Chapter 74
August 29, 1966
I sat in the back of a taxi, my hat-covered head in my hands, as I tried to bloody think...because this was the worst possible time for my head to stop working. The flight to San Francisco for the boys' last show was in less than three hours, and I was stuck without a goddamn working brain.
"Ma'am," the man said from the driver's seat, his voice tense. "I can't just take you to 'where the Beatles are staying'. I wouldn't even know where to start looking for something like that."
I cringed and rubbed my eyes behind my sunglasses. I hadn't had a memory lapse this significant in a long while. My memory and concentration had been holding steady, not really getting in the way of my day-to-day life over the last few months. There'd been occasional slip-ups, moments of forgetfulness, but they were usually small and insignificant, and it seemed I had the countless memory exercises to thank for that. Even though I despised doing them, it was worth it if I could stop forgetting half of what John said. I couldn't stand the look he gave me when I forgot something or had to ask him to repeat himself. And I feared the look he'd have on his face when I finally got back to the house...if I ever actually got back.
My head ached, and there was a pounding in my ears which only made matters worse. The more I couldn't remember, the tighter I clenched my teeth and the more difficult it became to think.
"It's a big house on the side of a hill. I mean, it's massive," I mumbled the exact words I'd already said nearly ten times. "Does that help at all?"
"A massive house in Beverly Hills? You know you could be describing every house, don't you?" His tone was clipped and sweat dripped from his sideburns.
"There's a bloody seven in the address. Seven...five...no. No, that's not right. Six...seven. Fuck."
"You're running up an awfully high bill sitting here talking to yourself," the driver said as he tapped his long fingers against the steering wheel. He eyed me through the rearview mirror, his pinched expression showing me just how much he didn't appreciate my colorful word choice. "Why don't you get out, give someone a phone call, and find a new taxi driver to torture?"
"I've got money," I said through gritted teeth as I moved my fingers to the middle of my forehead. "The street is something like Tarson? Tarson Road, or maybe Carson? I don't bloody know."
I sat mumbling to myself for what seemed like hours, my head refusing to work and the driver getting more irate with each passing minute. It didn't help that I was nursing yet another hangover.
"Curson?" I whispered some time later. "Is there a Curson somethin'?"
"There's a Curson Terrace," the man said, perking up for the first time in over an hour.
"Yeah, that's maybe it." I nodded. That sounded right.
"You know the house number?" he asked. He must've thought I was a bit more than barmy because I couldn't remember a damned thing. I wasn't sure what in the hell was with my head, maybe it was the stress of the last-minute travel to America, but the timing couldn't have been worse.
"Seven something. Isn't that good enough to start?" My foot tapped against the worn surface of the carpet in the back seat as I glanced at my watch. I was really cutting it close, and I was sure John was losing it by now. When I'd left in the morning for a bit of sightseeing, I assured him that I didn't need Mal or Neil to join me...and I promised to be back by noon.
"I guess it'll have to do," the driver mumbled as he turned the key in the ignition and peeled away from the curb.
He drove like a maniac for the entirety of the trip, and I gripped the armrest, my knuckles white as I tried to focus on finding the house. When we turned onto Curson Terrace, I kept my eyes glued on each passing house, trying to remember what the driveway looked like from when Neil had driven me from the airport...but I'd been too sloshed that day to pay much attention to my surroundings.
"That's the end of the road, miss," the driver said, a vein in his forehead now popping. His brow was raised, and his tone was sharp. And I didn't know what to do to make the goddamn situation better.
"Would you mind slowing down a bit? I promise I'll see it this time." I wasn't sure how I could make such a promise, but I didn't have another option. Either my brain was going to remember, or I was going to be stuck in L.A. the rest of my bloody life. I folded my hands and tried to contain my growing impatience with the driver, with myself, and with my bloody head...a head that nearly two years after surgery—the one that was supposed to have fixed me—was still giving me issues.
The bloke grumbled nonsense in response and whipped the car around before pressing the accelerator. He tore down the road once again, not going any slower. But a mailbox that looked vaguely familiar came into view, and I yelled for the man to stop. He practically threw me out of the car, gathered the money I tossed in his direction, and drove off.
"Fuck you, you unhelpful, shite-driving rat bastard," I hollered after him, the car already gone by the time I shouted the words. But sometimes, it just felt better to curse at someone, even if they weren't around to hear it.
I stood at the bottom of the long driveway, hoping like hell I'd picked the right one, but I still wasn't sure. And if I was wrong, it would not only be ridiculously embarrassing to walk up to a stranger's home, but I'd also be stuck with no ride and forced to walk from house to house in search of the right one.
With my hands gripping my purse, I trudged up the driveway. A familiar house came into view, and my shoulders slumped forward. It was a bloody miracle...I'd somehow managed to pick the right driveway. Mal and Neil were packing the cars up with equipment, and I waved at them, my lip lodged between my teeth as they both nodded in my direction.
The moment I stepped through the front door, John was in front of me. He wore dark trousers, a dark-colored shirt, and a black corduroy jacket, which hung perfectly over his shoulders. Round sunglasses covered his eyes, and he gave me a once-over before his hands went in the air. He looked like he was trying to figure out what to shout at me.
It was all to be expected, but I wasn't in the mood. So I reached into my purse, shoved a box of chocolates I'd picked up for him against his chest, and walked into the kitchen to grab a glass of water. George, Paul, and Ringo sat at the counter, munching on some food, all of them except Paul wearing sunglasses as they waited for word that it was time to leave.
"So kind of you to grace us with yer presence," John said, following me into the kitchen.
I ignored his sarcasm as I grabbed a glass, filled it to the rim with water, and took a long drink.
When I didn't respond, he continued. "Where the fuck did you disappear to, Liv? We're about to leave, and you were meant to be back hours ago. Nearly sent Mal out to look for you."
"Good thing I'm back then," I mumbled, keeping my eyes set on the counter. "I've gotta change. I'll hurry."
"That's it?" John stepped in front of me, making it almost impossible not to look at him.
"That's it." I placed the empty glass in the sink and peeked up at Paul. His dark hazel eyes were on me as he messed with his hair. There was an odd vibe in the room, probably coming from a combination of the stressful concert the night before and the anticipation of the show that would conclude not only their American tour, but their touring life altogether.
"Somethin' happen?" Paul asked, his tone gentle rather than demanding. And thank goodness for Paul and the contrast he so often brought to John's mood swings.
I looked at Paul, bit my lip, and shook my head. There was so much going on around them, and I was sure they were minutes from being corralled into the cars, so I shook my head again and walked to the bedroom I shared with John. With shaky hands, I pulled my hat and sunglasses off and chucked them on the bed before tugging at my shirt.
"C'mon Liv, just tell me if you're all right. Cause you look proper narked," John said, stepping into the room. His voice was only slightly less insistent than it had been. He looked at me, his brows drawn together and his arms crossed as he leaned against the wall. "You just show up at the last minute after hours of bein' gone and won't bloody say anythin'?"
"I didn't mean to worry you." I yanked my shirt off and turned to face him. "And I know you have lots to think about today other than me wandering about Beverly Hills, so drop it." I wasn't even sure why I said it because I knew John, and he wasn't going to just let it go.
"What happened, then?" he insisted, as his eyes fell to my chest...because he couldn't help himself.
"I forgot the bloody address, all right? Not a big deal."
"You forgot what?"
"The address. Even now, I couldn't tell you what fuckin' street we're on. It's a damn good thing I can even remember me own ruddy name. And I couldn't fuckin' get back without knowing where in the hell I was goin'...the daft driver reminded me of that a few times." I shrugged as I shook my head. "Maybe it's the hangover, or maybe it's the stress of bein' away from Maggie. I don't know why it happened—I never know why my head just stops working, but I couldn't bloody remember."
John pushed out a long breath, still looking at me. It almost looked like he wanted to hug me, but he didn't move, the stress of the day weighing heavily on him.
And the previous night's concert hadn't helped...it had been a complete mess resulting in all of us huddled in their dressing room for nearly two hours.
There hadn't been enough security at their second show in Los Angeles, and even before the boys started Long Tall Sally to end the set, hundreds of fans dashed onto the field and surrounded the getaway car. It was then, as things were becoming impossible to navigate, that Tony Barrow, in his neatly pressed suit, put his arm around me and ushered me to the car.
By the time the boys had piled into the car, and we tried to leave the venue, there were thousands of fans blocking the path toward freedom and safety. Fans flung themselves out of the way as the car pressed forward, and we did the only thing we could think of: we raced underground to the dressing rooms to escape the hordes.
The mood in the dressing room had been that of despair as the thought of having to sleep in the cramped space crossed everyone's mind. John sat next to me but didn't look in my direction. He hadn't wanted me at the show in the first place, not after fielding questions at a press conference earlier in the day about whether he was worried for my safety given the continued protests at each venue. When John looked moments from losing it on the bloke who thought it a brilliant question to ask, Paul stepped in and assured the press that I was there to photograph them, and they were certain they could keep me safe. And when someone had the balls to ask why I'd left Maggie alone at home, Tony Barrow stepped in and redirected the questioning before John could explode and go off on them.
At some point, as we sat in the dressing room waiting for a chance to finally leave, Ringo muttered what we were all thinking, "Can I please go home to me mummy now, please can I?"
It had taken three limousines, multiple decoy cars, an ambulance crashing into a heap of broken fencing, and even more police to arrive before we all escaped to safety in an armoured car. The boys looked ready to fly back to London that very instant, but first they had the final show in San Francisco to get through.
"Yer head all right?" John asked, snapping me back to reality. He hadn't asked me that question with such hesitancy in a very long time.
"Yeah, yeah, it's all right." I wiggled out of my skirt and stood practically starkers in front of him, his eyes still falling periodically to my chest. "I just couldn't think for some reason."
He crossed his arms over his chest, the box of chocolates still in his hand, and stood unmoving. "You sure you wanna come tonight? You could stay back and rest if yer head's not all right."
"I'm sure, and I don't wanna get into a row about it. Okay?" I found the dress that I'd flung in my luggage as I rushed to pack between Maggie's naps back in Weybridge. "I'm sorry I forgot, I'm sorry I was late, but you lot have somewhere important to be, and I promise not to get in the way."
He stepped away from the wall, placed the chocolates on the bed, and ran his hands over my bare arms. "Ta for my prezzie, Livvy love."
If there were two things I knew about John, it was his love of chocolate and his love of being surprised with small treats he wasn't expecting.
"Anythin' for you." I winked at him before I pulled the long-sleeved dress on, twisting it into place. It hugged my upper body and flared out at the bottom, falling to my mid-thigh. I pulled on a pair of dark stockings and snatched a coat out of my luggage, draping it over my arm. The weather in San Francisco at Candlestick Park in August was known to be cold, foggy, and windy. The last thing I grabbed was my camera. It had barely been put to use in recent months, not for anything other than pictures of Maggie, and it felt so right having it back in my hands for work.
John pressed a chaste kiss against my lips. "Stay close tonight, yeah?" he said, and I wasn't sure if he wanted me close because he was afraid my memory would lapse and I'd forget who I was, or if he just needed my support. Maybe it was a bit of both.
Soon we were out of the house and on our way to the airport for the last Beatles concert.
Maybe ever.
* *
The dressing room, which was really just a locker room outfitted with minor luxuries like little bits of food, beer, and some soft drinks, was chaos. There were loads of people milling about. Joan Baez was there with her long brown hair and warm smile. Lots of local celebrities chatted with each other, and members of the press who managed to get passes brought their kids with them.
It was a proper party around me, and I sat with my legs crossed as I sipped a bit of beer. I cringed at the foul taste; time and age hadn't made my distaste of beer change, not in the least. If anything, it tasted worse than I remembered.
John and Paul both had cameras hanging around their necks, something they rarely did at shows. Paul was already snapping shots, and it seemed as though they were both on a mission to memorialize the concert. George sat with his ankle crossed over his knee, his foot bouncing, and Ringo fiddled with a pair of sunglasses between his fingers. There was a vibe of relief and anticipation among the boys...but only they were in on the secret. Everyone else went about their business as if the Beatles would surely be back touring in America the following August.
A few reporters were able to schmooze their way inside and were given a brief audience with each of the boys. I sat beside John as one reporter asked him about borrowing ideas from baroque composers.
"I don't know what baroque is," John answered as he fiddled with a ciggie between his fingers. "I wouldn't know a Handel from a Gretel."
When the reporter left John alone, I leaned closer to him, sweeping my hand through his tousled hair. I realized there was someone I hadn't seen yet, and I'd thought it strange when he didn't pile onto the plane with us in L.A. I was sure he must've caught a different flight or summat. But he was nowhere to be seen.
"Where's Brian?" I asked, whispering into John's ear. It seemed that everyone and anyone was there, but Brian was strangely nowhere to be seen. And I couldn't imagine him missing this show. "He knows, right?"
"Yeah, he knows."
My eyes narrowed as I frowned. "And he's not here?"
"Nothing gets past you."
"What grand sarcasm," I said through tight lips. "Was bein' bloody serious, John."
He didn't look at me, his gaze set on something in front of him. "He decided to stay at his hotel in Los Angeles, not sure why."
I shook my head and couldn't speak for a moment, not able to find the right words. Finally, I said, "He all right? How's he takin' all of this no touring shite?"
John didn't look much like he wanted to talk about it. Instead, he grabbed my beer and took a swig. "Thought you hated beer, ye'loon."
"I bloody do. It tastes like complete shite."
"You won't mind if I take it, then?"
"Oi, I most certainly do mind." My elbow went into his side. "Get yer grabby hands off me bevvy."
He smirked as he placed the beer back in my hand, and moved to get ready. The number of people dwindled as showtime approached. The boys changed into their show outfits and messed with their hair in front of mirrors, primping for longer than I often did.
Paul stepped in front of me moments before I was going to leave the room to find my spot outside. The boys were all wearing dark green Edwardian suits and silk floral shirts with the top few buttons left undone. They only differed in the shoes they wore, and they looked more dishy than I'd ever seen them. Paul plopped down next to me as I took the last swig of my beer, and I tilted my head to look at him.
"You want somethin' from me," I said, smirking. I knew that look in his eyes. "What's it this time?"
"Tony's got a cassette recorder," he said, his tone serious. "Will you grab it from 'im before we start?"
"I can do that." I nodded as I lifted my camera over my head and placed it around my neck.
"And then tape it, will you? Tape the show." He looked at me with earnest eyes, and my heart constricted. It didn't at all shock me that it was Paul who would think to do such a thing on such an important night. "Try to get all of it, will you?"
"Of course I can."
He pressed his hand over mine but didn't say anything more before popping up and grabbing his bass. The time for the boys to descend upon their fans one final time was approaching. I grabbed my jacket, pressed a kiss against John's cheek, and looked into his eyes, making sure he was all right, before following Tony Barrow.
The wind gusted around us the moment we stepped foot into the stadium. My hair went wild, and Tony's jacket blew open as we trudged toward the middle of the field. There were miniature dust storms across the infield. The night air was cold and foggy, and I immediately wrapped my arms around my torso, already thankful that I knew the boys' set wouldn't drag on.
"I'm a bit worried I'm gonna flash the entire stadium with the wind whipping like this," I said, my head tipping up, a small smile on my face.
"Wouldn't that be a fun press release?" Tony looked down at me, his eyes gentle, the lines on his forehead pronounced.
I grabbed the cassette recorder from Tony as we stepped toward the elevated stage that had been constructed over second base. A chain-link fence surrounded the perimeter of the stage, and I cringed at its presence. The boys were quite literally going to perform their final show in a cage.
At 9:27, after the Ronettes, who were performing without their lead singer, left the isolated stage, the boys ran from the dugout across the baseball diamond, ushered by countless police officers and an armoured car.
John, Paul, and George held their instruments, and Ringo clutched his drumsticks. They smiled and waved at the crowd. The resulting surge of screams was deafening, like thousands of fireworks exploding simultaneously, though half of the stadium looked empty. Fans had decorated the railings and chain-link backstop with homemade posters, and one particularly cheeky fan hung a sign proclaiming Lennon Saves.
I snapped a few photos but knew that my job of recording their last show was more important than any picture I might take. Besides, it seemed John and Paul were both on photo duty. They clutched their cameras, snapping photos of each other and of the audience as they moved toward the stage.
The boys walked past where I was standing, and Paul winked at me as the wind blew all of their perfectly combed hair out of place. John squeezed my arse, as he so often loved to do, before the boys bounded up the stairs and plugged in their instruments. They did a quick tune up as I shivered and got into position. I snapped a few more photos, then let the camera hang around my neck as I raised the tape recorder toward the stage.
It certainly wasn't going to be a brilliant recording, but I damn well was going to try to make it the best it could be. The only thing going for me was that the audience was farther away than usual, so perhaps the screaming fans wouldn't totally drown out the music coming from the stage.
John snapped photos of the boys, of the audience, of me, and then placed the camera on an amp, and snapped one of himself.
From their first hello and into their first song, Rock' n' Roll Music, the boys took on a new level of energy that had even been missing from the previous night. They knew this was the end, so they put everything into it—their hearts and souls. There was a bit of weariness in their voices from the last few years, though they pushed through it. And when I closed my eyes, I could almost imagine myself back in Hamburg...hearing them play the same music with unmatched energy. They'd needed that energy back then because they wanted to conquer the world.
The boys barely paused between songs, and their brief onstage banter was a bit looser than what I was used to...less scripted. John introduced Day Tripper by saying, "Thank you everybody, thank you. We'd like to carry on now, er, carry on together, at will—one together and all for one—with another number that used to be a single record back in, er...long time ago. And this one's about the naughty lady called Day Tripper!"
The mania in the stadium swelled as the concert continued. A handful of people rushed the stage during Baby's in Black and even more came during Nowhere Man. More than once, the boys peeked at their armoured escape car...just in case things got out of hand as they had the previous night.
While the rest of the audience screamed—losing their bloody minds, not much caring about the music—I stared, my eyes set on John. I was determined to live in the moment and refused to let my head go anywhere else. I wanted to remember every look, every smile, every sound, every note.
Near the end of their set, they placed their cameras on the amps, and Ringo sauntered down from the drums. The boys stood with their backs to the audience and took photographs. I drew in a breath as I looked at them, my lip quivering and tears pooling in my eyes.
This was really it.
No one was listening as Paul introduced their final number. "Thank you very much, everybody. Everybody, wonderful. Frisco, butchered. We'd like to say that, erm, it's been wonderful bein' here, in this wonderful sea air. Sorry 'bout the weather. And we'd like to ask you to join in and, er, clap, sing, talk, do anythin'. Anyway, the song is...good night."
A shiver crept down my spine, maybe from the whipping wind and the awful chill in the air, or perhaps because it was hard to comprehend the importance of the moment. Paul held nothing back as he tore into Long Tall Sally. They played the song for themselves, a song that had remained on their setlist almost their entire career. They opened with it back in 1960, and now it was closing out their touring life.
The song was over almost as soon as it began. And they were free, although they didn't immediately look elated. John paused for a moment, looking out at the audience, his guitar hanging from his shoulder. He seemed lost in thought as he pulled in a long breath. There was a thickness in my throat as I tried my hardest not to cry.
The others ran from the stage, but I didn't move, and neither did John. He sucked in another breath, his eyes meeting mine as he grabbed his guitar and played a delicate riff from In My Life. Time stood still, and a few tears escaped my eyes. I didn't breathe as I pinched my eyes closed and listened for one final moment. When I opened them, John was running from the stage, and I turned to meet him. He didn't look at me as he grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the armoured car.
Soon John and I were in our seats on an airplane again, a drink in my hand. We'd only been in San Francisco a total of five hours and were headed back to L.A. for one final night before the flight back to London.
George walked onto the plane, a well-deserved drink already in his hand, and headed directly to the seat in front of me. He paused, looked forward, smiled, and said, "Right—that's it, then. I'm not a Beatle anymore," before sinking into his seat and taking a long swig of his drink.
Ringo collapsed next to him, wiping a hand over his face, looking beyond ready to go home, and Paul sat behind me.
I shifted as I looked at John, biting my lip as he lit a cigarette, tilting his head to the side as he flicked the lighter. Something about it was so damned sexy...I almost jumped him in the middle of the plane, watchful eyes and journalists be damned.
"Can I have a ciggie, John?" I shivered a bit, not yet warm from the bone-numbing wind.
"Always bumming me cigs, Livvy." It was the first he'd spoken to me since before the show. His sunglasses were back on his face, shielding his eyes from the world. He smirked and lit a second cig. "Will you ever get yer own?"
"Doubtful." I turned to look at him. "Why would I when I can have yers?"
I clutched John's hand and held onto my drink as the plane took off and soared into the pitch-black night sky. The moment the plane leveled off, Paul popped his head over the back of my seat.
He tapped my shoulder like an annoying brother until I moved. "Did you get anything on tape?"
I turned in my seat. John looked lost in thought and didn't even look up as I faced Paul, whose cheeks were still red from the performance. There was a grin on his face as he looked at me expectantly. I grimaced as my eyes met his, horrified I might disappoint him.
"I did, but—"
"And did you get all the announcements between songs? Did you get everything?" he babbled, cutting me off.
"I got everything startin' with the guitar feedback before the first number." I hesitated as I took a drag of my cig. "I got the lot of it, except the damned tape ran out in the middle of Long Tall Sally. I didn't get the very end. Paul...I'm really sorry."
His smile didn't falter; he looked beyond pleased. His perfect eyebrows rose as I pulled the cassette from the purse.
"You're lovely, Liv. So lovely."
I fiddled with the cassette, looking at him through the corner of my eye. "You're not disappointed?"
"No, I'm thrilled to bits. Honestly."
"This why you invited me here? So you could have yer own personal tape recorder?"
He winked before he collapsed onto his seat. "That and for yer always shiny disposition."
I scowled at him, then turned and collapsed next to John. He was still staring off into space, gulping down a drink. He looked a bit despondent, his shoulders drooping as he smoked a cig almost nonstop.
There was a collective uncertainty in the silence that fell over us, one that made my skin crawl a bit. I shifted in my seat, crossing and uncrossing my legs, twisting my hair, and gripping my cig.
It unsettled me, what the future might look like. Touring was over. They'd had countless years of living a communal life...all they had for so long was each other. They were best mates, brothers. And I knew they would continue recording after perhaps doing some exploring on their own. I knew that the Beatles weren't over—Paul assured me of that—but a chapter was closing, a chapter that was so familiar to me. What I knew best was life on the move with John, but what would life be like without touring?
We were walking blindly into uncharted territory.
John was most content when he had a project, a goal, something to keep him busy. And as much as he wanted to be a family man, I knew it wouldn't be enough for him. It wasn't as if I didn't understand...I loved Maggie to pieces, but I still wanted a life outside of being a mother. Being behind my camera again reminded me of that. But what would fill John's time now that touring was over? What would help him cope with the world as he tried to escape the madness around him?
"Whenever you get that look on yer face, I know you've gone somewhere else. You're brooding again, worrying," John whispered. "Need another cig to settle you down?"
"How could you possibly know what I'm thinkin'?" I mumbled as I slipped my hand into his again, leaning into his warmth. "Could be thinkin' about elephants flyin' for all you know."
"I've known you me whole damned life. I know all yer looks better than I know me own knob." He peeked at me out of the corner of his eye. "You still remember yer name, or has yer head stopped workin' again?"
"Very funny, course I know me name." I smashed the butt of my cig into the ashtray between us. He was teasing me, the wanker. "Marie, innit?"
He gave me a look...he was only slightly amused.
I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, I still remember me bloody name. I've not completely lost me memory, not yet at least."
"Let's go home, then, Marie." He pushed out a heavy sigh, his eyes looking in the distance at nothing again, as he handed me another cigarette. "Smoke this—you've gotta get outta that brooding place you just slipped into. Everything'll be fine."
I blinked as I stared into his eyes, hoping like hell he was right...but worried that he wasn't. I grabbed the cig and pulled in a drag, trying to settle my rattled nerves, desperate to stop contemplating the uncertainty of the coming months.
He squeezed his fingers around mine, holding my hand with a secure and steady grip, one that I'd grown so accustomed to over the years. John and I had been so solid ever since we found our way back to each other after everything that happened between us.
But even the most solid foundations can begin to crack under pressure.
A/N: Reading about this last show was one of the many reasons I started dreaming about writing Part 3 of this book. There are so many amazing articles and first-hand experiences from that night that helped inspire this chapter, and I loved reading about every minute of the concert. It made me really want to figure out how to time travel!
Thank you so much for reading, and I hope to see you Saturday at the next update. A time jump is coming...! x
Happy birthday, John. We miss you every day <3