𝐘𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐃𝐀𝐘 ── PAUL McCARTNEY

IX. GUITAR CHORDS

"Do ye want a ciggie, la?" George offered noticing that I was starring him down.

"No, they aren't good for you," I whispered, so softly he couldn't hear me. It felt as if someone had thrown me into a river of freezing ice cold water. I wasn't stupid. Despite my lack of knowledge on all things Beatles I knew the consequences of George smoking. He brought one to his lips, the sliver metal of his lighter flashed in the sun.

As soon as he took a drag from the cigarette I couldn't help it, I reached over and took it from his hand and threw it to the pavement and crushed it under the weight of my shoe a little too aggressively. The sudden nausea washed away instantly and I was filled with nothing but relief. "Oi! What the in the bloody hell was what for!" George spoke, his voice gruff and agitated.

I came up with the only logical explanation I could, "I said smok—I have asthma idiot." For a moment George's angered expression faded away into something more apologetic. There was a feeling in my gut horrible that I lied, but I knew that it was the best decision.

"Sorry, Daisy," He admitted sombrely, his soulful brown eyes meeting my eyes for a splintering moment and I could see the guilt burning within them. "I didn't know."

I smiled half-heartedly and shrugged my shoulders, "It's alright, George. I know that."

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The journey to George's house in 12 Arnold Grove in Waverlee was better than I expected. The house was a two story bricked council house and it felt like such an honor to stand in it's proximity. George pushed open the small gate for me to walk through and I muttered a thank you under my breath. Somehow, just being around George this felt more like a dream. There was always this grounding sense of being around Paul. I was probably just so used to hanging around Paul and being within the bubble of his world that it felt funny being in the atmosphere of George's.

"You're house is pretty," I admitted genuinely. To me, older houses always had more character and more of a story within its walls. In my time, houses were beginning to loose that far too much.

George laughed at my words as if I stupid and it was that moment I wondered if this was what having siblings was like, "Do ye live in a shack or somethin' back home?"

I realised his words were supposed to be a sort of teasing joke but I took them seriously. "Unfortunately, no, I live just out of town on rural property but my grandmother lives a bit closer to town."

George strached his chin and pulled the front door open. "Ma! I'm home. I've brought a friend." I followed George into his home and I noticed how tidy and modest it was. In contrast it was similar to Paul's, in all honesty, a typical English home or what I knew as a typical English home. 

As I stumbled into the small kitchen behind George, the waffling scent of some sort of delicious pie filtered through my nose. Whatever it was smelt great. George's mother was a short woman, with greying hair and laugh lines around her eyes. She was dressed like a proper housewife in a dress, apron and everything. The look on her face was a look of surprise and confusion washed over her face before she smiled in a polite sort of way.

I knew that everything was a lot more formal back in these days so I held my hand out towards the woman who took my hand in a firm manner, "It's a pleasure to meet Mrs Harrison. I'm Ju–Daisy Twist."

"It's lovely to meet any friend of George's," Although their was a skeptical look on her face and she looked me over as if she was search for an answer before George decided to take the matter into his own hands.