81. Here Comes The Sun

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Little darling
It's been a long, cold lonely winter
Little darling
It feels like years since it's been here


I haven't written in my journal for weeks. I wasn't planning on writing in it ever again. The last things I wrote about were Minnie's funeral, going to see my father and upsetting George's mother in the process - something I still feel ashamed about. I was going to write about coming home, but when I picked up the pen, I thought, Why am I doing this? Why am I continually filling these pages with sadness and misery. One bad thing on top of another. So I closed the journal, shoved it as far back inside a bedroom drawer as it would go and there it was going to stay as far as I was concerned.

It was George who dug it out again and pressed it into my hand as we left the house this morning. I still wasn't going to write in it, yet here I am. I write this in the control room of studio two, Abbey Road. There is hardly enough room to do it, no spare surfaces to lean on, but George won't let me go and sit in the tea room or the yard outside. He won't let me go anywhere or do anything without him, so I'm writing here, filling up the pages again, just to pass the time.

I could go and sit on Yoko's bed - yes, bed - on the studio floor. There would be more room to write there but I'd have to share it with her, and that would be awkward. John and Yoko are back together again (if they ever officially weren't?) and he's hardly said a word to me. He's clearly over Minnie. He clearly wants to pretend his affair, fling, relationship - whatever you want to call it - with Minnie never happened at all. I'd be angry with him, but I haven't the energy for it. Let him do what he wants. I don't care anymore. 

They're recording George's songs today. They were supposed to do them before, but with the time taken out for Minnie's funeral arrangements and going to Liverpool, they had to be swapped around with some of Paul's. George's songs are called Something and Here Comes The Sun. The latter is the one they're concentrating on. I can't really say what it sounds like. They're mixing, overdubbing and re-recording little bits, so I only hear snatches of it at a time. It's a song which is typically George, though. The lyrics are optimistic, joyful, happy ...Here comes the sun and I say it's alright... Exactly the opposite of everything I feel. Of what I've felt for the last four weeks.

Four weeks. A month. Has it really been that long?

*

I'm not really asleep, but I don't open my eyes when someone comes into the bedroom. A moment later, the intruder rudely draws back the curtains, allowing bright August daylight inside. I sit up, annoyed and about to yell at Mrs Roberts, or whichever other poor soul who was brave enough to try and get me out of bed this morning, but it's George standing beside the window, tucking the curtains behind the ties. I thought he had left for the studio already.

He turns to face me and raises an eyebrow as I hesitate. He folds his arms, cocky, waiting for me to shout at him, but he knows I won't yell at him like I would at the household staff. Someone has been telling tales on me again.

'Close the curtains, please,' I say flatly, and lie down again, pulling the bedcover over my head.

'No,' George says. 'Come on, Han, get up.'

'What for?' I mutter.

Jossstick, one of George's Siamese cats, jumps off the bed as George climbs onto the end of it. Joss has taken to sleeping on the bed in the mornings, after George has gone to work. He curls up in a ball next to my stomach and purrs when I stroke him. It's a comforting sound. I've never had a cat before. Joss is just about the only one here who I can stand to be around currently. Him and Bobbie. I bring Bobbie in here with me sometimes, but more often than not Emma will be looking after her and I can't be bothered to try and wrestle her away from her nanny. None of the staff do anything I ask, anyway. They run to George to tell him what I haven't done or what I've said to them like school children trying to get you in trouble with the teacher.

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