I looked up at John's face, already prepared for the smirk that I knew would be there. I was right. But John's eyes were opened wide and innocently.
"Eh, Penny, don't let me interrupt you," he said slyly, and jiggled his eyebrows. But I was through. Paul and I laughed, we couldn't help it, as I picked myself up off of the floor.
"G'day, gentlemen," I said, as I was preparing to leave, "oh, and by the way, do either of you happen to know a place nearby with a piano?" John and Paul exchanged looks, and giggled again. I wasn't about to ask them what they had eaten so far that day, or smoked for that matter. And I was confused when,
"GEORGE! RINGO!" Bellowed John all of a sudden, "GET YOUR ARSES MOVING! WE'RE GOING TO PAY MR. MARTIN A SURPRISE VISIT!!!!"
I gasped. I was going to meet George Martin. The pianist, the composer and the oboist. The producer for the Beatles.
We got into the car, only after I had retrieved my binder of music from my hotel room. I tucked it under my arm as I walked into the hallway. There was John, leaning nonchalantly against the wall. He immediately donned his appropriate disguise, and offered his arm. We walked together out to the car.
This time, John, Ringo and Paul sat in front with George and I in the back. I leaned over and whispered in his ear as soon as I knew that the others weren't listening in.
"George," I said, "I have to talk to you." His eyes widened.
"Did something happen?"
"No...well, sort of."
"Later, then, when we get back."
"Okay." As our Rolls Royce pulled up to the doors, I was almost shaking in anticipation. John looked at me in amazement.
"What's up with you?"
"What's up with you?"
"Hmm? Oh, nothing. Nothing, really."
"I'll bet you've been taking a few puffs of our grass, haven't you, then?"
"What? I-never-I mean- you jerk!"
John laughed gleefully and was still giggling as we walked inside.
Mr. Martin was standing by the piano when we walked in, and he stood up hurriedly to exchange greetings with John and Paul. I hid behind George. But eventually, George pulled me out from behind his back, and made the introductions.
"George, this is Penny Strafford. She's 17 and she plays piano."
"Well, hello there," said George Martin, and offered his hand. I took it shyly and beamed.
"Wow...hi, it's great to meet you."
"The pleasure is mine," he said, as polite as I imagined that Brian Epstein was. "So, what's this about you playing piano?"
"Oh...well, my father and my mother are both concert pianists, so I've played for almost eleven years." John smiled, Paul and George looked visibly impressed. Ringo grinned and winked encouragingly.
"Play something, then," said Paul comofortably, and leaned against the piano's side. I still got stomach flutters from hearing his voice. My heart beat palpitations just looking him and remembering how he kissed me.........I shook my head.
"Ha," said John. "I know for a fact that you're not shy. Get your ass on that bench and play something." I crossed my eyes and him but sat down. He retaliated with the famous 'tongue-in-cheek-bug-eyed' look. I turned to George Martin.
"Do you have a preference between Mussorgsky, Haydn, Mozart or Beethoven?" He smiled in return.
"Mozart's nice." I smiled back,
"How about one movement? The whole piece is sixteen pages long, and I wouldn't want the precious Mr. Lennon to die of boredom." John whistled and mock-cheered. I elbowed him in the side and he shut up.
"Sounds lovely," said George Martin kindly.
"I apologize for any mistakes, I haven't practiced for a few days..."
"PLAY THE DAMN THING!" all of the Beatles shouted at the same time, and then looked at erach other, obviously astonished that they were so in sync with each other. I, however, was not surprised.
I sat down at the piano bench and opened my binder of music to 'Sonate'. Though the notes appear to be difficult, the first page or so is not as complex as one might imagine. Of course, this is one NOT playing in front of the Beatles and George Martin. It took all of my willpower to not speed up, and end up destroying the piece and my reputation all together. I chose not to use the repeats for fear that John would die of boredom, (I knew for a fact that he was not in love with classical music,) and George Martin was standing by the page ready to turn. I nodded my head and he flipped it over. At the very end of the first movement are 32nd notes played in the right hand while the left jumps from a G octave to a C octave, repeatedly. I managed to partially mess them up, but I doubted that anyone in the room realized my mistake, excepting, of course, George Martin. I finished with appropriate chord bang, and swiveled around. Paul, George, Ringo and George Martin were clapping enthusiastically...John appeared to be slightly impressed.
"Play something loud," he said to me, head cocked. Mozart was not the strongest composer ever to write, he tended to compose beautiful, light melodies with solid rhythms and several 16th notes to trip you up. For John I played the page-long 'Promenade' from the beginning of 'Pictures at An Exhibition' by Mussorgsky. This piece is INCREDIBLY loud, and very impressive-sounding for its big chords in the right hand and octaves in the left, plus an often-used pedal to tie together tones. John was happy with this one, and George Martin was smiling again so that crinkles were appearing in the corners of his eyes.
"Lovely," he said, "it's fantastic looking at your hands. They're the first I've seen without a tendency to play incorrectly, in one way or another." I blushed.
"It's thanks to my mother." I then realized that I was sitting in a room in which two peoples' mothers had either been killed or had died, and I dropped the subject quickly. "Anyway," I said quickly, "many apologies for subjecting you to that. I didn't really have time to prepare..."
"What's she on about, George?" Paul poked George Martin in the side. "It sounded fine to me." But I'm sure that George Martin knew what I meant. I didn't know what to say next, and so I was relieved when he began a conversation.
"So, your mother teaches you?"
"Yes," I answered, "but recently she's been choosing pieces for me and then I just teach them to myself. SHe comes in every now and then for extra aid or suggestions. It's pretty relaxed. She knows that I don't want to be a pianist, and she's not forcing me to be one."
"What do you want to be, then?" I looked over at Paul, for some reason. He looked interested as well, but I wondered if John would laugh at me when I said what, exactly, I did want to be.
"A writer," I answered softly, and looked down at the floor.