I look at George twice, wondering if I heard him rightly. He looks at the floor, refusing to meet my eyes.
'What did you just say?' I ask him, quietly.
George glances at me, but turns his head and goes back to his friend. A relatively new friend, I think. I've heard him mention him in passing. George was trying to arrange for Apple to release his album earlier in the year but it fell through. Other than that, and when we were making plans to come to this, I don't think he's ever talked about him. I wouldn't have thought he'd be so close to George that he would consider doing something like this.
'I mean, only if you have room, man,' George says, casually, sipping from his wine glass. 'Would there be too many guitars?'
He looks at him, hopefully. If I didn't know better, I'd say he was shy, asking him this. That seems absurd. George is a Beatle, and this guy - I don't even know his career history. I'd never heard of them before. I liked their show, but I didn't think it was anything that mind blowing.
It was supposed to be George's friend, Eric that we'd really come to see play. His band has just fallen apart and George said he was a bit down about it, why don't we come and support him playing with Delaney and Bonnie at the Albert Hall. I don't know if George has just thought of this or whether he was planning it all along. He's been behaving oddly tonight. Drinking quite a lot, which isn't like George, and ignoring me or snapping when he does talk to me. I get the feeling I'm cramping his style and embarrassing him. I think he might wish he'd come on his own.
Everyone else at this aftershow party is casual; jeans and check shirts and denim jackets. I'm in a black cocktail dress. I do feel a bit overdressed, but it's the Albert Hall. You're supposed to make the effort, aren't you? Then, as I glance around the other women backstage, in their black velvet flared trousers and smock tunic tops, I think maybe not.
George's friend, an American musician called Delaney, laughs. 'Can't have too many guitars, can you?'
George smiles thinly. 'Oh, yeah, you can,' he says, sardonically. 'But, what do you think? Would it be okay?'
'I can't say no to a Beatle!' Delaney continues, grinning widely. 'But y'know, the tour's only a quick one. When do you think you'd be available?'
'Right now,' George says. 'I'm not busy. I'm not doing anything. Where are you tomorrow?'
'Bristol.'
'Bristol it is then.'
'Oh, that's just... brilliant,' Delaney says, enthusiastically. 'Just give Sam your address. He's the tour bus driver. We'll pick you up in the morning. I'll go and find Bonnie and tell her the good news! Do you want another drink?'
George looks down at his glass, empty already. I've barely had a sip of mine.
'Sure, thanks, man. These itsy bitsy glasses are useless. Inhale and it's gone. When we get up north, I'll introduce you to a proper drink!'
Delaney laughs and turns to me. 'Would you like another one, uh... um...' He can't remember my name, but that's not surprising because George didn't introduce us.
'No, I still have one, thank you,' I reply, primly, and Delaney smiles and leaves us.
Delaney. I don't even know if that's his first name or last.
George watches Delaney travel across the small private barroom, towards some of the other band members and I get the feeling again that he'd prefer it if I hadn't come tonight.
'What are you doing?' I whisper, as soon as we're alone.
He turns his head round and gives me a lopsided smile. Lopsided, and drunk, eyes glazed.
'I'm drinking shitty, vinegary, white wine backstage at the Albert Hall, Han. What are you doing?'
'Wondering what's got into you.'
'Nothing has,' he says, innocently, but with an underlying insincerity. 'Why? Because I'm joining their band?'
'Yes. I thought--' I lower my voice and step closer to him. 'Can you do that? Can you just join another band?'
'John has,' George says, with a small shrug. 'Plastic Ono whatever. And he did that Rolling Stones film last Christmas.'
'Yes, but... Plastic Ono Band is his own thing, and the Rolling Stones was a one-off.'
'Well, this will be a one-off.'
'It's a tour!'
'It's a handful of dates round England. Something like... five or six. That's all. John and I thought we both might do this before, but he went off the idea. So I'm doing it instead,' he says, flippantly.
'You and John were going to join a band?'
'Yeah, this band,' George says. 'Last year. It was while you were... away.' He sniffs. 'I don't see why it's causing you so much trouble.'
'Well, it's not. I'm just... surprised that you'd want to.'
'Why wouldn't I?'
'You've always been adamant that you won't play live. You didn't want to play on the roof in January. When you--' I step closer to him again. This still isn't public knowledge. 'When you walked out of the band, one of the most important conditions of you returning was that Paul drop his insistence that the Beatles tour and play live concerts again.'
George straightens his back, moving back from me. 'Yeah, well, I'm starting to think that was a mistake.'
'Not touring with the Beatles?'
'No, going back to the Beatles. I walked out, and I should have kept walking. What did I go back for? Really, Hannah? Do you know?'
He seems to expect a reply. I frown. 'Well, it was because...' I falter. Because it's The Beatles, I want to say, but I don't think George would like that response.
'Wanna know why?' he says, slightly slurring his words. 'Why I went back to the fuckin' Beatles?'
I don't understand how he's managed to get so drunk so fast. He's been knocking drinks back since we arrived, but he still seems drunker than he should be in terms of how much alcohol he's consumed. He went backstage before the show and came back a little glassy eyed. Maybe he swallowed something or smoked something then. He wouldn't tell me. We sat in a box at the side of the stage to watch the concert and drinks kept appearing. Some sent by friends, some ordered by George and some compliments of the house. It was all fizzy champagne with orange juice, white wine or babycham. Sickly, sweet stuff. I've had enough of it.
'Why then?' I ask and George rears his head back with a sneer.
'Because you were pregnant, and I thought I'd better keep my job. Expensive, babies, aren't they? They need nappies and clothes and fuckin' prams and shit. I needed a job to pay for your baby.'
'My baby?'
George pauses, chastised. 'Our baby,' he corrects, calmer. 'It was stupid. It was because I panicked. I can't not be a fuckin' Beatle anymore, can I? What would I do?! Where would I go?!' He sighs, shortly. 'But I don't actually need to be, do I? It's not like I need the money. I'm a fucking millionaire.'
'Are you?' I ask, unsure where this is going.
'I should be,' he scoffs. 'I might have been if I didn't buy that house for you.'
'You wanted that house.'
George sniffs. 'Yeah, well, I'm not a millionaire anyway. I'm broke. We all are. Apple's broke. We're the fucking Beatles and we're potless. There's fuckin' money tied up all over the place. D'you know Derek spent a hundred and fifty quid on lights for his bloody office? A hundred and fifty quid on lights! That's the tip of the iceberg too. People were taking the piss for ages. That's why we had to get Allen Klein in, to sort it all out. And that would have happened quicker and a lot more easily if it wasn't for that petty bastard.'
Paul is the "petty bastard". He's the one who's out of favour with George at the moment. It was John, after he turned up at Friar Park to announce he was quitting the band, but somehow John and George have arranged a truce so they can gang up on Paul instead. George, John and Ringo wanted Allen Klein, the Rolling Stones manager, to take over as their business manager. Well, they have him. They're signed to him. Paul wanted Linda's father, Lee Eastman but he was out voted. This was all several months ago, but it keeps coming round and round like a perpetual merry-go-round, a constant source of arguments and resentment between them all.
Right on cue, George adds, 'If we'd signed to that lawyer and then Paul would have had his way over everything. That's the reason he wanted him. So his father in law was in charge and Paul could get anything he wanted. He must think we were born yesterday. Anyway, it's irrelevant now--' He moves closer to me. I can smell alcohol on his breath, something stronger than just wine. He lowers his voice to a stage whisper. 'Because the fuckin' Beatles are finished, Han.'
The fuckin' Beatles. He can't say the name of the band without prepending a swear word. I sigh and look away, hoping he'll change the subject.
'Don't you believe it?' George says, misinterpreting my reaction. He grabs my hand, making me look at him. 'You'd better, baby. I've got to believe it. I've got to think about the future. Me and you and Bobbie. That's the future now.'
I smile. 'Yes, it is.'
'What am I going to do?' he continues, earnestly. 'I'm not a frontman. I'm not a Paul McCartney or a John Lennon. I only know how to be a band member. I can't do it on my own.'
'So that's what you're doing?' I ask, gently. 'You're joining a new band?'
'What's wrong with that?'
'Well, nothing, except you've said more than once, you hate playing live, and I don't know if--'
'I don't,' he says, flippantly. 'I love playing guitar. I love playing guitar on real music, in real bands.' He drops my hand. 'You'd know that if you knew anything about me.'
'Stop it. Stop trying to pick a fight,' I tell him, warningly.
'I'm not. It's you. Why are you being such a drag?'
'I don't think I am being, am I?' I say, starting to lose my patience. 'If it's what you want to do, George, then go and do it. I suppose Bobbie and I will see you in a couple of weeks then.'
'Is that what you're bothered about? That I won't be home, with you and the baby?'
Yes, a bit, but not for the reason you're thinking.
'No, not at all. Do whatever makes you happy, George.'
Delaney returns with two fresh wine glasses in his hand. 'Oh, hey, Bonnie is over the moon about you coming along, George,' he says, as he passes one of the drinks to George.
'Great,' George says, but he seems to have lost his exuberance for it. He glances at me and then at the floor, then pushes his wine glass onto a small table nearby.
'They're won't be any... uh, problems? Would there? With the Beatles?'
'Like what?' George asks, defensively.
'Eric was saying you'd had to use a pseudonym on the Cream song. I don't wanna get sued, man!' He laughs.
'Oh, uh, no. That was because of recording contracts and that. Shouldn't affect anything for this, but... I, um, I don't know if I can do it after all.' He takes a sideways glance at me. 'Hannah's said no.'
'Hannah?' Delaney says, confused.
'Her,' George says, indicating to me. 'She's not keen on the idea, and... Gotta keep your woman happy, haven't you?'
Delaney smiles, embarrassed. 'Sure do.'
'I haven't said no at all,' I say, prickly. 'And since when would that make any difference to you anyway? What I actually said is, if it's what you want to do it, then you should do it.'
'Oh, great!' Delaney says, either not picking up on the atmosphere or pretending not to.
George waves him down. 'I can't be away from home for that long. We have a ten month old baby.'
'I can look after her. You go ahead, George,' I say, frostily. 'Like you said, it's not for long, and honestly, I don't mind.'
Delaney looks from George to me and back again. 'So, uh... are you coming?'
George turns away from me. 'Yeah,' he says, flatly. 'Yeah, I'm coming.'
*
'George!' I shout, running as fast as I can down the driveway, hampered by the new gravel. It was only laid last week. The new gravel is slowing me down and so are the daft shoes I have on; George's baseball boots. They're much too big for me and I've left the laces undone, but it was the first pair of shoes I put my hands on.
'George, wait!' I shout again. I can't see him but he can't be that far ahead of me. I can still see the tour bus roof over the top of the bushes behind the gatehouse. I'm scared it's going to drive off before I get there.
'GEORGE!!' I scream with all my strength.
Finally, he appears. He steps back around the stone gatepost at the end of the driveway, worry and shock on his face and a guitar case on his back.
'What?' he asks, anxious. 'What's the matter?'
I jog to meet him at the gate. 'Were you just going to leave?' I ask, so angry and incensed that I don't feel even mildly guilty for making him think something was wrong. 'You were just going to go without saying goodbye?!'
George smiles nervously. 'Bloody hell, Hannah. I thought the house was on fire or something.'
He glances at the others, the band and their entourage, waiting for him. Some of them are standing on the roadside by the coach, smoking and watching us. I can see more rubbernecking out of the windows. Annoyance flares inside me as George grabs my arm, a little roughly, and leads me to the side, away from them. He thinks I'm going to show him up.
'I left you a note,' he says, taking his guitar off his shoulder and resting the bottom of the case on the ground. 'In the kitchen.'
'Oh, well, what am I bothered about then? Thanks, George.'
'If you'd read it,' George says, testily. 'Then you'd know it says I'm coming back, tonight, after the gig.'
'I thought... Really?'
'Yes. It's Bristol. Two hours away. The gig won't run that late. I was going to get Mal to bring me back after.'
'But... Well, that's not the point,' I say, childishly. 'You could still say goodbye to me. And Bobbie, what about her?'
He smiles again, more genuinely this time. 'Alright, I'm sorry,' he says, softening, and kisses me quickly. 'Bye, love. I'll see you later. And I already kissed Bobs goodbye.'
I pout and George frowns. 'What's wrong now?' he asks, wearily.
'That's not good enough,' I say, sulkily.
George sighs. 'Han--'
I fling my arms around his neck, cutting him off and making him take a small step backwards in surprise, as I plant my lips on his. I feel George relax and kiss me back, one hand snaking around my waist, the other still holding his guitar.
I kiss him forcefully, consumingly, desperately, and not just because I keep getting a bad feeling about him doing this, but also because I'm aware there are a number of women on that tour bus, and they're watching us now. I'm sure me kissing him won't put some of them off, but at least there will be no confusion over who I am, and more importantly who I am to George.
I pull out of the kiss and George looks at me, a little dazed.
'Now, listen to me,' I tell him, straightening the front of his clothing for him where I've skewed it. 'I don't mind you going, really. I think... the break will do you good, so have fun and enjoy yourself, but it's cold, so wear a jacket. Don't catch cold. Have you brought one with you?' All he has on is a thin knit jumper over a shirt. 'It's December, for goodness sakes, George.'
George laughs at me. 'Yes, Mum. I've got a coat. I put it on the bus already.'
I purse my lips. 'I don't want you get a cold and give it to Bobbie.'
'I promise I won't.'
'And don't do anything daft.'
'I always do daft things,' George says, still grinning.
'You know what I mean. Just because everyone else is doing something, it doesn't mean you have to.'
He laughs harder at that.
'And... And take care of yourself, okay?'
'Hannah, it's only Bristol. For a day. I'm not going to Australia for a month. I'll be fine. What's the matter?'
I shake my head and step back from him with a small sigh.
George moves into me. 'I've already made you a list of all the venues and their phone numbers. I've pinned it to the pantry door,' he says, his voice low. 'And phone numbers for Apple and Mal and Terry are on there too, so you've got them to hand if you need anything. But I will come home tonight. We've got gigs are in Sheffield and Newcastle and places. They might be too far away to travel back from, but any closer by, like Bristol, and Birmingham tomorrow, I will do. Okay?'
I smile. 'Thank you.'
'I knew you'd worry,' he says, softly. 'Like when we went on tour in sixty-six, but I promise you...'
He glances over his shoulder, at the people waiting for him.
'George, we gotta get on the road, man, if we're gonna beat the traffic,' someone shouts.
George nods and waves to them, indicating he's coming.
He turns back to me. '...I'll be good,' he finishes.
'I'll miss you,' I tell him, troubled by that promise.
'You'll hardly even notice I've gone.'
'I will. I'm used to having you around.'
George puts his one arm around my back and lifts me up so he can kiss me, just as hard and passionately as I kissed him, struggling to keep hold of the guitar as he does.
'I don't want to go now,' he whispers to me when the kiss breaks, still holding me close to him.
Good. Then you'll come back. I read your note, George, but I can't shake this feeling in the pit of my stomach. I think as soon as I'm out of your sight, I'll be out of your mind too.
'Go on,' I tell him, smiling. 'Have fun. Take care.'
George steps away from me, going to the bus door as everyone else climbs on. He stops to look back at me. I mouth I love you to him and George replies with a mouthed, me too.
*
But he doesn't come home after Bristol.
The telephone rings at quarter past two in the morning. I'd fallen asleep in a chair reading, waiting up for him. I suppose I've already guessed before then though. Maybe I knew even before he got on the bus. He might have made it back by twelve if he'd left straight after the gig, or a little while after if he'd had to stay for something or the traffic had been heavy. But I know what happens. He'd still be there hours after it's ended. There will be drink and food, people who want to talk to him and he'll be laughing and enjoying himself and ideas of driving back to Henley will go straight out of the window.
'Bayyybeeee...' he drawls when I answer it. 'Hannah, I love you...'
'Georgie, where are you?'
'At this, uh, hotel suite thing.'
'Are you okay?'
'Yes. Yes, I'm fuckin' fab,' he replies and descends into laughter, irritating me. I hate trying to get any sense out of him when he's like this. It's impossible. 'Oh, I miss you though, Han.'
I soften. 'I miss you too. Have you... Have you taken something?'
'No, love, just had a coupla drinks.'
I don't know if that's true or not.
'I... I, uh, forgot why I'm ringing you,' George says.
'You're calling to tell me you're not coming home tonight.'
'Oh yeah,' George says. 'Are you angry?'
I sigh. 'No.'
'Don't be, Han, because I... because I love you, baby.'
'I love you,' I reply, my voice echoing through the empty hall of our strangely empty feeling house. Empty with George gone. 'How was the gig?'
'Great. I wish you'd been there.'
I smile. 'Do you really?'
''Course, Han. You should be here. We should be together, love, all the time. Like... Like Bonnie and Delaney are.'
'She's his girlfriend?' I ask, a little relieved.
'She's his wife,' George tells me. 'They're married and they sing and play together. It's nice. I wish you were here, love. Why don't you come to the show tomorrow?'
'Tomorrow? In... um, Birmingham?'
'Yeah. Birmingham. Brum. Come, will you, Han?'
I twist the telephone cord around my fingers. 'Call me in the morning and ask me again when you're sober.'
'Why? Do you think I don't mean it? I do. I want you here. I want you with me.'
'Where are you staying then, if you're not coming home?' I ask, changing the subject.
'I've got a room here. At the hotel.'
'Oh, okay. Well, I'm going to bed then. You probably should too.'
'You're still up?'
'I was waiting for you.'
'I'm sorry, love,' George says, more lucidly. 'I was going to come home, but we started drinking and you know what these things are like.'
'Yes,' I say, flatly. 'I do.'
'Is Bobs okay?'
'She's fine.'
George sighs. 'You probably won't believe me, but I really do wish I was home with you and Bobbie right now.'
'Well, don't worry, George, it's alright. Have a bit of fun. You deserve to. It's been difficult, these last few months.'
'I'll call you in the morning.'
'Okay.'
'Go and get tucked up in bed. I'm going to bed now too.'
'Alright, I will.'
'Before you go to sleep, open the curtains and look at the moon. I'll look for it as well. Then we'll both be watching the same thing at the same time. We're not so far away from each other.'
I smile. George can be so sweet and romantic sometimes. 'I love you very much, Georgie,' I tell him, quietly.
'I'm on my own, too,' George adds. 'No one else here with me, baby. I promise. I'm being good.'
That spoils it somewhat. 'Go to bed, George.'
He hangs up. I switch all the lights out and go upstairs to check on Bobbie. She's soundly sleeping in the wooden cot, painted white and decorated with blue and yellow ducks. I get ready for bed, turn the bedroom light out and draw the curtains back to look for the moon, but it's cloudy tonight. No moon or stars. I still stare at the sky for a couple of minutes, wondering if George is doing the same. It's daft really. He's not been gone a day yet. I don't know why I feel so far away from him.
I climb into bed, pull the covers up to my chin and close my eyes to imagine he's here, with me, sleeping behind me, arm around my middle and legs entwined with mine. Then, I realise, this is the first night since we moved to Friar Park that I've slept in this bed alone.
*
I feel so proud of him. It's absurd, and there's no real reason for it, but I do.
He really is so very good at playing guitar. He plays it all the time at home, but I rarely get to watch him perform properly. He's not had long to learn some of these songs, hours at most really, but it seems effortless for him. Natural.
I watch him from the wings of the stage at Birmingham Town Hall. The second of the two shows they'll play here. I missed the first, earlier today. It was all a panic to get here and I had to pack for George too. As he was supposed to come home last night, he took nothing but the clothes on his back and a couple of guitars. I can see now how that wasn't really possible. Both Bristol and Birmingham are only a couple of hours from Henley, but by the time he's done the shows and everything else, it's far too late to drive home, just to drive back again the next day. We're both staying here tonight, at the same hotel as the rest of the band, then tomorrow we're travelling on to Sheffield.
George was still eager for me to come and be with him when he called this morning. I didn't think he would. I thought it was a drunken notion which would be forgotten when the hangover took over.
I'm not sure I should have agreed to come. I don't know if I should have left Bobbie. Emma is looking after her, staying over at Friar Park, which seemed easier than trying to take Bobbie and all the things she needs to Emma's little flat in London. It'll be a few nights, five including tonight, but it's the longest I've ever been away from her for and if I think about it too long, I feel like I could cry.
I push thoughts of missing Bobbie out of my mind and distract myself by stepping further out of the stage wing to view the packed, dark auditorium. Birmingham Town Hall is a huge, ornate and regal looking building. Square with thick, carved stone columns all around the outside. It's even more splendid inside. There are three floors, stalls where the seats have been cleared away for standing, and two circles above. The gig are completely sold out, which is why I have to watch it from backstage. Not a spare seat in the house.
George plays on the right hand side, near to me, standing at the back of the stage. Every so often he looks over at me and gives me a smile or a raised eyebrow, but most of the time he plays with his head down, keeping himself in the shadows. Not a Beatle. He wasn't even introduced with the other band members. However, despite his efforts at anonymity, he gives himself away by playing the psychedelically painted fender guitar he calls 'Rocky'. It's the same one he used for Magical Mystery Tour film among other things. Very recognisable as a Beatle guitar.
When the show ends, we go back to the hotel. The band have the bar to themselves for their aftershow party. Lots of food and beer flowing, lots of raucous people playing loud music to dance to and bellowing with laughter. A hotel manager keeps coming and and pleading with them to quieten down for the sake of the other guests, but it goes unheeded.
I find a leather sofa at the back of the bar to sit on and watch. George and I have a room upstairs. I'm tired, but I don't want to leave George. For all his insistence I come here, he's not spent much time with me. He's with his friends in the throng of the party, laughing and kidding around. I don't begrudge it him. Everything has been so awful recently.
I think we've spent more time in Liverpool than at home recently. George's mother has been in and out of hospital. She's back in there now and they've moved her a couple of times to different ones for different specialists to examine her. Meanwhile it's been very hard on George's father. We've stayed in Liverpool a few times just to keep him company. I help out, where I can. I cook and clean the house for him. I make sure there's milk in the fridge and food in the cupboards, but it's small comfort.
Bobbie does a better job than me. Both Harry and Louise light up when Bobbie's around, even though sometimes, Louise doesn't seem to know who she is. Sometimes she recognises me and Bobbie. Sometimes she doesn't or she thinks I'm her sister, Kathy, who had a baby daughter when she was around my age, and she mistakes Bobbie for her. It upsets George terribly when she doesn't know who he is though.
The whole thing has been awful for him, and I think really that - coupled with the troubles within the Beatles - is why he really wanted to do this tour. To get away from everything, to forget and have a little fun, just for a short while. I was selfishly worried that I was included in the things he wanted to get away from, so I'm glad to be here, even if it did mean leaving Bobbie at home. I still fret about him though. Even here, laughing like a fool at lewd jokes and stupid comments with Eric and Delaney and some of the others, he doesn't seem himself. It seems like a mask, an enforced joviality which isn't truly felt.
After a while, George wanders over to me, bringing bottles of beer.
'I don't like it,' I say when he offers one to me.
'I know,' George says. 'But it's all we've got, so drink it anyway.'
I shake my head. 'I don't need to get drunk.'
'No one needs to, Han. But I think you should.'
I frown.
'It'll help you relax. Instead of sitting in the corner, stiff and aloof like always.'
'I'm perfectly relaxed,' I say but take the bottle and swallow from it to please him. I grimace at the bitter taste. George laughs and sits next to me, close.
'The Beatles played Birmingham a couple of times in sixty-three,' he says, in a very low voice as if we're talking about something taboo. 'It was when the whole...' he waves his hand vaguely, 'Beatlemania thing had just kicked off,' he says, as if it's a dirty word. 'We had to dress up as policemen so they could smuggle us into the gig. We'd been filming Thank Your Lucky Stars at the studios here earlier and it was insane. Thousands of these bloody kids everywhere you went. Chasing us. They stormed the TV studios building and we had to run for it. I remember Mal trying to keep them back. It was like trying to hold back the tide. He grabbed about two of them and hundreds more ran right past him.'
'Did they catch you?' I ask.
George shakes his head. 'Obviously not. I'm still here, aren't I? I lived to tell the tale.' He laughs. 'We escaped in the back of a black mariah van. We were peeping out of the windows as they drove us to the gig and there were honestly thousands of fans. Like an invasion was going on. Ringo said, "Christ, they're going to rip us limb from limb!" And Paul said "We all have to die sometime, I can't think of a better way to go!"' George grins. 'That was what Paul was like. He loved it. He really did. When the rest of us were fed up of the screams and the crazy tours, I think Paul still enjoyed it. Not like the Manilla crap and stuff, but y'know, normal concerts. If there ever was such a thing as a normal Beatle concert!'
I smile and George smiles back, but then it fades as he shakes his reverie off. 'Shame he's turned into such a bastard now, eh?' he adds.
I sigh and nod to please him.
George sits forward, onto the edge of the sofa. 'Come and talk to people,' he says, a sharpness creeping into his tone. 'Everyone always thinks we're having a row because you're sat in the corner at parties, sulking, refusing to join in.'
'I'm not,' I say. 'I don't like parties--' like this '--I've told you that before. I like smaller ones. I don't know anyone here, anyway.'
'You won't get to know them if you hide in the corner all night.'
'I'm not hiding. You haven't even introduced me to your friends properly.'
'I have.'
'No, George. Actually, you haven't.'
'Well, is any bloody wonder?' He stands up and looks over to where his friends are, on the other side of the room. The party's thinned out a bit now. Some have gone off to bed, but there's still fifteen or more of them. George looks down at me again. 'I can't do this, Han. I can't do with you sitting out here on your own all the time, and everyone else over there, and me having to flit in between you like a hostage negotiator. I can't live like this.'
'I'm alright on my own. I'm not sulking or angry with you or anything else. I'm happy just to wait here. Go and be with your friends.'
George mutters something I don't hear and strides away, across the room, swigging from the beer bottle in his hand as he goes. I watch him rejoin the group. He casts a glance back at me once then puts his back to me, leaning his weight against the edge of a bar table.
I sigh, take a deep breath and get up to follow him.
I come up behind him and touch his side. He turns away from the small group of people he's talking to and smiles when he sees me. He opens his arm to me and I put both my arms around his waist.
'Sorry,' I whisper in his ear as I kiss his cheek.
George smiles. 'Let me introduce you properly then,' he says. 'Han, this is Bonnie and Delaney Bramlett, Leon, Rita, Jerry and Eric, who you've met before...'
Both George and Eric grin and laugh like it's an inside joke. 'I don't think we have met before?' I say, confused.
'I'm not surprised if you don't remember,' Eric replies. 'You were a bit... worse for wear at the time.'
I frown. 'I'm sorry, I don't.'
Of course, I know who he is. He's Eric Clapton, guitarist with Cream and The Yardbirds previously. George is good friends with him and he played on one of the Cream albums last year, before they broke up, but Eric's never been round to the house. Other than at the Albert Hall a couple of nights ago, I don't think we've ever been in the same room together.
'You have. At the Scotch,' George says, giggling. 'You were fuckin' plastered that night, love.'
'Oh,' I say, realising exactly what night, what day that would have been. The memory of it is a sudden and unexpected slap in the face. I'm stunned by it. George and Eric are too busy laughing to notice. I blink and try to shake it off. 'I'm so sorry,' I say to Eric. 'I... uh, don't remember an awful lot about that night. I'm not really a big drinker and we were drinking whisky. It went straight to my head.'
Eric smiles and says, 'Yeah, me too,' and the others laugh at a joke I'm not entirely sure I understand.
'So, everyone,' George says, like he's making an announcement. He move his arm up so it's resting on my shoulders. 'This is Hannah. Love of my life, mother of my children.'
He eyes Eric and pulls me into him, like he's trying to put me in a headlock. Everyone giggles again and I start to wish I'd stayed on the sofa. I twist out of his hold and step away. Eric says something to George and they carry on chatting while I stand next to him, feeling like spare bride at a wedding.
'So, um, where are you from, Hannah?' Bonnie asks me, politely, rescuing me.
I smile at her gratefully. She's tall, thin, blonde and very pretty, everything women are supposed to be these days. She wears a shirt with a long pointed collar and large, round glasses, like John's, with red lenses.
'I'm from Liverpool originally,' I answer. 'Like George.'
'Oh!' Bonnie says, surprised. 'Gee, you don't sound like you are. You've lost your accent. What do you do then?'
'She's a singer too,' George answers for me, exuberantly. 'Like I was telling you? She was with the Raindrops?'
'I used to be a singer,' I add, but no one appears to be listening.
'Oh, that was this girl you were talking about?' Bonnie says and laughs. George grins, but Eric speaks to him again and he turns away from us, distracted.
'Sorry, honey, I just pictured you differently from what George was saying,' Bonnie says. 'So you were in the Raindrops? I remember them.'
I smile, embarrassed. 'Yes, that was me.'
'Ricky and the Raindrops. You just don't get acts like that anymore, do you?'
'I suppose not.'
'George said you might like to join the friends. We don't really need another singer, but it's kind of the more the merrier at the moment! I'm sure we could fit you in with Rita--'
'Sorry?' I interrupt. 'What's the friends?'
She laughs. 'Us. The band. Delaney and Bonnie and Friends.'
My eyes widen. 'No!' I blurt, and immediately feel my cheeks colour. 'I mean, I... I don't sing anymore. George shouldn't have promised you anything, because I can't. I can't do it--'
Hearing his name, George turns around again. 'What have you done to her?' he asks Bonnie, jokingly.
'I'm not singing, George!' I cry, feeling flustered. 'Why would you... Why would you say...'
George's face falls. 'I, um... No, I...'
'You're... I think you're a wonderful singer,' I tell Bonnie as George tries to put his arm around me again. I wriggle away from him. 'I read that you used to be in the Ikettes. It says it in the programme for the show. Honestly, you wouldn't want me singing with you. I would let you down. I couldn't compare to... I'm just not good enough.'
'Oh. Um, well, I think George must have said that you used to be a singer, now I think of it,' she says, diplomatically. 'I must have gotten hold of the wrong end of the stick. It's... It's nice to have you along, Hannah. George has talked about you a lot.'
Bonnie gives us a forced smile and carefully steps away, joining her husband, putting her hands on his shoulders and slipping into their conversation.
George and I look at each other. George sighs and taking my arm, leads me away to a corner of the barroom, away from the party. He lets go of me and sits down on the edge of a table. 'She wasn't supposed to say anything yet,' he says, meekly.
'Why would you say I'd join them?' I say, sounding a little tearful to my chagrin. 'You know I can't sing anymore.'
'Not can't. You don't sing anymore, but it's not because you can't.'
'Georgie, I've told you. It's not that simple...'
'Oh, I know it's not simple.' He says and reaches for my hand, drawing me into him. 'I thought that maybe, only maybe, once you'd been on tour with us for a little while, you might feel like singing again.' He squeezes my fingers. 'Like me. Yeah, I didn't want to play live with the Beatles, but here it's... alright. It's laid back. Not as crazy, and you can have fun with it. I thought you'd feel the same. You'd see how much fun we're all having and then you'd want to try singing again, like with...' He coughs and clears his throat. 'Like with Cat in August. She twisted your arm to make you sing with her, but when you did, Han...'
'That was a one off, in a living room, in front of a handful of people. It's not like singing to a packed auditorium night after night. I could never do that again.'
George straightens up and moves closer to me, looping his arms around my waist, clasping his hands together behind my back. 'When you sing,' he says, softly. 'It's plain how much you love it. Even when you're just fooling around, or singing to Bobbie or something. You look different when you do it. You look... You're alive. I can't stand the thought of you not feeling like that ever again because of what that bastard told you.'
'It's not that,' I say, crestfallen. 'It's not like you think. Honestly, George, outside of the Raindrops, when I was at Esmeralda's, I was surviving by the skin of my teeth. I was terrible. I got worse and worse and--'
George cuts my words off with a kiss. 'Shut up,' he says, drawing back from me. 'Stop talking about the woman I love like that.' He grins. 'You sing beautifully. Please believe me, love.'
He kisses me again, longer this time, deeper and quickly hotter. I open my eyes to steal a glance at the others. More people have gone. There's only a handful of them now. They're not paying any attention to us. George presses his body against me, his breathing deepening as his lips escape mine. He moves to kiss the side of my neck, turning me around. His hands move down my back and he lifts me onto the edge of the table behind me.
'George,' I say, warningly.
George responds with something muttered, but otherwise ignores me. He moves back to kiss my mouth, pushing himself in between my knees, roughly. After a moment, I feel him push me backwards, as if he wants me to lie on the tabletop.
'George...' I say again against his mouth, a little more demandingly.
'No one's watching...' he murmurs.
'That's not the point!'
He ignores me, and slips his hand up the hem of my top, cupping my breast. 'GEORGE!' I shout and shove him off me, sitting up. The people are looking at us now, whispering and sniggering.
George steps back from me. He takes his hands from where they rest on the top of my thighs and gestures that I'm free to escape from him.
Instead, I stay where I am. 'What do you think you're doing?' I ask, angrily.
'I don't know,' he says, contrite. 'I'm... Sorry. Go, if you want to.'
I glance at the others, watching us, trying to pretend they're not. I slip off the edge of the table and take George's hand in both of mine. The skin on his finger tips feels rougher than normal.
'Why are you doing that here,' I say, lowering my voice. 'When we have a comfy, king sized bed waiting for us upstairs?'
George raises his eyebrows, surprised.
'And,' I add, letting go of him and stepping away. 'No baby to interrupt anything tonight.'
I turn my back on him and walk away. George catches up with me before I've even reached the lifts in the hotel lobby. It takes us fifteen minutes to find the hotel room because we're stumbling, blind, not looking where we're going or stopping to lean against corridor walls as we kiss each other.
*
The party after Sheffield, the next night, is worse. I was hoping George might have got it all out of his system in Birmingham, especially when he woke up feeling awful this morning, but the hangover had worn off by showtime and he's drinking like prohibition starts tomorrow. The hotel in Sheffield is smaller and can't accommodate the band's party, so they find a pub in the city centre which agrees to host a lock-in for them. The pub has a piano and a couple of guitars, and when the bar staff leave them to it, the party quickly becomes loud and out of hand. The police are called at one point. They telephone the pub's landlord but when George guarantees anything they break, use or consume they'll pay for, he says let them carry on.
I stick by George as long as I can, but when the food fights start, I take it as my cue to leave. Mal finds a taxi to take me back to the hotel. 'We won't be too far behind you, love,' Mal tells me, as he holds the door open for me. 'I hope,' he adds with a weary sigh, then he returns to the increasingly impossible task of minding George.
It's gone four in the morning before George crawls into bed next to me. He makes brief overtures to sex, but falls asleep, or rather passes out, on the pillow next to mine, snoring loudly. I stay awake a while longer, watching him, worrying about him.
Unsurprisingly, he sleeps late the next morning. I get up and dress, but George is still in bed when someone knocks on our hotel room door at eleven o'clock. I answer it, expecting Mal coming to tell us it's time to leave if we're going to get to Newcastle today, but it's one of the hotel bellboys instead.
'Sorry to disturb you, Miss,' he says, trying to crane his neck around the door. 'Your room phone doesn't seem to be working. There's a telephone call for Mr Harrison. He says he's his brother, Harry.'
'George?' I say, gently, shaking him. 'George, Harry's on the phone.' George doesn't respond, so I shake him a little harder. 'George, the phone for you.'
'Tell him I'm... busy,' George mumbles.
'George, it's--'
'I heard you,' he snaps, bad temperedly. 'Tell him I'll call him when we get to Newcastle.' He grabs the bedcover and rolls over onto his other side, taking it with him.
I step back from the bed and bite my lip, troubled. Then I follow the bellboy downstairs and answer Harry's call myself.
*
Afterwards, when I return to the hotel room, George is up, out of bed, messily dressed and in the process of shoving clothing and things in one of the large holdalls bag I brought with me. I have two. The one he's stuffing like a turkey is bursting its seams. I notice the other one, lying empty, on the floor at the end of the bed.
'George,' I say, carefully.
'Hi, love. I thought I'd help you pack. You know, you always bring too much stuff.' His voice sounds strained. He heaves the bag up and drops it onto the mattress, finding tennis shoes from under the bed and attempting to get those into the holdall too.
'Georgie, I think we'll have to go to Liverpool.'
He pauses momentarily, shoe in hand. 'What's happened?' he asks, trying to push it into the top of the bag, not looking up.
'They're moving your mum again. To Fazakerley this time.'
'Isn't that a sanitorium?'
'No, uh, there is one there too, but it's Aintree Hospital they're taking her too. They have a specialist there who's going to see her today. He's a surgeon. He going to see if he can do anything. They might operate if he thinks it's viable.'
George tugs at the bag's zip. It refuses to budge. 'Right.'
'They're going to do it right away if they can. Today.'
George doesn't reply. He pulls the zip hard and the seam beside it splits open. 'Fuck,' George breathes, trying in vain to fix it.
'Georgie?'
'Have you spoken to Emma this morning?' he asks.
'No, not yet. I'll call her when we get to Liverpool.'
'We're not going to Liverpool,' he says and half drops, half throws the bag onto the floor, giving it a half hearted kick when it spills some of its contents out.
'George...'
'I can't. We're in Newcastle tonight.'
'I've told Delaney already. He says it's fine. You can pick it up again tomorrow night--'
'You've spoken to him?' George says, voice rising, rounding on me.
'He was just outside when I'd finished on the phone--'
'What have you told him?'
'Nothing much. I just said your brother had called and your mum's ill so we need to...'
'Hannah, you had no right to fuckin' say anything to anyone!'
'I thought you'd told them she'd been ill?'
'I have, but...' He shakes his head, turning away. He paces the floor, pushing his fingers through his hair. 'It doesn't matter, I can't go.'
'George, you have to.'
'No, what I have to do is keep the commitment I've made. I said I'd play on this tour, so that's what I'm doing.'
'Georgie, love--' I try to reach for him but he snatches himself away from me.
'Harry, Pete, they'll have to understand. I can't drop everything whenever they call.'
'I'm sure they would understand, but George, think about it a minute. I think you need to go there.'
'What can I do, Han? What fucking difference does it make if I'm there or not? I can't do anything. I can't help. I'm... useless to them. At least here, I can be useful.'
'You're not useless. You go to be with your dad. And your brothers and your mum. They just need you to be there.'
George snorts. 'I'll go and tell Delaney we're coming with them,' he says, but makes no effort to actually go. He paces the room more. The dressing table stool gets under his feet and he kicks it out of the way with more force than is required.
'What the matter? Why won't you go?' I ask.
'I don't want to,' he says petulantly. 'I fuckin' hate hospitals.'
'Nobody likes hospitals.'
'I can't stand all the hanging around, waiting for the tiniest morsel of news. And then they never tell you anything you want to know. I'll just tell Harry to ring us when he knows something.'
'You're being silly.'
'I'm not. I have commitments. I have to go to Newcastle. We're in Liverpool tomorrow, I was going to see them then anyway.'
'It might be too...' I hesitate. 'They need you there today. Tomorrow might be too late.'
George stops pacing, his back to me. 'Then I can't help that.'
'Yes, you can. We're going now. I'm not going to let you miss it, George. You won't forgive yourself.'
George doesn't move.
'Get ready. We're going now,' I tell him, firmly.
'Hannah, I'm not,' he says, very quietly.
I pick the other holdall bag up from the floor and start to transfer some of the things that fell out of the other bag into it. George turns around and stands, watching me. I know he's scared, and I understand the urge to run away from that which frightens you very well, but I won't let George make the same mistake I've made many times, out of fear.
'Stop it,' George says, taking a small step towards me.
I ignore him and go to pack the things from beside the bed.
'Hannah, stop,' George insists.
I pick up the hairbrush, George's wallet, makeup compacts and perfume bottles and push them upright into the side of the bag, hoping they won't leak or spill.
'I said, no! We're not going,' George says, moving to my side. He makes a grab for the bag. I pull it out of his way.
'If you don't go, you will regret it,' I tell him, levelly. 'We're going to Liverpool to be with your family. If it's all too much to think about, then we'll do one thing at once. It's easier like that, trust me. So, first, I'll finish packing. You just find your coat, the short, melton one, because it's cold today and see if the car keys are in the pocket--'
George snatches the bag from me. 'We're not fuckin' going and that's final!' he snarls at me. 'We're going to Newcastle. We're going to the gig!'
'George, we're not.'
He glares at me and then turns the bag upside down, shaking it, depositing the contents all over the bed and the floor. When it's empty, he chucks it at my feet.
'I'm not fucking going,' he repeats.
I ignore him. Calmly, I pick the bag up again and slowly start to repack it.
'Be told, will you! I'm not going to Liverpool!'
'Yes, you are.'
'You go then, if you're so fucking keen. You can get there on your own though. I'm not taking you.'
'Georgie, I know you're frightened but--'
'I'm not frightened, Hannah! I'm not a bloody child! Stop ordering me around like you're my--' He stops himself. 'Just stop bloody packing, will you?' He snatches the bag from me again and throws it to the top of the bed, out of my reach.
'Calm down,' I tell him. 'Sit down for a minute and--'
'Why? Are you going to make more fuckin' tea?'
'Stop shouting at me.'
'I don't need you, you know, Hannah! I don't need you here. I don't need you to look after me and tell me what you think I should do... In fact, go home. I don't want you here anymore.'
I sigh. 'Come on, George. You know you have to go. We both know you will.'
'They're not your parents. They're not your family. None of this is anything to do with you,' George says, viciously. 'I've had enough of you. I've had enough of your... your bloody nervous breakdowns and your fussing and fucking nagging! Go home and pack your stuff. I want you gone from there by the time I get back.'
I stare at him in silent shock, but my heart beats so loud I'm sure he can hear it. George blinks at me, almost as stunned by his words as I am.
'Okay,' I breath, eventually, the word barely audible.
George doesn't move, still hard and stoic for a beat, but then he crumples before me. I think for a moment he's going to cry, but instead he grabs my arm and moves into me, wrapping himself around me. 'No, Han, I'm sorry,' he says, putting his head on my shoulder. 'Don't go, I didn't mean it.'
Gingerly, a little dazed, I put my hands on his back and hug him.
'Don't leave me, Hannah, please,' he says, choked.
'I'm not going to,' I say, quietly, holding him, rubbing his back and smoothing his hair.
'I'm sorry, love. I don't know what I'm saying. I feel like I'm... like I'm sinking. Something's pulling me down and the more I struggle, the worse it gets. I don't know what's happening to me.'
'It's okay.' I kiss the top of his head. 'I know.'
'I do need you, love,' George says, coughing. 'Very, very much.'
I smile, faintly. 'I'm not going anywhere, Georgie. I'm going to be here, all the time. I promise.'
He sniffs. 'I can't go there, Han. I don't think I can face it.'
I squeeze him tighter. 'You can, George. You have to. They need you and you... You need to go. You need to see your mum.'
'I have to play tonight,' he says, weakly.
'Love...'
He draws his head back to look at me. 'What if she... What if it's bad, Han?'
I take a moment to chose my words. 'You need to go and see her. You'll regret it if you don't. I'll be there, with you. I'll do anything you want me to, but I won't let you go to Newcastle with Delaney. You have to come with me to Liverpool today.'
'But I can't watch it happen, Hannah. I can't watch my dad fading away from the grief and my mum... Sometimes she doesn't even know who I am. What if they can't help her? What if she... dies?'
My heart breaks for him. Gently, I take him to the bed and we sit on the side of it together.. 'My mother died when I was small. I never got to say goodbye to her. I can't even clearly remember the last time I saw her.' I smile, wanly and take his hand. 'If they can't help her, and something does happen, Georgie, where do you want to be? Playing your guitar on a stage somewhere in Newcastle or with your family, by her side?'
George doesn't reply for a moment. 'Okay,' he says, finally, in a small voice. 'We'll go home.'
*
George's mother has been diagnosed with a brain tumor. I think we all might have guessed it could have been something like that, but no one had dared use the word yet. By the time we arrive at Aintree hospital, they're already operating. George's father is ashen with worry. George clicks back into his usual self, trying to be positive and strong for the others, but I can see the toll it's taking on him. He wears it like a shirt.
The following day Bonnie and Delaney and the friends arrive in Liverpool. They call as soon as they arrive but George doesn't go to meet them until the actual gig. I go along to support him again, watching him from the wings of the stage. He seems more subdued during the show, even though I thought he'd like to play Liverpool again. The band has been trying to convince him to sing. George has resisted so far, but he relents for Liverpool. He won't perform a Beatles song, he chooses Everybody's Trying To Be My Baby, one of the covers he used to sing in the early days, and also one of the Carl Perkins records he likes to play for Bobbie occasionally.
He lifts his head and smiles at me a couple of times, a sad, melancholy sort of smile and I wonder if there is more than just thoughts of his mother running through his mind.
We go out with the band again after the show. Walking through the streets of Liverpool brings back so many memories; good and bad. Neither of us talk about it, but the way George holds onto me tells me he knows what I'm feeling.
We eat and find another pub and George introduces his American friends to Newcastle Brown Ale after they tell him they went to Newcastle and didn't sample some.
They laugh at him and one of them brags, 'I'm from Texas, George! I was practically weaned on hard liquor! I can drink a pint of Whiskey and stay standing!' He's the first one to keel over after a few of bottles of "Newky Brown".
'Don't worry,' Delaney laughs, as he and Eric pull him to his feet. 'They won't serve this in Copenhagen. You'll be safe there.'
'Copenhagen?' I say to George, quietly. 'Copenhagen in Denmark?'
'Yeah, the... uh, the tour ends there,' he replies, stiffly.
'You didn't mention that before.'
'I must have done.'
'No, you definitely didn't. Five or six dates around England, you said.'
'There's Croydon tomorrow and then three nights in Copenhagen. I'm sure I told you that.'
'What about Bobbie?!'
'What about her? Bobbie's fine isn't she? Emma's taking care of her.'
I haven't any energy left to argue with him. I leave him with his friends and go back to his parent's house. I don't know what time George gets home that night because he sleeps on the camp bed in the attic, alone.
The next day, when the band travel south for Croydon, they drop me off at a roadside cafe to meet Dennis. He takes me home and back to Bobbie, without George.
*
Everything is such a rush in the morning, I don't pause to think about what I'm doing until I'm there. I hold Bobbie's carry cot over one arm, the big, black furry coat draped over my other arm and my old holdall bag, bigger than the ones I took on tour with us, packed with fresh, clean clothes on my shoulder. I don't know if I should be doing this. I don't know if it's the right thing.
I stop outside the door. The glass round the room is partially frosted, but I can see him standing at the far end, talking with Delaney and a couple of the others.
Beside me, Mal carrying the other bag for me, gives me a nudge. 'Go on, love,' he says, as if he can read my mind. 'Just go over there and tell him.'
I step inside the first class lounge of London Airport and approach George. He has his back to me. I'm nervous. What if he doesn't want me here? He barely spoke after I told him I was going home. He didn't call after the gig last night.
George is speaking. I wait for him to finish before I announce I'm here.
'--I'm sorry to do this so last minute,' he says to Delaney. He sounds tired and depressed. Hungover after yet another night of drinking, possibly. 'I should have said something back at the hotel.'
'No, no,' Delaney says. 'I completely understand, man. You've got a lot going on at the moment.'
'I'm sorry to let you down like this.'
'You're not. Honestly. It's been great having you along. I appreciate it.'
'It wouldn't feel right,' George continues. 'I've thought about it, but I can't go, I can't be in another country while she's... Hannah doesn't want to be so far away from Bobbie for so long. Bobbie's my daughter. I think I'd better go home to them.'
'Dagh!' Bobbie says loudly when George says her name, recognising his voice.
George turns around. He's wearing his huge block sunglasses again. Two large rectangular lenses that cover half his face. I smile hopefully, but he doesn't return it.
'Hi,' I say to him. 'Um... Surprise!'
Nothing. No smile, no words. The people behind him diplomatically move over to the other side of the lounge.
'Bobbie and I were wondering if we could tag along with you to Denmark?' I continue, brightly. 'Don't worry. I will look after Bobbie and you can carry on with whatever you're doing. So I probably won't come to the aftershow parties with you, but I'll be there for the shows and before and for whatever else. Maybe... Maybe you might have time to come and sightsee with us one day? We could do something nice together?'
Still no response. His bottom lip twitches, but otherwise he's completely still. I glance at Mal, still standing behind me.
'Oh, uh, why don't I take the bags?' Mal says, lifting my holdall from my shoulder for me. 'Here, Han, give me yours love. Cor, this weighs a ton, girl. You're stronger than you look!' He laughs, tinnily, and patting George's arm, disappears, taking the bags with him.
I set Bobbie's carry cot down on a nearby lounge chair. 'I brought your big coat,' I tell George, placing the black fur coat next to Bobbie. 'I checked the weather in Copenhagen and it was around five degrees, but it might drop to freezing overnight...' My voice trails away. 'And, um... I called your dad before I left. He says your mum seems a lot better.'
I turn around to face him again. He hasn't moved.
'Are you angry with me, George?'
He hasn't got a reply for me.
'If you want me to leave, just say so,' I say, flatly, my spirits ebbing away.
George wets his lips, but still he doesn't say anything.
'You could at least answer me,' I tell him, annoyance flaring. 'Stop being so childish and take those damn sunglasses off. It's hard enough to guess what you're thinking without them in the way. Do you want me here or do you want me to go home?'
He still doesn't move. I step over to him and lift the sunglasses up for him, pushing them onto his forehead. Underneath, George's eyes are not cold and grim, like I expected. They're soft. Soft and sorry and glad.
'Here,' he says, quietly. He blinks a couple of times, wraps his arms around me and kisses me.
≈ • ≈ • ≈ • ≈ • ≈
George backstage at Birmingham Town Hall with Eric Clapton, Bonnie and Delaney Bramlett, 3rd December, 1969.
George at Copenhagen Airport, 10th December, 1969
George (and Rocky) performing with Delaney and Bonnie and Friends, Copenhagen, 10th December 1969.
George (and Lucy, the guitar given to him by Eric Clapton) performing with Delaney and Bonnie and Friends, Copenhagen, 10th December 1969.
I've just included these pics as I think they're beautiful!
≈ • ≈ • ≈ • ≈ • ≈