In My Life

Getting better

"Yeah, of course you are, Geo!" Paul's smile was genuine this time. "'S just that I'm not really sure what happened, y'know? 'M tellin' ye, mate; it's been doin' me 'ead in." Though this wasn't entirely true, Paul simply couldn't tell what really happened; not without speaking to John first. To his relief, George seemed content to accept Paul's reply this time. If he noticed Paul wasn't totally straight-from-the-shoulder, he wasn't showing it, and that made Paul immediately feel much better. "Ta, mate," he said, as he gently nudged his shoulder against George's. He had the feeling something big was about to come crashing down upon them, and knowing he'd have a friend around if and when that happened meant the world to Paul.

The 'something big' Paul had anticipated did indeed come crashing down in the first week of August.

Paul enjoyed the Friday mornings after a gig. The house would usually be empty, allowing him to have a lie-in and go about his business without having to entertain anyone – particularly Mike, who somehow appeared to be under the impression he was going to become the drummer in the band. The McCartney brothers were thick as thieves and Mike got along great with the lads, but it was quite obvious to Paul that his baby brother would never be asked to join.

He was having a particularly lazy day; it was half noon and he was still in his pyjamas and quite content to stay that way a little longer. He was sat on the sitting room floor, halfway through cleaning and restringing his guitar when the doorbell rang utterly unexpectedly, causing Paul to jump and knock over the bottle of lemon oil, which was all that was needed to blow the lid off the simmering frustrations that had gradually been building up in the previous weeks. He shot off into a loud and elaborate series of curses as he tried to practice damage control.

The bell rang a second time, more urgently now, so Paul forced himself away from the mess on the floor and shuffled into the hallway, thinking that whoever chose this moment to come calling, certainly needed to work on their timing. He pulled the door open and just froze on the spot.

"Alright, la'? Yer lookin' like a right meff, mate. Miss me that much, did ye? Anyroad, can I come in or d'ye want me to do one?"

"John... yeah, come'ead," he stammered, aware of how stupid he sounded. He turned on his heels and made for the sitting room, where he proceeded to clean the last of the spilled oil off the rug, using the momentary distraction to regain some composure.

"Hmmm, smells lemony." John had claimed his favourite spot on the sofa, and was now looking at what Paul was doing. "I hate to break it to ye mate, but that stuff is meant for fingerboards, not fer makin' the rug smell all nice like." When Paul refused to take the bait, John lit a ciggy and softened his expression. "Is that what caused that most charming display of profanity then? I thought you'd seen me coming and wanted me to bugger off, really." His casual banter failed to hide the subtle insecurity that told Paul John actually had expected to be told to leave.

He faced John and nodded in the general direction of the packet of bifters on the table. "Giz one then, la'." The two boys smoked in silence for a few minutes, each wrapped up in their own thoughts until Paul decided someone had to start talking if they were going to get anywhere and since John had been the one to take the first step, it was only fair that he, Paul, take the next. "I don't know what brought you here John, but I'm glad to see you. I've missed you, mate."

John inclined his head. "Missed you too, Paul." He seemed at odds with himself for a moment, then started to talk. "I'm sorry Macca, I've been a right git. Should've talked to ye when I had the chance, don't know why I didn't, to be honest. I've been dead shirty with ye, when ye didn't do anything wrong. What can I say, I'm an 'eadcase."

Paul failed to suppress a chuckle. "Is right John, ye really are! Look, it's fine if you don't want to talk about it. I just want us to be okay, y'know? Yer me best mate, 'n dat."

"Ta la', the feelin's mutual. I really am sorry, alright? Don't think I can talk about it yet, though. Maybe after we get back from Germany..." His tone had been very casual and at first, Paul didn't catch on. Then, he saw the winkle in John's eyes and the last of his words sunk in.

"Ye wha? Who's going to Germany?"

Unable to restrain his enthusiasm any longer, John blurted out, "Well, we are, aren't we? that is, the Silver Beetles, who'd ye think I was talking about, me arl fella? We've been booked to play at some club in Hamburg. We're leavin' on the sixteenth and we're set fer a couple o' months!"

For a brief moment, they simply stared at each other. Then, as if someone had given them a cue, they jumped up and engaged in a frantic sort of dance, jumping around the sitting room, exchanging playful punches, cheering, and laughing like jackals, all tension forgotten and all hurt forgiven. Eventually, they settled down long enough for Paul to wrap an arm around John's shoulder.

"Where are we going, Johnny?"

"To the top!"

"And where's that?"

"The toppermost of the poppermost!"