Shelter In Your Love (Beatles Fan Fiction)

47. Let It Down

Though you sit in another chair, I can feel you here
Looking like I don't care, but I do, I do.

'Hello?'

'Hannah?'

'Oh, George.'

Relief floods over me. Similar to the kind I felt when he came back from touring before, only a few weeks ago. It feels like it's been a lifetime since then.

I pick up the phone and sit down on the floor next to the little telephone table, leaning my back against the stairs. The hall floor is hardwood and it's satisfyingly cold on my bare legs, a respite from the sticky heat of the recent August nights. I pull the skirt of my nightdress straight underneath me. I'd had to run down the stairs to get the phone, no time to grab a dressing gown.

George lowers his voice, even though I can hardly hear him anyway. He sounds like he's whispering to me from the end of a long tunnel. Echoey, tinny and very distant. 'Love, I gave you that number for emergencies. This is... This is risky...'

'I know,' I say and I have to smile. Isn't that what he wanted? For me to take more risks. It was okay for me to be late or miss the shows at Esmeralda's Barn, or to raise difficult questions by staying overnight in the flat with him. He doesn't seem so keen when the shoe's on the other foot. 'This is an emergency.'

'Why? What's the matter?'

He doesn't need to ask that. George and the others left England for the US leg of their tour two weeks ago. I didn't want him to go. After the last tour, I really didn't want him to go.

A few months ago, John said something in an interview about the Beatles and religion. I'm not even sure what it was. It was printed in the UK earlier this year and forgotten about, then it was reprinted in America and all hell has broken loose.

There was talk about them postponing or cancelling the US tour, but it went ahead anyway. I don't think they should have gone. There have been protests and bonfires outside of concert venues. Bonfires, burning Beatles records and pictures and anything with their image on it. Radio stations have banned their music. There seems to be something about it on the news every day. I've seen clips of John at a press conference somewhere apologising and trying to explain. He looked so sick and worried, and his voice sounded so strange. I couldn't watch all of it. Ricky was there when it was on and he laughed. I had to leave the room before I did something stupid, like cracking him over his head with the flower vase.

I sigh. 'Where are you now?'

'Uh... Los Angeles. Beverly Hills. I had to think for a moment. We fly to Seattle in the morning.'

'How was the Shea Stadium show?'

Before George left, I made him give me his tour schedule, so I could see where he'd be every day. He left me a phone number, so I could contact him, in an emergency. He was reluctant when I asked for it. He'd said no at first, but then he found the copy of the Manila Times, forgotten about on the coffee table shelf and wrote the number down for me. The NEMS office in London. I could call, leave a message and someone would pass it onto George so he could call me back. But only in an emergency, Hannah. A life and death emergency, okay?

'It was... alright. Security was a bit lax. At one point, the fans broke through the barriers and tried to get on stage.'

He sounds tired, depressed. I want to say something to reassure him, but I can't find adequate words ...It'll be okay... You'll be home soon... Try not to worry... They're just empty platitudes.