Pete Goodrum
May 17th

The story

May 17th

He would go back to that moment for years. That moment when he had been there, the night The Beatles had played his home city of Norwich. He had heard them, seen them, felt the walls and floor move with them. And he had been there with Liz.

She had gone with him.

Dave never dwelled on the fact that she’d not taken much interest in him before that. She was already establishing herself in the studio of the advertising agency in which he was little more than a messenger boy. Obviously talented and fabulously interesting she had ignored almost every attempt he’d made at impressing her. She had, one Friday night, allowed him to buy her a beer. To everyone else in the pub that night he’d simply bought a round. To him it had been a date.

And there was the time he’d overheard her complaining that she’d run out of cigarettes. On his way back to the office after lunch he’d bought a packet and, nonchalance personified, given them to her. ‘Heard you say you’d run out. I was getting some for me. Picked you up a packet’. She’d looked up. ‘Thanks. That's nice of you. I’ll pay you back. End of the week’. That’s all she’d said. To him, it was the second date. It was progress, bordering on a relationship.

They’d chatted a few times after that. She never did pay him back. Every day he planned his route through the agency to ensure that he saw her as often as possible. Or, more accurately, that she saw him. He bought clothes and Chelsea Boots that he thought matched her artiness. What he failed to see was that she looked so entirely right because she put no effort into it; he looked so completely wrong because he put so much effort into it.

Then came the chance to buy tickets to see The Beatles at The Grosvenor Ballroom. He bought two. Seven and sixpence each. Fifteen shillings was a mad amount of money for two tickets to anything, but for Dave this was an investment.

He genuinely managed to appear quite casual when he mentioned to her one morning that he had two tickets, for The Beatles, did she fancy seeing them?

His cool had dropped a bit when she’d instantly said ‘Yeah!’ He found himself suggesting arrangements with ridiculous speed and precision. ‘Right then. They’re at The Grosvenor, down Prince of Wales Road. Meet you in the city first. Jarrold’s doorway, half six, next Friday then. The 17th’.

It went better than he’d dared to imagine. They met at 6.30, and had a drink.
They got on really well. A bit of talk about work. Inevitably some discussion about The Beatles.

They had a couple more beers. As they strolled down to The Grosvenor Ballroom she held his hand. He was all but speechless.

And then they were among 1700 sweating people, elbowing their way out on to the pavement of Prince of Wales Road. All of them now cherishing the right to say ‘I was there’.

As for Dave and Liz they shared the moment with a mutual joy that left him dazzled. They walked and chatted and the conversation spiralled into just how special the night had been. Dave had an idea. ‘What a night!’ he said. ‘And it all started in Jarrold’s doorway. Whatever happens, wherever we go, ten years from now let’s meet, on May 17th, at 6.30, in Jarrold’s doorway’.

‘You’re mad’ she said. ‘Ten years from now will be 1973!’

About a week later Liz was telling people that she’d got a job in London.

Her leaving ‘party’ was a ‘kitty’ for beer and an extended Friday night session in the pub. They started at five thirty. At closing time he kissed her on the cheek and watched her go with her big leaving card under her arm. The card the studio had made for her. He’d signed it. In among the ‘best wishes’ from the bosses, and the very rude wishes from the rest, he’d written ‘Good Luck. Don’t forget. Jarrold’s doorway. 6.30. May 17. 1973! Dave. xxxx’

Two years later he pretended he already knew when, in a conversation, someone mentioned she’d left London and was working in New Zealand. Three years after that he resisted telling new colleagues that he knew her, when she appeared in the advertising trade press, talking about her new, very senior, role in a New York agency.

The years started to blur. He almost left the agency to join a new team of hot shots, but didn’t. He almost got married, but didn’t. He climbed several rungs up the ladder though. People respected him. Clients liked him. He looked good. Nowadays he put rather less effort into how he dressed.

When he was leaving the agency’s New Year’s party in the early hours of January 1st 1973 it hit him.

He suddenly realised that the years had gone by in flash. In some ways.

In those years Liz had got married. It had lasted eighteen months. There had been a lot of ‘we’re both to blame’ and ‘better to cut our losses now’. No matter what had been said, Liz knew that at the heart of the broken hearts was ‘the job’.

For her, January 1973 meant moving to a new apartment. Living alone again didn’t bother her. She didn’t carry much baggage. Almost all of her souvenirs and possessions related to her work. Which is why, in opening boxes in her new bedroom, she came across the leaving card from her first job. And there was the message from Dave. And here she was, a decade on.

She suddenly realised that the years had gone by in flash. In some ways.

It wasn’t that she’d never thought of him. Only a couple of years ago when people were discussing the break up of The Beatles she’d chipped in to the conversation with ‘I saw them. In the early days’. And she’d thought about that night. And Dave.

There had been that time when she and her husband had been screaming at each other over some stupid act of selfishness and she’d suddenly recalled Dave selflessly buying her a packet of cigarettes, for no reason other than he knew she wanted them.

An idea started to form. She was due in London in May for a conference. Just suppose she took a train to Norwich and stood in Jarrold’s doorway at 6.30pm on May 17th. He wouldn’t come of course. But, if he didn’t, she could surely track him down and write to him - even ‘phone him - and say ‘I was there, where were you?’ Which would be funny in itself.

The idea became more and more attractive to her. She started to realise that Dave was becoming more and more attractive to her.

Dave spent the next few months in the same pattern as ever. Work mostly. He’d so often thought about Liz. ‘Stupid. One date when I was twenty is no reason to be pining at thirty’. At the same time he could never shift the feeling that it had meant something.

He’d always known he would do it. He would go to Jarrold’s doorway at 6.30pm on May 17th. She wouldn’t come of course. But, if she didn’t, he could surely track her down and write to her - even ‘phone her - and say ‘I was there, where were you?’ Which would be funny in itself.

The idea became more and more attractive to him. He started to realise that Liz was becoming more and more attractive to him.

May 17th 1963 had been a Friday. Now, in 1973, it was a Thursday, which seemed less romantic somehow. But, at 6.30 Dave walked down Guildhall Hill and stood in the doorway of the Jarrold store. He looked towards the market and reflected on how little things had changed since 1963.

Liz had got off a train in Norwich that afternoon. She checked in to the hotel near the station and changed. She looked good. Nowadays she put rather more effort into how she dressed. She walked up Prince of Wales Road, smiling at it being the same route as ten years ago.

Her memory of the streets was still pretty good she thought. She turned left into Exchange Street and came up to the door of the Jarrold store. It wasn’t how she remembered it. The door seemed different. She looked towards the new door and reflected on how much things had changed since 1963.

Dave waited, looking at the market.

Liz waited, looking at Lobster Lane.

At 7.15, because 45 minutes was enough to prove the point, Dave realised she wasn’t coming. Why would she?

At 7.15, because 45 minutes was enough to prove the point, Liz realised he wasn’t coming. Why would he?

He left the doorway and walked.

She left the doorway and walked.

PETE GOODRUM