And In The End..... By Judy Mitchell

I envied her that bedroom with its sugar pink walls, flowery curtains and space.  It had posters, a Dansette record player and places for us to loll as we tried to copy the images of long-lashed, wispy thin, Californian girls with moon pennies in their hair. We burned joss sticks, the grey ash falling silently on to the painted, white floorboards and the dark, earthy, muskiness of patchouli mixing unsuccessfully with the aroma of a nearby Yorkshire coking plant.

The sound of Sgt Pepper’s tracks filled the room that summer and we were word perfect, singing every track with scouse, nasal overtones. We played the run out groove at a slower speed to uncover words that were said to be hidden in the last bars. We never found them. 

And then, when it got to seven o’clock we would return home, leaving talk of the hidden meanings of the lyrics for another day. My sandal-shod feet tapped down the uncarpeted stairs and outside down the path. I ran along the curve of the privet hedge between our two houses covering the short distance like the third leg in a relay race. 

Back home and on to thick carpet and my tiny space for one at the top of the stairs. No posters, no record player, no chairs, only a quiet, blue refuge with my bookcase and light to read by and enough places to hide secrets and to sleep and dream of boys, clothes and high-heeled shoes.

More than fifty years later, on a soft, spring morning, those of us who had played together in that bedroom, met with others, to say goodbye. Her car arrived and the sound of the trumpets and the opening bars of All You Need Is Love filled the hushed ante room. Smiles quivered across lips as we blinked away tears in the pale, pink morning light. The orchestral ending slipped away from us and we stood together and held hands in defiance of official advice.