The Beatles and Me

The Beatles arrive for a press conference.

It was, for one glorious afternoon, a moment in history. My history.

I was 17 and I worked at The Globe and Mail in Toronto. I’d like to say I was a reporter. I wanted to be, more than anything, but I had yet to write a story.

With Richard Needham -- from an article in Time

My job was to assist a well-known columnist by the name of Richard J. Needham. When I wasn't doing that, I spent every second I could among the clatter of old typewriters in the newsroom, longing to write the news with everyone else.

One day Richard asked me if I’d like to cover a press conference. As a reporter.

Sure, I said, my knees already growing weak. What was it about?

The Beatles, he said. He handed me a press pass.

I was almost speechless. THE BEATLES!

Not only was I going as a reporter: I was going to meet THE BEATLES.

Now I have to tell you I was Beatles-crazy, just like every other 17-year-old girl of my generation. I was in love with them, all of them, although I rather fancied Paul McCartney.

I can remember what I wore for the occasion. It was a bright orange mini-dress with purple and blue ribbon around the hem, off-white patterned tights and knee-high navy-blue boots.

The Globe photographer told me to stay close by him. He said it could be a madhouse of teenyboppers.

And sure enough, there were the kids. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of them, screaming and hopping and leaping at the fence that was supposed to keep them out.

I knew about Beatlemania, of course. I mean, I was part of it. But I had never seen it in full force. It was overwhelming.

All of a sudden it was as if a dam broke. One of the fences was down and screeching teenagers flooded the lobby. They rushed, they hurled, they threw themselves forward. They fell and scrambled and screamed and wept. Some were hysterical.

They were all headed to one place: a side door we were about to enter for the press conference.

“Hang on,” the photographer shouted at me. “Hang on to my camera strap. DON’T LET GO.”

So I did. I wrapped my fingers around the strap and shuffled behind him. I could feel myself being squeezed and slammed and jolted. I almost felt like I was drowning. There was hardly any space to breathe. There were people behind me and above me and beside me.

Somehow in this crush of humanity, I spotted a small opening in the crowd that I could peek through. I saw a tall, elegant man with beautiful white hair. He strode through that crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea, and everyone stepped back to let him by.

Pierre Berton

And I realized: oh, my… It’s Pierre Berton, the famous Canadian historian, writer, journalist and broadcaster.

I will never forget the look on his face. It was as though none of this was of any consequence. He was a man with a destination, namely the door of the press conference room, and he was not to be stopped. He had the kind of presence to make that perfectly clear.

While I was marvelling at Pierre Berton, I got separated from my photographer. The force of the crowd made me lose my grip on his strap, and I was alone in an ocean of bobbing, hollering people. It was terrifying.

And then I felt strong arms around my waist. They were like the grip of some huge machine. The arms lifted me up above the crowd. But they were moving me back, towards the street, away from the elusive side door.

I realized the arms belonged to an enormous policeman, and to him I must have looked exactly like all the other teenyboppers. He was simply removing me.

I was frantic. I waved my press card.

“Press! Press!” I yelled.

Another giant policeman across the way saw us and understood my dilemma.

“Hey, Mac!” he yelled at his colleague. “She’s Press!”

Without missing a beat, my policeman changed course. Still holding me above the screaming masses, he turned and motored forward. He opened the side door and set me down on the other side.

“Sorry, Ma’am,” he said. He closed the door, and then he was gone.

The sign on my chair said Globe and Mail. It was in the middle of the FRONT ROW facing the head table where the Beatles would sit. It was like a dream. I felt embarrassed, because I didn’t look anything like all those sophisticated “real” reporters, who eyed me suspiciously, and also because I was shaking like a leaf. I tried to fake composure.

I pulled out my notebook and pretended to make a few notes. My fingers wouldn’t work. All I could manage were trembly squiggles.

And then!

There they were!

They burst into the room, joking and clowning. They took their places at the table. Cameras flashed. Questions burst forward. I wanted to ask something, too. But nothing would come out. I couldn’t take notes, because my fingers wouldn’t write. My face was hot. I was sure it was red.

The Beatles kibitzed with their audience. They were clearly having the time of their lives.

And then I realized they were looking at me. They must have wondered what I was doing there. Did they know I was a fake?

I tried to be cool, professional, unimpressed. I glanced at John Lennon.

And do you know what he did? He smiled. He WINKED. At me! He did know. It was a sweet flash of connection.

I put up my hand. Paul pointed to me. I asked some silly question that I can’t even remember now. I do remember he answered me kindly, as if I were not a scared teenybopper but a real reporter like all the rest.

And then, as fast as they arrived, they left again.

I wrote the story. It didn’t say much. I hadn’t, after all, taken any notes, much as I tried.

It appeared as a tiny two-column piece somewhere in the back pages of The Globe, lost in anonymity.

I did eventually go on to become a reporter.

But that was just about the best five minutes a true Beatle-maniac could ever have.

Francie Healy