𝐘𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐃𝐀𝐘 ── PAUL McCARTNEY

XX. MENDIPS AND CATS

Saturday the 25th of October 1958

While Jim had gone out to the shops, Paul was sitting in the front parlour with me. I was reading, enjoying the nice quiet. Well, it wasn't that quiet but it was peaceful enough. I think Paul was just so glad it was a half-term week and he thought it was the most perfect time to do whatever he pleased. It meant it was nothing but music in the comfortable front parlour when Jim and Mike weren't home.

I couldn't blame him all.

Paul looked at me, frowning. He had stopped strumming his guitar to look at me. I looked at him, unwillingly dog-earring my current page and placed all my attention upon him.

"Do you think Johnny and Moondogs sound professional?" Paul asked me. It took a second or two to recognise that he was serious. I had no clue why he was asking me. John was his best friend and songwriting partner. I had no musical talent. My opinion was pretty much worthless in that regard.

"Do you want to be called Japage 3 or something?" I said with a laugh, crossing my ankle over the other, and leaning back into the soft cushion of the sitting chair.

Paul made a face of confusion, looking like he had just bitten into a lemon or one of disgust. I couldn't exactly tell all that well.

"John, Paul and George meshed together," I spoke slowly with a grin stretching upon my lips, looking at Paul with the hopeful expression that my joke may ring true.

Paul smiled his boyish grin and laughed heartidly, tilting his head back. I don't particularly think my humour fit in with his sometimes but I was glad I was the one who made him smile. It always made my day worthwhile.

"You are a funny girl Daisy," Paul said that smile of his still lingering as he presumed gathering the chords of a lively and sweet frenchy tune upon his guitar. I didn't think it was much of a compliment, instead, I was basking in the horror if he thought I was odd.

"I'm going to fetch the paper," I murmured, standing. I lingered glancing at Paul for a moment, sweeping my gaze over his careful boyish figure, trying to frame it to my memory. I pulled on my cardigan to ensure that I'd be somewhat protected against the chill. I collected myself, drawing a hasty breath and opened the front door. As expected it was dreary and cool as I made my way to the letterbox to collect the paper.

"Yer playing a dangerous game, girl."

"Excuse me?" I whirled to face Mrs Dunne looking at me with a seriousness I could not comprehend at all in her withered and worn eyes. She was standing upon her side of the fence. I paled noting that she remembered my routine in the mornings.

I had not seen much of the woman since I had seen her since the day I had arrived in the past. Paul said that she was much like his mum, leaving on her bike to assist those in need, often women going into labour as a midwife and nurse. I was confused. What did her threat mean? And yet, I was aching to know why. I was sure I knew why even. But I would forever choose to ignore it.

"Daisy yer have ears do yer not?" Mrs Dunne said, gripping her little leather handbag tightly as she turned her head. "Yer better come inside, Miss Twist."

I could not find any words. Instead it seemed that I had no choice in the matter of trying to keep the peace. I opened the little front gate and then turned to my right, trudging after the middle aged woman.

Inside of her house it was cold. It had such a lonely feel that I knew. This woman lived all alone. I was taken into the sitting room where all I could see were little black and white photographs of a young girl growing up from a baby to fifteen or sixteen. At its centre was a portrait of three, which included a much younger Mrs Dunne, a man beside her grinning proudly and a little baby cradled in her arms. Even from this distance her eyes in the black and white photograph her eyes seemed brighter, happier.