We didn't have to work today, which was nice. We were due to start on the thirteenth of July, giving us some time to loaf around. John, Paul, Pete, and George were fine with loafing around. Jim McCartney, however, was not. The whole band save George were in Paul's dining room, practicing, when Paul looked up and we knew it was Jim by the expression on Paul's face. "Hi da."
"Just wanted to see how you lot are getting along," he said. "I'm actually quite impressed by the music. Doing a fantastic job. You sound much better than before you left for Germany." He took a drag of his fag. "When do you start performing again?"
"Not until the thirteenth, we'll be playing at St. John's hall in Tuebrook," Paul told him, playing a little riff on his guitar.
"Well, what will you be doing until then?" Jim asked, a crease appearing on his brow. There was a movement behind him: Mike had gotten up to retrieve a pencil and then was gone.
"Practicing, da," Paul shrugged and gave him an uncertain smile. All the while John was making scoffing noises, noises which at first were very subtle but soon grew into a quiet laugh. Jim focused his glance on Johne and said sharply, "And you, Lennon, I hope you're finding something useful to do with your time." He and John stared at each other, John with an almost mocking look in his eyes, Jim's jaw set, before he finally exited the dining room and shut the door. It rattled with a bang and John and Paul rounded on each other. "What the hell was that?" Paul asked, angry, red in the face.
"What the hell was what? Bloody hell, you don't know how to stand up for yourself! Yer a man now Macca, twenty years, and still you sit there and let him kick your ass around!" John shot back, lacing a hand through his hair.
"My ass—! You sit there and laugh, like that's going to make everything better!"
Pete and I sat there and avoided looking at anyone. I knew that John had grown up on carefree Alf and Julia and then strict Mimi and then partially on Julia and then Mimi again, bouncing around between parent figures and different personalities, having to adapt every which way. Paul had had Jim, a source of stability in his life. I liked Jim. It pained me whenever John poked fun at Paul for being a "good boy." Paul wasn't even that much of a "good boy," he simply respected his father.
"Anyways, let's take it from the top," Paul said shortly, tapping his fingers on the wooden chair he was sitting on. Pete led us in with a drum fill and we started. As I played my descending bassline, I could sense both Paul and John driving their frustrated energy into the song as we played onwards. I, too, played onwards, driving my particular frustrations into the song: Ringo's birthday party. I didn't understand why everyone seemed to know about it but me, and I was still irritated with Kathleen and John. But by the time the song ended and practice was over, I felt like a whole new person. It was like the music had driven whatever doubts I had out of my mind. I zipped up my bass and leaned against John.
"Hey love," he whispered softly and took my hand. "Ye ready for the party tonight?"
"I can hardly wait," I told him, wanting to sit and marinate in Paul McCartney's yellow dining room forever, playing and playing, just me and the boys.
***
"What if I show up just in my pants?" John asked, looking into the small glass in the bathroom, wearing nothing but a white t-shirt and a pair of boxers.
"Then the whole band has to show up in pants to match," I said dryly. "Won't be much of a birthday party then will it." He shook his head, bemused, and reached for his leather jacket and a pair of leather pants, then decided against it, instead going for a lighter pair. The July weather wouldn't be so nice to leather pants.
I'll admit John and I did look good together that night, July 7th, 1961. He was dressed up as per usual, combing his hair over his forehead for that signature "Beatles" look, ending up donning a pair of leather pants and his leather jacket. I wore a black dress that hugged my curves which we had bought in Germany and a red lip. "Wish I had a camera," he whispered in my ear as we looked at each other in the glass. "I could photograph me and my Bridgette Bardot. Actually, you look even better than her."
I leaned up against him. "Bardot could never have you."
Paul honked outside, and we went down the steps, passed Mimi in the kitchen, crossed over the rose carpeting in the living room, and stepped outside. "Remember we went to Marty's party?" I told John, laughing. "We had to tell everyone we were just friends."
"Now we can show them we're no ordinary friends," he said with a smirk as I slid into the car next to George, who was wearing a pair of black drainpipe trousers and a deep purple blazer. John whistled at him. "Bringing teddy boy back, Geo?"
He turned towards us and I caught a glimpse of a striped dress shirt underneath the blazer. I shook my head slowly, grinning. "Ye look fantastic. All the birds will be after you tonight. Got over yer cold, then?"
He suddenly coughed: "—Jinxed it, Cora—" and then smiled. "Just messing about with ye. I'm feeling only a little better but I didn't want to miss Ringo's birthday... or showing off my new jacket."
"Where's Pete?" I asked as Paul started the car.
"Oh, he didn't want to come tonight," Paul said airily from the front seat. Leather and leather from top to bottom, his hair combed matching John. "We'll just get Ringo to fill in if anyone feels like a dance. I think he likes us, anyways."
"Ringo's a great lad," I agreed, watching the streets go by. John wound his arm round my shoulders and I sighed happily and nestled my head in the crook of his neck, feeling the smooth leather of his coat against my bare shoulders. "No Hitler impersonations at this party," I whispered in his ear. He said back, "But all I went to Germany for was to practice. Now who's going to see the fruits of my labor?"
"I am," I laughed. George peered out the window. "Looks like we're in Dingle now." We were driving up Riverside drive, looking out on my right I saw a road and on my left there was a green area and beyond that, water. "Near the water. Bit of a tough neighborhood, I heard."
"You lot live in Woolton, Geo, you and John," Paul commented.
"Shut it, Macca," John said playfully, a bit of edge to his tone, and squeezed my waist. "Anyone bring anything for the birthday boy?"
"Love and companionship," Paul said and we all burst into sarcastic awwwwws. "Sod that. We're here. Don't forget yer love and companionship!"
Ringo's house was one of many in a row, stuck together. His stood out, though. Solidly white with pink trim above the narrow front door and above and below the two windows, it gave the two next to it—a brown and a pale one—a run for their money. "G'head, ring Ringo ring," John said, enjoying his little pun and pushing George towards the door as we walked up the drive. George raised his hand to knock and Paul said, "Let's sing the lad a happy birthday."
"He'll get his birthday singing later," John told him.
"A birthday can never have too many birthday wishes."
Having knocked George stood back and a figure neared the door and it swung back, revealing Ringo, whose smile showed broadly between a slight beard and mustache. His slightly curled hair reached a little ways down his forehead and he was wearing a lightly colored matching suit set. "Germans! Ha ha!"
I heard Paul count us in, then "Happy birthday to you..." we started, and I remembered dinner on George's birthday where I got to hear Paul and John singing to him. Now it was four of us, singing as sweetly as angels with some echoing of words thrown here and there. When we were done, John leapt forward to shake him hello but Ringo clapped a hand round his back. "Well you lot had better not have brought gifts because that was the best ye could've given me. Come in, come in," he called and we stepped inside the house. The party was already starting, someone had brought a record player and it was lazily singing Peggy Lee.
"Cor, how many people did you invite to this shindig?" Paul asked looking round at the people spread like jam round the house.
"Eighty or so. Hope this old bird can fit all of them. If she collapses—" Ringo spread his arms out. "—it'll be one smashing birthday I'll never forget." He laughed and two girls came round and handed out bottles of beer. I took one from a brunette and recognized the other girl. "Kathleen!"
"Cora!" she grinned. "Hello! You made it!"
"Here with the band," I smiled back. "Gotten round to reading your books yet?"
"Fanon is really good so far," she said before Paul recognized her. "Kathleen!" She grinned at him, nodded at George and John and went back into the kitchen not before touching me lightly on the arm. "I'll talk to ye in a bit."
"Want to walk around a bit?" John asked me and I nodded. He kept his arm round my waist the whole time, the two of us walking round clad in black like we were at a very hip funeral. I loved the way he held me, showing the party and the world that I was his. We didn't know very many people at the party but that didn't stop John. He stopped in and joked around and soon we were friends with whoever he started talking to, people who wanted to be friends with the man who made the witty remarks. I caught glimpses of Paul and a blonde head—Dot—as they circled their way round the party. Paul was sweet, making personal remarks about people and that was what was the key to his charm. John found other ways to appeal himself to the masses.
Germany had certainly hardened us well. I drank drink after drink and at one point thought, maybe I should have some water and drank that. John was going and going, drinking bottle after bottle, separated with jokes and at one point strumming someone's guitar and doing an impersonation of Elvis before we all fell to bits and pieces laughing.
I knew his real Elvis impersonation—when he had sung Blue Moon to me, just the two of us in his room in Germany, but I enjoyed this show, knowing I could ask for the other version later. People cheered and I noticed the noise levels inside Ringo's house began to climb.
"Wanna get out of here just for a bit, toots?" John asked me and I laughed at the Americanism. We exited via back door and I stretched my arms, stumbling forwards a bit before he caught me and laughed as well. We were both laughing and then we were lying on the grass in the back yard, staring at the darkened sky. I moved towards him, feeling the grass on my bare legs and he took off his leather jacket before pulling me on top of him. I gave him a quick kiss; he tasted like beer and I scrunched up my face in distaste and he laughed, whispering, "You'll always smell like roses to me." We lay there for a moment, listening to the grass rustle. John mumbled something and smiled at me.
I pushed myself up off the ground, staring at him below me, looking at the laughter in his eyes, childlike almost before lowering myself on him and kissing him. His hands travelled to my face, then down my side and reached my waist. We rolled over and I felt him and my mind thought, what if? No. Not now. Not again. I gave him a smile and sat up, panting a little. "You're too much, love. So good to me."
His expression was unreadable. It was like the fight had gone out of him; he too sat up in the grass and plucked at a few strands and I asked, "Are you all right?"
"Fine," he said shortly but he was gone, gone back inside the house and I was left alone in the back yard with his plucked strands of grass and an empty night.
***
The Beatles were playing.
Half of them, anyways. They had found a little corner in the house near the back, and John and Paul were using someone's guitars. Someone else was behind the drums, either Ringo's or it was a kit brought to the party. I didn't know. I looked over at Ringo but he was speaking to someone. Maybe he'd join them later. Another younger lad was on bass. He was good, but he didn't add flair, and he didn't add the extra elements that really make a bass line pop.
This lad is bloody rot, I saw John mouth to Paul, who laughed and improvised a little lick on the guitar, nodding his head and tapping his feet to the beat—the drummer at least was fairly decent. I thought I caught my name on Paul's lips, but I turned to look at George who was talking up a bird, both of them sitting on a sofa. Kathleen sat next to them holding a drink.
"Hey!" I called to her, walking over and she raised her head. "Ooh, hello, love!"
I eyed the drink. "How much have ye had tonight, Kath?"
"I don't know. Don't keep count. Enough." I gently took the drink from her and put it on the table.
"I love my girl but sometimes, oh yeah, she makes me blue..." I heard John singing alongside to Paul's twangy guitar riff. "My head hangs so low, man, she make me feel a fool."
My gaze caught on John, who was singing with a pleading expression on his face. New song? Improvisation? I hadn't heard this before. I glanced at their audience. Birds just gazing at him in rapt admiration, clearly recognizing this man was from the Beatles, the famous Beatles! The glances of the girls gazes clearly saying, I won't make you feel like a fool, Johnny! Who could blame them? John had a magnetic charisma, it was undeniable. But I felt the fool's mask latch on to my face, something climbing up the small of my back.
I glanced to my left at Kathleen, whose usual expression was looking somewhat spacey. I knew how much she drank—a lot. Kathleen was the kind of drinker who didn't seem drunk, but acted as she did sober, but then you'd catch her climbing on a roof or something and then you'd know. You had to keep an eye on her to make sure she didn't accidentally kill herself.
"Your man looks good up there," she suddenly said. "God you're lucky."
"Yeah," I smiled.
My head hangs so low, man, she make me feel a fool.
"Are those lyrics about you?" Kathleen asked. Shaken by her question, and not sure if she meant the lyrics John had just sung, or the ones playing through my head, I stammered, "Maybe, I don't know," and took another sip to hide the fact that I had the same inference. A girl handed John a drink and he downed it, blew her a kiss, and shouted something to the drummer, who started a drum fill.
I glanced next to me and saw the birthday boy now sitting alone on a couch. I gave him a slight wave, touching Kathleen lightly on the shoulder, grabbing the remains of her drink and walking over to him. He was charismatic and would be the last piece of the Beatles to come together. It felt odd sitting with him while watching half of the Beatles play. Puzzle pieces, drawn together by the strings of Time.
"Your eyes are so blue, Starkey," I heard myself say as I polished off the last bit of Kathleen's drink. Ringo laughed, his left hand adorned with rings, fingers curled around a beer. "I get them from me parents. Thanks love." He paused, searching his memory. "Cora. You're John's bird, right?"
"Yeah." I nodded in time to the music.
"He treating you well?" Ringo smiled at his joke. I liked his eyes. They were kind.
"Yeah," I said again. There was a smash, the noise of glass breaking, and we heard, "Paul's broken a glass, broken a glass, a glass he's broken today—!" A shout, and Paul saying irritably, "You shoved me, John, cut it out."
"Speak of the devil," I laughed. "Sorry about yer house."
"You're in a good band," Ringo said, taking a swig of alcohol. "Slightly jealous."
"Oh?" I asked.
"I just—" Ringo stopped himself from his next few words. "I—never mind."
"You know, Ringo," I started, "You—" and then Michael appeared next to me on the couch and said, "You don't want to do that, love," winked, and disappeared rapidly again.
"What were you going to say?" he asked me.
"What were you going to say?" I retaliated, even though I knew full well what his wish was. What his birthday wish had been when he had blown out his candles a few hours earlier, everyone crowding round him and the Beatles leading the crowd in song, the third time I heard that song sung by them, the crowds getting bigger and bigger like they would in the next ten years. I felt Ringo's hand on my arm instead of his beer, skin slightly sticky from the beverage, the contrast between the cold rings and his warm hand. "Tell me."
"I just mean—I think you're going places, Rings," I said, slightly scared from the sudden contact but choosing to ignore it by placing my other hand over his. "I mean it. You are. And between you and me," I plowed on, gritting my teeth at Michael, "I do think you're going to join them soon. I mean, you do have more chemistry with them than with Pete."
"Don't let yer lads hear you say that," Ringo said and sighed, seeming to release a little tension. I felt a vicelike grip on my left arm, a more familiar grip and I turned to see John.
"Happy birthday, mate," John said with narrowed eyes at Ringo. "Please stop touching my girlfriend."
I realized my hand was still on his and his hand was still on my arm. I removed my hand and Ringo removed his with a smile. "Sounded good up there, Johnny."
John gave him a look. "Yeah." And then to me, "What are you doing?"
"Please don't embarrass me," I said, slightly stung by his actions, which seemed to be painted with a top coat of alcohol. "I was just talking to Ringo."
"Yeah, and touching him."
"Yeah, touching him if you put it that way." I raised my eyebrows at him.
"Don't speak to me that way."
"I'm sorry," I said quickly. Ringo got up. "Well this has been fun, but I must go greet the others." He left. I pulled John into the space where Ringo had sat, the corner of the couch. He sat stiffly beside me and I tried to snuggle into him. "Come on, love, don't be like that."
"Mmm."
"Paul's broken a glass," I repeated. "A glass he's broken today."
"Yeah," he said and I took a sip of my empty glass and frowned at it, staring at my purple tinged, slightly off putting reflection.