July

One

 Disclaimer *** This is a work of fiction, no libel intended. This work of fiction does not perfectly follow John Lennon and Paul McCartney's history for plot reasons. ***

July 6th, 1957

The series of events that had led to him attending that fete in that particular sleepy corner of Liverpool was one that was so absurd that Paul later wondered how the hell it had happened.

            You could say it had all started with Ivan. Dependable, loyal, somewhat barmy Ivan Vaughan. He’d been a mate of a mate of a mate, or something like that. Ivan’s reputation had preceded him, and Paul had gotten an earful of “that Ivan” and how he’d gotten drunk and done this and that and trampled Mrs. Ibenfielder’s flowerbed to impress a girl.

            It was only fitting, then, that they met in a pub (though if Paul’s dad asked then not at all, he was out to tea at a friend’s). Paul had been gathering up quite a crowd, trying to do an Elvis impersonation, which actually wasn’t half bad if you trusted what most of his listeners reported, when Ivan arrived. Paul had thought he was just some bloke, until he shouted out to him that his cousin was dating Elvis and that he was no good, and that Paul should hear his mate John play instead.

            And that’s how the story with Ivan had begun. It was also all a big coincidence that he happened to be a schoolmate of Paul’s, that bloke he’d seen around but never really noticed, until that fateful night at the pub. That night had been the start of a bloody insane chain reaction.

            Ivan was a funny kid. He had a huge, manic smile, and black hair. He’d constantly brag to mates about the girls he’d met, but he never seemed to keep a bird long enough to introduce her to any of the blokes, though he might also have made up the whole thing about meeting all these Brigitte Bardot lookalikes. Ivan was like that, always looking for a laugh. When he thought back on this, Paul decided that it was impossible for someone like Ivan to not know someone like John.

            And then there was how Paul was dead sure that it was destiny or something like that which had ensured that someone like John had to meet someone like Paul. When it did happen, everything changed and went helter-skelter for the McCartney lad. But that wasn’t even on his mind when he’d just met Ivan. Neither was it part of his wildest dreams that anything would happen at the Woolton fete.

            He didn’t really want to go, but it seemed like a fun thing to do. Ivan later confessed that he was actually going to take one of his seemingly phantomlike girls, but she’d changed her mind at the last minute. Ivan had already told that mate John he’d go, but he didn’t want to go by himself, so Paul was, as Vaughan put it, “his second best option.”

            Paul had sarcastically told him how fucking flattered he was, then said he’d think about it. If he was honest, Paul didn’t want to go. Not that he was a hermit; he did go out and everything, but Woolton? From what he’d heard of it, that fete of theirs was the most interesting thing they did all year. It was some sort of thing for little children, Paul thought, where they picked a girl to be Rose Queen and had processions of floats on lorries. It seemed like a right dull event, which made Paul seriously doubt what a skiffle band (one that Ivan seemed to venerate right along with John) had to do with the fete.

            He’d decided to call Ivan and say he wasn’t going. If he really had to, he could always lie and say he was sick in bed with a lurgy, Paul decided. It was on his way to the phone, actually, that fate happened.

            “Paul?”

            “Yeah?” the lad in question asked, spinning round to look at his dad. The older McCartney studied his son’s appearance critically.

            “The Chesters are coming ‘round for a visit today. Smarten up a bit, will you?”

            Paul paled. Mr. and Mrs. Chester were, for some unknown reason, very good friends of his dad’s. They came around often, and though they were sweet towards “poor Jim,” pitying his status of widower, they seemed to think the two boys were unruly and that it was their duty to discipline them.

            Mr. Chester would sternly tell Paul that he needed to stand up straighter, speak in a more confident voice, and do better in school, though he did reasonably well already. Mrs. Chester, in turn, seemed to think the best approach was to compare Paul to her three children. She’d go around, prattling on about how her Henry was always a strapping young lad, unlike Paul’s “pudgy self,” and how her Janie had better manners than he did, and how he’d never be as successful as her Freddy dear.

            “Oh no, Da, I’ve completely forgotten,” Paul said, smacking himself on the forehead semi-believably. “I’ve promised to go see a mate of a mate at the Woolton fete.”

            Jim McCartney stared his son down. “Well—alright, son. I suppose it is good for you to go out and get some fresh air.”

            Paul beamed. “Thanks! I’ll be right out.”

            “Be back by suppertime!” Jim shouted after Paul, who was already tearing up the stairs. Well, whatever it took to get his teenage son out of his room. He was always in there, listening to records and playing on that guitar of his. Jim would never admit it, but he was dead scared he wasn’t being a good enough parent on his own.

            God, he missed Mary. He bustled about, making some tea, and trying to make the place look presentable for the guests. Meanwhile, upstairs, Paul had slipped into a white jacket that he thought made him look rather cool. He stepped into the bathroom and took out some gel and a comb. He whipped his hair somewhat into shape. Not as nice as Elvis, or as any of the local teds, but he supposed it would have to do.

            Paul grabbed his guitar, thankfully ready in its case (he didn’t quite know why he was bringing it but it seemed fitting, seeing as he was going to some sort of concert), and rushed out the door. He glanced at his watch—he could make the bus to Woolton if he started running about right now.

            “Bye Da!” he shouted, running out of the house before he could expect a reply.