"Well, don't you look nice." He walked around me, gazing at me with admiration in his eyes. I lowered my eyes slightly, feeling a little like a zoo animal. "Hey, love, don't," he said gently, seeing my reaction change. "You look fab. Fab, like the band you're always going off about... I just think you look nice is all."
I let the smallest hint of a smile pass through my lips. "Fab," I repeated, and grinned as he hesitated a while, and then asked, "Can I hold your hand?"
I nodded and held out my hand, and he took it. "Come on. There's loads to see in Kensington gardens. It's right pretty." We entered the garden, me wobbling a little in my inch heels, the ones June told me to pop on because they looked nice on a first date. The sun shone on my back and he said quickly, "D'ya want my coat?" I laughed at his courtesy and saw the sparks of my laughter reflected in his eyes. He grinned and ran a hand through his short hair. "My favorite flower bed is this way."
"Why is it your favorite?" I asked him.
He was quiet. "It was one of my uncle's favorite flower beds." I gave his hand a light squeeze and this seemed to fuel him; he smiled at me, sweating a little in his light blue dress shirt. I gave my bare shoulders a shrug and he squeezed my hand back, staring straight into the magnolias before us. "He—"
"What?" I asked him after a pause, unsure if he meant to continue or not. A light breeze passed through and he let go of my hand slowly and passed over his coat, which I took. "He died. Of AIDS. He—my uncle, I suppose, was my uncle's close friend and they made it through the eighties, but in the bloody 2000s he had to go and die." He was still looking at the flower bed. I turned towards him and he looked at me in response, and then I put my arms around him, tip toeing in my uncomfortable shoes and I said, "I didn't know, Danny, I'm so sorry."
He looked up into my eyes and said, "Thank you, Cora."
***
My eyes opened and I saw a blurred figure at the foot of my bed. "George?" I called out, sure it wasn't John. "It's me," John said, his voice sounding higher than normal.
"Well I was so sure it was George. I mean, this is his bed and all."
Light was flooding through the window; I guessed it to be around ten in the morning. The beds around me were deserted; the only ones in the room were John and me. He took my hand, but I awkwardly avoided his reach and brought it back to my side, not looking at him.
"I'm sorry, Cora, I really am," he said, blushing. I saw a small, embarrassed smile flit across his face before he looked at the floor. I sat up fully and responded quietly, "This is George's bed. Not yours. Where did he sleep? Why couldn't I have used yours?" John's cheeks turned red for a brief moment before he answered, "He slept in my bed. I slept outside. Well, er.. in your room."
"Come again?" I asked, incredulous.
"George took my bed; I felt like an arsehole that we were using his. So I slept outside. It seemed like the right thing to do."
The situation turned around and around in my groggy mind. "Why... couldn't I have slept in your bed?"
He looked at me. "I don't know," he said, and it ended there, a simple statement that in the way he said it was enough for me. "Listen, I want to sing you something."
I was about to speak but stopped, curiosity getting the better of me. "All right, Lennon," I said softly, my will bending at the prospect of hearing him sing. He started, and oh, the words hit me straight to the heart and as I listened to his voice, stricken with emotion. I let myself be carried away under the spell of his song and his piercing vocals, even though they were sung softly. The whole thing felt like a glass bubble, just me and John in the sunlit room. The song died down with the words I'm in love with you, and I saw his eyes hold an expression of accomplishment and words that he couldn't say, but rather sung, and the words half of what I say is meaningless, but I say it just to reach you... floated into my mind.
The dying notes faded away into the air and I asked, "Was that for me?" trying to contain my excitement.
"Yes, love," he whispered. He looked down and I saw his auburn hair flop in front of his eyes. "Did you like it?" he said, his voice barely audible.
This was John's way of apologizing—when he couldn't do it through words, he did it through a song or through another form of artwork. "Yes," I said just as quietly, "Yes, I do, love."
***
"Knock knock," I heard at the door—George's voice. I no longer had to attempt to distinguish it from the continuous rolling waves of Scouse that the others used; George had become a friend to me. We joked around in the mornings when the boys slept in and I was up and he would come in for his daily bowl of corn flakes.
"Come in," I called out. As George led the way in, I told him, "You shouldn't have to ask to come in. This is your room. I'm so so sorry for taking up all this space and time and effort—"
"Not a problem, love," George cut me off as he said breezily, "John might beat us all up if we let you sleep on Rosa's couch, wouldn't you, Len?" he asked, poking John playfully in the ribs.
"Anything for my love," John smirked back.
"I like them," I whined, climbing out of bed. "If you beat them up I'll beat you up."
The boys all collapsed into laughter. "You?" John snorted. "Maybe you could take on George."
George ignored this and held up a small cardboard box. "Sandwiches," he said.
We all gathered around the usual mini fridge and opened the little packets—I had chosen a sauerkraut sandwich with mustard and pickle. It was absolutely delicious. I bit into it and felt the sour flavors of the meat and pickle and sourdough come together. Pete noticed my content expression and laughed.
"You're feeling better, aren't you?"
Pete Best didn't say a lot, and I didn't feel for him particularly as I did love John, or dislike Paul (and wish I liked him), and be friends with George. He was quieter than George and didn't say a lot. George was quiet when Paul and John traded banter, but occasionally he would drop a wild line in and leave us all laughing. Pete, on the other hand, didn't like talking to the crowd too much, and would spend time alone rather than taking the piss out of each other with the rest of the boys.
"Ar," I responded to him. "The pills really work—they cured my fever. George, please thank Astrid's mother for me."
"Will do, luv," he responded, and unwrapped his third sandwich.
I spent the next few minutes halfway listening to the conversation between the four Beatles and thinking about my life back in London 2013. The boys were discussing a strip club in the Indra and were playfully urging George to go. The conversation drifted away from my mind and I found my thoughts circulating around that night when we first ended up in Germany, that night when John hit me and then we talked and I had a few crumbs of that brownie and Jane Asher and wondering if anyone would miss me. What was happening right now? And how would I manage to get back home? I frowned with worry and realized I was missing this one crucial detail. I combed my hair back with my hand frantically thought to myself.
"Cora?" John asked me, catching sight of my worried face. "What's the matter—"
The door suddenly creaked open to reveal Rosa, wearing an ancient floral dress. "John. Koschmider will dich sehen. Office." She gave a toothless grin and disappeared.
"Koschie wants me, see you lot," John said and walked out of the room, tossing his sandwich on his bed. Paul had gotten up after John, without anyone's asking, I thought. I heard, "What are you doing, mate?" and then someone say, annoyed, "Well if it's about the future of the band, I should be there, because I actually care about it..." The door slammed behind him.
Pete shrugged and said, "I'm going out to meet Marie." He got up and left the room; Stu shrugged and followed.
"Stripper girlfriend," George mouthed at me, and I suppressed a laugh, and mouthed back, "Don't make fun."
And then it was just me and George. George was fiddling around with a piece of wire he had found in his pocket. I started to pick up John's Rickenbacker and got a strange look from George, like he knew John didn't even like the band touching his things, let alone a girl, even though she was his bird. The look passed, though, and he resumed fiddling with the wire.
"You play that too?" he asked before I hit my first note.
"Maybe," I said delicately and played a short riff from Seven Nation Army, careful not to play anything from the Beatles' later things, even though I was itching to try the opening chords to Eight Days a Week. I heard a rustle, and George turned around, hanging his legs off the side of the bed in a quiet interest.
I smirked at George and improved a little Hound Dog. He raised his eyebrows at me and said nothing, but I saw him take out his guitar and sling the strap around his shoulder. Soon I could hear an improvisation of Hound Dog start to build. I whistled, a low whistle. George grinned back.
I could see the fine tuned muscles of his hands move along the guitar's neck, and I knew that they meant it when they said he practiced day in and day out, loving his guitar like a woman. John just pissed around and played whenever he wanted to, but George, George was serious. He hit a twangy note on the song and I said, "Not bad, Harrison," quietly, still in the groove. "Could say the same for you," he shot back.
He suddenly switched the song, improving on a twelve bar blues. I switched to the bass part on the lower half of the guitar, keeping rhythm with my foot. I watched his fingers move up the fretboard, his long, gliding fingers as they produced one twangy note after another. George had shifted around so that he was sitting at the edge of Paul's bed, and I was sitting at the edge of John's bed. We were less than six inches apart, just playing there, and I was enjoying myself.
The door banged open and John stood there with Paul and Stu, holding a couple bottles of beer. My playing faded away but George was still going, taking the intervals by thirds and than sixths, until he noticed that the other three were inside the room. "Oh, hi," he said, putting his guitar on a stand near his bed.
"Hi," said John shortly. He was holding a white piece of paper and I noticed his fingers move slightly.
I raised my hand to wave at Stu, he waved back, a small hand gesture, and said, "Hey, was that you in the room? You're pretty good."
I grinned in spite of myself. "Yeah, I play a little."
John had moved over to me and let himself fall on the bed. "Ar she plays... you should hear her play "I'm Yours—"
"John," I hissed. His eyes widened a little. "Sorry love."
The others were looking at this conversation in interest. I was thinking of something to say when George asked, "What did Koschmider want to say?" cutting the conversation. Paul stepped in. "He gave us a list of songs for tonight. He doesn't trust us that we don't know the top songs of the charts, that tosser." He rolled his large brown eyes and sat on his bed with a thump.
"Let's see?" I extracted the list from John's hand. "Dizzy Miss Lizzy, Chains, Please Mr. Postman... I know these!"
"Gear," Paul said, giving me a dirty look. "Because guess who doesn't." I looked up at him questioningly and he said, "Me. I have to learn them by tonight." He cursed Koschmider and despite myself I gave him a pitying look.
"I know them, and—," I repeated, and Paul cut me off. "Bloody good for you then."
"McCartney, will you fuckin' stop—" John cut across tiredly but I shot at him, "I was going to offer to teach you the chords but if you're going to be so bloody rude about it maybe I won't."
A silence hung in the air. Paul and I were glaring daggers at each other. I was wearing a slight smirk: here I was, knowing something Paul didn't. His cheeks were a slight red, but he was trying to keep up his dignity.
The silence was punctuated by a slight cough by George, and then he said snidely, "You'd better be nice to her, mate, or you'll be up the creek without a paddle tonight."
***
George wouldn't stop laughing.
"Piss off," I complained lightly as I munched a late afternoon snack: biscuits and cheese. "I know that it's funny, but you're overdoing it."
He grinned up at me over his plate piled with biscuits and stared wistfully at the stage. "Ahh, the great Paul McCartney, unable to play "Dizzy Miss Lizzie... even I know that one." John hummed a little: "You make me dizzy, miss y/n, the way you rock and roll... yeow!"
"I was working, I had a fuckin' job," came a yell from the room.
"I said I'll teach you if you apologize," I yelled back. "And take your head out of your arse," I muttered, and George stifled a laugh.
John hadn't spoken a word since we had sat down, besides the little hum. He was doodling on a piece of paper, figures blossoming on the page in thick, determined pencil, strange, figures with long feet and deformed noses. I watched him work with the materials and give a slight chuckle at his work. He had one of the best laughs I had ever heard. He took my hand and held it while he added onto the drawing. George's biscuits were on their last days. The blissful afternoon was broken by Paul coming into the room, holding his guitar. He walked straight over to me and looked at me dead in the eye.
"Well, Cora, I'm... erm... I'm sorry, love" Paul said quickly. "I'm ready to learn. Let's do it."