Paul would always say that it wasn’t our fault that Uncle Ringo left the band for a while.
We’d really screwed up this time.
Paul I-can-fucking-do-everything McCartney was sitting at Ringo’s drums, ready to scrap an album together, with a missing Beatle.
Shit. This wasn’t going to work. Harrison was equally pessimistic, I could tell; he was looking sideways at Paul, probably thinking that Paul was a know-it-all pain in the arse.
By then, we’d already gone to India to meditate.
I was woken up by a sudden weight dropping onto my chest. I groaned and tried to roll over, only to find myself held in place by… Paul’s body. I squinted at him, sitting tranquilly on my torso, while I patted the night table for my glasses. What the fuck?
“Wake up, love,” Paul said, twisting and tugging a lock of my grown-out hair. “Busy day today.”
“Doing what?”
“Oh, we’ve nothing planned… But I’m here, so might as well do something…” he said, his face breaking into a smile, as he wiggled his eyebrows in an exaggeratedly suggestive way.
That trip was…most enlightening.
“Prue… come out, love,” I coaxed.
“It’s not healthy… the Maharishi says this is too intense,” George added.
Prudence Farrow had been in her hut for nearly three weeks now, and we were all starting to get worried. George shot me a look that clearly told me he was persuaded she was mental.
I knocked on the door again. “Dear Prudence,” I sang, “won’t you come out to play?”
From inside sounded a little laugh. I smiled; I’d gotten at least some reaction out of her.
“Prudence, love, you’ve got to come outside, it’s a beautiful day.”
“I’m meditating.”
That was her last word on the matter. Undeterred, I ran to Paul’s hut, where he opened, grinning slightly when he saw me.
“Let’s write a song,” I said.
“Now?” he asked.
I nodded.
Which eventually led up to us, Paul, Ringo, George and I, clustering in front of Prudence’s hut, with all our instruments, playing her the song we’d written about her.
The door creaked and her head poked out of the opening.
That still left the fact that Ringo was gone.
Ringo’s excuse was that he felt he wasn’t playing well and felt unloved, excluded by the other three. When he told me that bullshit, I answered honestly: “I thought it was you three.” I was always the odd one out, not Ringo.
He had no reason to go, especially not such a self-pitying, passive-aggressive one.
I suppose he really believed it though, because he said he was going on holiday, took the kids and went out to Sardinia.
So there we were.
Shit.
Paul at the drums, really to fucking take over. The studio tense and quiet, waiting on a disturbance.
“Well, we can still record my USSR thing,” Paul said. “No need to go about wasting time.”
He came back eventually, though.
The studio was entirely decked out in flowers, and a grinning Mal Evans stood there, representing his handiwork. “Welcome Back Ringo,” a sign blared out, and his drum kit looked like a fuzzy pink mass underneath all the buds.
Ringo looked stuck between surprise, happiness, and horror. His line from A Hard Day’s Night came back to me suddenly: “Don’t touch me drums!”
Finally he opted for happiness and went over to hug Mal, before grinning at the rest of us.
“We’ve missed you, Ringo,” George said.
Ringo smiled at wiped at a tear that may or may not have been sarcastic.
And that’s where Mummy comes in. I’d met her two years before, and she’d gone to India with us…but it was in May that we really started being…together.
“What’s going on with Cyn?” Paul asked, his hands on his hips, and I could tell he was on the edge of shouting, if I said the wrong thing. I remembered our last big argument, almost two years ago, and decided to play it meekly.
“We…I ended it.”
Paul looked at me, and I hoped he wouldn’t take my wife, well, ex-wife’s side again.
“Paul, I just couldn’t be with her anymore. And anyway, it’s Cynthia I left, not you,” I told him, reaching for his face, eager to get past this uncomfortable discussion and into the part where we messed around.
“So, you’ve got a new bird then?” Paul said, falsely casual.
I paused. “Yeah. But you’ve got something like three birds at once right now. You’re hardly in a position to judge,” I chuckled.
“Yeah,” Paul mumbled, sounding distracted, but I was already kissing his jaw.
I don’t want to hurt you Sean, but at first it was just another affair, just another one of the times I wasn’t faithful to Cynthia, Julian’s mum. This was just the time that finally ended it all with Cyn.
Needless to say, Julian was upset about this.
“Jules,” Paul sighed, when he saw Julian’s tear-streaked face.
Paul let Julian hug him round his middle, the highest he could reach. Paul looked over at me with a worried look.
“Keeping him for the day,” I said.
“Daddy and Mummy don’t love each other anymore,” Julian said, looking up at Paul.
I winced slightly at his blunt way of telling Paul.
“I know, love,” Paul said, ruffling Julian’s hair slightly. “It’ll be alright.”
Later we were at Paul’s home, writing a song that Paul had thought up for Julian, something Paul dubbed “Hey Jules.”
I sat by him at the piano, helping him choose lyrics, making no comment as I assisted him in writing a song to comfort my son.
Shit, I should be the one thinking of this, singing to him. Paul was better a father to Julian than I ever was, and he wasn’t even directly related to him.
I thought, for a fleeting, crazy moment that Paul could really be his dad, and we could raise Julian together, before tossing the idea out completely. That couldn’t ever happen.
Uncle Paul was so kind to Julian, and he wrote him a song to make him feel better.
He was really brilliant, you know. So considerate of him, paying special attention, even though he didn’t really have to.
He’s still your Uncle Paul, even though you don’t know him. But someday you will, and you remember what I’m telling you now.