𝐘𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐃𝐀𝐘 ── PAUL McCARTNEY

IX. GUITAR CHORDS

Thursday the 3rd of October 1958

George winded up at the front doorstep two days later, when I least expected him to —— flashing his iconic canines with a grin and a black acoustic guitar case in hand.

"George, Paul isn't home," I admitted before shifting my footing. It was difficult to undermine how unbeneficial this was for me. Hanging around George would have consequences with Paul, even if the teenage version of the infamous version of the guitarist of my childhood seemed really cool. But their friendship was far too important. I couldn't under no circumstance be so disgustingly selfish.

"That's fine," George concluded honestly before meeting my eyes and running his free hand through his dark voluminous Vaseline gelled hair, "I wanted to see ye anyways."

My heart dropped and it took me a good five seconds to register that he was actually talking to me before I attempted to compose myself. I knew that George could see the the surprise written all over my face. "Oh, um, do you want to come inside?" It felt silly, wrong really, this wasn't my house and it felt incredibly invasive.

George rattled with laughter, noticing my discomfort and it bruised my soul with embarrassment for all eternity. "Actually, why don't ya come back to mine for tea? Me mum cooks great meat pies."

Nevertheless, I smiled at the thought of it, but I couldn't. I knew I couldn't. "I'll have to ask Jim if it's alright," I whispered. I was hoping Jim would say no and come up with this extraordinary explanation of why I shouldn't go. Maybe I could say that I had this massive headache?

George smiled ever since softly and I closed the front door behind me and stumbled into the living room. "Mr McCartney," I started. Alike always in the afternoons after work Jim always sat in the living room with his pipe and a crossword in the newspaper. Jim was an older man, with short peppery hair, dressed in a suit and tie, he was in his fifties but he had the enthusiasm and chirpiness of someone much younger.

"Yes Daisy?" He spoke kindly with a fatherly grin.

"I was wondering, uh, well, George — he's Paul's friend — y'know the one that looks like a teddy boy, anyways, may I please hang out with him for a bit? I don't think I'll be gone long. I know it's very wrong of me to ask something like this especially when I don't even live here and it's very selfish. . ." I drawled off. I was stupid I didn't even sound like I didn't want to go, instead I was enthusiastic and almost pleading about it and it killed me.

Jim met my eyes for a moment, so serious I could feel my palms go clammy but then he broke into laughter. "Of course love. I don't understand why'd ya'd even ask!" I blinked a couple of times, registering what had happened.

I awkwardly hovered over by the entryway to the livingroom, "Oh, well, um, thank you then Jim." He waved a goodbye before he took a puff from his pipe and it was undoubtedly my cue to leave.

I rushed hurriedly, despite my daze like way of walking. I couldn't just say no to George could I? But what if I never told Paul any of this? What if George and I never mentioned it? Would it be okay? Surely, it would wouldn't it?

Questions reeled within the gears of my mind and George was still waiting at the front door where I left him.

"Hello again," He spoke with a grin and I couldn't help but return it.

"Hi again," I repeated with a lazy grin. Today seemed brighter, no longer so grey, dull and rainy. There was even a bit of sun. I wouldn't even need my raincoat.

"Come 'ead this way," George spoke and I trailed behind him, my brown shoes scuffing on the concrete pavement. George adjusted the strap on his guitar case and swung it over his shoulder before reaching into his pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes.