"Paul? The lads are here, son. It's time to leave!" The sound of his father's call made Paul's heart jump. He was in the middle of a battle of wills with his suitcase, which contested Paul's determination to close the lid on the obscene volume of luggage with an equally stubborn refusal to comply. "Comin' da'", Paul yelled back, staring daggers at his uncooperative baggage. He pondered his options, but decided he really didn't want to come to a compromise, so he pulled the suitcase onto the floor, positioned his knees atop either end of the lid and put his weight into it. With one final effort, he finally managed to win the fight.
As he moved to grab his coat, he caught his reflection in the mirror. A rather dishevelled image looked back at him: sweat was running down the sides of his face, and his quiff had lost its battle against gravity. The prospect of spending the next who-knew-how-many hours looking like that in John's presence didn't seem very appealing. There was just one problem: his comb was packed away in the suitcase he had just managed to close after wrestling it for the better part of ten minutes. There was nothing to it: the lads would have to wait a minute longer.
Answering Jim's stern cry of "Paul, please!" with an exasperated "Yeah yeah, I'll be right there", he made a beeline for the bathroom, in search of the items required to fix his hair. Relief washed over him when he found his father's comb and some vaseline, and he quickly put both to good use. With his duck tails firmly in place and his pompadour thoroughly greased up, he ran a wet finger over his eyebrows, slipped on his coat, grabbed his luggage and galumphed down the stairs to meet his bandmates.
"Alright, la'?" John stood next to Jim, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and a lopsided smirk on his face. "We feared you'd flushed yerself down the loo there for a second. Ready to go, then?"
Paul's nodded, "Sorry to keep you waiting, man. Me suitcase wouldn't close." He chose to keep his last-minute styling session to himself, suspecting a confession like that would make him the target of relentless teasing all the way to Hamburg. "Can you load my stuff into the van for me, John? I'll be right there."
As John heaved Paul's suitcase and guitar into the back of the minibus, Paul turned to face Jim. "Well, I guess I'm off then, da'. Thank you for allowing me to do this. I know you'd rather I didn't go..."
"You're right, son. I'd much prefer you here where I can keep an eye on you," Jim agreed, placing a warm hand on Paul's shoulder. "But if this is what you need to do to further your career, then you must go. Just promise me you'll take better care of yourself this time, alright? And if you can, call us on the telephone or write a letter about your adventures." Jim pulled his oldest son into a hug and pleaded, "Try not to get into any fist fights, jail cells, or situations that compromise your overall well-being. I couldn't bear to see anything bad happen to you."
Paul gave his father a bit of a squeeze before gently pulling away. "I will da', I promise. Don't worry about me, alright?" He made for the door, but looked back just before stepping outside. "I'll call you in a few days, after we've settled in. In a bit, da'. I love you!" And with that, he pulled the door shut behind him and joined his friends in the van. "Go'ead lads!"
"Ferngespräch nach England bitte." Paul really hoped the switchboard lady understood him. Languages were not his strong suit and he knew his accent was terrible, but he also took pride in making the effort to at least try and speak German. After a few seconds, he heard, "Yes, sir. City and extension, please?" Relieved to be able to continue in English, he quickly replied, "Liverpool, Garson GAR 6922, thank you." The anonymous voice said, "Garson six, nine, double-two. Please hold, sir."
For a moment, Paul considered the woman's voice, which has been bright and warm; a voice suited for a singer. Not at all like Dorothy, who always spoke in whispers. Just as he was reminding himself to seriously consider whether or not he wanted to continue dating the girl he left at home, his father's voice interrupted. "Paul? I've been waiting for your call, son. How was your journey?"
Paul smiled broadly at the sound of the familiar voice. "Hey, dad! Sorry for not calling sooner. We got here just fine, much better than last time. It's still a long journey, mind. We were dead knackered when we arrived, but I'll take the train over an overcrowded van any day!"
Jim's laughter went straight to Paul's heart. "I have no trouble believing that! And how have you settled in? You've already performed, have you not?"
Paul nodded enthusiastically before realising his father couldn't see it. "Yeah, we have. It was great, really. This club actually has a sound system, with reverb and everything. I'm back on the piano again, though. I dropped my guitar the other night and it broke, so he lads took turns jumping on it until there was nothing left but tinder," Paul chuckled. "I was a bit sour over it at first, but we all laughed about it later. Maybe I'll go buy a new one in a few weeks."
"Well, nothing wrong with playing piano, son. I've always loved playing it, and I know you will too. But tell me, have you sleeping arrangements improved? From what you told me, living conditions were dreadful last time."
The mere thought of their cell at the Bambi Kino made Paul cringe. "We're sleeping above the club, dad," he reassured his father. "It's a little attic room, a bit of a dormitory, really. It's simple, but it's clean. Our room at the Kino smelled like a loo, and this one smells like a Chinese laundry, because we wash our own clothes and hang them to dry in our room. So yeah, it's still very meager but it's much better than last time. No need to worry about that, dad." A crisp voice alerted Paul to either insert more coins or end the call. "Dad, I've run out of coins so I have to hang up in a minute. But tell me, how are you and Mike doing? Anything new since I left?"
"We're doing very well, Paul. Nothing has changed in the week since you've been gone. Your aunt said to tell you hello and that she misses you already." Paul grinned at the amused tone in his father's voice. He could just picture his aunt fretting over the idea of Paul so far from home, left to fend for himself. She probably thought he'd die of starvation before the month was through and he could almost see Jim roll his eyes at her. "Don't worry about us, you just have a good time and take care of yourself, alright? And son, do me a favour and call collect next time. That way, we can talk as long as you want. Your brother and I love you, Paul. Please say hello to your friends from us, would you?"
"Alright da', I'll tell them. I'll call again soon. Please give everyone my love, yeah? Bye dad." When he exited the yellow telephone box, Paul had a spring in his step. Whatever happened in the weeks to come, he knew he'd get through it with the support of the people he loved the most. He just didn't know yet how soon his confidence would be put to the test.
***
"Lads? I need to talk to you for a second." George, John and Paul paused their activities to look at Stuart. Pete had buggered off as soon as the gig was finished, as he usually did, and it was just the four of them packing up their guitars and amplifiers or in Paul's case: hanging around and lending a hand where needed. It was obvious whatever Stu had on his mind only concerned them, as he had literally spoken up the moment the door had closed behind Pete. But now that three pairs of eyes in varying shades of brown were watching him, he seemed hesitant to go on.
"Make up yer mind Stu, ye either have something to say or ye don't, but don't keep us waiting. Some of us want to go to bed, son." John's impatient growl made the short bassist recoil slightly.
Paul rolled his eyes, "No need for that, John. You being a rotter isn't going to make anyone less knackered." He ignored the insulting gesture made in his direction and turned back to Stuart, "Don't mind 'im, Stu. What did you want to talk to us about?"
Stu drew a deep breath and then blurted out, "I'm leavin' the band."
"Ye wha'?!" John and George's synchronised yell filled the room. Paul was gobsmacked and simply stood there, blinking slowly, unaware of his mouth hanging open.
Stuart closed his eyes briefly before explaining, "I've been accepted into the art school right here in Hamburg so I'm going to start school in June. And I also want to spend more time with Astrid now that we're gettin' married, so I won't be playin' much with you anymore."
The announcement was met by silence. Finally, George managed to speak. "Tha' is going to be a problem, isn't it? We can't go on fer nearly three months without a bass player. If not Stu, then who's goin' to be on bass? It's not goin' to be me, I'll tell you that!"
"And I'm definitely not goin' to either," John declared, before Paul could even open his mouth. "It's my band, and there's no way in hell I'm playin' bass. Especially now I've got a new guitar," he added for good measure, gesturing at his shiny new Rickenbacker.
George and John looked expectantly at Paul, whose gaze traveled from one to the other and back again. "So that's that then, is it? Yer not even askin' me if I even want to be on bass? Because I don't, y'know. John, I play guitar better than you. Bloody hell, you'd still be playin' banjo chords without me, son! And I play at least as well as George. Why should I have to settle for bass? No offence, Stu."
Stu shook his head, looking rather taken aback by the situation his announcement caused. In spite of his chagrin, Paul couldn't help but feel for the lad, who had paled beneath his freckles. "no problem Paul," he murmured.
"Be reasonable, Macca," John offered, adopting a placating tone, which made him sound more like he was correcting a naughty toddler than trying to have an open discussion with an adult, "Yer not playin' guitar now, George and I are. Ye've already played bass before, when Stuart was in Hamburg, and Chas went back to school. Ye even have a bass already."
"Is wrong, mate! You know very well you guys smashed that piece of crap to bits three weeks ago – I only used it as a bass because Stu had gone back to Astrid. It was just for a few weeks; why else do you think it only had three strings – piano strings at that? You know it's the same one, I just put a new set of guitar strings on it!" Paul was furious now, realising he'd been put on the spot by the people he considered his best friends. "It was okay to step in when Stu wasn't there, just like I didn't mind playin' drums when we didn't have a drummer. But I never wanted to be the bass player! I feel we should at least have a discussion about it."
"Go'ead mate, discuss it if thats what ye want," George said with an air of finality, "ask Klaus ter do it fer all I care, but I'm stayin' on lead guitar and that is that. I'm done 'ere, g'night." And with that, he got up and went upstairs to their attic dormitory.
"Look, I'm sorry about this, okay? I can sit in with you until you've settled it, though it's plain to see where this is going to go. I don't think it's fair of you to put Paul in this position, John. He should have a say in it, and not be forced into a corner like this." Stuart spoke quietly, acknowledging Paul's "ta'" with an encouraging smile. He stood up and got ready to leave, but paused to turn to Paul. "Paul, I think we both know how this will play out. If you want, you can use my bass for a while. Just don't change the strings, alright? I know I don't have a future in music, but I would like to be able to play my own bass. I hope you understand. Sorry, mate."
"I'm not mad at you Stu," Paul replied, shaking his head. "I'm sure you'll be right. See you tomorrow?"
"Yeah, tomorrow. Good night, guys."
"Now that's sorted," John stowed away his guitar case and made for the door, "you comin' Macca?"
"No," Paul sulked, "you go'ead. I'll be up in a bit. I'd like to be alone now if it's all the same to you."
"Well, if you're goin' to be a whopper about it, suit yerself" John shrugged, answering the two-fingered salute Paul flashed with an obscene gesture of his own.
An angry shout filled the room as soon as Paul was by himself. It wasn't so much that he hated the bass. He'd been practising for a while and he already had played several gigs. Just like any other instrument, the bass seemed to come naturally to him and he did enjoy creating nice bass lines. But this, this was different.
The band was finally going somewhere, and he realised that at that point, picking up the bass would mean being stuck with it forever. And he didn't like that idea at all, being relegated to the side or the back of the stage, with an instrument that wouldn't allow him to play a nice solo or a catchy riff. Unless...
His eyes fell on Stu's bass guitar and he moved to pick it up. It looked strange when turned upside down; the cutaway and tone knobs looking out of place at the top, not to mention the pick guard being very much in the way. He switched on the amplifier and sat down. "Well," Paul said to the room, "if I'm going to be stuck with this, I may as well show them how it's done."
***
"Wake up, ye lazy git! Com'ead to the city!" Paul protested with a loud growl when his sheets were stripped away and his legs were unceremoniously pulled off his mattress, causing him to nearly fall out of bed completely. Shielding his eyes from the bright daylight, he squinted up into George and John's faces. Pete was nowhere to be seen, nor was their roommate Tony.
"Can't you go without me? I'm dead tired, let me sleep some more," he complained, pulling his feet back on the bed and fully prepared to roll over and kip for a few additional hours.
George's response was to dive on top of Paul, knocking the wind squarely out of him, whilst John grabbed a pillow from the nearest bunk and threw it at Paul's head. "It's half ten in the mornin', son. The sun is up, the sky is blue, it's beautiful!"
"Yeah, and so are you," George added with a fanged grin. He moved himself off Paul's torso and proceeded to sit on his legs instead. "Get up Paul, let's go get some scran. I'm hungry. Aren't you hungry, John?"
"I am, though never as hungry as you George," John snorted. "Yer still gorra cob on, Macca? Ye can't keep sulking forever, y'know." John continued in a sing-song voice, "Come on, I'll buy you a hamburger. All ye got to do is open up those pretty eyes of yours and come out to play with us. What's that sound like?"
Paul's reply was to present his friends with the finger and covered his face with the pillow John had thrown at him. "Sod off, will ye? I've been practising with Stu's bloody bass until six." he moaned, the sound of his voice severely muffled by the pillow. "Now, gerroff George, let me sleep! It's the least you can do after shafting me like that!"
"Sorry mate, can't do that. See, we went straight to bed like the well-behaved lads we are, so we're all rested like, and ready to go now. It's not our fault you stayed up past yer bedtime, so you'll just have to get up now or John will jump you too, won't you John?"
Instead of joining George's banter, Paul heard John say, "But it is our fault George, can't you see? Gerroff, leave 'im alone." He squeezed Paul's arm, "I'm sorry for last night mate, I really am. Com'ead Geo, let 'im get some sleep. We can go have ourselves some scran and bring some back for Paul." He sighed, and grumbled, "Four hours of practise after a seven-hour gig. Ye must be daft Paul, that's far more dedication than this fucked up place deserves."
Paul felt George's weight disappear from his legs and used the opportunity to get more comfortable. George's voice sounded remorseful when he muttered, "I'm sorry too, Paul. It was a shitty thing ter do." Another caring touch to his arm made Paul smile underneath the pillow, and he offered them a 'forget about it' kind of gesture. He was fast asleep even before his friends reached the dormitory door.
When he woke up again two hours later, the extra pillow was underneath his head instead of on top of it, and his sheets had somehow made a miraculous reappearance. In fact, they looked a lot like someone had made a well-meant - though poorly executed - attempt at tucking him in. By the sound of the hushed voices nearby, Paul suspected two people in the room were suffering from guilty consciousnesses. He quietly moved his head a bit and looked at John and George through his eyelashes for a little while. They were in seated on Pete's bed, playing a game of cards, which had them both so engrossed that neither noticed they were being watched. "Hey," Paul finally croaked, "who's winning?"
John started as if he was stung by a wasp. George, whose back had been turned to Paul and who was deeply focused on the next move, nearly jumped out of his skin and toppled off the bed. John guffawed at the muffled "Ow, me 'ead!" coming from the floor. In response to Paul's question, he showed the good hand he was holding and raised his arms in a victorious gesture, like a world leader accepting his people's adulation.
An idea suddenly formed itself in Paul's head, and he searched for John's eyes while George was busy figuring out which way was up. The moment John's gaze locked with his, Paul threw him an exaggerated wink, silently communicating to John he had a plan. His voice was quiet and scratchy when he said, "John, do we have any aspirin? I've got a pretty bad 'eadache."
The moment George struggled to his feet, Paul made his smile fall and furrowed his brow, trying to look as miserable as he possibly could. Behind George, John mouthed "Aaah", and tapped a finger against the side of his nose, indicating he understood. "Now that you mention it, you do look a bit peaky, son. Don't you think he looks pale, George?"
"Does he?" George eyed Paul, who was really hamming it up to convince his younger friend. "Well, maybe a little. I don't know. He doesn't look very cheerful, that's for sure."
John moved over to Paul's bed and sat himself down on the edge, placing a hand on Paul's forehead. "Are you alright, Macca? Yer not gettin' ill, are you? I'm sorry to say this son, but ye look the colour of boiled shite."
The mental image triggered by John's words made it impossible for Paul to fight back a loud snort. He quickly clapped a hand to his mouth just in time to mask it. The sound that came out sounded more like gagging than laughing, and Paul decided to use it to his advantage. "I'm really not feeling too well at all, Johnny." Knowing it would make George very eager to leave the room, he added in a tiny voice, "I think I'm going to spew..."
Now it was John's turn to suppress a chortle. "Must be some 'eadache ye got then, Paul. I can go to the pharmacy and get ye some aspirin if you want. George can stay 'ere and help ye get to the loo if it comes to that. Alright?"
"I'll go, Johnny. You stay 'ere with Paul, I'll go get the pills." George was practically out the door already, looking more than a little uncomfortable. John beamed at him, "That's a really nice offer, Geo. While yer at it, try and find some ginger ale too, would ye? Thanks, son." George left in such a hurry, John and Paul half expected a cartoonish dust cloud to rise up from the floor.
Just to make sure they were really alone, John got up and concluded George had indeed left the building. Smiling broadly, he turned around to see Paul crying with laughter, his hand pressed over his mouth to muffle the sound. "Tha' was fucking brilliant, Macca. How did ye know that would work?"
"Back at the Inny, when he was thirteen or fourteen," Paul gasped, trying to compose himself, "he saw someone chunder one day." he sighed and wiped the tears from his eyes, "Ten seconds later, he was spewing all over his own shoes. I've never seen anyone turn that green that quickly ever before or after. Except perhaps on the boat to Holland when you were sick. He disappeared and wouldn't come near you the rest of the way!" He bit his lower lip, but John's howling laughter set him right off again.
"Just so we're clear," John grinned when they could finally look at each other without cracking up, "yer feeling fine? Ye do look a bit pale, you know." He was sat on the edge of the bunk again, looking down at Paul who was propped up on one elbow.
Paul nodded. "I do have a bit of an 'eadache, but nothing some scran won't fix. I just wanted to be alone with you for a bit." He tugged at the sheet that was still covering most of his body, "I can't believe you tucked me in."
John shook his head, "I didn't, George did. Said you looked cold, or something. More like suffering from a guilty conscience if ye ask me." He pointed at Paul's head, "the pillow was me, though. I reckoned it was easier to watch you sleep if it was under yer 'ead instead of on yer face. And maybe I was feelin' a bit guilty too... Not that it was easy to move it without waking you up, mind. Ye had a bloody death grip on it! It was worth the trouble, though. I do love watching you sleep..."
"I love watching you sleep too, John. And you know what else I love? This..." Without further ado, he lifted his free hand and pulled John down by the scruff of his neck for a slow, deep kiss. "How long do you suppose he'll stay away?"
"Oh," John mused, lying down next to Paul with one hand under his head and the other on Paul's hip, "I don't think we'll be seeing the old mucker for at least a half hour. The nearest pharmacy is at the other end of the Reeperbahn." He nuzzled Paul and added, "Never knew yer such a schemer. I do believe I've corrupted ye, McCartney."
"Oh you have," Paul said, his voice earnest but his eyes sparkling, "me da' was right about you all along, y'know. There's no hope for me now, so ye might as well corrupt me some more..." If John had a witty comeback prepared, they got knocked right out of his head by Paul's fierce kiss claiming his complete attention. For the next minutes, no words were uttered, but the intensity of their kisses and the passion of their groping told a tale both men understood perfectly well.
When George carefully poked his head in the door after being gone for nearly an hour, John and Paul had recomposed themselves and were talking quietly whilst Paul munched on the – stone cold – food his friends had brought him. "Yer feelin' better then, are ye?" he asserted, looking relieved and confused at the same time.
"Oh, you should've seen 'im right after ye left, Hazza. It was a sight you wouldn't believe. You were wise to leave when ye did, son. I'm not sure I'll ever get that image out of me mind," John declared. The double entendre was lost on George, but Paul laughed so hard, he nearly choked on his food, causing him to cough so violently, he half expected to hack up a lung. John sympathetically thumped him on the back, biting back his own laughter. "Take it easy, son. It'd be a waste of all that practise if you died on us now." Leaning in close so only Paul could hear, he whispered, "Instant karma for blaggin' his 'ead, son."
Paul retaliated with a well-aimed kick to John's shin. "Did you get the aspirin, Geo? I sure could use it right now," he wheezed when he was fit to speak, his eyes watering and his head pounding from the relentless coughing fit. He took two tablets and sat with his eyes closed for a few moments until his breathing and heart rate returned to a normal pace. Then, he grinned broadly at his bandmates. "We still got nearly four hours to kill before we go on. Let's go out and have some fun. And tonight, I shall blow you away with my new bass chops. How's that sound?"
***
Several weeks had passed since their little stolen moment in the dormitory and sadly, the afterglow had worn off far more rapidly than Paul had hoped. John and he hadn't been able to find much of any privacy since, and John had started taking out his frustrations on everyone and anyone, with Paul being the one receiving most of the abuse. "Christ, Paul, what the fuck is that supposed to be?" He winced at the acidic tone of John's voice and decided he wasn't going to take it lying down anymore.
"What does it look like, genius?" He took his shiny new Hofner bass out of its case and slung the strap over his shoulder. "If you can't remember what a bass guitar looks like, perhaps you should have yer 'ead examined."
"Oh, aren't we funny," John bit back. "Couldn't you just keep using Stu's? You have so far; at least that one looks decent."
"In case you haven't noticed, Lennon, Stu has left the band. I reckon he'll be wanting his bass back before we go home. Besides, I can't keep playin' upside down forever, can I? I'd like to see you try that, John."
"Can't be that difficult; ye've been doin' it for the past weeks."
"Tell you what, mate: why don't I play rhythm guitar tonight, and you use me new bass. Then you can tell me how easy it is to play chords arse over tit." Paul placed his hands on his hips and bored his gaze into John's. "Well?"
"He's right y'know, I tried. It's really hard when the strings are the wrong way 'round," George chimed in.
If looks could kill, poor George would have dropped dead at the spot. "Nobody asked you, Hazza."
"So? I'll speak when I feel like it, and I'll shut up when I don't feel like talking. I don't need you to tell me what to do, John." It was plain to see Paul wasn't the only one utterly fed up with John's moods. "Paul, I think your bass is a cracker. That violin shape is gear, mate. I was wonderin' which model you got. It's a one-of, right?"
Paul was grateful for the support. "Ta', Geo. Yeah, they had to make one, because there weren't any lefties. I'm dead chuffed I finally got it."
"Nothin' like givin' in to some GAS, right?" George grinned, pleased at his little inside joke, and lovingly eyeing his own guitar, which was still very new too.
"If you lovebirds are done courting each other, can we get ready for the show?" John's voice rudely interrupted the warm moment of camaraderie between Paul and George.
Paul honestly tried to count to ten, but never made it past two. "Oh bugger off, John. Why do you always have to belittle people? Can't you try being nice for a change? I just spent most of me wages on a bass I didn't want in the first place, and all you can do is ridicule me?"
"Well, it looks naff," John shrugged.
"No John, it doesn't. And even if it did, ye could at least have the decency to keep that opinion to yerself and be glad I've agreed to take up the bass. I could've just said no, and left you to deal with it, y'know. Yer welcome to go out and buy me a nice one-hundred quid Fender if you like those better. But until you do, I suggest you shut yer gob. If you can't, I'll gladly lend a hand with that. In fact, I'm itching to, right now. So what's it going to be?" By the time he finished his rant, Paul stood right in front of John, just inches apart, staring daggers at his opponent. John opened his mouth to speak, then seemed to change his mind. He turned his back and walked towards the stage, where Pete was tottering about his drum kit.
George and Paul stared at each other in disbelief. "I can't believe me eyes, Paul. Did you just make John bail with his tail between his legs?" Paul looked in John's direction and then back to George, "Looks like, yeah. I didn't think I'd live to see the day." Grinning, he moved the body of his bass up near his face and tilted the neck upwards, listening intently to the sound of the strings as he tuned them.
George laughed, "Tha' makes two of us, mate. Let's hope he won't be too sour about it later." He waited for Paul to finish tuning the last string and asked, "Did ye think of a name fer it yet, Paul?
Paul raised an eyebrow, "What, for me bass? Why would I name it?"
The young guitarist nodded enthusiastically. "I name me guitars, loads of guitarists do. This," he said, gesturing at his guitar, "is Greta. I usually just look at what's on the 'eadstock and go from there. It's a Gretsch, see, so that wasn't too 'ard. If I ever get a Gibson, it'd probably be Ginny, from the first and last letters. That's how I do it, anyway."
Paul looked at his bass. "Well, the 'eadstock says Hofner. So, goin' by your formula, we'd end up with..." He bit his lip, fighting back a girlish giggle, "...Horny..?"
George guffawed, "Well, it is original, I'll give you that. Might raise some eyebrows, though." Suddenly, his face lit up. "Hey, you know what we should do? We should get twin guitars and call them Jimmy and Jemima!"
"I don't know George," Paul laughed, knowing exactly what George was referring to. "Naming our guitars after two spiders we once killed in cold blood seems a bit too much credit."
"Aye, but the lady was so fond of her Daddy Longlegs, it's the least we can do fer squashing them y'know," George declared, adopting a solemn expression, although the corner of his mouth twitched suspiciously. "Com'ead, best not keep the others waiting, or we'll be the ones gettin' our 'eads bashed in next."
***
"Hello Paul, happy birthday, son! I was hoping you'd call today. It's been quite a while, how have you been?"
Paul swallowed at the lump in his throat. He hadn't realised how much he needed to hear his father's voice until the moment the telephone connection was established. "Hi, dad. I'm really sorry for not calling. I'm fine, how are you and Mike doing?"
"Your brother and I are doing very well, Paul," Jim replied, "I'm afraid you've just missed Mike, he went out with some friends. I'm sure he would have wanted to talk to you. He was just saying how much he's looking forward to seeing you again and I couldn't agree more. Are you still returning next month, or has your contract been extended again?"
"No, the plans still stand. I'll be home in a fortnight, dad. But we'll be recording some songs with Tony Sheridan next week, so that's new. And I got my new bass guitar a few days ago. I'll be playing it on the record." There was a short pause before Jim spoke, "That's very exciting news, son. I'm very happy for you. But I would have expected you to be much more enthused about it. What's the matter, lad?"
Paul aimlessly twirled the phone cord before he lied, "Nothing. I'll just be happy to go home, is all. I'm knackered, and a bit depressed about not being home for my birthday." Why did his voice have to sound so flat? He knew he had been unconvincing when Jim asked, "Are you sure that's all? Because I think there's something you're not telling me. You're not in any trouble, are you?" There was an urgency in his father's voice when he added, "Please talk to me, Paul."
"No, no, trouble, dad, it's nothing like that at all. It's just... it feels like it's all going to hell The band isn't falling apart or anything, we're actually doing great. It's just that off stage, there's a lot of tension and negativity, particularly between me and one of the others." Paul quickly wiped away a solitary tear running down his face.
"I see," Jim said quietly. "Would I be correct if I were to guess the other person is called John Lennon?"
"Yeah dad, you would" Paul sighed. "Things were going well the first weeks, but we haven't been getting along at all lately. I suppose it's the pressure and everything, but I can't seem to get anything right anymore. He's constantly at my throat. But how did you know it would be me and John?"
The line went quiet for a moment, and Paul almost thought the connection had been severed when at last his father spoke again. "Because I worried something like this would happen some day. You and John are two very complicated people, having a very complicated friendship and that means issues between you will be complex as well. I understand that, better than you think. I know, son." There was enough emphasis on those last three words to get the message across, and they hit Paul like a ton of bricks. His heart was beating frantically when he muttered, "What are you talking about dad?"
"I know about you and John, son. I didn't want to say anything because I felt it would be better for you to be the one to tell me if and when you felt ready to do so, but it's very clear you need someone to talk to right now and if I'm not mistaken, you probably don't have anyone else to confide in. So if you want, you can talk to me because I know and I'm here for you."
Paul slumped against the yellow wall of the telephone box, tears now running down his cheeks faster than he could wipe them away. "But, dad... how?"
The voice on the other side was warm and comforting. "I've told you before, dear boy, that your arl fella has eyes and ears. I've known you for a long time. Nineteen years to the day, to be exact. How could I not see what was going on? You've been hiding it very well and I don't believe anyone else knows, but I do. It's alright, you can talk to me about it. I just wish we were having this conversation face to face so I could comfort you. I can hear you crying, son. You don't have to hide that either."
It was as if his father's encouragement had blown a hole into the dam behind which he kept his pain and fear. For the next minute or so, all Paul could do was sob while Jim kept silent, patiently waiting for his son to speak. When Paul calmed down enough to talk, he asked, "Dad? How long have you known, and why didn't you say anything?"
"I've known for nearly four years. After you met that young man, you became a different person. As a parent, I wasn't too elated about you skiving off school, smoking, and turning into a Teddy boy. But John also brought out the best in you. After your mother died, something inside you withered, and John brought it back to life. And if I'm not mistaken, you bring out the best in John too. It wasn't easy to see you falling for a boy, but what the two of you share is more valuable than traditional mores." Jim took a deep breath. Paul noticed the quiver in his father's breath and realised he was crying too. Still, his voice was steady when he continued, "I never said anything because I felt it was a very private thing, and I assumed you would tell me yourself some day. And frankly, I don't think you yourself were aware of your feelings for a long time. But surely you must recall our conversation from a few months ago, when I said you could talk to me about anything? I didn't just mean music and drugs, Paul. Yes, I know about that too," he said when Paul gasped involuntarily, "and I really wish you wouldn't indulge in such destructive behaviour. But what I also meant, is that you don't have to hide your love from me. Your secret is safe with me, lad. So, do you want to talk about what's got you so upset?"
Paul heaved a deep sigh. "Yeah dad, I think I do..."