A/N - Sad and potentially sensitive/upsetting subjects ahead. x
This here guitar can feel quite sad
Can be high strung, sometimes get mad
It can't understand or deal with hate
Responds much better to love
Bob is not keen.
He leans against the window ledge, resting the acoustic guitar he's been given against his leg, with his head bowed, while John fusses around him and George says nothing. These tall windows overlook the gardens at the back of Tittenhurst Park. The grounds stretch on, rolls of green fields and dense oak trees at the far end, marking the boundary of the property. I only know this from memory though. It's dark outside already. Past ten o'clock. We should all be going home.
'Uh, I don't know, man,' Bob says, as he casts his eyes to the floor. 'I'm not really into it, y'know?'
'Yeah, yeah, okay,' John replies, not listening as he fiddles with the dials and buttons on his tape reel to reel recorder, positioned atop the piano in the centre of the room.
Bob chews his cheek and casts a pleading glance to Sara. I sit in between her and Yoko on a pile of large blue and white cushions, the only thing to sit on in this lounge-cum-recording studio. We're squashed together uncomfortably. There really isn't enough room for three.
I can empathise. There's nothing worse than people encouraging you to "join in", when it's the one thing you most want to avoid. They don't notice Bob's lack of enthusiasm. Especially John. He railroads over all of Bob's subtle protests, not listening, getting the guitars out and setting up the recording equipment. George isn't much better. He's just quieter about it. He sits opposite us, cross-legged on the floor, tuning the guitar he holds on his lap.
'Oh,' Sara says, suddenly catching onto Bob's meaning. 'Oh, um, gee, I'm pretty tired, Bob. Would you mind if we got going soon? We still need to check into the hotel.'
'Yeah, sure. I think we'd better go.' Bob rests the guitar against the wall as Sara holds her hand for him to help her up. He takes her hand and Sara gets up with a struggle. Yoko stands and smiles and goes to open the door for them. I think she might like us to leave now as well.
Bob looks round at John, who has finally stopped setting up his equipment.
John straightens his back. 'Oh. I thought we were just going to play a bit. Have a jam?'
'We've been up late the last few nights,' Bob says, apologetically. 'Sara's pregnant. It's not good for her.'
That's true. Last night was the latest one yet. Following Bob's Isle of Wight show, a ton of people came back to the farm with us. The party lasted into the early hours of the morning. I looked for Cat and Bet again but I couldn't see them anywhere. I was a little sad about that. I hope it doesn't mean we'll lose touch again, although after what happened with George, maybe it was for the best that we didn't see them last night.
John brought the acetate copy of the new Beatles album and it was played several times over. It sounds good. Everyone was impressed. Again, it's completely different to any of their other records. I think it's one thing people like about the Beatles. It's always hard to anticipate what they will do next.
This morning, or rather, this afternoon, Bob and Sara and George and I came back with John and Yoko to Tittenhurst Park - by helicopter. Apple's own private helicopter. I've never been in one before. It's the first time I've really felt like John and George are rock stars. I mean, I know they are, but I always think of them as those scruffy teds from Liverpool. I can't think of them as the super famous stars they are today. We took off from near to the farm and landed right in the grounds of Tittenhurst Park. It was so quick too. It would have taken ages to get the ferry and then drive here.
The others had to get the ferry home. Emma took Bobbie back with her. Her boyfriend was meeting them at Portsmouth and he will take her and Bobbie back to Friar Park. It makes me nervous, trusting her with Bobbie for so long. I keep worrying, but I'm sure they'll be okay. Mal and Terry were with them as far as Portsmouth too. It is nice have a break from looking after her, to spend some time in the company of adults, just for a little while, but I'm still anxious whenever I think of her.
John makes a few more overtures about the three of them playing something together, but Bob and Sara seize the chance to escape. George makes arrangements for Bob to come and visit us at Friar Park, if there's time before your plane, and Bob agrees, in part, I think, just so he can get out of the door.
The taxi collecting them arrives, we say our goodbyes and thanks and Yoko closes the door on them, leaving just the four of us, standing in the hallway, staring at each other.
'Well, that went well,' John says, flatly.
'I did warn you,' George replies, with a shrug. 'I guess we should think about how we're going to get home too.' He comes to my side and puts his arm around my waist, planting a kiss on my temple. 'Have I told you how good you look today?' he whispers, nuzzling my ear.
I laugh. 'Corny,' I tell him and he grins.
George and I should be exhausted, we stayed up later than anyone else, but I think we're still running on we're-back-together energy. We stayed up all night, lying in each other's arms, just talking, like we haven't done in ages. Like we haven't in years, perhaps.
People must have thought we were so odd. We'd gone from yelling and fighting the night before to kissing, caressing, holding hands, behaving like lovesick teenagers. I'd be embarrassed, but I'm enjoying it too much. When we had the affair, we were forced to keep our distance. Then when Bobbie was born and everything came into the open, we still kept our distance in front of anyone, partly from habit, I think, but partly because it would have been crass after all the stories in the media about how I'd ripped him away from Pattie. Even when we dated as kids, we weren't the all-over-each-other sort. I was too frightened and George was shy. Not that you would think it of him now. We'd hold hands chastely and wait for the lights to go down in the cinema before we'd dare kiss.
So this feels kind of new for us, and I like it. I like belonging to him. I like him taking my hand or wrapping his arm around me, so everyone knows we're together. I'm his and he's mine, officially, and forever.
'Want another drink?' John offers perfunctorily, glancing over his shoulder at us as we follow him into the lounge.
George moves his hand rather lower than my waist, making me giggle. He gives me a lascivious smile and leans in for a kiss.
'Christ, George, can you put her down for two minutes?' John moans. 'What's got into you two? You on heat or something?'
George ignores the comment but he smiles and backs away from me. 'Nah, no drink, thanks. We should be going too. The nanny is babysitting Bobbie. She'll be waiting to go home. I'll give Terry a call. See if he can pick us up.' Then he winks at me, for no apparent reason, and toddles off to find the phone without asking John's permission.
'I will make some coffee, John,' Yoko says. 'Would you like to have some?'
It takes me a moment to realise the last part of that was directed at me. 'Oh, uh, no, thank you. Like George said, we have to get back for Bobbie. Thank you, though.'
She gives me a tight smile. I chose the right option. I've tried to talk to Yoko today. I've tried to get on with her, for John's sake, but I don't think she likes me. It still makes me cringe to see them together. I can't shake the idea John should be with Minnie. But Minnie's not here anymore, and I know she wouldn't want John to be unhappy and alone.
Yoko slips out of the room and John flops onto the pile of large cushions. 'Nice weekend?' he says to me.
'Mmm. Different,' I say, and sit down on the floor with him. 'Are you planning on ever getting any real furniture for this house?'
'Don't you like it? We think it's bohemian,' John replies in that way when I don't know if he's joking or not. 'So come on,' he says, leaning over to nudge me with his elbow. 'When's the big day?'
'What big day?'
'The way you pair have been carrying on, like love's young dream, you've either got to be in the family way, but I reckon that's unlikely given you've just had one nipper, or else he's making an honest woman of you.'
I roll my eyes at him. 'Neither.'
'He's not asked you to marry him?'
'No, and if he had, I would say no.'
'You wouldn't?!' John laughs. 'Go tell George that. That'll burst his bubble.'
'It's nothing to do with George. I don't want to get married again. I'm still married, technically.'
'Yeah, well, marriage isn't all it's cracked up to be, is it?' John agrees with a sigh. 'Minnie was right about that, I suppose.' He shifts his weight and shakes the notion from his mind. He gives me a smile, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes. 'What's happened then? You've just discovered true love beats all? Can't bear to be apart? Can't keep your hands off each other?' He pulls his face in disgust.
'If you don't like it, then just don't watch.'
'Watch?' John echoes, laughing. 'When were we all invited to watch? Bloody hell, Hannah, you've changed!'
'Stop it,' I tell him, grinning. 'Stop being awful. I'm sure it'll wear off later. I suppose we're trying to reassure each other. George probably still feels a bit guilty about Cat, but for now, it's nice, thank you, and I don't mind him being a bit more affectionate in the least.'
'Cat? George did something to a cat?'
'No! Cat! My friend, from-- Oh, you weren't there! I met Cat and Bet from The Raindrops! They were at the festival. It was her who George... y'know.'
John frowns, sobering. 'No. Who George what? I'm not following, Spanner.'
'Cat! Cat who I used to sing with.'
'Yes, I remember her. George went out with her once, didn't he? In Miami, years ago?'
'Yes, he did,' I say, weakly.
'So, why would George feel guilty about that?'
'No, not about that. About when Cat came back to the farmhouse with us. She was the one he... you know. That's why we had the fight yesterday.'
'You were all over each other last night.'
'That's after we'd made up again,' I smile. 'Didn't you hear about this?'
'I think it's quite obvious that I haven't.'
I sigh, but keep my smile fixed on my face. I wouldn't have brought this up if I'd known. I don't want to keep thinking about it.
'On Saturday we met Cat by chance, and she came back to the farm with us. Then George and I had a row and I went to bed early. After that, George...' I lower my voice. There's no one in the room with us, but I don't want George hearing me telling John. 'He asked Cat to go to bed with him and tried to kiss her.'
John blinks, but otherwise he doesn't react.
'Cat came back yesterday morning and told me. That's when you and Yoko arrived. George and me-- Well, it wasn't pleasant but we talked and sorted things out.'
'He fucked another bird while you were sleeping in the other room?' John asks.
'No, he didn't. Nothing happened.'
'Because she said no.'
'He was just upset. We've been having a few... problems. Arguing a lot and that. It's been worse since Minnie died, but it wasn't great before either.'
'Well, shagging someone else always helps, doesn't it?' John laughs, but it's not a nice laugh. It's hollow and cruel.
'No, but... it's okay,' I say, warily. 'It means he's... not perfect.'
'Oh, no, he's definitely not perfect.'
'But he has been.'
'What?'
'Well, I was thinking, maybe I don't mind quite so much - I mean, I do mind - but he's been so... bloody perfect recently. I sprang the whole new baby, you're going to be a father, thing on him, but he took to it like a duck to water. He's wonderful with Bobbie. And like you said before, he's done so much to try and please me. Moved house, dropped recording to go to Sardinia with me. I couldn't have got through Minnie's funeral without him. Every time I would bugger things up or let him down, and I'd feel so bad and guilty, especially because George never put a foot wrong. So now he's made a mistake. He slipped, but it only means he's human. It's... taken the pressure off.'
John studies me silently for a moment. 'What a load of shit, Spanner.'
I narrow my eyes at him. 'No, it's not. Besides, it doesn't matter. We talked things out, I forgave him, he forgave me, and it's okay now.'
'Oh. It's okay now.'
'Yes.'
'I'll never bring it up again then. Sweep it under the carpet. Pretend it never happened. That's what George does, isn't it? I mean, that's what he's always done.'
'Just forget about it, John. I wish I hadn't told you.'
John chews his cheek. 'He's a long time on the phone to Terry, isn't he?'
'I suppose--' I start but John's already got up and is striding across the room towards the hall. I jump to my feet and chase after him.
In the hall, George speaks on the phone with his back to us. Before I can say anything, John calmly walks over and put his finger on the pips, cutting it off. George carries on talking for a moment before he realises it's gone dead. He turns around and raises his eyebrows when he finds John behind him.
'Was I too long?' he asks, dropping the receiver back in its cradle. 'Shall I leave you a sixpence to cover the cost?'
'Who were you talking to?'
'Terry,' George says, confused. 'I told you I was going to call him.'
'We'll have to take your word for that then, won't we? Because it could have been anyone, couldn't it, George? Anyone. Doesn't matter who. Anyone will do for you.'
George frowns. 'What are you talking about?'
'You fuckin' stupid prick,' John says, so savagely that both George and I are taken aback.
George opens his mouth, but unusually, he doesn't appear to have a reply.
'I can't fuckin' fathom you! You were seeing her in secret for three years, acting all heartbroken when she left you and then you jump on the next willing bird you come to!'
'John, shut up,' I hiss.
'You'll throw it all away for the sake of a quick shag. You're a fool. You don't know what you've got.'
George bristles and casts a glare at me. I shake my head. George presses his lips together, disbelievingly.
'"It's different, because it's Hannah." That's what you said to me,' John says, pointing his finger in George's face. George bats his hand away and takes a small step backwards. 'How is she bloody different, George? Seems to me like you treat her like any other tart!'
'You can fuckin' talk,' George growls, lip curling.
'Stop it! Both of you!' I cry as Yoko comes to the doorway, attracted by all the shouting.
'You don't do that, man. You don't do it to her,' John says, pointing to me.
'Don't lecture me on fidelity, you soddin' hypocrite,' George says and walks away from him.
'George, I'm--' I start but George strides past me without stopping, without even acknowledging me.
He crosses to the front door and flings it wide open. It crashes into the wall and makes the windows either side rattle alarmingly. George steps outside and disappears into the darkness.
John watches him, mutters something under his breath and turns away, apparently finished with it.
'What the hell did you do that for?' I demand but he won't look at me.
I run back to the lounge and grab my parka coat and George's jacket from where he's left it behind draped over the piano. I return to the hall. Both John and Yoko have gone.
I run out of the door after George and immediately have to stop. I can't see him. There's no sign of him. The only light comes from the house, casting a halo around the property, but six feet in any direction is shrouded in blackness. The sky is clouded tonight, making the darkness dense and thick. I stand and listen for movement or footsteps. Eventually, I hear something that could be footsteps to the left of me. I can't see a thing but I hurry into the darkness, half-walking and half-jogging. There's a path here, down six stone steps that I nearly trip on, but it's not the path. It's not the driveway or the way to the front and the main road. I think this leads to were John's having a lake dug out. Why would George go this way?
Just as I'm about convinced that he can't have done, that I must have taken the wrong direction, a shape looms ahead of me. It's unmistakably George. He marches with his hands in trouser pockets, off down the path.
'George!' I call. 'George, hold on!'
He doesn't stop, he doesn't give any indication he's heard. He keeps walking, without even a glance back.
'George, wait,' I shout again, jogging to catch up. I dance around him, getting in front of him and put my hands up to stop him, dropping my parka in the process. 'Wait, I'm sorry, please--' The dropped coat gets under George's feet and he has to halt.
'What are you following me for?' he snaps, angrily. 'Why don't you just stay there, with him? Your fuckin' big brother.'
'I'm sorry, George. I don't know why he just flew off the handle like that.'
George snorts and pushes past me, knocking my shoulder, even though we're in an open expanse of space.
'Oh, George, come back,' I plead, but he's plainly not going to.
I scoop the coat up from the floor and run after him again. He's walking faster now, I draw alongside him, having to jog to keep up.
'Where are you going?' I ask.
'Where do you think? I'm going to meet Terry and then I'm going home. You can do whatever want. I don't care.'
'Well, this isn't the way. The road's in the other direction. You're going towards the fields, so you'll probably fall into that ditch that's supposed to be a lake in a minute.'
'Oh,' George say, flatly and stops. He sighs and I move in front of him, blocking his path.
'Don't walk off. Please listen to me. John shouldn't have done that.'
'We can't go on if you're going to keep bringing it up every five minutes. I thought we'd finished with that. I thought we were moving on from it.'
Above us, the moon breaks through the clouds, giving us some light. I can see the features of George's face; his mouth in a thin line, the white of his dark eyes as he moves his gaze to me.
'We are. We have!' I say, desperately. 'I'm sorry.' I smile at him, hopefully.
'Well, what did you tell him for, Hannah? For God's sakes...' George says, his voice softening.
'I didn't mean to. I thought he knew. I thought everyone knew. I thought you'd told them. Bob knew, yesterday, and Mal.'
George sighs. 'No,' he says, wearily. 'I told Mal because he was to take you home, and... Bob knew because he was there, but that's all.'
'I'm sorry,' I repeat, miserably. 'I didn't ask him to do that. I don't know why he did.'
George's shoulders relax and then he gives me a thin, crooked smile. 'No one knows why John does half the things John does,' he says. 'Least of all John.' I smile and George takes his jacket from me, slipping it on. 'So which way is it to get out of here?' He offers me his hand.
'I think, that way,' I say, pointing, as I slip my other hand into his.
'I'm fed up of arguing, Han. Lets not do it anymore.'
'Okay,' I say, thinking, we wouldn't, if you didn't automatically assume the worst of me all the time.
'We'll go home,' George says, sounding tired, as we walk over the lawn towards the road. 'And forget about bloody John Lennon and all the rest, eh?'
My heart sinks. This shows how fragile we still are. We can kiss and cuddle and flirt with each other, but the slightest thing will break us apart again.
*
However, John is someone who will not be simply forgotten about.
I haven't seen him since the night George stomped out of his house, nearly three weeks ago. We haven't seen any of George's bandmates. I don't think he has either. The new album is finished and will be released in just under a week. They're taking a break from recording, so George has been home more. I still don't see much of him during the day. He's out in the grounds, surveying the gardens, drawing up plans and making the most of the end of summer as it gives way to autumn. Progress is slow.
'Are you sure he's actually here?' John asks, leaning his elbow on the wooden mantelpiece over the fireplace, as if he owns the place. 'I mean, when did you last see him, Han? He goes out into the gardens in the morning, and you've no idea what he's actually getting up to.'
That's a dig, I think, but I ignore the comment and turn away to place Bobbie in her playpen in a corner of the living room.
John and Yoko arrived half an hour ago, unannounced and uninvited. John isn't the sort to wait for an invitation. I sent Dennis to find George, but I think they both must have gotten lost in the gardens somewhere. John is getting more and more irritated, and irritating, the longer he waits.
'He's working very hard on it.'
'Working?' John echoes, facetiously.
'In the gardens. There's so much to do. They're in a terrible state.'
'Oh, gardening,' John says, sarcastically. 'That's what he's doing, is it? "Gardening." So long as it's something important then.' He sighs, put out, and shifts his weight.
'Maybe if you let us know you were coming, then George would have been here.'
John huffs. I turn my back to him and smile at Yoko, sitting on the end of our sofa.
'Are you sure I can't get you a drink or something?'
Yoko gives me a small, thin smile back. 'No, thank you. John and I aren't going to--'
'Fine, then, Spanner. Make the bloody tea,' John says, cutting her off with a wave of his hand. 'I didn't want to be here all bloody day, but it looks like we're gonna be.'
I cast him a look and smile again at Yoko. 'Tea or coffee?'
'Um, in that case, I will just have a small glass of water with a slice of lemon, please,' Yoko says, politely.
'Oh, uh, okay...' I reply. 'I'll see what we have.'
'Spanner, bring me a--' John starts.
'You will have what you're given,' I tell him, testily. I haven't forgiven John for yelling at George like that. Something he seems to have conveniently forgotten about. I purse my lips. 'Keep an eye on Bobbie for me while I'm in the kitchen.'
'I'm not your bloody babysitter,' John says, sulkily, but I leave the room without answering him.
*
As I stand on my tiptoes, trying to reach an old lemon on the top shelf of the pantry, George comes up behind me. He puts his lips on the side of my neck, places a hand on either side of my waist and squeezes, making me flinch and yelp in surprise.
George laughs as I turn round, trying to wriggle out of his grasp. 'Where have you been?' I say. 'They've been waiting ages.'
'Who have?' George asks, moving into me again, looping his arms around my waist. He kisses me as I try to hold him back from me. 'Do that again,' he says, pushing against me.
'What?'
'Reach for whatever you were reaching for,' he says, nuzzling into my neck. 'And squeal for me, baby.'
I laugh and push him away, playfully. 'Not now.'
'No?' he says, trying to kiss me again. 'What did you want me for then, if not that?'
'John and Yoko,' I reply, attempting to avoid him.
'What about them?'
'Didn't Dennis tell you? They're here. George, you're covered in soil and mud--'
'What?' George says, his arms dropping away from me like they're suddenly made of lead. 'All Dennis said was that you wanted me. What do they want?'
'I don't know. They have something terribly important to discuss with you. Can you reach the lemon down for me?'
George huffs and steps back from me. 'I wish I hadn't come back now.'
'Have you had an argument with John?'
'No,' George says, evasively. 'Haven't seen much of him since we were at his with Bob.'
I frown. George goes to wash his hands at the kitchen sink. 'Did you make up after that fight?'
'What fight?'
'When he had a go about you kissing Cat.'
George doesn't reply, concentrating on scrubbing the dirt from under his fingernails. 'Men don't "make up", Han.'
'What do you do then?'
'We just... carry on.'
I sigh and give up on the conversation. 'Do you want a cup of tea?'
He steps back, drying his hands on a tea towel. 'Yeah. Ta, love.'
'You'd better go in there and see them.'
George takes a deep breath and gives me a small smile. He steps past me, towards the hall.
'George?'
He pauses.
'The lemon?'
George moves around me and reaches the lemon from the top shelf. 'What's that for?' he asks.
'For Yoko. She wants water with a slice of lemon. Lemons! In September!' I sniff it and squash it, checking if it's still alright. 'How long do lemons keep for? This has been there at least a month.'
'For her, it will be fine,' George says, rolling his eyes and leaves.
*
When I bring the tea through, there's a strange atmosphere in the room. George stands next to the french doors, holding Bobbie, cooing at her and ignoring his visitors. Despite having waited at least forty minutes to speak to George, John is silent, sitting in a chair, and Yoko hasn't moved, but the temperature seems to have dropped a few degrees.
I place the tray on the table and pass Yoko her glass of water. 'I didn't have any ice, I hope that's okay.'
'Ice?' she says, taking it from me and looks at John as if I've just offered her a glass of arsenic. 'No, tepid water with lemon.'
'Oh. Well, if it's not right, I'll do you another one.'
She takes a tentative sip and attempts to hide a grimace. 'No, this is fine. Thank you.'
I give her a wan smile and give John a cup of tea. 'George?' I ask, lifting his cup to him.
'I'll get it in a minute,' he says, not taking his eyes or attention away from the baby. She's enjoying it, babbling and grabbing for George's hair, as he laughs and pulls faces at her.
I place his tea back on the table and move over to him. 'Okay, well, I'll leave you to it. Shall I take Bobbie with me?'
'Stay,' George says, bluntly, not letting me take the baby from him. 'He always has his bird with him, doesn't he?'
'Bird?' I say, quietly. George gives me a small, apologetic shake of his head and shifts Bobbie's weight in his arms. I don't understand why he's being so hostile. There must be something that he's not told me about. I go and perch uncomfortably next to Yoko on the edge of the sofa, folding my hands together.
'So,' George says, forcing himself sound brighter. 'To what do we owe the pleasure?'
John sits forward. 'Typical George. You have to be difficult. Can't just turn up to the meeting so I could tell you all together.'
George ignores him, pulling faces at Bobbie and making her 'Gah!' and 'Dah!'.
John sighs at him. 'Do you think I could have your attention for two fuckin' minutes, George?'
'I missed a meeting. So what?' George says, not taking his eyes off the baby. 'We're not working on anything at the moment, are we? It can't have been that important.'
John flinches. Only ever so slightly. Almost imperceptibly. It was only because I was watching him at the time that I even saw it.
'You never know when something might crop up,' he replies, flippantly.
'What's cropped up?' George asks, jiggling Bobbie up and down, and grinning at her widely.
John sits up straighter. 'The others already know, so I might as well just come out and say it. I'm leaving the band. I don't want to do it anymore.'
He says it so matter of factly that it takes a moment for his words to register. For George too, I think, as he doesn't reply, doesn't react, he just keeps playing with Bobbie.
'Did you hear me?' John says.
Finally, George moves his eyes to John. 'You're quitting?' he asks, flatly.
'Yeah. I'm quitting.'
'That's it then, is it? No discussion.'
'What's to discuss? I don't want to be in the Beatles anymore. It's quite simple to understand.' A look passes between John and Yoko. John gives her a small smile but it fades quickly. He glances around the room, at the walls, the floor, the ceiling, anywhere but at George who is, finally, giving him his undivided attention.
'When did you decide this?'
'I've been thinking about it for a while.'
'Have you,' George says, but it's not a question.
'Haven't we all been thinking about it for a while? You quit in January.'
'Yeah, so why did you want me to come back? Just so you can be the one to announce you're breaking up the Beatles?'
John shrugs. 'I was the one who started the band. I should be the one to end it.'
'That's what you're doing?' George says, his voice rising. 'Ending it?'
'I don't know why you're getting upset.'
George snorts. 'I'm not.'
'Look, George, it's not an overnight decision. It's been... I've thought about it for weeks. I know what this means for all of you. It's not something I've taken lightly.'
'Yeah, we can't survive without you, Johnny,' George scoffs. 'Is that what you said to Paul too? How long did he laugh for?'
'I told Allen a few weeks ago. When we went to Toronto for--'
'Klein? You told Klein before us?' George says, his voice getting louder. Bobbie's laughter has turned to soft whimpers. George tries to rock her, but he's too worked up. I stand.
'This is exactly what I mean, George,' John says, getting up with me. 'What's the point to all this? The Beatles. Is it worth the fighting and aggravation? Making us hate each other? I know you're not happy with how things are. What do you want? Do you want to cut your hair into a mop top and get back on stage? Those days aren't ever coming back.'
'I wouldn't want them back.'
'My point exactly.'
'Give Bobbie to me,' I say to George, as her whimpers descend into proper crying.
George ignores me. 'When's your big announcement then? When's the press release going out? Or has it been issued already?'
'No. No press release. No announcement. We just stop.'
George sneers. 'How's that going to work? Don't you think people will notice?'
'Not really. We just let it... peter out. That's what Paul said.'
'Paul's happy about this? Oh, well, that makes sense! He probably wants the same!'
'GIVE Bobbie to me!' I demand, louder and George lets me take her from him, still glaring at John.
'No, it's to protect the business, protect the people's jobs. A lot of people rely on the Beatles for work. Everyone employed at Apple and the record companies. The new album is out soon. There's no reason to throw all that away. So I've agreed, I won't announce anything publically.' He straightens his back. 'For now.'
'How about Ringo? What has he said?'
'Ringo's... Nothing. I don't know.'
'You don't know what Ringo thinks. Well, so long as you're alright. So long as Lennon and McCartney are alright.'
'That's just it, George. I don't want Lennon and McCartney anymore. I don't want Lennon and McCartney and Harrison and Starkey. I just want Lennon.' He looks at Yoko. 'Lennon and Ono.'
Yoko smiles at him.
'That's what this is about then,' George says, darkly.
John turns back to him. 'I want a divorce, George. From you. From Paul and Ringo. From the Beatles. We're over.'
John paces the length of the room before he takes a look back at him, hard-faced, but seemingly waiting for his reply.
George wets his lips. 'You know, John, you should call before you come over here in future. We might not be at home. We might be too busy to see you. Don't turn up here, uninvited, ever again. You might not be allowed inside. We're thinking of tightening security.'
John snorts, derisively.
'Well,' George continues, flippantly. 'I suppose once our "divorce" comes through, you won't need to come round here anymore anyway. We won't have to see each other ever again.'
'No,' John says. 'We won't.'
He looks at Yoko and she gets up, placing her untouched glass of water with a slice of lemon on the table.
'Thanks for the tea, Hannah,' John says and turning on his heel, strides out of the room.
'George!' I cry.
He flicks his eyes to me.
'Go after him!'
He turns his back, ignoring me, going to stare out of the window over the terrace garden.
I place Bobbie, still grizzling, back in her playpen and rush after John myself. I find him outside. He and Yoko are climbing into their waiting car. John holds the back door open and Yoko gets in.
'John, wait--!'
Although he can plainly hear me, he pretends he doesn't and makes to follow Yoko into the car. I catch him before he can, putting myself in between him and the car, putting my hands on his chest and pushing him back.
He cocks his head to the side, annoyed. 'What?' he snaps.
'You... You can't mean it?' I say, weakly.
'I do,' John says, teeth gritted. 'I've never meant anything more sincerely, and due respect and all that, but it's fuck all to do with you, Spanner.'
I stare at him. The Beatles can't be breaking up, can they?
John softens and huffs, impatiently. He turns his head away, looking out over the overgrown gardens. 'Get out of the way. I've got to go,' he says, gruffly, but he doesn't try to move me.
I throw my arms around his neck and hug him tightly, closing my eyes. John doesn't react for a moment, then I feel his hand on my back and ever so slightly, the rise and fall of his chest against mine as he sighs.
I pull out of the embrace and give his shin a swift, sharp kick.
'Ow!' John says, but a smile appears on his lips.
'You're a bloody-minded idiot,' I tell him. 'And you're bad tempered, confrontational, unnecessarily rude and mean, and so damn argumentative, John Lennon...' I pause. 'But you can come round whenever you want to. You're always welcome here. Don't listen to George.'
John's smile fades. 'Hmm. Well, don't you listen to him either, Spanner.' He steps past me and into the waiting car. 'I'll see you around,' he adds, as he closes the door.
I watch the car disappear down the driveway and then walk slowly back to the house. It's incomprehensible. A world without the Beatles. What would they do with themselves? For as long as I've known George, he's been a Beatle. I suddenly feel so incredibly sad. Everything is changing. Everything is ending.
Inside the hallway the telephone is ringing. I step into the middle of the hall so I can see through the door to the living room. George is where I left him, still staring out of the windows, his hands clasped behind his back. Bobbie is in her playpen, making hiccupy hollow cries that George ignores.
I sigh silently and answer the phone. 'Hello?'
'Um, hello, Hannah. Can I speak to George please, love?'
It takes me a moment to recognise the voice. I've only met him once.
'Oh, hi. Erm, well...' I stretch the phone cord to take a peek at George again. Still unmoved, but I can practically see the black cloud settling over his head. 'It might not be the best time right now,' I say, quietly.
'Sorry, love, it's... quite important.'
There's something in his voice. Something's happened. 'Okay. Just a minute. I'll get him.'
'George?' I say, behind him. 'Your brother, Harry's on the phone.'
George casts me a glance over his shoulder. 'Tell him I'll call him back.'
'I think... I think you ought to speak to him.'
George looks at me again. He frowns and steps towards the hall. I scoop Bobbie up and follow him to the doorway.
'Hello,' George says, unenthusiastically, into the phone.
He listens for a moment and lifts his eyes to me. I give him a small smile, but George doesn't return it.
'Well, what... What's the doctor said?' he asks.
His voice sounds strange and it induces a feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach.
'Where's Dad?'
Bobbie starts to cry again. I take her back into the living room and pace up and down, trying to soothe her and keep her quiet while George is on the phone. He speaks for another couple of minutes and then I hear him hang up. There's a long pause before he appears in the doorway of the room.
'It's my Mam,' he says, his voice strained. His face looks grey. 'She's bad. She's not well.'
'I'm sorry, Georgie.'
'I... Um, I have to go to Appleton. Now. I've got to go right now.'
'Oh, okay.'
'Will you come with me?'
I'd assumed I would, but at the same time, my stomach flips at the thought. Appleton, Liverpool, George's family. I am never coming back to Liverpool, ever again!
'Of course I will,' I say, firmly, quashing it. 'What about Bobbie?'
George gives a small shrug. 'Bring her with us, if you can look after her.'
'I'll pack us a few things.'
'We haven't got time for that. We need to go now!' George voice rises in an alarming fashion, the initial shock giving way to panic.
I place Bobbie back in her playpen. 'It won't take me a minute.'
'Hannah, we have to leave! Or I'll go on my own!'
'Okay, we're going,' I say, as calmly as possible. 'But Bobbie will need some things, won't she? Nappies, baby food...'
George huffs. 'Right. Just be quick about it.'
I cross to him and try to put my arms around him. He shrugs me off.
'What's happened, George?'
'I... I won't know fully until we get there.'
'Should I ask Dennis if he'll drive us, or will you be okay to do it?'
'No, I'll drive. It's private, Hannah. I don't want the whole world knowing about it.'
I nod and go towards the hall, listing everything we'll need to take in my head.
'Han?' George calls me back. 'I'm sorry,' he says, in a small voice.
'It's okay, love,' I say, gently. 'Could you get Bobbie ready? Put her shoes and coat on?'
George nods. I watch him lift his daughter from her playpen, and then hug her tightly to him.
*
We get to Warrington just after seven. It's only September but already the nights are drawing in and it's twilight when we arrive at George's parent's house in Appleton. Bobbie sleeps most of the journey, but wakes, grumpy and irritable, when we arrive. It's past her bedtime. George hasn't said very much. I want to ask him what's happened, what's wrong, but I'm afraid to. He seems so upset. The thing with John and now this.
George's brothers, Harry and Pete, are in the kitchen when we arrive, sitting either side of the long kitchen table. George marched into the house via the backdoor purposefully, but he stops dead in his tracks and all three look at each other, no words needed. Harry and Pete both nurse glasses, half full with brown coloured liquid, probably whiskey or rum. I stand behind George, holding Bobbie as she grizzles and moans. We left Friar Park so quickly, I forgot to bring her carrycot with us.
'How is she?' George asks, eventually.
Harry and Pete exchange a look.
'Not well, kidder,' Pete says.
'Where's Dad?'
'In there with her.'
'Has the doctor been?'
'He been. He supposed to be coming back,' Harry says. 'But it's been hours.'
'And... what? He didn't do anything?'
'Gave her sleeping pills, but--'
'He didn't even examine her properly,' Pete says, with disgust. 'We asked him to admit her to hospital and he point blank refused.'
'I don't understand,' George says, his voice cracking with distress. 'Why wouldn't the doctor help her? What's wrong with her?'
I badly want to reach for him, but every time I have, he's pulled away or shrugged me off. I squeeze Bobbie tighter to me instead.
'That's it, George. No one seems to be able to tell us,' Harry says.
'Dementia,' Pete says. 'The doctor says it's a form of dementia.'
George frowns. 'It can't be... She was fine when we were here - what? Not even two months ago.'
Pete stands. 'Come and see for yourself then,' he says, gravely.
Harry gets up too and the three of them leave the kitchen. I follow, hesitantly.
The bedroom is at the end of the corridor that runs the length of the house. Pete puts his hand on the door handle as we arrive but Harry stops him. They exchange another look, which irritates George. 'What aren't you saying?' he demands. 'Just bloody tell me.'
'George,' Harry says. 'It's just, uh... She's not good, George.'
'I know,' George says, vexed. 'That's why you called, isn't it? That's why I've come.'
'She's not herself,' Harry continues. 'She's confused and not... making a lot of sense. Just be ready, will you? It might be a shock.'
George frowns. 'Confused? I thought she was just getting headaches? Feeling sick and dizzy.'
'It's more than just that. It's something more... serious.'
George stares at him, blinking. Harry sighs and gestures for Pete to open the door.
Inside, the bedroom is shadowy, dimly lit by two table lamps either side of the bed. George's father is slumped on a chair beside the bed. He looks terrible, tired and drawn, unrecognisable as the man who sat drinking brandy with me at Minnie's funeral. He heaves himself up and comes over to his sons. He seems diminished by his worry and grief, all three of them stand head and shoulders above him.
Louise is propped up, lying on her back on a mountain of pillows in the bed. She looks very pale, her skin is almost translucent. She looks small too, but in a different way to her husband. She seems delicate and fragile, like a little bird fallen from it's nest. She's nothing like she was only a few weeks ago. My stomach twists with guilt, as I think about how I behaved while I was here and I understand why George was so furious with me for making her fret. I slip into the room behind the boys and stand against the wall beside the door.
'Hello, love,' George's father says to me, a watery smile on his face. The first one to actually acknowledge my presence since we arrived. He pushes through Harry and Pete to reach me. George glances round as if he'd forgotten we were here.
'Hi,' I reply.
'How's the little one?'
'She's okay. She's tired at the moment.'
'That cot is still in the spare room,' he says. 'You can put her down in there if you want to.'
'Thank you. I'll do that in a minute. I'm, uh, I'm sorry to hear about all this. Please let me know if there's anything I can do.'
George's father gives a small nod, then sighs and his shoulders sag.
'George is here, Mam,' Pete says, going to the top of the bed, raising his voice as if she's hard of hearing. 'He's just driven up tonight.'
'George?' Louise says, bewildered. She raises her head to look at Pete and fails to acknowledge George at all. George hesitates at the foot of the bed, shocked at how poorly she looks. Louise turns her eyes to him, but there a dullness there, no recognition. 'No,' she says. 'No, it's too early yet. It's not even four. George will still be at school. He doesn't get in til gone six.'
The room goes completely silent.
'No, he's... He's here, look, Mam,' Pete says, trying to disguise the distress in his voice. 'Here's our George.'
George tentatively steps closer, going to the other side of the bed. 'Mam?' he says, his voice small, like a little boy's. He puts his hand on top of hers where it rests by her side. 'I'm here, Mam.'
She looks at him blankly, frowns, then it clicks. 'Geo,' she says and both George and Pete grin widely with relief. 'What are you doing here, love?'
'I've come to see you,' George says, with forced joviality. 'How are you, Mam?'
Louise smiles. 'Oh, not too bad.'
George and Pete laugh nervously, hollowly. 'Harry rang and said you'd been poorly,' George says, gently.
'Mmm, just some headaches again,' Louise says.
George looks at Pete and he gives a small shake of his head while Louise isn't looking.
'Where's that doctor?' George's father asks.
'On his way, Dad,' Harry replies.
'Are you stopping with us, Geo?' Louise asks.
'Yeah, for tonight at least.'
'The clean linen is in the airing cupboard. The beds not made up.' Louise pushes herself up as if she intends to stand and go and make the bed.
George pats her arm. 'Don't worry, Mam. We'll do it. You just rest.'
She settles back again. She smiles at him and George returns it. 'Where's Pattie, love? Isn't she with you this time?'
George's smile fades slowly. He glances around the other men in the room as they all stare at each other. I shrink back against the wall.
'She.... Uh, no,' George replies, eventually, choking on the words. 'Pattie couldn't come this time, Mam.'
*
I take Bobbie to the cot in the spare room and make up the bed. Bobbie settles quite quickly. I forgot to bring her carrycot, but I remembered the important things this time. Bun-Bun and her favourite soft, blue blanket. She's sleeping soundly in minutes.
I feel like a spare part. I feel like I'm encroaching. I want to be here for George, but at the same time this seems to be something incredibly personal and private for his family, and I'm an outsider.
I wander back to the kitchen. They're all still in the bedroom with Louise. I can't shake the thought that she reminds me of the last time I saw my grandmother before she died. How frail and small she looked. How white her skin was.
Unable to just sit and wait, I grab the kettle and fill it from the kitchen tap. I put it on to boil and open the cupboards, looking for cups and teaspoons. There is a half empty bottle of malt whiskey with the cap off, left on the kitchen side. I replace the cap and push it back against the wall. I can understand people feeling like they need a stiff drink at times like these, but after four years of Ricky, I'm painfully aware that there are no answers to be found at the bottom of a whiskey bottle.
Just as I'm still staring at the whiskey bottle label, George and his brothers crash into the kitchen. It makes me jump. The noise they bring with them is such a stark contrast to the stillness that was here before.
'This didn't happen overnight, did it?' George says, testily, resentment bubbling in his voice. 'She must have been getting worse and worse steadily over time.' '
'No, it wasn't overnight,' Harry answers, dully. He pulls the kitchen table chair nearest the wall out and sits down heavily.
'Then why the fuck haven't you told me about this earlier?' George demands. 'Why have you been keeping it from me?'
'We haven't kept it from you,' Harry says.
'A few hours ago, when you rang. That was the first I heard of it.'
Harry gives him a half-hearted shrug and casts his eyes to the floor. 'What would you have been able to do, George?'
'She's my mother as well,' he says, hurt, his voice cracking. I move to George's side but he steps away without looking at me. 'Just because I don't live as nearby as you two, it doesn't mean you should keep me out of--'
'No one's keeping you out of anything,' Pete says, calmer, pulling the other chair out from the table and sitting down as well. 'We didn't want to worry you.'
'Worry me?!'
'Last time you were here, you were saying how busy you were, how you'd missed so much time recording already and what with the trouble with the band and...' Pete glances sideways at me. 'We know you've had a lot on your plate recently, that's all. We didn't want to add to it if it was going to turn out to be nothing.'
George flinches. 'None of that matters,' he says. 'This matters. I don't give a fuck about missing bloody recording sessions or anything else. I'd want to be here.'
'I know, kid,' Pete says.
'She's always been... She's always got better after a couple of days. It's never been this bad before,' Harry says, despondently.
'Does Lou know?'
'Harry called her a couple of days ago.'
'So I'm the last to know then. Just like always,' George says, bitterly.
'Soddin' hell, George. The world doesn't revolve around you, y'know,' Harry snaps back.
'Pack it in, both of yer,' Pete says. 'It doesn't help. Who cares who knew and when? Dad can do without us bickering all the time.'
They all fall silent. The kettle whistles.
I clear my throat. 'Would anyone like a cup of tea?' I ask, lifting the kettle and pouring the water into the teapot.
No one answers me for a moment, then Pete says. 'That'd be nice. Thanks, love.'
I make the tea, asking how everyone takes it and serving it in mismatched mugs that I've found from cupboards. George leans with his back against the side of the sink, his arms wrapped tightly around himself. I offer a cup to him but he shakes his head and refuses to take it.
'What about your mum and dad?' I ask. 'Would they want a drink?'
'I don't think my Mam needs a bloody cup of tea, Hannah,' George says, bluntly.
'Pour it, love,' Harry says. 'I'll take it through. If they don't want it, they don't have to drink it, do they?'
I pour the rest of the tea out, the remainder in the pot just stretching far enough. Harry takes it through to the bedroom and we stand in the kitchen, awkwardly. Pete gives me a thin smile and George looks at the floor, still upset and cross.
I'm restless. I can't stand here, doing nothing. 'Is anyone hungry?' I ask. 'Have you eaten? I could make something. Sandwiches? Or some toast...'
Pete nods and I cross to the fridge, looking for what I can make easily and quickly. There's a loaf, only just opened and a block of cheddar, so I make a pile of sandwiches, too many probably, even though there's six of us here. I arrange them on a plate and put them in the centre of the table as Harry and their father join us in the kitchen again.
'Want a sandwich, Dad?' Pete offers. 'Hannah made them.'
'That's kind of you, love,' he says, taking one but not making much effort to start eating it. He sits down in the chair left vacant by Harry.
'What's wrong with her?' George asks, the first thing he's said in at least ten minutes.
No one replies.
'I thought it was just migraines and feeling dizzy and...'
'They don't know, Son,' George's father says. 'The doctor said it's probably dementia.'
'Headaches and sickness doesn't make you like that. She was fine a few weeks ago. When we were here for the funeral she was normal. Now she looks like she's... How can it be that fast?'
No one answers him again. Harry steps forward and takes a sandwich himself.
'Do you want a plate?' I ask. 'Have you got some small ones?'
'Top cupboard, love,' George's father says.
I reach down some sandwich plates and pass them round. George, arms still folded, refuses to take the one I offer to him. I take a couple of sandwiches and put them on the plate, putting it on the side of the sink behind him.
'Try and eat something,' I say to him, quietly. 'You haven't had anything since breakfast. It'll make you feel better--'
'Will you stop bloody fussing, Hannah?!' George snaps. 'How the fuck can sandwiches make me feel better?!'
In a swift sweep of his arm, George knocks the sandwich plate off the side and into the sink. The plate clangs alarmingly against the metal basin and neatly breaks into four triangular pieces. The sandwiches fall apart and scatter cheese and bread everywhere.
'George!' his father shouts. 'There's no call for that, no matter how upset you are!'
George steps back from me, a naughty child, scolded. I turn my back to the room and pick the pieces of china and the destroyed sandwiches out of the sink, biting the side of my cheek to stop any tears forming in my eyes. It's not that I'm all that upset. I think I'm desensitised to this kind of thing from living with Ricky. It's just a shock that it came from George.
'Han...' George says, softly. 'I'm...'
The front doorbell chimes, cutting him off before he can say anything else.
'About bloody time,' Harry says, and goes to answer it. George's father and Pete follow him into the hall. George watches me as I pile the bits up on the draining board. I won't look at him.
He sighs shortly and follows the others into the hall. When he's gone, I pick up a tea towel to wipe my hands on and go to the doorway of the kitchen.
Pete, Harry and their father all crowd around the doctor, clamouring to explain how it can't just be dementia, how he has to help them, how he must examine her properly, because there is something very, very badly wrong. Everyone shouting and talking at once, except for George who stands silently, with his back against the wall, six feet away.
The doctor, a thin, tall man with a wiry frame, puts his large, black leather doctor's bag on the floor. Ignoring everyone else, he steps over to George instead.
'George Harrison,' he says, with a smile on his face. 'Mr Harrison was telling me you were his son.' He holds hand out for George to shake.
'Yes,' George replies, flatly. He looks at his hand and then shakes it, perfunctorily.
'Gracious, I've never been the doctor to anyone famous before.'
'You're not my doctor. You're my mother's doctor.'
He laughs. 'Yes, but all the same. I never imagined I would meet you.'
'She's in there,' George says, gritting his teeth.
'Who?'
'My mother. She's in the bedroom. You need to look at her.'
The doctor purses his lips and nods, sagely. 'I will, but I'm afraid your mother is suffering from early onset dementia. I understand it's frustrating. I have been back here several times, but other than giving her something to help her sleep, there isn't very much I can do.'
George shakes his head. 'No. It can't be just that,' he says, emotion straining his voice. 'She looks like... She looks like she's dying. You need to admit her to hospital. Now. Tonight.'
'I don't think there would be much point in--'
'You have to help her,' George says, struggling to keep his voice level. 'Please. Please help her.'
'Well, I...' he falters. 'Um, would it be alright if...'
'Yes? What?'
He smiles, bashfully. 'I couldn't trouble you for an autograph, could I?'
Before I've even had time to see it, George balls his fist, draws his arm back and punches the doctor, square on the nose. The doctor staggers back from him, covering his face with both hands and the hall erupts into noise and commotion, shouts of Hell, George! What do you think you're doing?! And I'm so sorry, Doctor. He's so very upset--
George stands, unrepentant, exactly where he was. 'Examine my mother!' he barks at the man.
The doctor straightens his back and takes his hands away from his face, dabbing his nose with his fingertips, checking for blood.
'Yes... um, I can take another look at her,' he says, his face flushing pink as he returns to his doctor's bag.
The doctor is in the bedroom with Louise for only ten minutes before he comes out and telephones for an ambulance. Everyone rushes around, grabbing things they need, then they all go with Louise to the hospital. George's father in the ambulance with her and George and his brothers following behind in their cars.
I stay back at the house to look after Bobbie. It's so silent and empty when they've gone. I don't feel right just sitting, waiting for them to return, so after I've cleared away the sandwiches and plates and cups in the kitchen and tidied the living room, I find some rags from under the sink and a bucket from the conservatory and wash all of the windows at the front of the house, inside and out.
*
George sits in the chair by the bookcase. He's completely still, so much so I might have thought he was asleep if his eyes weren't open. He leans the side of his head on his hand and his elbow on the arm of the chair, half slumped; tired and weary and sad. I have never seen him like this. George is usually so positive, so full of energy and life. Even when bad or sad things have happened in the past, it would usually be George trying to look on the brightside, trying to alleviate the situation with a joke and a laugh. It's unnerving to see him like this. It makes me feel like the whole universe is out of kilter.
He moves his eyes to me as I step inside the room. I give him a small smile.
'I thought you'd be asleep already,' he says, sitting up in the chair.
'No, I was waiting for you,' I say, placing a hot cup of tea on a mat on one of the shelves on the bookcase. 'You don't have to drink that if you don't want it,' I tell him, carefully. 'But I thought you might appreciate a real cup of tea. You haven't had anything proper since we left Henley and hospital tea is usually awful.'
'Yes, it is, and thank you,' he says, abashed. He takes the tea and sips it. 'I'm sorry about earlier, Han. I didn't mean it. I didn't really mean to do that. I meant to push it away, but it...'
'I know. You don't have to apologise,' I say, briskly. 'How is everyone? Where are they?'
'Well, I can't say how they are but I can say where they are. Pete and Harry have gone home. My dad came back and went straight to bed, and my mam is... there still.'
'Is she any better?'
'A bit better than she was here. Not better, comfortable. Isn't that what they say? She's comfortable but they still don't know what's wrong with her. There's a specialist going to come and see her tomorrow.'
'I'm so sorry, George.'
He nods. 'You feel so... useless. You know? You want to help or do something, but there's nothing that can be done. We were all just waiting around for ages for a doctor to come and see her and all he did was give her a sedative and say the specialist would examine her tomorrow. Four hours that took.'
'You didn't punch any more doctors?' I ask, jokingly.
George smiles and shakes his head, staring down into his teacup. 'I don't know why I did that. I was... Being a fucking Beatle overshadows everything else. My mum's ill and all the bloody doctor is bothered about is getting my autograph. My own family didn't tell me what was going on because they think I'm too busy, being a Beatle.'
I flinch. 'That's my fault, isn't it?' I ask. 'I've caused you so much trouble this year. Your family think you don't need another problem to deal with.'
'No, not... just that,' he says, with a more familiar cheeky grin. 'I was moaning about the band. About John and Paul and how it's all...' His voice trails away and he sighs, turning his head away from me.
'You look worn out, love,' I say, sympathetically.
'I feel it.'
'It's been a long day. And not a good day. You should drink that and then go straight to sleep. Unless you're hungry? I could make you something to eat?'
'No, I'm alright. I-- Harry brought the sandwiches you made along with him,' he says, sheepishly. I had a couple of those.'
I smile. 'Okay. Well, now I know you're safe and home, I'll go to bed too. Are you going to the hospital in the morning?'
'Yes, but I don't know when. They're funny about visiting hours.'
'Well, try not to worry. At least your mum's in the best place she can be now. They'll look after her.'
George swallows and nods again.
'Goodnight then, Georgie.' I move closer and kiss him on the side of his mouth. George turns his head and kisses me on my lips properly.
'Wait a minute and I'll come with you when I've drunk this.'
'Aren't you going to sleep on the camp bed in the attic again?'
'Oh. Oh yeah, I suppose so.' He shifts and gives me a small smile. 'Han, will you sit with me for a while?'
'Yes, of course. I'm not trying to get away from you. I thought you might want to be on your own.' I go to the sofa that lines the wall opposite the fireplace and sit down.
George replaces the tea on the bookcase shelf. 'No, I mean, sit with me.' He pats his lap and grins and for a moment looks like his normal self.
I laugh. 'Don't be daft.'
'I'm not, come here. There's room for both of us on here.' He sighs and his levity fades. 'I miss you.'
I get up. George squeezes over in the armchair and I join him, half sitting on him and half on the chair. George loops his arms around my waist, pulling me into him and resting his head on my chest. I put my arm around his shoulders and kiss his forehead. 'I'm still here, Georgie,' I whisper. 'I haven't gone anywhere.'
'Bobbie,' George says, raising his head, as if he's just remembered he has a daughter. 'Is she okay? Was she--'
'She's fine. Asleep. She's been quiet all night. She was tired out by the time we got here.'
George relaxes and returns his head to my chest.
'This is a nice room. I like this room the best,' I tell him. 'It's the cosiest. I like the fireplace and all the photos over it. It makes it feel like a real home. Safe and warm and... full of love.'
'My mam will be pleased,' George murmurs. 'This is her posh room. For special guests and, y'know, when the queen comes round for her tea.'
'We had a room like that when I was a child,' I say. 'But we were never allowed inside it. No one could ever sit in it. It was always cold and drab. I don't know who they were saving it for.'
'That was the same at ours when we lived at Arnold Grove. And Upton Green. It slipped a bit here. I think they figured all the kids were gone, they wouldn't be putting sticky fingerprints over everything and trying to play cricket indoors anymore. Although, woe betide you if forget to use a placemat for your mug of tea.'
I laugh quietly. 'Let's not ever do that with Bobbie. Let's never have any rooms where she can't go.'
'No,' George says. He shifts me on his lap and sits back from me so he can reach his tea again. 'I wrote While My Guitar Gently Weeps in this room,' he says, sipping it. 'Started it, anyway.'
'That's a lovely song. It should have been a single, George.'
He drinks his tea and doesn't reply.
'Still, one of your songs will be the next single.'
'On the back of one of John's.'
'Not on the back. It's a double A-side and that's a start, isn't it? They're taking your songwriting more seriously, like you wanted.'
George studies his tea mug and doesn't reply.
'George--'
'Don't.'
'What?'
'You're going to ask me if the band's breaking up and I don't know what the answer is.'
'Okay, sorry,' I say, meekly. 'I won't ask.'
'No, we're not.' He sighs, then adds, 'Yes. I think we are,' decisively.
I try not to react, but I hug him a bit tighter.
'No,' George says, more unsure. 'I... don't know, Han. John's said things like that before. Maybe not quite as formally as coming round the house to do it, but... He might change his mind again in a week.'
'What do you want?'
'What?'
'Well, you weren't happy, before, were you? You left. Has that changed? What you were unhappy about.'
George chews his lip and drinks his tea and doesn't reply.
'It didn't seem that bad when I was at Abbey Road with you.'
George drains his mug and pauses, still cradling it in one hand. 'In the early days,' he says. 'We used to fight and argue about stuff, but it would... blow over. Be forgotten. Now it can be something trivial and it erupts into a huge row that seems to hang over us for days.'
'How long has it been like that?'
George shrugs. 'Ages. Since forever.'
'You've never mentioned anything. I thought things were... okay?'
George sighs. 'Paul's a drag about how he wants his songs to sound. Ringo doesn't seem to care. He does, but he doesn't like the arguing. He keeps quiet about it and lets me be piggy in the middle instead. John's a pain in the arse, bringing Yoko into the studio. She's not in the band, but he seems to think she is. What would he say if I insisted you sing on all our records?'
'Don't do that,' I say, grinning.
'You'd make a better job of it,' George says, wryly.
'I wish you'd told me about this.'
George shifts uncomfortably. 'What could I tell you? Why would you want to hear about the squabbles in a rock and roll band when you have so much else to deal with? Your... Your dad, and then Minnie dying and...' He shakes his head.
'I want to hear it,' I say, firmly. 'It works both ways, George. You tell me to talk to you more, but you have to talk to me too. You have to tell me what's going on in your life.'
George squeezes me a little tighter. 'I will then,' he says, nearly whispering.
'What do you want to happen with the band?'
'I don't know,' George says, pained.
'I'm sorry, love. I'll stop asking you so many questions.'
He sighs. 'I don't know how I feel about anything right now.' Then he smiles and adds, 'Except for you.'
I laugh. 'You're getting corny in your old age.'
'No, I'm not,' George says, cocking an eyebrow. 'I think you'll find I'm getting suave and sophisticated in my old age. And less of the old, too, you.'
I lean forward and kiss him. 'You've always been suave,' I tell him, and hop off his lap. 'Much as I'd love to stay and explore your suaveness further, I think we'd better get some sleep.'
George nods and gets up with me. 'I'm coming with you,' he says. 'I'm not sleeping in that draughty attic.'
'Won't your Dad object?'
'I think he's got more important things to worry about. Besides, it was more my Mam than my Dad.'
'It's only a single bed.'
He shrugs. 'We've slept in loads of singles beds together.' He slips his hand in to mine. 'I don't want to sleep on my own tonight,' he adds, quietly. 'I want to be with you.'
I squeeze his fingers. 'Come with me then, Georgie.'