fortunately, the bus was half filled with
other Beatles fans who were doing the same thing they were. The rest of the
travelers made room for them indulgently, even to the point of helping hold up
Angelica's unwieldy banner so it wouldn't be trampled by people hopping off and
on.
The banner worked well for them when
they finally staked out their territory on the upper tier. They hung it over
the rail, secured it with masses of cello, and spread themselves along it.
Afterwards, people tended naturally to collect around and behind them. By the
time noon arrived, the roof and the balcony beneath it were nearly as crowded
as the ground level. The noise was incredible. Every time a plane taxied
anywhere near them, people would shout and press forward. It was impossible to
talk to one's companions in anything less than a yell.
About half noon, Jeanette grew
anxious. Every plane that trundled in their direction, regardless of size,
provoked wild cheers from the crowd. Jeanette couldn't believe how many people
were here. The roof alone held easily a couple of thousand. There would have
been more up there, but airport security had blocked off access-probably to
keep the roof from collapsing. There had been a battle at first when guards
tried to remove some of the fans who had gathered there, but they soon gave it
up as a bad job. Eventually those who were already present were allowed to
remain.
On all sides, spread below her and
to either side like a moving map, were the swirling pockets of people. A lane
was being kept clear between the terminal buildings. Clearly this was going to
be the Beatles' exit route. Three ambulances standing ready put the matter
beyond debate. The mounted officers were most active here, trying to maintain
an aisle wide enough to accommodate the vehicles when it came time to leave.
In front of Jeannette, the airfield
was being kept clear by a network of barricades and bobbies. The crowd extended
like wings in either direction, taking up the whole front of the terminal
building. In the center of the mess, across from the cleared lane, a separate
pen (for want of a better word) had been erected to accommodate the press.
Newspaperman and moving-film operators jammed the enclosure. They spent much of
their time photographing the crowd, with the television cameras panning over
them again and again, trying to capture all three levels of excitement. Whenever
the cameras turned in their direction, Jeanette and her friends called and
waved like anything. They should be able to pick themselves out in any
pictures, as each of them knew exactly where she was standing along the banner.
Apparently Jeanette was not alone in
this thought. During one of their waving sessions, Angie leaned towards her and
shouted, "I wonder if we'll see ourselves on telly. Wouldn’t that be
fantastic?"
Jeanette was too surprised respond.
Considering the last time Angie had ended up in the news, Jeanette thought that
would be the last thing she would want to hope for. But apparently any
remorseful thoughts were far from Angelica today, for she waved and screamed
with high enthusiasm, rocking a George poster that had been slightly bent
during the trip on the bus, but got the point across.
Suddenly Philippa grabbed Jeanette’s
arm. "Look."
A series of limousines under heavy
police escort made their way down the access corridor. They pulled up just
beyond the "pen" holding the print and newsreel people.
"Perhaps they're for the
Beatles to drive away in," Jeanette speculated.
“Then what are the ambulances for?”
“Paul doesn’t need an ambulance,”
Jeanette pointed out. Of course, he wouldn’t need four limousines, either.
Philippa only shook her head,
watching intently. A guard opened the rear door of the foremost limousine, and
a stocky occupant emerged. A roar went up as he was recognized.
Philippa made a face, and leaned
close to Jeanette. "Wouldn't you know it? The bloody PM."
Jeanette stared, even as Prime
Minister Wilson turned to wave at the crowd-as if any of them were here for
him. There were some other old blokes with him, but no one Jeanette recognized.
She wasn't sure how she felt about this. On the one hand, it was flattering to
have the PM turn up to welcome the boys home in person. It reassured her that
their waiting would not be in vain. On the other hand, it had an opportunistic
feeling, as if Mr. Wilson was trying to cash in on the Beatles popularity-
something more than one person had accused him of during the last election.
Philippa was absorbed with other
thoughts. “They must be due any minute now,” she shouted towards Jeanette’s
ear. “The PM would never wait round.”
Jeanette merely nodded, chewing her
lip.
The PM led his entourage to the far
side of the limos. As he did so, Jeanette's attention was drawn towards a
smallish plane that was making its way towards the gate. It was on course to
meet the PM. This had to be the one.
“Wild” didn’t begin to cover the
crowd’s reaction. Blokes bellowed, girls screamed, fans danced in place, signs
waved, and adults applauded, looking proud. Britain might almost have won the
war-whichever war-from the way people carried on. Jeanette didn't care. She was
bouncing and shrieking with the rest of them.
The plane angled in, coming to a
halt a dozen yards beyond the PM’s party. Immediately the three ambulances came
forward, parking between the limousines and the plane with their backs angled
away from the crowd. Their position was near the front of the plane, which
would obscure the view of anyone descending the flight steps, at least once
they were halfway down. If there was any booing over this disappointment,
Jeanette couldn't hear it. Everyone seemed to be in a delirium of excitement.
The front hatch opened, and people
began to descend. Jeanette recognized the Beatles' manager, Brian Epstein; who
wouldn't? He was escorting the female members of the party. Normally the Beatle
wives were looked at with suspicion. Why should they be so lucky that they
got to marry a Beatle? But today even the most jealous fans were filled with
goodwill. Cynthia, Pattie, and Maureen were hailed as conquering heroes- or at
least as mutual celebrants. Today, no petty resentments could blunt the good
feelings.
Some other people, probably staff,
followed the advance party down. Then George’s parents, a cute little
middle-aged couple, emerged. The Harrisons received an even warmer welcome than
the wives. Unlike any of the people before them, they stopped just outside the
hatch and waved to the crowd-happily, kindly. Their gesture had people jumping
in place and bellowing themselves hoarse in an attempt to convey their
appreciation. Then the Harrisons, too, descended the steps and disappeared
behind the sheltering ambulances.
Philippa squeezed Jeanette's arm
hard enough to make it sting. Excitedly, she pointed towards the rear of the
craft. The cargo hatch near the back had started to grind open. It was beyond
any of the ambulances; the crowd would have a clear view.
At once understanding what must be
taking place, the spectators on all three decks- roof, balcony, and ground-
surged forward. Jeannette found herself squashed against the railing from the
people pushing from behind. She bent over the iron rail, both so she could
breathe and wave her hands vigorously as the hatch lifted out of the way.
There they were, three of them
standing behind a hospital bed on wheels, waving with various degrees of
enthusiasm. They were too far away for Jeanette to see their expressions, but
she could instantly tell their order: John, Ringo, and Paul. George, of course,
would be lying on the bed, the head end of which had been slightly elevated. At
first he didn't move. Then, as the ecstatic shouting pulsed through the air, his
right hand lifted and he weakly waved.
The cheering rose to the sky.
“They’re beautiful!” Philippa
cried- or at least, Jeanette thought she did. It was more like an impression of
speech against the wall of sound. Then Phillie began to wave both hands like
crazy. “John!” she cried faintly, as if he could hear her. “Jo-o-o-o-o-hn!”
Angelica was hanging over the
railing, waving her battered George sign for all she was worth.
"George!" she screamed, in counterpoint to Phillie. "Ge-e-e-e-o-o-o-r-ge!"
Jeanette decided that Angie had picked a favorite Beatle after all.
Jeanette, of course, was focused on
Paul. He was the most lively of the group, unsurprisingly. True to form, he
made sure to wave at every part of the crowd. She couldn’t see him well, but
she had studied his face long enough that she felt she could interpret his
expression, despite the intervening distance. To her, he looked both happy and
sad, which was only fitting. She cheered him for all she was worth; after all,
he’d been through a horrendous experience, even if he hadn’t been shot. Her
loyalty made her briefly feel bad for Ringo, having no cheering section of his
own amongst her immediate companions-but some girls down the way were waving a
Ringo sign, so that was all right.
Transported by ecstasy, Jeannette at
first failed to notice the cargo lift moving towards the plane. It had a kind
of basket they could move the bed onto. There was some milling at the hatch as
the Beatles made way for several people in uniform to move George onto the basket.
To Jeanette's delight, the uniformed people got off and the three other Beatles
got on, crowding into the basket with only one old fellow, probably a doctor,
for company. He stood motionless near the head of the bed, while the other
three Beatles (but not George) began to wave again.
As the basket began to lower them to
the ground, the PM and another older gentleman, both in morning suits, moved
forward. The crowd pushed forward harder than ever, eager to see. Jeanette
began to fear she might be pushed over the edge, or crushed against the rail.
Still, when the basket touched the ground and the boys were officially on
English soil once more, she screamed as if she would never make another noise
the whole rest of her life.
Continued in Part 93.
The Beatles at Heathrow Airport, London, just before their North American tour, August 1966.
For a complete list of entries, see the The Space Between Us All - chapter listing.
Will make me feel all right
Title: The Space Between Us All
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Violence and occasional strong language
Disclaimer and summary: Please see Part 1.
Jeanette
They arrived at Heathrow too late to
join the throng on the tarmac. Although it wasn't yet 10 in the morning, a
least a hundred bobbies already had been deployed to keep the growing crowd at
bay. A dozen horse officers urged their huge, gentle mounts to help their
colleagues on foot push the many spectators out of the way.
Upon seeing the massive crowds,
Jeanette and her friends decided to take their position on the roof of the
terminal building. It was a bit of a disappointment, because it guaranteed they
wouldn't be close enough to have the boys actually pass them-unlike those lucky
stiffs down in the swaying horde, rippling like a human stream as the police
pushed their numbers into line.
However, Jeanette's little group
would be compensated for their loss by a better view. The top tier was as yet
lightly populated. Jeanette had met most of the gang at Helen's pub an hour
earlier. Angie was there, with all her recent enthusiasm very much in evidence.
She'd been one of the first to hear the news of the boys' arrival, and had
spent some time constructing a mammoth "Welcome Home Boys" sign to
show her joy. The resulting banner was 30 feet long, with the message written
in letters four feet tall. Upon displaying it, everyone else jumped in to add
their two bits. Soon the banner was covered with hearts, kisses, and personal
greetings to each of the boys.
Jeanette was a little uncertain how
to act around Angelica, considering the last time she'd seen her friend she'd
been setting fire to a great public monument. Jeanette couldn't help giving her
fellow fan cautious sideways glances, wondering if and when the zestful music
lover would transform into a shrieking banshee.
This did not seem about to happen.
Angelica was bubbling over with excitement, but no more so than anyone else in
the room. As soon as Philippa arrived, the lot of them-fourteen girls from
various parts of town-caught the nearest bus to the airport. They had a time
crowding aboard. Not only was their group large to begin with, but more girls
besides Angelica were carrying signs. Fortunately, the bus was half filled with
other Beatles fans who were doing the same thing they were. The rest of the
travelers made room for them indulgently, even to the point of helping hold up
Angelica's unwieldy banner so it wouldn't be trampled by people hopping off and
on.
The banner worked well for them when
they finally staked out their territory on the upper tier. They hung it over
the rail, secured it with masses of cello, and spread themselves along it.
Afterwards, people tended naturally to collect around and behind them. By the
time noon arrived, the roof and the balcony beneath it were nearly as crowded
as the ground level. The noise was incredible. Every time a plane taxied
anywhere near them, people would shout and press forward. It was impossible to
talk to one's companions in anything less than a yell.
About half noon, Jeanette grew
anxious. Every plane that trundled in their direction, regardless of size,
provoked wild cheers from the crowd. Jeanette couldn't believe how many people
were here. The roof alone held easily a couple of thousand. There would have
been more up there, but airport security had blocked off access-probably to
keep the roof from collapsing. There had been a battle at first when guards
tried to remove some of the fans who had gathered there, but they soon gave it
up as a bad job. Eventually those who were already present were allowed to
remain.
On all sides, spread below her and
to either side like a moving map, were the swirling pockets of people. A lane
was being kept clear between the terminal buildings. Clearly this was going to
be the Beatles' exit route. Three ambulances standing ready put the matter
beyond debate. The mounted officers were most active here, trying to maintain
an aisle wide enough to accommodate the vehicles when it came time to leave.
In front of Jeannette, the airfield
was being kept clear by a network of barricades and bobbies. The crowd extended
like wings in either direction, taking up the whole front of the terminal
building. In the center of the mess, across from the cleared lane, a separate
pen (for want of a better word) had been erected to accommodate the press.
Newspaperman and moving-film operators jammed the enclosure. They spent much of
their time photographing the crowd, with the television cameras panning over
them again and again, trying to capture all three levels of excitement. Whenever
the cameras turned in their direction, Jeanette and her friends called and
waved like anything. They should be able to pick themselves out in any
pictures, as each of them knew exactly where she was standing along the banner.
Apparently Jeanette was not alone in
this thought. During one of their waving sessions, Angie leaned towards her and
shouted, "I wonder if we'll see ourselves on telly. Wouldn’t that be
fantastic?"
Jeanette was too surprised respond.
Considering the last time Angie had ended up in the news, Jeanette thought that
would be the last thing she would want to hope for. But apparently any
remorseful thoughts were far from Angelica today, for she waved and screamed
with high enthusiasm, rocking a George poster that had been slightly bent
during the trip on the bus, but got the point across.
Suddenly Philippa grabbed Jeanette’s
arm. "Look."
A series of limousines under heavy
police escort made their way down the access corridor. They pulled up just
beyond the "pen" holding the print and newsreel people.
"Perhaps they're for the
Beatles to drive away in," Jeanette speculated.
“Then what are the ambulances for?”
“Paul doesn’t need an ambulance,”
Jeanette pointed out. Of course, he wouldn’t need four limousines, either.
Philippa only shook her head,
watching intently. A guard opened the rear door of the foremost limousine, and
a stocky occupant emerged. A roar went up as he was recognized.
Philippa made a face, and leaned
close to Jeanette. "Wouldn't you know it? The bloody PM."
Jeanette stared, even as Prime
Minister Wilson turned to wave at the crowd-as if any of them were here for
him. There were some other old blokes with him, but no one Jeanette recognized.
She wasn't sure how she felt about this. On the one hand, it was flattering to
have the PM turn up to welcome the boys home in person. It reassured her that
their waiting would not be in vain. On the other hand, it had an opportunistic
feeling, as if Mr. Wilson was trying to cash in on the Beatles popularity-
something more than one person had accused him of during the last election.
Philippa was absorbed with other
thoughts. “They must be due any minute now,” she shouted towards Jeanette’s
ear. “The PM would never wait round.”
Jeanette merely nodded, chewing her
lip.
The PM led his entourage to the far
side of the limos. As he did so, Jeanette's attention was drawn towards a
smallish plane that was making its way towards the gate. It was on course to
meet the PM. This had to be the one.
“Wild” didn’t begin to cover the
crowd’s reaction. Blokes bellowed, girls screamed, fans danced in place, signs
waved, and adults applauded, looking proud. Britain might almost have won the
war-whichever war-from the way people carried on. Jeanette didn't care. She was
bouncing and shrieking with the rest of them.
The plane angled in, coming to a
halt a dozen yards beyond the PM’s party. Immediately the three ambulances came
forward, parking between the limousines and the plane with their backs angled
away from the crowd. Their position was near the front of the plane, which
would obscure the view of anyone descending the flight steps, at least once
they were halfway down. If there was any booing over this disappointment,
Jeanette couldn't hear it. Everyone seemed to be in a delirium of excitement.
The front hatch opened, and people
began to descend. Jeanette recognized the Beatles' manager, Brian Epstein; who
wouldn't? He was escorting the female members of the party. Normally the Beatle
wives were looked at with suspicion. Why should they be so lucky that they
got to marry a Beatle? But today even the most jealous fans were filled with
goodwill. Cynthia, Pattie, and Maureen were hailed as conquering heroes- or at
least as mutual celebrants. Today, no petty resentments could blunt the good
feelings.
Some other people, probably staff,
followed the advance party down. Then George’s parents, a cute little
middle-aged couple, emerged. The Harrisons received an even warmer welcome than
the wives. Unlike any of the people before them, they stopped just outside the
hatch and waved to the crowd-happily, kindly. Their gesture had people jumping
in place and bellowing themselves hoarse in an attempt to convey their
appreciation. Then the Harrisons, too, descended the steps and disappeared
behind the sheltering ambulances.
Philippa squeezed Jeanette's arm
hard enough to make it sting. Excitedly, she pointed towards the rear of the
craft. The cargo hatch near the back had started to grind open. It was beyond
any of the ambulances; the crowd would have a clear view.
At once understanding what must be
taking place, the spectators on all three decks- roof, balcony, and ground-
surged forward. Jeannette found herself squashed against the railing from the
people pushing from behind. She bent over the iron rail, both so she could
breathe and wave her hands vigorously as the hatch lifted out of the way.
There they were, three of them
standing behind a hospital bed on wheels, waving with various degrees of
enthusiasm. They were too far away for Jeanette to see their expressions, but
she could instantly tell their order: John, Ringo, and Paul. George, of course,
would be lying on the bed, the head end of which had been slightly elevated. At
first he didn't move. Then, as the ecstatic shouting pulsed through the air, his
right hand lifted and he weakly waved.
The cheering rose to the sky.
“They’re beautiful!” Philippa
cried- or at least, Jeanette thought she did. It was more like an impression of
speech against the wall of sound. Then Phillie began to wave both hands like
crazy. “John!” she cried faintly, as if he could hear her. “Jo-o-o-o-o-hn!”
Angelica was hanging over the
railing, waving her battered George sign for all she was worth.
"George!" she screamed, in counterpoint to Phillie. "Ge-e-e-e-o-o-o-r-ge!"
Jeanette decided that Angie had picked a favorite Beatle after all.
Jeanette, of course, was focused on
Paul. He was the most lively of the group, unsurprisingly. True to form, he
made sure to wave at every part of the crowd. She couldn’t see him well, but
she had studied his face long enough that she felt she could interpret his
expression, despite the intervening distance. To her, he looked both happy and
sad, which was only fitting. She cheered him for all she was worth; after all,
he’d been through a horrendous experience, even if he hadn’t been shot. Her
loyalty made her briefly feel bad for Ringo, having no cheering section of his
own amongst her immediate companions-but some girls down the way were waving a
Ringo sign, so that was all right.
Transported by ecstasy, Jeannette at
first failed to notice the cargo lift moving towards the plane. It had a kind
of basket they could move the bed onto. There was some milling at the hatch as
the Beatles made way for several people in uniform to move George onto the basket.
To Jeanette's delight, the uniformed people got off and the three other Beatles
got on, crowding into the basket with only one old fellow, probably a doctor,
for company. He stood motionless near the head of the bed, while the other
three Beatles (but not George) began to wave again.
As the basket began to lower them to
the ground, the PM and another older gentleman, both in morning suits, moved
forward. The crowd pushed forward harder than ever, eager to see. Jeanette
began to fear she might be pushed over the edge, or crushed against the rail.
Still, when the basket touched the ground and the boys were officially on
English soil once more, she screamed as if she would never make another noise
the whole rest of her life.
Continued in Part 93.
The Beatles at Heathrow Airport, London, just before their North American tour, August 1966.
For a complete list of entries, see the The Space Between Us All - chapter listing.