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New York
The incessant blaring of the emergency vehicles woke John Lennon from his afternoon nap. He blinked his eyes open and sent a silent mantra for whomever was in trouble “may they be healthy and strong”. He swung his legs off the bed and padded to the window that overlooked Central Park. Turning his head slightly to the left he could see The Dakota across the park. It amused him that since his divorce from Yoko there was this expanse of land separating them in this vast city.
He sighed and moved away from the window. Sean was with his mother for Christmas 1989. Actually, they were in Japan for Christmas not the Dakota which made John feel…well, he wasn’t exactly sure what he felt about it. In truth, perhaps relieved. Did they even celebrate Christmas in Japan? He couldn’t remember. Well, Yoko would make sure Sean was feted even if they didn’t.
John made his way into the kitchen to put the kettle on. His assistant Rory (a result of the Purge of Sycophants in the Great Divorce of December 1980) had left a note reminding John that he was meeting the Starkeys for dinner at Elio’s at 7:00 pm. John looked at the clock – 5:10 pm now. He poured the steaming water into the mug (American’s use mugs not cups) with the tea bag and a couple of sugars and went into the living room to stare out another set of windows. It had become a favorite pastime.
He was looking forward to seeing Ritchie and Barbara. He hoped the pair wouldn’t drink too heavily. He hadn’t given up on convincing the couple to go to rehab. Ritchie always replied that there was nothing like a convert trying to convert. True, but nonetheless, he really wished they would. John’s journey from almost dying from a heroin overdose to getting help at a real clinic thanks to Elton to divorcing Yoko and splitting his fortune to his continuous meetings with his now beloved therapist Dr. Heloise Mackin proved to him at least that if he could conquer his demons then so could Ritchie. Hell, even Paul of all people had gone to a therapist to deal with his issues!
He moved from the window to sit on the sofa and hit the remote to check the weather on the TV. His palatial apartment at 927 Fifth Ave and E. 74th Street was a byproduct of a meeting in early 1985 with Paul. Along with jettisoning Yoko, the sycophants, and the macrobiotic diet and heroin he gained wisdom, clarity and compassion and renewed friendships he thought lost forever. Paul was the first and most important. He and Paul had had a clandestine meeting at Belmelman’s Bar at the Carlyle Hotel, very secret agent like, at which Macca proposed they purchase The Beatles’ catalogue back. Lee Eastman figured if they pooled resources and bid $50 million, they would win the bidding. Easier for Wingman Paul, John mused, as he hadn’t lost half his fortune to Yoko. But, the thrill of owning their “children” again prevailed and they won the bid. They both thought it wildly absurd to pay for something they shouldn’t have lost in the first place, but still they were pleased. Paul was also pleased that John had trusted Lee Eastman. And, then the money started pouring in as Neil Aspinall’s idea of Apple re-releasing compilations of their songs brought them back in force to a new generation. And, it pissed off Yoko to no end which pleased John immensely.
He sipped his tea and thought back almost two years to January 1988 when all four “ex-Beatles”, the Four Headed Monster, stood together to be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. That night was a minefield of emotions. There had been much debate amongst themselves whether to accept at all given how ridiculous it was to have a Hall of Fame in the first place. But they acquitted themselves perfectly and showed the world once again that they were the toppermost of the poppermost. Even Mike Love’s snarky comments just made him look small. John smiled into his mug and he remembered George’s retort to Love of “it’s hard not being the genius in a band, believe me I know”. They played together and laughed; It had turned out to be an unbelievable night.
And then, two weeks later, Linda and James McCartney died in the car wreck.
Linda had been driving James to school when a lorry swerved to miss a deer. He autocorrected, but not in time and hit her head on. The Beatle world reeled in the collective pain. His girls gathered around Paul and John marveled at their strength. John could not imagine losing a child. Paul tried to be brave for his daughters, but he looked 100 years older than he had just weeks before. John, George and Ringo rallied to protect him and all attended the memorial services. It was a very, very bad time. Very.
John spent many sessions afterwards with Dr. Mackin. Death was a part of life. It happened. To John and Paul, though, it always seemed to happen unexpectedly; terribly, crushingly. Paul had been beside John through many losses; he had been witness to many unanticipated deaths. Julia, Stuart, Brian.
However they did it, though, it wasn’t through conversation. For whatever reason they’d never been particularly adept at verbal communication. Perhaps it was because they’d grown up together, but they didn’t use words the way normal people did. They used glances and touches, to convey their feelings. Simple things that friends and lovers said to each other all the time, “I’m sorry,” “I love you,” these things did not spill from them easily. These things were implied; these things went without saying except in song.
John shook himself from the memories and rose to get dressed for the evening. Elio’s was not formal and he was looking forward to a warm meal. With pasta back in his diet John had filled out and regained muscle strength he had not been aware he had lost. Putting on corduroys and a warm sweater and slipping on his ever-present chucks John grabbed his wallet, keys, coat and hat and called for the elevator. As he emerged in the holiday decorated lobby the concierge asked if he wanted a taxi, but John said he wanted to walk. Walking always made him feel the strength and centeredness he had worked so hard to achieve.
By the time John reached the Upper East Side restaurant it was raining; a chunky, sloppy rain, not quite snow but not quite the usual humid drizzle. This was the ugly, transitional precipitation that preceded winter; the kind of downpour that actually made you wish it would freeze. He definitely would take a taxi back.
John entered the restaurant and was greeted not only by name, but also by the warm inviting smells of garlic and tomato sauce. He handed Mario his coat and hat. The Starkeys were already at the table and already into a bottle of red wine. They looked up to see John striding toward them.
“Hello, Johnny!” Ritchie said as he rose to give his friend a hug. John leaned over to kiss Barbara on the cheek taking in a waft of Chanel No. 5.
“Happy Crimble”, said John adjusting his glasses as they had fogged up a bit. The waiter filled his water glass and John ordered a tea as well. “Not drinking tonight?” asked Ritchie. “I may in a bit,” said John. He was always careful now, mindful of addiction and tended to air on the side of caution; something very new in his life, but it seemed to be working out well for him.
“What’s new with the Starkeys?” John asked picking up the menu. He was in the mood for Elio’s fabulous mushroom and garlic pasta. Maybe a glass of wine couldn’t hurt.
“Oh, we are headed to Monaco day after tomorrow for the holidays. All the kids and assorted relatives will be there.” The waiter brought warm bread and olive oil, grinding fresh black pepper and parmesan cheese onto the plate. “It will be quite the party! You should join us.”
John thought there were many things that sounded less appealing than that, but was saved from listing them in his head or giving Ritchie a reply by the waiter coming back to take their orders. That dispensed with (and another bottle of wine appearing) Ritchie continued and poured John a glass.
“Have you talked to Paul lately?”
“I saw him in the Hampton’s in September, but haven’t talked to him in a couple of weeks, why?”
“Seems the girls are all doing something at Christmas besides being with their dad.” Ringo looked at John to see his reaction. Then shrugging he tore off a piece of the warm bread and dipped it into the olive oil.
Barbara joined in. “Heather is going to Arizona to be with Mel See. He’s taking her on a safari with his next anthropology/archeology project. Mary got invited to go to Paris with Stella who is extremely stressed with her first big fashion collection school final. There’s nothing quite like Paris at Christmas,” Barbara said wistfully.
John looked back and forth between the two of them. “And, Paul is OK with all of this? I know it’s their second Christmas without Linda and James, but...”
“I don’t think he had much choice, John,” Ringo said quietly. “He wants them to lead their own lives and doesn’t believe it’s a nefarious thing that they don’t want to celebrate with him. Personally, I think it’s their way of getting around the emptiness of not having their mum around.”
“He was talking about going to Liverpool and staying with Mike the last time we talked,” Barbara said. “He didn’t seem very enthused about it. But, then, quite the light has gone out of Paul.”
“He’s seeming fine, well as fine as one can be, when I talk to him,” John replied feeling like this conversation had turned pointed somehow. “The grief therapy has really helped him.”
“Be that as it may be,” Ritchie said topping of the glasses of wine for he and Barbara. “It’s Christmas.”
Their food came as a welcomed break and the conversation turned to Ritchie’s next movie after Monaco and he had his wife and dear friend laughing at his reaction to some of the line readings. It’s sure to be a flop thought John as he added another worry to the pile. The Beatles’ tribulations were their own separate therapy group.
The old friends said their goodbyes at the door John waving off their offer of a shared cab ride. The drizzle had stopped, but it was definitely colder as he huddled into his jacket to walk back home. He stopped at the corner bookstore which was just closing up and he grabbed the latest #1 bestseller to read. As he was paying for the book, he heard the electronic sounds of “Wonderful Christmastime” playing softly in the store. Great, thought John, that earworm will stay with me tonight.
It was when John was almost at his lobby door that the decision was made that he would fly to London and spend Christmas with Paul.
London
It had been a week since Mary and Stella’s phone call about Paris. Paul truly wanted them to soar and Paris anytime was wonderful. He did feel a bit discombobulated that all three girls wanted to be somewhere else for the holidays. But, as with most emotions, despite the therapy, he pushed this one deep into his soul.
They had all come by for dinner and gift exchange last week before heading off. It had been a rousing time that had everyone laughing in the kitchen fixing dishes that their mum had adored. He hadn’t decorated Cavendish for Christmas and the girls noticed. Mary was particularly concerned and offered to help, but Paul had given her a hug and said then he’d just have to take it all down. Quite obviously doing Christmas at Peasmarsh was out of the question. In fact, he hadn’t been back to Sussex since the family had spread Linda and James’ ashes in the woods on the property. Almost two years. Heather lived there now making pottery.
He looked around the home he’d had for more than twenty years and he decided he just couldn’t spend Christmas here. He really didn’t feel like running into people around Regent’s Park walking their dogs. Going to clubs alone had lost all appeal. He’d been introduced to a young, blonde model, Heather something, but never followed up after the introduction. John and Jody Eastman had invited him to New York, but he couldn’t get excited about being with Linda’s family no matter how much they meant to him. Nor with Michael’s despite his gracious and warm invitation. That left Scotland. He would go to Scotland. There were things to do there, even though he was more in the way of the Browns who managed the property. He was laird after all.
So High Park Farm for Christmas it was. He would take his dog Arrow with him. Arrow was finally getting used to Linda and James not being there and not going to the door everyday looking for them. That had been so heartbreaking. He decided to drive which would take eleven hours and that would eliminate one day. One less day. One less lonely day.
He was packing when Rose Martin, his long-time housekeeper, peeked in and asked if he needed anything. He could see the worry on her face; Paul always appreciated and gravitated towards motherly concern. “Just could you check in on the house while I’m gone. Bring in the mail,” he waved his hand in the air, “you know the usual.” It was then that Rose decided to part with convention and she went to give Paul a hug. “You be careful, lad,” she said. “Call me if you think of anything. And, don’t worry about here.”
Paul and Arrow set out the next day before dawn. Rose had packaged sandwiches and dog food and treats. Paul knew he’d have to take several breaks to walk the dog and anyway what was the hurry? He’d phoned the Browns to let them know he was coming and would probably stay a month or so. He might as well stay Hogmanay and into the new year. A new decade.
Paul stopped in Campbeltown to buy food and supplies for himself and Arrow. Inside the green grocers Paul recognized the opening lines of John’s song “So, this is Christmas, and what have you done…” He frowned; well, that would be an ear worm for the rest of the evening. The town was decked out in holiday fashion more charming than London’s sophisticated themes. Several of the long-time locals came up to him to wish him a Happy Christmas. They were too polite and too Scottish to inquire more. The air was clear here and Paul felt lighter for the first time in, well, in a long time.
It was dark by the time Paul made it to High Park. He was grateful to see the Browns had turned on the lights in the farmhouse and from the smoke in the chimney a fire was set. He let Arrow out and watched her immediately run around free from the car and on the scent of something. Paul opened the door to the house and carried the groceries in. Not only had the Browns set the fire, but Mrs. Brown had left scones and what looked like potato soup on the stove. The house had a homey feel and Paul felt his eyes sting. Was this a good idea after all?
My desire is always to be here; he’d written. But the caveat was with Linda.
After putting the groceries away Paul put on his heavy coat hanging in the mud room and went outside to call for Arrow. He checked on the chickens. He walked over to the first fenced in field noticing that most of the sheep, their outline silvery in the bright moonlight, were further out in the second field. He looked up at the stars and saw a shooting star. “I wish the world wasn’t such a selfish place,” he said out loud. Where had that come from? Still staring at the heavens above he saw another shooting star. “I wish for peace and love.” He laughed at himself. Well, that would make Ritchie happy.
Arrow finally came when called and man and dog went into the cottage for a warm meal and bed.
London
John had flown the Concorde to London. A treat. He exited customs at Terminal 5 and hailed a taxi. A true black London taxi. He felt at home. A weird feeling. Riding through the streets of London past Gunnersbury Park through Notting Hill decorated with white lights of angel wings then towards the signs for the London Zoo John suddenly felt nervous. Whatever was he going to say to Paul when he arrived unannounced at Cavendish? “Hey, I was just in the neighborhood…”?
His courage was waning when the young cabbie who, thankfully, had not recognized John asked him how long he was staying in London. “Not sure,” replied John. “Hopefully, through Christmas and the New Year.”
They passed Abbey Road and the cabbie again interrupted John’s musings. “If you look to your left, you can see all the tourists walking across The Beatles’ crosswalk.” John wasn’t sure if he was having his leg pulled or the cabbie just really didn’t recognize him. Either way, John looked left and squinted to see the four ghosts of Christmas past along with the tourists walking the crosswalk. Finally, after more than an hour, the taxi pulled up at 7 Cavendish. Paying the fare and grabbing his luggage John looked up at the grand home that held so many memories. He was always taken aback that there were no longer a gaggle of girls in front of the massive green gate. He wondered if Paul thought the same.
John rang the bell. He had a strange feeling that he should have asked the taxi to stay. What if Paul really didn’t want any company? A polite English voice answered the bell. Was that Rose? “Rose, it’s John Lennon, may I come in?”
The door buzzed and the gate opened. He was greeted in the driveway by the small woman. “John Lennon, how wonderful to see you! What are you doing here?” Rose said.
“Hey, I was just in the neighborhood…” replied John.
“Come in dear, out of the chill. Paul’s in Scotland.”
“Scotland!”
“Yes, he left yesterday morning. I don’t think he could stand to be here by himself.”
“But, isn’t he by himself in Scotland?”
“Well, dear, I don’t think Paul’s been thinking logically since… well, since. And, with the girls all gone this year, he just decided to go. How about a cup of tea?”
Setting his luggage in the foyer John came in and sat at the kitchen table, a table he’d been at many times in the past. He ran his fingers along the wood grain as Rose set the kettle on. She noticed him and shook her head.
“It’s a fine thing that I came by today to check on the house. Do you still take two sugars in your tea?”
John nodded not looking up. He was flummoxed at what to do next. Rose set the tea down in front of him, in a fine china cup not a mug and took the chair next to him with her own cup.
“You be looking fine, John. Clearly taking care of yourself. I’m quite proud of you.”
John blushed as he looked up at the woman who, if she decided to write a book, could upend the whole Beatles’ story and most particularly Lennon & McCartney. The things she had seen and cleaned up. He always hoped Paul was paying her well for her loyalty.
“How is Paul?” John said taking a sip of tea having blown the first wave of heat away. Goodness, there was nothing like a cup of English tea.
“Oh, well, he’d say he was fine. And certainly, more than this time last year, but if you ask me and clearly you did, I’d say he’s about half himself. And, I’m a bit worried especially with the girls all gone for the holidays.”
John looked at Rose. He saw that there was more than loyalty at play here. She was part of the family. And, actually, had been since the middle 60's.
“I guess I’m having trouble believing that his daughters would do that,” John replied taking another sip and looking up above his glasses at Rose to gage her response.
She sighed, clearly at odds with the situation herself not wanting to be disloyal to anyone.
“Would you be going to Scotland then?” she asked.
John looked up startled. He hadn’t thought that far.
“Clearly, dear, you came here for a Christmas visit. Christmas is just in Scotland at the moment.” Rose continued smoothing her apron with both hands. She looked meaningfully at John.
“I’ve never been to the Scotland farm,” John said quietly. He’d been to all the other McCartney properties throughout the 80's.
Rose sighed. These two men. If she was a cussing woman she would cuss. And bang their heads together.
“Typically, the McCartney’s would fly to Glasgow then take a helicopter to Campbeltown and a car to the farm. I could make the arrangements for you. For in the morning of course.”
“I, eh, yes, I will go to Scotland,” John sputtered. How in the world did he get himself into this situation? Rose seemed very pleased and proceeded to go make sure the guest room was in order. Before walking upstairs, she pulled some left-over shepherd’s pie out of the freezer and set about warming it in the oven. “It’s a veggie pie, of course, but still quite delicious. It was Linda’s recipe and Mary made it before she left.” John just nodded as he didn’t realize how hungry he was.
After dinner John wearily made his way to the guest room. A room he’d been in many times over the years. Well, when he wasn’t spending the night in the master bedroom. But that had been awhile. It felt very strange to be in the house without Paul here and eating dinner from the ghost of Mrs. McCartney even stranger. He couldn’t wait to be gone and on his way to Scotland.
Scotland
Mr. Brown set Paul onto mending fences. There was quite a bit of mending to be done since the fall frosts and Paul relished the physical labor. He’d forgotten how much he loved it here. Yes, it still held so many Linda memories, but they were good ones. Hidden from screaming fans and prying media, the privacy and relative anonymity of High Park Farm and Kintyre gave Paul his life back. Hopefully, the Scottish Highlands would do that again.
John in his rented car pulled out of the Campbeltown airport in mid-afternoon and with directions from Rose drove into town stopping at the Kintyre Larder. He figured Paul didn’t realize he’d be cooking for two. Grabbing flour and yeast and things to make bread along with assorted veggies he spied boxes of Cadbury’s taking several as he made his way to the counter. Both men were chocolate fiends. He also bought candles and a funky large Santa doll dressed in a kilt. He was greeted by Mrs. McLean the shop’s owner. She eyed John as she rang up the total.
“Ye be making your way to the Mull of Kintyre, eh,” she said as she started putting John’s groceries in bags. John nodded hoping she wasn’t going to call the press. “That’s grand,” she continued briskly. “Himself needn’t be alone during the holidays.” John gave her a small smile still amazed after decades of being one of the most famous people in the world that he was recognized. And that people knew his business. He paid his total, and left to put the groceries in the car. Paul certainly had a way of making women protective of him. He noticed a liquor store down the street and made his way there. Liquid courage was definitely on the menu.
Paul was two meadows away when he saw the strange car drive up to the back of the farmhouse. What the hell? He put the hammer and extra wires down and took off towards the house. How dare someone intrude on his private property. He saw and lost track of the figure of a man as it went around the side of the house. Arrow saw Paul moving towards the house and the dog trotted alongside him.
John was coming back to the car for the last of the groceries went he found himself face to face with Paul. Paul gasped and stumbled backwards to the car. “What are you doing here?” Paul asked wide-eyed.
John held up the groceries and said “Hey, I was just in the neighborhood. Thought I’d bake bread.”
Both he and Paul were astonished when Paul burst into tears. Arrow was instantly by Paul’s side moving her big head as far up Paul’s body as she could go without jumping on him. John put the groceries down and put both arms around Paul in a deep hug. “Let it go, Macca, let it go.” Paul leaned into John for a several moments then recovered drawing back and wiping the tears away. “I seem to do that a lot lately. It just comes unexpectedly. We better put things away,” he said gruffly.
Groceries unpacked; John set the Santa in the middle of the kitchen table smiling at Paul who rolled his eyes. “I didn’t think you had it in you,” said Paul. “Oh, ye of little faith,” replied John easing into their familiar banter. “It’s good to see you,” Paul said turning towards the cabinets.
“You know, Macca,” John mused. “We need to write a better Christmas song. There’s one in us.”
Paul gave John a fake glare and John smiled and raised his hands in surrender.
“Can we PLEASE get drunk now?” John sighed. “It’s been a long 48 hours of travel.” Paul appraised him for a second before he smiled, desperately wanting a drink, himself.
“Absolutely,” he agreed.
Paul pointed him in the direction of the liquor already in the house not the bottles in John’s sack and John set to work procuring the alcohol as Paul retrieved the glassware. They set about in silence, gesturing their agreement on the choice of booze, taking ice cubes from the freezer, carrying the ensemble to the living room where the fire was burning. Paul banked the embers to raise the heat again. All of it was accomplished through mutual memory; all of it was familiar and simple and comforting. Whiskey: straight, no chasers.
They sat down by the fire on the thick blue Persian rug in the living room an old gift from the late Robert Fraser, with all but the smallest of table lights dimmed, the candles John bought lit and the bottle between them. They did it naturally, no planning or discussion. Arrow joined them laying out by the fire with a contented sigh. Paul rubbed her back.
“See, this is why I needed to be here…” John started, and Paul gazed at John’s glass, wondering if he needed to keep an eye on John’s intake. “…because you’ll ply me with liquor.” John rattled the ice cubes against his glass, watching as the dark liquid swirled.
“Mmmm,” Paul nodded. “I can also take advantage of you later, if you want.”
John laughed. A pure happy sound that came only when with this person sitting with him in the room.
An hour or so later, Paul being the more responsible got up and warmed the soup on the stove and fed the dog. He always worried about John’s rehab and whether it was wise to drink. John promised to bake bread the next day and welcomed the soup. They ate in companiable silence. “I don’t drink often,” John said as if reading Paul’s mind. “Certainly, not any hard drugs. Quit smoking. I go to rehab once a month for “maintenance” and I’m faithful in talking to my psychiatrist twice a week. No need to worry.”
Paul shrugged his shoulders not feeling the need to reply.
John took in the lines now featured on the precious face he had known since grammar school. The silver strands mixing with the raven hair. But it wasn’t just the physical change. Barbara was right. There was quite the dimming of the light that Paul had always carried within. There was still steel there, but the vulnerability Paul tried so hard all his life to hide was much more at the surface. He had noticed that Paul had also quit smoking.
“I’ll fix up a bed in the girl’s room. There’s a space heater in there as well. We are expecting a storm off the Irish Sea and the Atlantic in a day or two so the temperature should be dropping. Might even snow.” Paul got up to add blankets and a pitcher filled with water and a glass on the side table in the “guest room”. John leaned into the door frame watching. The travel and liquor finally getting to him. “Ta, Paul.”
Paul put his hand on John’s shoulder and squeezed. “Sleep well.” John made his way to the small bathroom to wash up. Paul went to the kitchen to wash the dinner dishes. John stuck his head out the bedroom door. “Macca?”
“Yes?”
“Are you really glad I came?”
Paul turned from the sink wiping his hands on a towel. He looked at John for a long moment. “I am, John. Very. It was a kind thing to do.”
“Well, that’s me. I’m known for my kindness.” They both laughed as John closed the door.
The next morning was very overcast. The storm was coming early. Paul was up and out at dawn as he needed to finish the row of fence he started yesterday. He had slept soundly, perhaps because there was someone else in the house. Even Arrow had not restlessly gotten up to walk the cottage watching for things that weren’t there. Paul had fed the chickens waving to Mr. Brown as the manager went north to the far fields to feed the sheep before the rain.
John had slept well which considering how silent this place was versus the constant noise of New York City or London was an achievement. He decided to bake bread as promised and as he was taking the first loaves out of the oven, he saw Paul coming across the field stopping to touch the standing stone. “Those smell fantastic!” Paul said as he and lots of cold air came into the kitchen. He saw that some heather branches had been added to surround the Santa on the table. Paul raised an eyebrow to John who raised one in return.
“How about some tea and a warm jam butty?” Paul laughed as he took in the sight of John in one of Linda’s old aprons flour on the parts of his clothes not covered. “That sounds brilliant.”
The two men sat at the kitchen table enjoying the simple treat. The bread was delicious if John could say so himself. Arrow stood at the ready to try it out, too.
“Rose called while you were out. I hope you don’t mind I answered the phone. She said George was trying to get a hold of you.” John watched as a frown cross Paul’s face.
“He probably wants money.”
“What do you mean, he probably wants money?”
“That’s what he’s always calling me about; he wants more of the ‘Northern Songs’ publishing.”
“I thought we set him and Ritchie up with a nice piece of the pie.”
“I thought so, too, but George wants more pie. He thinks because he did guitar riffs and various other things that he deserves more because he helped make the songs. Ergo he’s always on for more money. I wonder why he doesn’t call you.”
John watched the flush come across Paul’s face. Hmmm…why didn’t George call him? John knew. George’s spotty foray into movies and the constant renovation of Friar Park kept him low on funds. George knew he could trigger Paul and not John. He counted slowly to ten before he said anything else just like Dr. Mackin had coached. Even so, he put his foot in it.
“We certainly could give them more of a cut. It was us four.”
Paul sat stock still.
“It was ‘us four’ until it wasn’t, right? Until it was “us three against me”. Until my vote didn’t count. I’m not giving George anymore. If you want to out of your slice of pie, go right ahead.”
“Why are you so selfish about this, Paul?”
“Yeah, it’s always me that’s the bad guy, isn’t it John?” Paul abruptly stood and whirled around going back to the mud room. He put on his oil slicker and wellies and headed out the door. John jumped up to see him heading across the glen.
“Damn you, McCartney.” John went to the mud room taking off the apron and rifling through until he found a slicker coat that must have been one of the girls, a hat that was definitely one and his own wellies and went out to confront Paul.
Paul had a full head a steam and was trudging through the heather to the cove at the northwest end of the glen. It was his place he went to write or to just get away from the noise of the house. He noticed the angry storm off the coast. Heavy black clouds and a buffering surf greeted him as he slid down in between the bracken to the small beach. John saw him disappear over the hill and cursing into the wind followed him over the edge.
“Don’t you run away from me when we are arguing,” John yelled into the wind as he finally made it to the cove. He marched up to Paul on the beach.
Paul met him halfway eyes blazing. “I’m not giving in to George.”
A thunderbolt startled both men. This storm was becoming epic. The wind lashed them and the waves crashed over the rocks of the cove spraying them with ice cold salt water.
“I’m not selfish!” he yelled at John. John watched in awe as his ever-composed friend vented his pain at the same time the storm came crashing in on them. “I’m tired of being thought of as the bad guy. I’ve carried that for years and it isn’t true!”
“Paul, calm down, let’s go back to the house and talk this over. We don’t need to bring George’s demands into this.”
“Have you seen some of George’s interviews lately? He’s always getting a dig in about me and my songs. I’m tired of it. Tired. Of. It.” Paul screamed from the depths of his soul.
The two men yelled at each other for some time. Things that had been buried and things that they had flung at each other over the years. John thought this was more than about George. Paul thought this was more than about Linda. Their argument raged in turn with the storm bearing down on them.
John looked down to see they were no longer standing on sand, but the water was now up to their ankles. Paul noticed John looking down. “Shit”, he yelled. “The tide’s coming in. We’ve got to get out of the cove!”
Paul grabbed John and pushed him up the bracken to escape up the hill. The full storm came at the same time beating them with a downpour of stinging cold rain, sleet and snow. Arm in arm the two men trudged through the glen caked in mud neither of them speaking.
Arriving in the now aptly named mud room they stripped off their soaking wet clothes. Arrow whined from the kitchen not liking the storm. Paul ran naked through the cottage to bring them both sweats and jumpers and wooly socks. After putting on the dry clothes John stood at the stove still warm from the baking bread and heated up the kettle while Paul put logs on the fire. Coming back into the kitchen the storm beating against the windows, Paul opened the Cadbury’s and ate one extending the box to John.
“Paul.”
“John.”
“Paul, let me. I’m so sorry,” he said softly. “For everything…” John hoped it could suffice; hoped it could properly convey his intention.
“It’s over… Can it just be over?” he proposed, walking towards Paul, looking at him squarely. “You’re absolved if I’m absolved? We don’t need to keep rehashing the pain. I’m sorry I said you were selfish. You’re not. And, we don’t need to bring George and Ritchie’s angst into our relationship. We can work it out.”
John folded his arms, fixing his gaze on Paul, meeting his eyes.
Paul took John’s gaze. “No fussing and fighting, my friend?” said John with a wry smile cocking his head to the side.
The kettle whistled and John went to make the tea and the more jam butties.
Paul watched him feeling a weight lift. Here was the one person who knew him inside and out. The person he had been in love with forever. He could continue to wallow; to spiral or he could rebound. The choice was his. He took the offered cuppa; his fingers lingering on John’s. The two looked at each other. John noticed the shift in Paul and Paul responded in kind as they felt their emotional connection gloriously rekindled. They never could explain that connection, but it had been there since, well since that church fete at Woolton. Paul committed himself, then, to not back down, to resolve their disagreements, to finally reveal all his guilt, his emotions, his unwavering loyalty and love. Come what may.
“Yeah,” he replied quietly; hoping that it made everything OK and searching his brain for what else to say. He felt so much love for John it literally welled in his throat, preventing him from speaking further for the moment. He smiled back and hoped his eyes conveyed what his voice couldn’t.
“God, we are so stupid…” John said to Paul. “We’ve wasted a lot of time.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Paul said, meaning it vehemently, doing his best to cleanse them; to make them whole again. He did have a thought that if not for the traffic accident John would not be here, or if he was, not in the iteration before him. Life has a way of happening when you are busy making other plans and all that. But now, in this moment, it was time to be brave; to take his life back.
Paul took a shuddering breath. “I love you, John,” he said simply and was amazed that it didn’t hurt to say aloud, after all. “You have no idea how much…” he added spontaneously, feeling that the mere confession of love itself was somehow inadequate.
John smiled and stared back at Paul in the private way that Paul recognized from their years together; in the perceptive, enigmatic, fond, possessive, thrilling, occasionally frightening way that John looked at him. “I think I do,” John replied.
“Do you?” Paul whispered back pushing for an answer. Needing John to say the words.
“I’d have to write a book, Paul. Or perhaps an album of songs with all the words of love I have for you.” John said then, feeling poetic and achingly romantic and thoroughly in love with his childhood friend. The decision to come for Christmas was gloriously the right one.
John moved to take a chocolate. “You remember our trip together in Paris? Those moments in Hamburg? At Cavendish?” John asked, sounding sweetly nostalgic, sounding as Paul remembered him and as he hadn’t heard him in many, many years. His John. And, no one elses.
Paul responded with a slightly reserved nod. He narrowed his eyes involuntarily, flush with memory, flush with warmth…
Paul felt a coy smile creep across his face, beyond his composure, beyond his control.
“Yeah,” he whispered softly. “I remember those times, too…”
“That’s what I want for Christmas,” John said raising his eyebrows in that comic lurid way of his. Paul laughed as John knew he would. He enveloped Paul in a hug. Paul edged his face into the crook of John’s neck and placed a lingering kiss there.
“Peace and love, huh?” replied Paul into John’s neck.
“Well, some piece that’s for sure.”
Arrow startled with a bark as the two men laughed loudly.
“And love.” John said as he deepened his hug. “And love.”
In that perfect moment they went in for a kiss that promised many Happy Crimbles.