Lindsey Hagston

All I Want For Christmas Is A Beatle

 

 

 

Oh Santa, please Santa

I don’t want a thing – no,

Just bring me, bring me Ringo!

 

 

 

“A what?” the old man asked, his false beard getting in his mouth. “What’s that?” he said, looking up at the girl’s parents. “Is it a new kind of doll?”

 

“No, Santa,” the little girl laughed. “Ringo is a Beatle!”

 

“Beetle?” the old man said, bewildered. “You don’t want a beetle for Christmas!”

 

“It’s a pop group,” the girl’s mother explained. “I’m afraid our girls are quite mad on them.”

 

“Ringo’s the drummer,” the little girl confirmed.

 

Her sister, standing beside her, pulled her face. “Santa’s not going to bring you Ringo, Laura,” she said, spitefully.

 

“Why not?” Laura asked, “I’ve been good all year, and Santa can do anything, can’t you Santa?”

 

The old man coughed, still spitting wisps of his cottony beard out of his mouth. “Oh yes,” he said, enthusiastically. “Santa’s magic!” But then catching the looks on her parent’s faces, he added, “But – what’s his name? Ringo? Well, he’s a very busy man.”

 

“Laura, you idiot, Santa can’t bring real people,” said her sister.

 

“Don’t call your sister an idiot, Ruthie,” her father said.

 

Ruth looked at him, “Well, he can’t, otherwise I would ask for Paul,” she said sulkily.

 

“Isn’t there anything else you want?” Santa said, looking kindly at the six-year-old sitting on his lap.

 

She thought a moment, and shook her head, “Sarah, at school, got a Beatle doll last year. But I don’t want a doll, I want the real Ringo.”

 

“Well, I’ll do my best,” Santa said, and dipping his hand in the sack buy his side, presented Laura with a colouring book. “Perhaps you’d like this?” he said, looking at the lengthening queue, waiting to see him.

 

“Thank you, Santa,” Laura said, and leaning kissed him on the cheek. “Remember, Ringo!” she whispered into his ear.

 

 The old man nodded wearily as she slid off his knee.

 

“Ringo!” she said again, over her shoulder, as her mother pulled her away.

 

 

***

 

 

“You can’t give him that!” John said, wrinkling his nose up. “You’ll have him going all… y’know, poncified.”

 

 “Don’t be daft,” Ringo said, tilting the doll back in his arm like he was holding a baby. The doll closed her glassy blue eyes.

 

“What did you get that for anyway? You’ve got two boys.”

 

 “I told you,” Ringo replied. “I didn’t. They had a boy helping me pack at Hamlyn’s, and he must have put her in one of the boxes by accident.”

 

“You still can’t give it to Jason!” John laughed, pouring more tea from the pot.

 

“No,” Ringo agreed. “Zak.”

 

The other three laughed and Ringo looked up from the doll in surprise. They were sitting around the aging Formica table in the makeshift kitchen at Abbey Road Studios, waiting for George Martin to arrive.

 

“Jason’s too small,” explained Ringo, missing what his friends were laughing at. “He’s still in his cot. The doll would be as big as him.”

 

“Did you have dolls when you were a kid, Ritch?” George asked, with a mischievous smile.

 

“Well, no…”

 

“Is that what Zak asked for?” Paul joined in.

 

Ringo dropped the doll roughly back into its box and covered it with the white tissue paper. He didn’t actually know what Zak had asked for. He had been away from home so much he hadn’t had the chance to do any of the usual Christmas things families do. Mo had taken little Zak and baby Jason to see Santa Claus on her own. They had dressed the tree on their own and Mo had sent out the cards herself; writing ‘love Ritchie, Mo and family,’ on the bottom of each one, although Ringo hadn’t even seen the design. Perhaps that was why he had gone a little mad at Hamlyn’s, buying his body weight in toys and presents for his young sons.

 

“What am I supposed to do with it?” he said. “Just throw it away? It’s a brand new doll.”

 

A technician arrived at the doorway, interrupting them, “Uh, phone call for you, Mr. Starkey.”

 

Ringo stood up and followed the young boy to the office. He picked up the receiver to the phone on the desk.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Ritchie, you’re still there!” Mo said, disappointed.

 

“Yeah,” Ringo replied, feebly. “We’re waiting on George Martin.”

 

“You said you’d be here by now. You said you’d be here by lunchtime. You promised!”

 

“I know,” Ringo said, feeling guilty. “But Mo…”

 

“Ritch, I really don’t want to hear about it, I just want you to get up here now. Haven’t you heard the weather reports?”

 

What’s the weather got to do with it? Ringo thought, annoyed. “No…”

 

“There’s going to be a blizzard. They’re saying to avoid going out.”

 

They were spending Christmas in Liverpool, so that the grandparents on both sides could see baby Jason for the first time. Mo and the boys had left three days ago with Ringo promising to follow the day after, which had turned into the 23 rd, and now the 24th.

 

“Oh. Well, I’ll be leaving soon. I’ve got everything here with me, so I can just jump in the car and go.”

 

“You’d better be here for the morning.”

 

“I will be. I’ll be there tonight.”

 

“Its Jason’s first Christmas,” her voice softened.

 

“I know.”

 

“And the first that Zak really knows what’s happening. And you’re missing it, Ritchie.”

 

“I know,” Ringo said, closing his eyes.

 

“Well… Just get here,” she said with finality in her tone.

 

“Yes, I will. Mo, I…”

 

Maureen hung up. The line went dead.

 

“…love you,” Ringo said to the void.

 

Ringo replaced the receiver slowly. He looked at his watch. It was already four o’clock and the light was fading. It was a good four or five hour drive up to Liverpool, and longer in the snow and the dark, which wasn’t something Ringo particularly relished the idea of.

 

He returned to the kitchen to find the others putting their coats and scarves on. Ringo smiled with a degree of relief.

 

“This would never happen if Brian was here,” John was saying, struggling with his coat sleeve.

 

“And what would Brian have done?” Paul asked argumentatively, wrapping his long black scarf around his neck three times.

 

“What’s happened?” Ringo asked.

 

“There’s been a mix up,” George said. “Mr. Martin had no idea he was supposed to be here today. He’s in Richmond.”

 

“Richmond?”

 

“Brian wouldn’t have been able to get him here from Richmond either,” Paul said to John.

 

“If Brian was here, there wouldn’t have been a mix up in the first place,” John said and no one replied. It was probably true. It hadn’t been four months since Brian had died and the Beatles were, very much, still adjusting to his absence.

 

“Well, at least we can go home for Christmas now,” George said, breaking the silence. “Have a good one, everybody!”

 

They all echoed his sentiment, hugging and wishing each other a Merry Christmas.

 

“Careful how you go up north,” George said, with his arm around Ringo’s shoulders. “Roads’ll be icy.”

 

“Yeah,” Ringo nodded.

 

“See you for New Year’s,” George said, following John and Paul out of the kitchen and then they were gone, leaving the drummer standing alone in the suddenly silent kitchen. He looked at the doll, still lying on the table.

 

Ringo picked up the lid to the box and placed it over it. “You might as well come with me,” he said to the doll through the little plastic window, “See if we can’t find you a home.”

 

Outside the studios, Abbey Road was eerily quiet. Barely any traffic passed and the other Beatles had disappeared, leaving Ringo’s car, lonely at the bottom of the small car park. Ringo pulled his coat collar up and walked over to it. He opened the boot to put the doll inside, but finding it already jammed full of presents, luggage and the other various things he had to take up to Liverpool, he took her round to the passenger’s seat instead. In the distance he could hear carol singers, further up Abbey Road, singing Good King Wenceslas. Ringo got into the car and started the engine. As he did, small snowflakes floated down, landing on the windscreen and bonnet. Ringo smiled and switched on the wipers.

 

An hour later and Ringo had hardly made it out of North London. He sat in a long queue of traffic, waiting to get out on to the chocker main road. It appeared everyone had left it until Christmas Eve to go home and the snow was making it worse. It was falling thick and heavy now, making it hard for the wipers to shift it from Ringo’s view.

 

“Come on, come on!” Ringo shouted at the driver in front and the car moved, as if on command. Ringo crawled forward another four feet.

 

This wasn’t looking good. He would miss Zak’s bedtime now and Maureen would be livid. There was a short break in the traffic and Ringo took his chance, pulling out and almost skidding the car. He passed a garage on his left and glanced down at the gages on the dashboard, wondering if he should stop to have it checked before he got into the countryside. He decided against it, he couldn’t afford any more delays and there would be a petrol station on the way if he needed to fill up.

 

 

***

 

 

“Christmastime is here again!” The Beatles sang.

 

“Do we have to listen to this all the time?” asked the girl’s father from his armchair. “There are other Christmas songs.”

 

“It’s The Beatles, Dad,” Ruth said, as if that explained everything. She and Laura were lying on the floor studying their LP covers.

 

“You’ll wear it out,” her father tried, but his hints fell on deaf ears.

 

“Isn’t it bedtime?” their mother asked, with a sympathetic smile.

 

“Not yet,” they both chorused.

 

“Oh, well, if you don’t go to bed then Santa won’t be able to come, will he?”

 

That was the deal breaker. They were undressed and in bed in record time. Their mother followed them upstairs and tucked them in. She switched off the bedroom light and was pulling the door to, when Laura said, “Mum, who’s coming for Christmas dinner?”

 

“Granny and Granddad,” she replied, opening the door again.

 

“Will there be room for Ringo?”

 

“Ringo?”

 

“Santa’s going to bring him tonight. He’ll want some dinner too.”

 

“Well, we’ll see,” she replied and closed the door, meeting her husband on the landing with a worried look. “That maybe one disappointed little girl tomorrow,” she said.

 

 

***

 

 

Ringo stared at the little flashing warning light in disbelief. So near, and yet, so far.

 

He was nearly home, stranded on the outskirts of the city. He had been driving for hours straight, hurrying, trying to get home in time, and now it seemed all his efforts would be pointless. The orange warning light on the dashboard blinked, unthreateningly, unremarkably, silently. Barely noticeable, but meaning one thing, ‘You ain’t going nowhere’.

 

Ringo’s exhausted mind could hardly think. He tried the ignition again, but it made a dull rumbling noise and refused to start. Ringo put his arms across the steering wheel and leant his head on them. “Don’t be the radiator, don’t be the radiator,” he chanted to himself, preying to the god of roadside breakdowns.

 

Dragging himself up, he clambered out of the car, fighting with the seatbelt that tried to wrap itself around his body. He lifted the bonnet and stared at the engine, hoping the problem might present itself. Perhaps foolishly, he had taken a short cut that had taken him away from the main road. He had missed out on some of the heavy traffic but it also meant that he was miles from any kind of garage. The snow came at him from the side, the uplifted bonnet offering no shelter. Ringo shivered.

 

“Maureen’s gonna murder me,” he mumbled to himself. He made preliminary pokes and tweaks in the dim light from the solitary lamppost. “Come on, what is it? You were fine a while ago, what…” he stopped as he realised. “Water?” he said loudly to the night, “That’s it? Water?”

 

Why didn’t I check that? Ringo scolded himself.

 

Ringo dropped the bonnet down and looked about himself. Where can I get water from at this time of night?  he wondered, eyeing the roadside slush but then deciding adding mud and grit with the water couldn’t do the engine much good.

 

He checked his watch. It was past midnight. There was only one house in sight. Back down the road a short walk. It was in darkness and there wasn’t a car in the driveway, but it was his only option. Buttoning his coat against the cold, Ringo started off towards it.

 

 

***

 

 

“Ruth?” Laura whispered across the dark room to her sister. Ruth didn’t reply, breathing heavily.

 

Laura screwed her eyes shut, trying to sleep, but it was no use. The mixture of excitement and apprehension ensured she was wide-awake. She didn’t know how long she had been lying there, but it felt like hours.  It must be nearly Christmas morning, she thought, but Santa hadn’t been yet.

 

She sat up in the little bed. The pillowcases she and Ruth had left at the end of their beds, were still there, empty. Laura lay down again. She had heard her parents go to bed earlier and since then there hadn’t been a single sound. Not a clatter of hooves or a jingle of bells.

 

Perhaps he’s left them downstairs! The thought suddenly occurred to her. After all, he couldn’t fit Ringo into a pillowcase. Perhaps Santa has…

 

She stopped suddenly, listening, hardly breathing. She had heard the creak of the gate to the garden. A sound she had heard a million times before. She sat up. The gate creaked when someone opened it to walk up the path. And then, on cue, she heard the tramp of footsteps on the gravel and pebbles.

 

Without a second thought, Laura was out of her bed and down the stairs, still in the darkness, but her feet knew the way instinctively. She rushed to the front door, fetching the footstool to stand on to draw back the bolt and turn the key in the lock. She flicked the doorstep light on and opened the door. Her eyes grew as wide as saucers as she looked up at him.

 

Ringo stood there, surprised, finger still in mid air, ready to ring the bell. He looked down at the little girl, who barely reached his waist. “Uh, hello,” he said, hoping not to frighten her.

 

She flung her arms around him and hugged him tightly, “Ringo! I knew he would bring you!”

 

“Oh… did you?” Ringo replied, confused.

 

“Is he still here?” she asked, looking up at him again, still hugging him.

 

“Who?”

 

“Santa!”

 

Ringo smiled. “No, it’s just me,” he said simply.

 

“Oh,” the little girl said, disappointed for a moment but then the grin returned to her face. “Well, he’s busy, isn’t he?” she said.

 

“Oh, yes!” Ringo said. “It is Christmas Eve, y’know.”

 

The little girl finally let go of him and stepped aside for Ringo to come in. Ringo did, looking around at the dark hallway.

 

“Where’s your mum and dad?” he asked.

 

“Asleep, ssh!” she replied, opening the door to the living room.

 

Ringo tiptoed in and she closed the door quietly behind him. “Ssh,” she said again, putting a finger to her lips. “They’ll be cross if we wake them, I’m not meant to get out of bed in the night.”

 

Ringo nodded. “But I…” he started. The girl switched the light on and Ringo stopped.

 

In the corner of the room was a beautiful, bushy Christmas tree. It looked like it should be on a Victorian Christmas card, trimmed with tinsel and large red, gold and silver bulbuls. There were presents underneath it, tied with ribbons and bows. Beside the tree was a table with a plate of mince pies and a small glass of sherry.

 

“Oh,” the little girl said, following Ringo’s gaze. “Santa hasn’t taken his mince pies.” She looked at Ringo expectantly, “Didn’t he like them?”

 

“Uh, yeah, of course he did,” Ringo said, thinking quickly. “But he said he had already eaten quite a lot and I was hungry so he said I could have them.” He smiled. It was half way true anyway, Ringo hadn’t had anything to eat since breakfast, and then it was only a bowl of cornflakes.

 

The little girl laughed and Ringo walked round the sofa to the table, picking up one of the pies and hungrily biting into half of it. “Mmm,” he said, chewing. “Did your mum make these?”

 

She nodded.

 

“What’s your name?”

 

“Laura.”

 

“Laura, do you think I could have some water? Then we needn’t wake your mam and dad.”

 

“You’re thirsty?”

 

“No, its for my car, its broken down,” Ringo started his second mince pie.

 

“You can’t leave!” Laura said, aghast. “You’re to stay here now. Santa brought you, and you’re gonna have Christmas dinner with us…”

 

Ringo raised his eyebrows at her outburst. He didn’t really understand the full story, but he was catching the drift, “Laura,” he said softly. “I can’t stay here. I have to go home to my own family.”

 

She looked at him, her eyes threatening tears.

 

“…But,” Ringo added quickly. “Santa said there was a little girl here who was a very big Beatle fan,” he paused, studying her face for a sign he was on the right track. Laura smiled faintly. “And,” Ringo continued, “He asked me to bring you a very special present, just for you.”

 

Laura’s smile grew into a big toothy grin. “What?” she asked.

 

“Well,” Ringo said, glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece. “As its now Christmas morning, I guess you can have it. I’ll go and get it, if you’ll fetch me a jug of water?”

 

Laura nodded and ran out of the room. Ringo followed her, carefully and quietly, slipped out of the front door and arrived back in a couple of minutes with a large pink box in his arms. Laura was waiting for him by the door with a large jug of water. Ringo took it from her and put it down on the floor as he knelt down to her height.

 

“I’ve only got two little boys, so this must be for you,” he said, offering her the doll’s box.

 

Laura took it, pulling the lid off, “Oooh,” she breathed, taking the doll out, “She’s pretty, what’s her name?”

 

“Well, she hasn’t got one. Why don’t you name her?”

 

Laura thought for a moment. “I could call her Ringo!”

 

Ringo tried to hide his smile. “Ringo’s a boy’s name,” he said. “This is a little girl, like you.”

 

“Oh, in that case I’ll call her Joanna,” Laura said, amicably and yawned.

 

Ringo picked up his jug and stood up again. “I should be going,” he said.

 

“Do you have to?” Laura asked sadly and rubbed her eye.

 

“Yes,” Ringo said gently. “I have to go and see my family, but thank you for the water, Laura.” The little girl yawned again. “I think you’d better get yourself off to bed now.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Make sure you lock the door behind me,” Ringo said, stepping backwards out onto the doorstep. “Merry Christmas!”

 

“Merry Christmas, Ringo!” Laura said and threw her arms around Ringo again. Ringo smiled and bent down to kiss her forehead. She released him again and Ringo waved a goodbye as he hopped off the step, hurrying back to the car. Laura closed the door and Ringo turned away, realising he didn’t feel half as glum anymore.

 

 

***

 

 

As Ringo’s grumbling car turned into the driveway, a light in the hallway of the house came on. Maureen was stood in the doorway, waiting for him, when he got out of the car.

 

“Ritchie,” she said in a hushed voice as he walked towards her. “Are you alright? Where have you been? I was worried…”

 

“I’m fine,” he said, kissing her, “I just had to make an unscheduled stop.”

 

 “What? Where? I thought you’d driven into a snow drift…” Maureen closed the door behind them.

 

 

***

 

 

“She’s here!” Laura’s mother said, waking her, curled up on the sofa. “Laura, what are you doing down here?”

 

“Did you see him?!” Ruth said, running into the room.

 

“Yes!” Laura said, beaming.

 

“Santa?”

 

“Ringo!” she said joyfully. “Santa brought Ringo, but he had to go home, but he gave me this!” She held the doll up, still cradled in her arms. “He ate the mince pies!”

 

Ruth pouted, “Mum, tell Laura not to lie!”

 

“It’s not a lie,” Laura said, incensed.

 

“Who wants to open a present?” their mother said diplomatically. Both girls roared and rushed to the foot of the tree to sort through the brightly coloured boxes.

 

“Did you get this, dear?” said their father, as he sat down on the sofa with Laura’s doll and its box.

 

“No, didn’t you?”

 

“No, it say’s Hamlyn’s here. How’s Laura got a doll from Hamlyn’s?”

 

 

***

 

All I want for Christmas is a Beatle.

Not a teddy bear, just a Beatle.

I told mum nothing else would do.

There are four, so she can have one too.

I don't care whichever one she gets me.

Ringo, Paul, John, George, they're all the same.

I can't wait for Christmas day to come 'cause

All I want for Christmas is a Beatle.

 

 

NB. 1st quote is from ‘Bring me Ringo for Christmas’ by Christine Hunter, 1964

2nd quote is from ‘All I Want For Christmas is a Beatle’ by Dora Bryan, 1963