Teardrops - so hard to take - I got a soaking
with those
Teardrops - and it feels like I have taken over from
the rain.
I don't look up before I finish singing. I can't. I can't watch anyone watching me sing. With coaching and gentle encouragement from George, I'm a little better than I was - I couldn't have imagined doing even this a few months ago - but I'm still cripplingly self conscious. I don't really know when it happened. I knew I wasn't performing well when I sang with Ricky - he let me know often enough - but I still did it. I went on stage every night and I battled through. Similarly, I sang with Minnie when we were working on the album, but somehow I didn't feel under such pressure then. I stopped when I went to Whitby and when I was pregnant with Bobbie, and after I'd had her, it just seemed insurmountable to start again.
I did the whole song, albeit quite short, concentrating on the note page of scribbled lyrics I copied down from the tape as Minnie sang them. Nervously, I look up. It's the first in over eighteen months that I've sung someone other than George, but he's not even listening.
John sits in front of his brown upright piano, lost in his own world. He has his hands on the keyboard, lightly touching the keys as if he's playing, but not actually pressing them down enough to produce any sound. He has his head bowed, a far-away look on his face.
'So, what do you think?'
John looks up, startled. He takes a deep breath, sucking in air through his nose like he's just jolted awake from a bad dream. 'Yeah,' he says, gruffly. 'Sounds good, Spanner. What... What's that one again?'
'Nothing But A Heartache. It'll be the Raindrops style song.'
He nods, but it doesn't seem to register with him. He looks down at the piano again, then removes his hands and lets them drop heavily into his lap.
I go over to the piano, placing my lyric notes on top of it. 'You'd have to hear the tape of Minnie singing it to get the full effect,' I tell him. 'She sings it with so much... power. Honestly, John, it's brilliant. I don't know when she recorded it.'
'Where's the tape?' he asks, still with his eyes on the piano keys.
'At Abbey Road. Geoff made me a copy on a reel to reel tape. I should have brought it, I didn't think.'
'Geoff?'
'Geoff Emerick. The engineer.'
'Oh,' John says. 'Right. Yeah, he's alright, Geoff.' He glances up and nods at me, vaguely. He's quiet today. Distracted. He's only been back in England a few days, having come home a little earlier than planned from LA. He's probably still jet-lagged.
'It's a proper old style Raindrops song. All tears and broken hearts.'
'Yeah. It... sounds it.'
'Me and Cat will sing the backing. Bet too, hopefully. I suppose we'll have to go over there to do it. I can't really ask the both of them to fly over to London just to sing "Teardrops! Heartaches!" for a two and a half minute record.' I grin.
He nods again, not really listening. He is tired, but that's not what's bothering John. I know it isn't. I wanted to do this today. It felt fitting to me. But I shouldn't have assumed he'd feel the same.
'You should do it at Trident,' he says. 'Use the eight track there.'
'We should.'
He looks up again and squints at me. He hasn't got his glasses on. 'What?'
'We should use Trident. We're doing it together, aren't we?'
Yoko pushes the door to the studio open with a degree of difficulty. The carpenters have only just put it on, but it needs taking off again and another half inch shaving off the bottom. It drags on the rug underneath it and refuses to open fully. She has to squeeze inside sideways.
This is John's new home studio, built in two rooms at the back of Tittenhurst Park. He brought a "studio designer" in to create it for him. He says it's so he's doesn't have to rely on booking slots at Abbey Road or Trident all the time, and so the EMI executives won't nag him constantly about making more "commercial" records. I think it's more to do with avoiding a certain old bandmate of his.
The studio is nearly finished, but not suitable for recording yet. Once it's ready, work for John's new album with the Plastic Ono Band will start. That's why I'm eager to have him work on Minnie's album, before he gets distracted by other things. He's also named it Ascot Sound Studios. ASS. Very John-like.
Yoko crosses to stand behind John and puts her hands on his shoulders. Unusually, he tenses and shrugs her off. I've never seen John do something like that before. Instead she moves to the side of him and drapes her arm over the end of the piano, fixing me with her dark eyes. It strikes me suddenly, is Yoko suspicious of what John and I do together? George gets jealous, even though he denies it. I can tell by how he acts when the three of us are together. He always ensures he stands close to me, territorial arm around my waist. Yoko is like that with John.
'What did you think to it?' I ask John, averting my eyes, as if I'm guilty of something.
'Think to what?' John asks.
'The song. Did it sound alright?'
'Yeah, it'll do,' he says, dismissively.
'What is the song?' Yoko asks, her voice taking on a sing-songy tone.
'Hannah's new song,' John answers. 'For her album.'
'For Minnie's album,' I correct. 'It will be Minnie singing the song. I'll just sing the backing. So long as we can make it work.'
'You did an alright job of it yourself,' John says, spinning around on his piano stool, putting his back to Yoko. It was just an off-hand comment, but it makes me pause.
'Did you really think so?' I ask.
'I wasn't aware you were a singer, Hannah,' Yoko says.
'Uh, yes. Well, I used to be.'
'Yes, you were aware,' John says, sharply, twisting his neck to look at her. 'You know that. I've told you that. Hannah and Minnie sang in a group in the US. Hannah was the lead singer.'
'I wasn't--' I protest automatically, but John is too busy glaring at Yoko and no one is listening. There's definitely an atmosphere between them. I wonder if they've had a fight?
Yoko turns her head to me deliberately, ignoring John. 'I meant you don't sing now, do you, Hannah?'
'No, I... I stopped when I had Bobbie.'
'That's a pity.' She smiles tightly. She casts her eyes over John. 'Um, John, I thought we'd talked about this?'
'Yes,' John says, head down over the piano again. 'We did.'
'I thought we'd agreed we have more, um, important, pressing work to be completed before we take on any pet projects.'
'Don't worry,' I tell her, sunnily. 'It shouldn't interfere with anything else. George is working on it with me too, but only around his own album. After he's finished his sessions or--'
'It's not a fuckin' pet project,' John interrupts, anger edging his voice. 'It's Minnie's project. Minnie's album.'
Yoko's smile has frozen. 'I understand that, John, but we have our own album that will need your attention. Will you have time to do... both?'
'I'm not doing anything on it,' John says, sulkily. 'I've told you, I'm just helping Hannah. Giving her advice.'
That's news to me. I thought he had agreed to do it with me. I hadn't asked if he wanted his name on it yet, but I'd assumed he'd play on it and be quite heavily involved. I gather my notes from the top of the piano and step away, going to where I left my bag on the other side of the room. Yoko and John whisper to each other and I try to pretend I'm not listening.
I wish I'd brought Bobbie with me. I left her at home so we could do some work without distraction, but she's a great excuse to leave a room when you need to. Thoughts of Bobbie make me worry. It's the first day I've been away from her since George's mother's funeral. I haven't dared let her out of my sight before today.
John slams the lid of the piano and I jump. As I turn around, he's standing, Yoko a short distance from him with her arms folded. They stare at each other and then John turns to me.
'I'm not in the mood for playing today,' he says. 'Where did you say Minnie's tape was?'
'At Abbey Road.'
'Let's go there and listen to it then.' He steps away from Yoko.
'I don't believe the driver is here at the moment,' Yoko says.
'We can visit George, see how his sessions are going too,' John says, ignoring her. 'I need to talk to Phil anyway.'
'Phil won't be there,' I say. 'He fell over and broke his arm, so he'd gone back to California for a while.'
'He broke his arm?!'
'Yes, I wasn't there, but I think he tripped and fell funny.'
'So what's George doing?'
'He's just continuing on his own for now. He's going to send the rough mixes over for Phil to listen to shortly.'
'Well, let's go and see how he's getting on then, shall we?'
'Les isn't here today,' Yoko tries again. 'You won't be able to--'
'Then I will drive myself,' John snaps, rounding on her. 'And maybe I won't come back.'
Yoko immediately stops speaking and there's an uncomfortable moment while they glare at each other.
'You have given up driving,' Yoko says, evenly. 'Since the car accident.'
'Um, Dennis is here,' I say, quietly. 'He can take us to Abbey Road.'
John spins round and claps his hands together. 'Perfect, Spanner! Let's go.' Without waiting for either me or Yoko, John stalks out, though his dramatic exit is dampened by the way he has to squeeze sideways through the door.
*
'Where shall I wait, Miss?' Dennis says, as he parks the white Austin Maxi at the front of Abbey Road Studios.
I twist round in my car seat to John, sitting in the back. 'Will you need a lift home?'
John shakes his head but doesn't turn away from the window. He's not said a single word for the whole journey here.
'That's okay then, thanks, Dennis,' I reply. 'You don't have to wait for us.'
Dennis seems annoyed. His smile doesn't shift, but he narrows his eyes a little and a muscle in his neck twitches involuntarily. 'Are you sure that's... wise, Miss?'
Since the flowers arrived, Dennis has hardly left my side. He's definitely keeping his promise to Bobby to take care of me. He's even stayed over at the house a couple of nights, to George's confusion.
I haven't told George. Dennis said he thought he could look after things himself, he didn't think it was a good idea to burden George with it. He's right, I suppose. George is still grieving for his mother, and he's so busy with his album at the moment. Nothing else has happened since that day. I don't want to worry him unduly.
'I'll be fine here,' I say, quietly. 'Why don't you go back to the house and see if Emma is okay?'
Dennis pauses. 'If... that's what you want.'
In the back of the car, John opens the door and steps out, slamming it.
'Hannah, I don't know if I should leave you alone--' Dennis starts.
'I'd be happier if I knew someone was there for Bobbie,' I say. 'Just in case anything happens. Bobbie is the most important one.'
Dennis chews his cheek. 'Yes. Of course she is.'
'Thank you.'
'Shall I come back and collect you later?'
'No, that's alright. I'll come home with George. Actually, Dennis, you've been such a help these last couple of weeks, why don't you take the weekend off?'
'It's Thursday, Hannah.'
'Have a long weekend then. George's Dad is coming to visit. I'm sure we'll be fine for a couple of days.'
'You...' He stops himself and grips the steering wheel tightly. 'Can't be too careful,' he finishes. I don't think that's what he was going to say.
'Yes, I know,' I say. 'Thank you for everything you've done, Dennis. I do appreciate it.'
He turns his head to me and smiles. A genuine, warm smile for once. I know he's been trying to help me, but him staying so close to me all the time has driven me nuts. I've been short tempered with him and snapped at him more than once. I feel sorry for that now. I've always doubted his story about Bobby for some reason, but he's been nothing but kind and loyal to me. I feel a brief wave of affection for him, and I'm about to apologise for being such a pain when his eyes drift downwards, over me, settling on my legs. It's August now, and still warm. I'm wearing a short skirt and it must have ridden up when I got into the car.
'Thanks, I'll see you later,' I say, quickly and get out of the car. I wish he wouldn't do that. It almost feels like he's touching me, rather than just looking. It makes me uncomfortable.
I look round for John. He's talking to a couple of the girls waiting at the car park gate. I can't talk to George about the flowers, but maybe I could talk to John? It would help to have someone else to share it with, and John's so practical about these things. People take the mickey out of him when he goes on about world peace, but really, inside, he's quite realistic and down to earth over matters like this. If I tell him, he will either say it's stupid and I'm being paranoid or else if he thinks it's serious, he'll tell me what to do. John might be the ideal person to ask for advice.
I fasten the buttons of my shirt up to the collar and go to wait for him inside the building.
*
'What do you want?' George says, briskly, but smiling. He blocks the entrance to the studio with his slender body, his arm behind the back of the door, stopping us from pushing it open.
'To come in,' I reply, suspicious.
'What for?' George raises his eyes to John, standing behind me, but John's not amused. He sighs, annoyed and turns his head to look down the corridor.
'We want to listen to the tape,' I say. 'I want to play Minnie's song for John.'
'Well, you can't. Not in here.'
'George, stop messing around--'
'We're busy. We booked this studio. Go get your own bloody studio.' His words are harsh, snappy, but there's a sly smile on his lips that he's desperately trying to hide. He's up to something.
'We'll be five minutes. We're not going to disturb you. We've come all the way from Tittenhurst--'
'Listen to it somewhere else then.'
'The tape is in there! With you!'
'Fuck it, Hannah,' John says, wearily. 'Let's just go.'
George glances at John, sticking his tongue in his cheek. 'You heard the man,' he says to me.
'What are you doing?'
'None of your business.'
'George, come on. We only want to listen to the tape. Give it to me and we'll take it somewhere else then.'
George sighs like this is a huge imposition. 'Right, okay. Wait there.' And with that, he shuts the door in my face.
I twist my neck to look at John. He'd normally laugh or make a joke or something, but he's stoney-faced. 'What's going on?' he asks.
I shrug. 'Some skullduggery.' Without waiting for an invite, I put my hand on the door and push it open. Before we can step inside, it's stopped, a foot behind it, and Ringo blocks the way now.
'Hello Hannah,' he says, a wide, cheeky smile on his face. 'Hey, John. When did you get back from the states?'
John frowns. 'A few days ago. What's going on?'
'Oh, you know. Nothing much. It's been quiet.' He looks behind him.
'Open the door then, man.'
He gives a small shake of his head. 'Sorry. Can't.'
'Why not?'
'Red lights on,' he says, jerking his head towards the large bulb over the door, the painted black sign above it stating "Recording in progress when lit. No entry." 'Can't come in while the red light is on. You should know that by now.'
John steps backwards to look at it. 'It's not on.'
'Oh.' Ringo leans back and says something to someone unseen in the room behind him. The red light is flicked on. 'It's on now,' he says to us.
There's a burst of noise from within the room. --nothing but a heartache every day, nothing but a teardrop all of the-- Minnie singing. It stops as abruptly as it started.
'Sorry!' George calls.
I look at John. He glances at me and then cast his eyes away and steps back to lean his weight against the corridor wall, folding his arms over his chest.
'Ringo, I don't know what's going on but just open the door.'
'You can't come in,' he says, patiently. 'We're recording something. Something for John.'
'Ringo!' George scolds him from inside the control room.
Ringo gives me a wry smile.
'Well, let me in then.'
Ringo leans back again, checking with his boss. 'Alright,' he says, opening the door wider by just a few inches. 'Hannah only then.'
'Wait here,' I tell John. 'I'll get it.'
Ringo lets me in the room and shuts the door on John. George is taking the tape off the reel to reel recorder. 'Here,' he says. 'Take it and listen to it in the editing room or somewhere.'
'What are you doing?'
'Ringo and me are making a record for John's birthday,' he says, his voice hushed. 'Don't spoil the surprise.'
'It's not his birthday for weeks.'
'Well, these things take time, don't they?' He passes the tape to me. 'It's just a daft thing.'
'That's what you're doing? Today of all days?'
He gives me a thin smile. 'What better day?' he asks. Then stepping closer to me so he can speak without anyone else hearing. 'The here and now and the future, Han. That's what we're concentrating on, isn't it?'
'Yes,' I say, testily. 'Just, I thought you had important work to do in this expensive studio time. You'll have EMI down here again. They're already anxious because you're running so far over.'
'Yes, I know, thanks. It's one afternoon. It's not going to break the bank,' he argues, then puts a hand on either arm and kisses me quickly, the tape canister pressing into us between our bodies.
'You were going to work on this with me today.'
'I will do still. We'll finish here and I'll come and get you.'
'Okay,' I say, reluctantly, as George releases me. I step over to the door. 'Don't be long messing about then.'
'Yes, Miss,' George says and gives me a wink before I open the door.
The corridor outside is deserted. John's disappeared.
*
Abbey Road studios isn't that big, it's possible to walk around it in a few minutes but I can't find John anywhere. I search, clutching my precious tape to my chest. He's not in any of the studios or editing rooms. He's not in the canteen or the offices upstairs. I ask at the front reception in case he got fed up and left, but Helen, the girl on the desk there, says he hasn't come past.
I'm about to give up and go back to George's studio when I remember the day I ran up to the roof and John was there. I wonder if that's something he does often. Where does a Beatle go when he wants to be on his own?
The door to the stair at the back of the building looks promising. It's a fire exit with a large 'THIS DOOR MUST BE KEPT CLOSED AT ALL TIMES' painted on it in tall block letters, but it's been left ajar, the stairwell dark inside. I slip through and run up the four flights of steps to the roof. The door at the top is closed and locked from the inside. No one has gone out there today.
I admit defeat - John must have left and no one saw. It's understandable if he's not really himself today. I wanted to work and keep myself busy, but John is clearly not of the same opinion. I go back down the stairs, disheartened. I'm about to step through the door into the corridor which leads back to the studios when something catches my eye. There are steps which go down from this stair well too. A single flight of metal steps to the basement of the building. There's no light in here. It's dark and shadowy and I never noticed when I came in, the familiar shape sitting on the stairs to the basement.
He has his back to me, squashed over to the side of the steps, hunched and huddled up like a beggar sheltering under a railway bridge. It's such an un-John-like posture that I wouldn't have thought it was him if it wasn't for the battered old denim jacket on his back. He seems to live inside it currently.
'John?' I say.
He doesn't respond. Doesn't even look round.
'I've got the tape. Want to come and listen?'
Nothing. This is odd. I walk down the fives steps towards him cautiously, stopping on the one just above him.
'I, um... If you don't feel like doing this today, we could go somewhere else. There was something I wanted to ask you about, actually... Your advice. Not to do something for me this time,' I laugh, hollowly, but John still doesn't answer me. It's as if he can't hear me.
I step down one more stair so I am level with him. John has his knees pulled up, his arms are folded over the top of them and his forehead rests on them, hiding his face.
'I've been looking for you everywhere. What... What are you doing?'
He mumbles something but it's muffled, lost in the fabric of his jacket.
'Are you alright?'
John lifts his head and I lean backwards, I'm so surprised.
'Didn't you hear me? Fuck off!' he growls, and jerks his head towards the top of the stairs. 'Go back up there. Go back to your pathetic fuckin' life and leave me alone.'
I stare at him, speechless.
His lip curls in a snarl. 'I don't know why you always fuckin' hang round me,' he spits at me. 'Can't you take the bloody hint? You buzz around me like a demented bluebottle all the fuckin' time and I'm sick of you! I don't want you here. I don't want to be your soddin' friend, and I don't want to do your blasted album!'
'I'll... go then,' I say, still stunned. I step up onto the stair behind me.
'Good. Yes. Fuckin' do that.' He turns away from me and puts his forehead back on his arms, hiding his face again. He jerks. His whole body shudders, just once, as if an electrical current went through him.
I stand, ambivalent. It's not the first time I've witnessed John's aggression; his vicious tongue and quick temper. I've seen it quite frequently over the years. It comes out when he's threatened, or when he's scared or confused or hurt. It's his main defence tactic and it works. It sends people running from him, cursing him and calling him names, especially if they don't know him well. It's what his behaviour is designed to do. Push people away from him.
I take a deep breath and return to his side, sitting down on the step so we're next to each other, side by side.
'Will you fuck off, Spanner?!' he repeats, his words muffled again by his sleeve.
I bite my lip and stay where I am. 'No,' I reply, quietly. 'No, I'm not going anywhere.'
It's not his nasty words or sudden shift in demeanor which shocked me. It's how he looked when he raised his head. He ignores me, so I put my arm around his back, and try to pull him into me. He resists, refusing to raise his head, refusing to move.
'John...' I say, softly.
'Piss off.'
'It's the day, isn't it? We shouldn't have come here today.'
'What fucking day is it? It's just a Thursday. A meaningless Thursday.'
I sigh and put my head on his shoulder.
He shrugs and tries to shove me with one arm without raising his head. 'Get off me. I'm not doing your soddin' album, so you might as well give up now.'
'You don't have to,' I tell him. 'Not if you don't want to.'
'Please, just go, Hannah. I don't want you here.'
I take my arm back, wondering if I should leave him, but knowing that I can't. I put it around his shoulders again and lean over awkwardly so I can plant a kiss on the back of his head where he still rests it on his arms.
Finally, he looks up at me. 'Christ, you're irritating, Spanner. Why can't you leave me alone when I ask you?'
I smile. 'Because you didn't ask, did you? You yelled.'
'Doesn't that tell you something?'
John blinks and unfolds his arms. He lifts his glasses to wipe his eyes on the cuff of his jacket. It wasn't his words that shocked me. It was him, when he looked at me; his face and his eyes red, uncontrollable tears streaming down his face.
'How do you stand it, Hannah? Doesn't every little thing remind you of her? How do you listen to her voice and not...' He sniffs and hastily attempts to dry his tears, but then when he takes another gasping sob, one he was trying to swallow and failed, I can see he's struggling.
I didn't anticipate this. I never would have anticipated a weeping, emotional John, but I also didn't anticipate that doing this project, finishing Minnie's album, could produce this effect on him. I'd thought, on the whole, John had handled Minnie's death well. I know he was sad, grieving for her, and we've spent hours talking about her, but at no point has he broken down in tears, even when I have.
'I like it,' I tell him. 'I like listening to her tapes. I didn't think I would. I thought it'd be too upsetting so I didn't touch them for ages, but when I finally did... It does make me sad sometimes, but I think the joy of hearing her again, singing, talking, laughing - it outweighs that. It's... It's how I can live with it. Like you said, the grief doesn't go away, but you have to get used to it, don't you?'
He shakes his head. 'That's a load of shit, Han,' he sighs.
'But... you said...'
'I shouldn't have left her,' he says, coughing, choking on the words. 'Should I? How could I just... leave like that?'
We have talked about Minnie extensively, but rarely about this. The last time John saw her.
'You couldn't have known what would happen, and she asked you to go.'
'But I didn't have to, did I? I could have said no.'
'Even if you'd stayed, it might not have made a difference. What if you'd gone to sleep and when you woke...' I pause. 'I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked you to do this today. John, you don't need to do this at all, if you don't feel you can.'
'Fuck, Hannah. A year. It can't be a year already. I don't want it to be a year. I want it to be yesterday. I want to be able to reach her still. I need her to be close.'
I slip my hand into his, putting my head against his arm. John folds his fingers in between mine. 'She is still close, if you look for her,' I say, quietly. 'She's still here.'
It's a year tomorrow since we came home from Sardinia and I found Minnie. A year ago today is the last time John saw her. He spent the day with her, and then she asked him to go, so she could be alone for the night. Minnie gave him one last promise. A promise that she ultimately broke, unintentionally, but I think that broken promise also broke John's heart.
He exhales. 'Hell, Minnie, why did you have to go and do that?' he breathes, raising his eyes to the roof. He clears his throat and gathers himself, straightening his back.
'John, I'm sure... I am absolutely certain beyond any doubt that she would have...'
He shakes his head and puts his hand up to me. 'Don't say that, Spanner,' he says. 'I can't think about it anymore.'
I chew my lip. 'Okay.'
He reaches and pushes the tape in my arms away from my chest so he can see the label on it. 'Nothing But A Heartache,' he reads and gives me a small smile. 'I will listen to it... but not today.'
'That's what I'm going to call the album,' I say. 'After this song. I think it'll be the best one on there, so...'
'What about the other title?'
I shake my head. 'It was wrong of me to ask you that. It's too... personal. We won't call it that.'
'You can,' John says. 'If you want to.'
'No. No, Nothing But A Heartache will be a fine title.'
He pulls his hand from mine and stands up. 'This Time Tomorrow,' he says, testing the words in his mouth. He takes a packet of cigarettes from the pocket inside his denim jacket and lights one. The flame from his lighter is bright in the dark stairwell. He blows out a cloud of smoke and casts his gaze down on me. 'That's the last thing she said to me. The last thing she ever said, as far as either of us know. It's unfinished. Everything's unfinished. Minnie wasn't finished. Call it This Time Tomorrow.' He smiles. 'Minnie will come and find us this time tomorrow, Han. We just have to wait for tomorrow.'
He walks up the steps to the top. I stand up to follow him.
'I will do your album with you too,' John says, pausing at the top. 'But not now. Not today.' He pushes the door to the corridor open and steps though.
I run up the stairs after him. 'Where are you going?' I ask, drawing level with him as John walks quickly. 'Home?'
'No.'
'We could go somewhere, if you like. I've nothing to do except wait for George.'
'I don't like.'
'What?'
We reach the end of the corridor. John puts his hand on the door and stops. 'Han, you don't want to come with me.'
'Why? Where are you going?'
'To a bar. The most horrible, nasty fuckin' bar I can find, and then I'm drinking the nastiest fuckin' swill I can buy to get as pissed as I can, as fast as I can.'
I sigh. 'John, you shouldn't be on your own. Not today.'
'I won't be.'
'Who--'
'The nastiest fuckin' tart I can find.' He smiles, but it's not a nice smile. It's dangerous. It's destructive. I step back from him. John exhales. 'I'll be alright,' he says, softly. 'I'm not going to do anything stupid. Anything that stupid, anyway.'
'Okay.'
'Come round tomorrow, Spanner. We'll go through it then. Make it evening time though. Give me chance get over the hangover.'
And then John's gone, leaving me holding Minnie's tape, worrying about him.
*
'Hey,' George says, closing the editing room door behind him. 'Here you are.'
'Yeah,' I reply, as he kisses me. 'I thought I'd be out of the way in this cupboard.'
This is a tiny room on the second floor of Abbey Road, usually used by engineers for cutting and splicing tape and general tinkering, but there's a reel to reel recorder that I can use to listen to Minnie's tapes so I have been 'borrowing' it quite often recently.
There's a lot to listen to and try to log. The plan is to find two or three of Minnie's recordings, ones where she sings either without accompaniment or where we can extract it, and overdub them with other instruments and voices. 'Nothing But A Heartache' is the best one I've found so far. The song is an angsty soul song. Motown sounding. Not really the kind of thing Minnie usually sang, but she does it well. She'll sing the lead alone on this track. Me, and I hope, Cat and Bet will sing the backing for her.
'Finished your record thingie?' I ask George.
George sits down in the office chair next to mine. 'Yeah, it's just a little prezzie for John's thirtieth.'
'That'll be nice. He'll like that.'
'Where is he then?'
'Oh, he's gone.'
'Already?'
'Mmm. He wasn't feeling... very good.'
'Ah,' George says, knowingly. 'I suppose he wouldn't be today. And how are you feeling?'
I smile. 'I'm okay.'
George tips his head to the side but doesn't comment. 'So what have you been doing? Just waiting for me?'
'Pretty much.'
'Writing your diary?' He nods to my notebook, open on the desk in front of me.
'No, not my diary. It's um, about Minnie. The more I delve into all this stuff of hers - and the stuff John's told me - the more I realise there's things I never knew. I was writing something about it.'
'Well, I'm sure she didn't intend to keep things from you...' George says, carefully.
'Oh, she did and she didn't,' I reply, flippantly. 'It doesn't bother me now so much. I'm more curious about it all, really. All this stuff she did. I knew she couldn't have stopped singing altogether. She loved to sing. I'm only a singer because she was. Because she wanted us to do it. She never once doubted that we wouldn't be. Mum was, so Minnie reasoned it would be easy for us to do the same. We were so naive, but it worked!'
George laughs and looks down at himself.
'What?' I ask, smiling.
'Just nice to hear you call yourself a singer again.'
'Well, I suppose I am at the moment, even if it's only temporary. Just for this.'
He rests his elbow on the chair arm. 'Mmm, yeah, temporary,' George says, nodding, humouring me.
'It's just for this,' I tell him, gently.
'Well, we'll see.' He sits up and cranes his neck to look over my notes. I fight the urge to cover my writing up with my hands, as if he's trying to copy my homework. I've never shown anyone the things I've written before, except for when I gave George my diaries. I write every now and then, and not just my diaries, but I've never shown anyone.
'You could write the album notes. You'd be the best one to do it,' George says, settling back again. 'Though you look like you've got enough for a short book there.'
'Album notes?'
'Yeah, to say what it's about, what it's for. I think you should include something.'
'For... On what?'
'You know. For Minnie, to say what it's about and that. The blurb they put on the back of the LP sleeve.'
I frown and shake my head. 'There's not going to be an LP sleeve.'
George laughs. 'Then what are you going to put it in?'
'Put what in?'
'Hannah! The vinyl. The records!' he says, laughing at me like I'm being silly.
'But it's not going to be released. Not for people to buy in shops.'
He stares at me. 'Of course it is.'
'No, I don't want to release it commercially.'
He frowns. 'I thought that's what we were doing? Finishing the album?'
'We are, but I wasn't planning on releasing it. I just want to create the album - record the tracks, title it, and...' I shrug. 'I guess I could do an album cover, and write notes. I hadn't thought that far ahead.'
'Hannah,' George says, frustrated and sits forward in his seat. 'Then what are we doing it for if you're not going to release it?'
'Well, it's for... Minnie. Because I think she'd want to finish it, and so she has a record that's just her. It'll be just about her. She's not second fiddle in a singing group or just part of the chorus. She did record lead on some Raindrops tracks, but she was never satisfied with the results. Like the Maybe record I had them play at the funeral. I thought that was lovely, but Minnie couldn't see that it was any good.'
George moves to the edge of his chair, puts his hand on the back of my head and draws me into him for a kiss.
'What was that for?' I ask, as he stands up, taking my hand.
'Just because,' George says and tugs my arm to make me stand. 'Come on, we can't work on this tonight. Let's have dinner somewhere while Emma's still looking after Bobbie.'
I glance at my writing, then close the book, scoop it up and let George lead me out of the room.
*
As I come out of the ladies room, I stop and take a small step to the side. I need a moment to steel my nerve. That's what I went into the ladies room for in the first place, but staring in the circular mirror didn't offer me much more help than it did the first time we came here. I couldn't hide in there all night. George would have come looking for me again.
We're in the same Soho restaurant that we came to for our first 'date'. We thought it might be amusing to revisit the scene of the crime; the place where we started our affair, or maybe it would be more accurate to say that I did. I wonder if I could have known where starting down that path would lead, if I would still do it. One look at George across the restaurant and I know I would.
The restaurant hasn't changed much in the time that has passed. The decor is the same; the pillarbox red walls and carpet are still here, the red velvet upholstered seating with glossy black round dining tables. I don't think they've changed the menu either. There has been the addition of a singer to the side of the baby grand piano. She's a tall, curvy woman in an ankle length black dress and she has a fantastic vocal range. She's singing show tunes and old standards mostly, but she's very good. I couldn't stop watching her through dinner. Singing again has rejuvenated my interest.
George is watching her power her way through The Impossible Dream from the table we moved to after we finished eating. It's closer to the stage and a smaller, more intimate, 'cocktail' table. We have a booth seat in the corner at the far side of the stage. It's a curved, high backed seat, upholstered in blood red with a low circular, glass topped table. George and I finished eating a while ago and we're on our second round of Martinis currently. I already feel tipsy.
Using a tall, leafy plant in a gold pot as cover, I study George for a few moments, unseen.
George is alone, but never for long. Even though we're tucked into the corner in the hope of some privacy and anonymity, it's not escaped the attention of our fellow diners that there is a Beatle - sorry, ex-Beatle - in their midst. People wander past, taking the long route to their table to get a better look at him. Several stop to say hello and George smiles and nods to them as if he knows them. Some are braver and stick out their hand to him and try to strike up a conversation. They're out of luck tonight though. George isn't in the mood for it. He despatches them all without hesitation.
I used to do this when we were dating those short few months as teenagers. When I would go to meet him for our dates, George would have inevitably arrived first. He'd wait for me outside the cinema, or at the bus stop at the end of the street, or by the bandstand in the park. I would pause a few yards, before he saw me, and just watch him for a minute or two.
He was always moving. He couldn't stand still and wait. He'd pace up and down instead, or balance on the edge of the path or a kerb, arms out for balance like a tightrope walker, or else he'd kick around a stone or a piece of rubbish like it was a football. There was a 'freeness' about him then. A liberty which was taken for granted at the time, but is lost to him now. No one took a blind bit of notice of him back in Liverpool. No one looked at him twice, except for me.
As I watched him, I would testing my courage. With a little disbelief that I was even in this situation, I would test myself to see if I was brave enough to meet him and spend the evening with him at the movies or in a coffee bar, where we'd hold hands and kiss sweetly. He hadn't seen me yet, so if I was too afraid, I could turn around and leave. If someone had seen us and word had gotten back to my father then... Gosh, the thought of it still sends a cold shiver through me.
I never walked away. I would keep going towards him, scared and with every instinct inside me screaming Do NOT break this rule! When George turned and finally saw me, a wide grin would light up his face and all my apprehension would float away. He would take my hand and give me a kiss and I'd know it was the right thing to do. I was right to take the risk for him.
Tonight, George is still. I think it's part of his effort to be unnoticed. He's as still as stone in the booth, watching the singer and waiting for me to return. He doesn't wear many - or any - formal clothes anymore, but in deference to me and the occasion, he'd put a black cord blazer over the light blue western shirt he wore at the studios today.
There's something reflective about his stillness. Something he possesses now which he didn't when he was younger. Maybe it's his age. He's grown up and matured. He spends time thinking deeply about theology, ideology and other things. In days gone by, he might have been considered a philosopher. The musician and philosopher, George Harrison.
Or perhaps it's the result of everything that has happened to him which has stilled him, not least recent events. The experience of being a Beatle, past and present, has changed him. And no matter how much George insists on The Beatles being referred to in the past tense, they are still very current. So too the things I have put him through; these last twelve months and before that, and of course his mother's passing as well. All of these things have has an effect on George. They're all things he's had to cope with and he's tired of it. I know he is. He's worn out over the rows within the band, with me, with everything. He's been talking about going to India again, the place where he feels he can relax and find peace, but we're so busy, I can't see us going there this year.
I sigh, silently. I am testing my courage again now too.
I'm sorry, Georgie. There's one more thing we will have to weather first.
'Hi, gorgeous,' I say, neatly plonking myself into George's lap and looping my arms around his neck. 'Do you come here often?'
George starts, surprised, but instinctively he puts his arms out to steady me. I press my lips against his before he has chance to react. When I release him, he's laughing. 'What are you doing?'
I trace my finger across his cheek, along the contour of his jaw and kiss him again briefly. 'If I said you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me?' I say, making him giggle in an almost shy way.
'Did you take something you shouldn't have while you were in that bathroom?' he asks.
I raise an eyebrow. 'Would I?'
'Well, I don't know. You were gone for ages and when you come back, you're... I'm not sure what you are.'
'I'm chatting you up,' I tell him. 'It just occurred to me that I'm allowed to do this now, so I'm making up for lost time.'
He laughs. 'There's no need. I'm already coming home with you.'
'Oh, George! Where's the fun in that?' I say, with mock exasperation.
'Okay then...' He lowers his voice. 'So seduce me, Hannah. Give me your best pick-up line.'
I consider for a moment. 'Hey, baby,' I drawl in the most alluring tone I can muster. 'Wanna come for a ride in my sports car?'
George laughs loudly. 'Han, that's lame!'
I move my head closer to his and take the fabric of the front of his shirt in a bunch. 'I'll let you do the gears.'
He grins, a flash of his elongated canine teeth that for reasons I can't fathom, I have always found terribly attractive on him. 'You don't drive a sports car, baby. You drive an Austin Maxi, and not very well at that.'
I lean back from him, feigning offence. 'Then I have to blame my teacher, don't I?'
'That's the best you can do, is it?' he asks, slyly and purses his lips. He shifts me in his arms, sitting back in our booth for privacy. Without speaking, he allows his liquid brown eyes, black pupils large in the low lighting, to wander over me, deliberately and slowly up my body, ending by staring deeply into my eyes. Without breaking his gaze, he trails his fingers down my arm lightly and then smooths the fabric of my skirt downwards, caressing my thigh beneath. The sensation makes me tingle. He darts his tongue across his bottom lip, moves his head closer to mine and I nearly lean into kiss him then and there. He is, worryingly, good at this.
He puts his mouth by my ear, making my breath catch, and whispers, 'Did you hurt yourself when you fell from heaven?'
I groan and pull away. 'Corny,' I tell him. 'Much too corny.'
He flashes a smile but immediately straightens his expression for a second try. 'Someone should call the police,' he says, in smooth, velvety tones. 'Because you just stole my heart...'
I laugh and slap his chest playfully. 'That's just as bad! Worse, in fact! You wouldn't really say something like that, would you?'
'Of course not!' He breaks into his trademark grin, instantly losing all his engineered suaveness. That smile is the same as it ever was. The smile he gave me when he saw me coming to meet him when we were teenagers is the same smile he has on his face now. No matter what happens, that never changes.
'You were doing well up until then,' I tease him.
'Oh? Got you going, did I?' he asks, lowering his voice again and slipping his finger tips under the hem of my skirt. I can't help it - I actually blush. I feel my cheeks growing hot and I have to look away from him. George puts his hand to my cheek and brings my head back round to him so he can kiss me.
'Shame I already called the babysitter,' I tell him, my fingers playing with one of the buttons on his shirt. 'We could have gone home early.' We originally planned to go home after we'd eaten, but it was nice being out with just George. We were having fun and I thought we both could do with a night out, so I rang Emma and asked her if she minded staying with Bobbie a little bit longer.
'We could slip into the bathroom here...'
'George!' I scold
'I'm joking!'
'I'm not sure you were.' I put my hand palm flat on his chest. 'You don't need chat up lines,' I say. 'All you need to say is, "Hi, I'm Beatle George."'
George's smile dims a little and I regret saying that. I kiss him on the lips, letting it linger until I feel him respond. I draw my head back and rest my arms on each of his shoulders. As deadpan as I can manage, I say, 'Baby, you're more beautiful than a hundred pink flamingos on a golf course.'
George laughs. 'What's that supposed to mean?'
'I have no idea. Some guy in a party said it to me once.'
'What guys have been chatting you up?' George says, with mock jealousy. 'And what parties are you going to without me?'
'None,' I smile. 'It was at a party years ago. We used to go to lots of them when we were on tour. After shows and things.'
'Hmm,' George says, suspiciously. 'I'm still not sure I like that. Guys trying to pull you and calling you a flamingo.'
I laugh. 'They were usually more interested in Minnie,' I tell him. 'That line about the ride in a sports car, that's what Vince Taylor said to her when she first met him.'
'I bet they weren't solely interested in Minnie,' George says, but the mood has shifted. The mention of her name sobered us both.
I take a breath and shake it off. 'Do you remember coming here?' I ask to change the subject, glancing around the room. 'It's not changed much, has it?'
'Yeah, I remember.'
'We had a chaperone that night.'
'Well, he didn't do his job, did he?'
'Oh, poor Terry!' I laugh. 'He stuck it out as long as he could. You were torturing him!'
'What did I do?!'
'After, when he'd gone, it was raining and we ducked into that crowded hotel bar. That's where I kissed you. In public, at that. Anyone could have seen us! You swore at me!'
George smiles, lazily. 'Yeah, you did, didn't you? You kissed me. You started everything with that.'
'It had begun before then.' I laugh.
George tips his head to one side. 'It was all you that night.'
'I think you were there,' I say, sardonically.
George opens his mouth to reply, but pauses. 'Oh,' he says, not as an acknowledgement, more as if he's just had a realisation.
'What?'
He gives a small shake of his head. 'Nothing, just... something I should have thought about a long time ago.'
'What?'
George smiles, but he won't say any more. I move to get off George's lap, but he still has his arms around me, his hands locked together, and he won't let me up. He kisses me again, and this kiss is a slow, loving.
'What did Emma say when you called her?' George asks.
'She said okay,' I tell him. 'She has her boyfriend with her, so I don't think she minded too much.'
'Emma has a new boyfriend?'
'No, he's the same one as before. Billy, Dennis's brother,' I tell George, cagily. I'm not sure what he'd think to someone neither of us have met being at the house, but I encouraged Emma to invite him. Emma's only a girl. She's smart, but she's still quite naive and immature. I'd rather there was a man there in case anything happens. The familiar malaise settles in my stomach again.
'Maybe we should be going home,' I say. I slip off George's lap, untangling myself from him. 'It's not as easy as before, is it?' I say, as I sit on the velvet seat next to him.
'What isn't?'
'I mean, it was difficult before, but at least we had spare time to do things. Now we can't go out for dinner without having to arrange a babysitter and how we're going to get home and everything.'
'Well, we were idiots, weren't we? We didn't make the most of it when we were still footloose and fancy free.'
He's joking, but I'm not sure there was ever a time when George and I were carefree.
'Sometimes I wish... I wish I could have a normal life.' George shifts in his seat, uncomfortable. I smile. 'With you, of course,' I say, rubbing his arm to reassure him. 'You and me, and Bobbie. I just wish we could have a regular, boring, normal life.'
'I wish that too, sometimes,' he says, quietly.
'George, there's something I need to talk to you about.'
George frowns, concerned, anticipating what I might say, but he stays silent. I sigh and avert my eyes, glancing around the room, settling on the singer on the stage. I can't watch his face when I speak about this sort of thing. I can't stand the look of disbelief in his eyes that he's unable to hide.
'I know you think I've lost my mind,' I say, carefully. The singer is reaching the climax of her song, loudly and dramatically. I have to raise my voice more than I would like to so George can hear. 'I know you think I'm going crazy but I have to tell you this because it affects all of us. You need to know so you're aware and you can be on the lookout for anything... unusual. I think... George, I think someone is watching us...'
He slips his hand into mine. I turn back to him, surprised. There's a soft sympathy in his eyes, that I wasn't expecting. He gives me a small smile.
'I'm sorry to do this while there's so much else going on. You've had to deal with your mum... But it's important, Georgie. I swear to you, on Bobbie's life, I am tell you the truth--'
'Han, it's alright...' he starts.
I put my hand up to him. 'Please, let me finish,' I say, desperately. 'You need to know. When we were at your parents house, and those flowers appeared in the kitchen from out of nowhere--'
'Han, love...'
'Please, just listen to me. I think someone has been watching us, or me, just me perhaps, and they have been leaving flowers anonymously. It's like a...'
'Hannah.'
'It's a threat, George. You have to believe me, because I scared something could happen. There was this article in the paper about boys who have run away from foster homes or who have--'
'Johan Eikeland,' George says, loudly, talking over me. 'That was your kid's name. That's the name he said to me in the backyard at Abbey Road.'
I stop, shocked into silence.
George grins, triumph in his eyes. 'It is, isn't it? He wasn't called Joey or Joseph like you thought. I asked what his name was and he kinda mumbled it, but fast. JohanEikeland, like it was one word. I knew it wasn't English sounding.
My name is not Joey.
He said often enough. I always just assumed that he didn't like to be called Joey, because it was too babyish sounding, not that he objected because it wasn't his real name. It should have occurred to me. I should have asked him what his name was.
'When did you remember?' I ask George, sounding dazed.
'I didn't,' George says, gleefully. He sits up and moves closer to me, putting an arm around my back. 'I couldn't remember for the life of me. But I did remember the boy. Your Joey, coming to the studio that day. And I remember asking his name and then thinking, fuck, don't ask for an autograph because I have no idea how to even start to spell that!' He laughs, but I can't raise a smile.
'So... how did you...'
'It's Norwegian apparently. That's where he was born. And I guess it makes sense, Johan. It's spelt with a J-O. Like Joe in English.'
'Johan...' I repeat.
He pulls me into him, squeezing me. 'Cheer up, Han. Don't you see? This means... It means you were right!'
I smile at that. My stomach is tying itself in knots, but George is right. We have a name now. We can go back to that Nipper Read and he'll have to take me seriously.
'I don't understand, George. How do you know...'
He leans in to speak quietly. 'A friend of a friend of Terry's, is a, uh, private investigator,' he explains. 'I asked Terry if he could ask him to... look into it for you.'
'Oh, George,' I cry, tears pricking my eyes.
He laughs. 'I know it sounds daft. People don't hire private eyes outside of spy movies, do they? But you were so adamant. I couldn't believe that you'd dreamed it up.'
'Oh, Georgie,' I say again and throw my arms around him again. 'When did you do this?' I ask, between quick, soft kisses, mixed with tears and laughter. 'Why didn't you tell me?'
'In case nothing came of it,' George says. 'I didn't want to get your hopes up in case the guy couldn't find anything. But I'm surprised you haven't noticed the letters arriving. He's been sending me updates every week in these big cream envelopes--'
'You don't think I'm crazy then! You believe me?!'
George's smile fades slightly. He kisses me again, covering it.
'We can go back to the police,' I say. 'They'll have to investigate and--'
'Well, um, yes, we'll go and give them his name,' George says, levelly. 'But, uh, Han... Johan Eikeland isn't dead. He went home, apparently. Back to Norway.'
He smiles, hopefully, but all the energy and joy drains out of me in an instant. 'What?'
'I asked that he make very sure,' George says, talking slowly, as if I can't understand him. 'The guy - Gabriel Hibson is his name. He's seen proof and he's sending me a copy next week.'
I shake my head. 'Joey couldn't have gone back to Norway.'
George straightens his back and slips his hand into me. 'He did, Han,' he says, firmly and squeezes my fingers. 'Mr Hibson has seen the flight list from the plane he took. Johan Eikeland, one way ticket to Oslo. He went home.'
I take my hand away. 'Joey is dead, George,' I say. 'I saw them murder him.'
George wets his lips and stifles a sigh. 'No, Han. He's not. I... I know you thought you saw something, but
you must have been mistaken. You ran away, didn't you? Maybe he was still alive and you didn't realise?'
'I never saw him again.'
'Well, he went home. I would go home if someone tried to kill me too!' He grins, but I can't join in.
I shake my head. 'In the paper you were reading the morning of your mother's funeral, they printed a photo of Joey. He ran away from his foster home when he was fifteen. His brother was in the paper saying he's looking for him. If he'd gone back to Norway-- Why? Why would he go there? He didn't have any ties, any family. He--'
George waves his hand for me to quiet down. 'Love, the investigator is sending us a copy. You can see for yourself in a few days.'
'Whoever was on that plane, it wasn't Joey.' Tears fill my throat and I choke back a sob. 'Oh, George, why can't you believe me? You have to see... I wasn't lying about Joey, and I'm not lying when I say he was killed...'
George moves closer to me again, putting his arm around my back. 'Sweetheart, I don't think you're lying at all,' he says, gently. 'I'm just telling you what this guy told me. He's no reason to lie to us, has he? God knows, he's being paid enough to find out the truth.'
'Couldn't he be mistaken, thought? Or what if they've got to him?'
'Who are "they"?'
'Frank Heath and whoever's sending the flowers...'
George's face falls. He does his best to cover it, but he still thinks I'm making this up. He still thinks I'm losing my mind. 'I thought you'd be happy,' he says, disappointed. 'That kids alive. Hibson is trying to track him down in Norway.'
'He won't find him,' I say, stoically.
George sighs. 'I think it's time we went home,' he says and reaches for his drink. He throws it down his throat in one gulp. He lets the glass drop back onto the glass table with a clatter. 'Ready to go?'
George moves to stand but I grip his hand, keeping him there, making him look at me. 'George, you need to be careful,' I tell him, hoping my words will sink in, whether he thinks I'm just being stupid or not. 'They are very dangerous people. Be on the lookout for anything out of place, any strangers hanging around. If you see anything odd, ring the police straight away...' I sigh. 'Just be careful, George, please. Promise me?'
He smiles, sadly. 'I will be careful.'
I nod, but I'm not satisfied. 'Let's get the bill then. We'll go home,' I say, defeated.
'I tell you what,' George says. 'We've got the studio booked tomorrow and I've got to go and fetch my dad this weekend, but first thing Monday morning we'll go back to that police station, demand to see Nipper Read and we'll give him all this info Hibson has sent me.'
'What good will that do?' I say, despondently.
'He knows about all these people, doesn't he?' George says, with forced brightness. 'More than a Scouse private eye does. Give him Johan Eikeland's name and it might ring a bell with him.'
I nod, weakly. 'Yes, okay. We'll do that,' I agree, and smile, but my heart is heavy.