London Calling

by Barbara Worton

I was fourteen in 1963, in my freshman year in high school. I was in school just one week when my boyfriend from second grade dumped me. It was a shock, But, about a week later, I was over it because this new kid came to school. Black hair, blue eyes, really adorable and straight out of immigration from England. So, he has this great accent, and he’s sitting right in front of me in homeroom—alphabetical order—and I was in love. We started hanging out, and he introduced me to the Beatles months before anyone else even knew there was a place called Liverpool. After school, we’d go back to his house and listen to music. And I liked this guy from England, but I loved the Beatles.

I was one of the first members of their U.S. fan club and adored John Lennon with every inch of my being. He was a poet; I was, too. I loved his voice, his evil sense of humor, and he absolutely had the best hair. But nobody really knew that I loved John Lennon. That was a secret, a really big secret. John was so cute and smart. People would just laugh at me if they knew I thought I was good enough for John.

Finally, the Beatles made it to the Ed Sullivan Show, and all the kids who had been laughing at me in school were instant Beatle-maniacs. My English boyfriend was now hot, hot, hot. Women were throwing themselves at him, and I got dumped again.

One post-dumping Saturday night, I was home baby-sitting and feeling sorry for myself—singing into my hairbrush—“Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away”—and crying and slumping around. And the phone rang, and a voice, very official-sounding, said, “We have a transatlantic call from London, England, for Barbara. Is she available?”

I said, yes. And this woman on the other end of the line said, “Hello. Is this Barbara?” 

I answered, “Yes, it is.”

“Well, hello, darling, this is Cynthia Lennon.”

My heart stopped.

“I’m just calling you because you were one of the first members of the Beatles fan club in the U.S., and well, John and the boys just thought it would be really nice if we picked up the phone and called all the people who helped to make them so hugely popular in the States and just let them know how much we appreciate the support. And on behalf of my husband, John, I’d like to say thank you. Ta-da.”

Thank you too, I said, and hung up.

Now, back in 1963, stuff like this happened. Murray the K, Cousin Brucie, the WMCA Good Guys, they did stuff like this. And even though I knew this call couldn’t be real, I really wanted it to be.

Monday, I showed up at school, and I walked into English class. One of my friends was talking to the teacher, whispering, and they were looking at me. “I hear someone in the class is getting transatlantic phone calls from London.”

My heart started pounding, and I just sat there and sort of looked down. Then he said, “Barbara, it’s you, right? You got a call from Cynthia Lennon?” I looked up at him with deep loathing, and I didn’t say anything, but my friend and some of the other kids were looking at me with stupid grins.

Then he said, “John Lennon is your favorite Beatle, right?” I answered flatly, “Yes, May I be excused?” I ran out of that classroom and into the girls’ room right across the hall. I stayed there until after the bell rang. I heard somebody open the girls’ room door and call Barbara, but I didn’t answer.

The next day, I came back to school and nobody remembered what had happened to me in English class. I think “She Loves You” was released that morning, so my humiliation was no longer news.

A year later, the Beatles were our lives, my life, for sure. I went to see them live on the Ed Sullivan Show, sat about two feet from John in the second or third row of the balcony. Saw them at Shea Stadium twice. I don’t know how many times I saw A Hard Day’s Night, Help! and Yellow Submarine. But I hung on everyone of John’s lines. He said the things I always wanted to say. He was funny, and he became my voice, my hero.

The last time I saw John was in the late 1970s. It was the height of the designer jeans era, and I was walking up Fifth Avenue right past Rockefeller Center, and he was walking toward me. I saw him and thought, oh, there’s someone I knew in high school. Then I realized it was John, and I can’t imagine what kind of look I had on my face, but I must have terrified him because I saw his whole facial expression change. But he kept walking toward me—brave man—and then we were side-by-side, and I thought I heard him say, “Nice pants.” We were both wearing Paris 2000 jeans. I didn’t say anything back, but I just felt for two seconds, you know, if John had met me, if we did know each other, we probably would have been friends.

Memories of John Lennon, © copyright 2005, Yoko Ono, HarperCollins Publishers, New York and Sutton Publishing Ltd., UK.