Chapter Text
A hundred quid.
Hundred fucking quid right there, in his hand, John Lennon’s trembling hands. And it was all his- as a present for his twenty-first birthday. Something like five quid for each year of his miserable life. Was he really worth that much? A relative in Edinburgh, someone John visited maybe once a year had given him all this money. Maybe he should have thanked them, with a telegram, for example: “Thank you for the nest egg, stop- I promise I’ll spend it very wisely, stop- I remind you that next year I’ll be twenty-two, stop- Let’s not lose sight of each other, stop.”
When John had come home for lunch, Mimi had given him the money order and he opened it, uninterested, totally unaware of the little treasure hidden in that little envelope. He had to reread the paper, count the zeros after the number one. Those made the difference. Who ever knew that a banal number like zero could become so incredibly important next to another number? It was a sort of message of hope: all the zeros in the world, all the losers like John, had a chance to become someone. They just needed to find the perfect partner, the one that made them special.
Maybe it had been this thought that made John twitch and run to the door, before Mimi could ask him: “What do you want to do with all that money, John?” or “You should save it for the future, John.”
But John knew already how to spend it. Money meant freedom. Most of all, being free to do whatever or to go wherever one wanted. There wasn’t anything that a guy of his age, trapped in a damp and smelly town as Liverpool, longed for more.
Fortunately John knew a guy just like him, with his own dreams and his own urgency to leave town. And maybe he really was the perfect partner, the one that made him special and important like the zero on the money order. So it was right that John would share this magical, amazing present with that person.
John rushed out of the house, running breathlessly, like a fool, through the golf course, with that little piece of happiness clutched tightly in his hand, the wind that was making a mess of his hair and brushing his cheeks. He didn’t care that he was raising whole clumps of grass with his shoes, consequentially ruining the perfectly neat ground. He laughed.
Fuck the golf course and fuck those snobby golfers!
So distract and dazed he was that he stumbled on the pavement, falling down and scratching a cheekbone against the hard asphalt. John swore out loud and in his mind. Bloody, fucking myopic eyes!
But the adrenalin rushing in his body was stronger than the pain and as soon as it arrived, it disappeared. John got to his feet with a slightly awkward jump, adjusting his leather jacket, and started to run again. He knew where he was going, he knew that his legs were carrying him right there; still, he was surprised to find his heart beat faster when he entered the little yard of Forthlin road. It beat in unison with John’s hand, knocking at the door impatiently, and it jumped with John’s body when he heard a familiar voice from within the house.
“Coming!”
John’s breath, already panting, became even more heavier when he listened to the creaking of the floor under not exactly graceful steps of the young man, who opened the door: Paul McCartney was in front of him, with his worn out jeans, the too-big shirt and a sandwich in his hand, that looked as though it had already attacked hungrily.
“John! What a surprise.” Paul greeted him, smiling and staring in amusement while his friend, bent over, was trying to catch his breath.
Damn his nearly twenty-one years! He was too old for these physical efforts. Who made him run like that? Oh yeah, he made himself do it!
“What happened to your face?” Paul asked worried, noticing the scratches on John’s cheekbone.
“Um…” John mumbled, while his breath slowed, “I… I just had a duel. A duel to death with a pretentious pavement that didn’t want to let me pass. No need to tell you I won.”
John winked. He was wearing his “very clever” expression and Paul snorted, annoyed.
“Yeah, sure, and maybe if you wore those bloody glasses sometimes, you could avoid banging that stupid face of yours up.”
“Glasses, Paul, are not rock ‘n roll.”John said, shaking his head with that wise attitude that didn’t really suit him.
Paul looked up to the sky, sighed in a resigned way. John could be very stubborn about certain things. No, wait, what was he thinking? John was always a fucking idiot who did things his way. He could hit his head hundred times, but he never got the message.
“If you say so. Do you want to, I don’t know, disinfect yourself?” Paul asked with a sign to enter in the house, “I was about to have lunch with dad, but I think he can wait a few minutes.”
John shook his head vigorously.
“No, thank you. It’s nothing. Who do you think I am, a fucking girl?” He said indignantly.
“It’s just that, you know, it may get infected and… oh, whatever. As you wish.” He burst finally.
Fuck John and all the times he made Paul worry about him! Why bother worry - if John didn’t listen to him?
“However, if you really want to do something to help me, you can just offer me that marvel in your hands.”
Paul looked his sandwich and pulled back his hand, as far as possible from John: “Get off, it’s mine; I prepared it for myself with great difficulty.”
“With difficulty? You call it difficult to take two slices of bread, slap some butter, salad and cheese between them?”
“It’s still better than Mr. ‘Stay for dinner, nobody burns the eggs with bacon like I do’!”
John frowned: “Hey, it only happened once.”
“One time I’ll remember for the rest of my life, thank you very much.”
“Come on, Paul, give me that bloody sandwich.” John begged him, “In return I’ll give you something that is worth thousands of your precious and laborious delicious dishes.”
Paul stared hesitantly the naughty expression of his friend: it didn’t promise anything good. However his curiosity was too much: why had John run to him, disfiguring half face? And what was that piece of paper held in his hand? What did he want from Paul? With a great sigh, finally, Paul offered him his sandwich and John grabbed it with a quick movement of his arm, devouring it in a single bite, under Paul’s desolate stare.
John addressed him a satisfied sneer and he did a vague gesture with his hand: “Don’t look at me like that; I’ll be out of debt before your stomach can protest.”
Paul crossed his arms on his chest and leaned against the doorframe.
“I’m all ears.”
“See this?” John asked, starting to wave the money order under his nose, while Paul was looked at him uneasily.
“What’s that?”
“That, mate, is a ticket to leave this fucking town.”
The expression on Paul’s face grew perplexed. He had always considered himself to be one of the few people able to relate to John Lennon and most of all understand him. But there were moments, like this, in which John would arrive and overwhelm him with his impetuosity, leaving him gobsmacked. And Paul never knew what to do or say.
John smiled to himself and grabbed his shoulders: “Paul, let’s go!”
Paul blinked and he must have a very dumb expression on his face because all he could say was: “Huh?”
“Seriously, mate, I thought you were smarter.”
“Being smart requires eating, and here’s someone who’s not only stopping me from doing so, but he’s also stealing my food.”
John laughed. He was so euphoric that he didn’t care really much about Paul’s mood or about the words that were coming out from his pretty mouth.
“Come on; let’s go away from old Liddypool.”
“What are you fucking talking about?”
“I’m not fucking talking, son. I’m telling you, come go with me.”
“Go where exactly?”
“I don’t know, France or Spain…Yeah! Let’s go to Spain. Lots of curvy birds. Uh, guaranteed entertainment. What do you think?” he asked, looking at him in a manner that was both impatient and hopeful.
Paul smiled slightly, before bending his head and blushing a little, “Your offer is really tempting, John, but I can’t, I mean…You know I don’t have much money.”
“Hey, I didn’t say ‘Let’s ask good old Jim for some money and go away on holiday.’ I just said ‘Let’s go’; you don’t have to worry about anything at all. Someone else already did.” He explained, winking at him and waving the money order. “A hundred gorgeous quid just for the two of us. It’s an early birthday present, darling.”
Paul looked at him really upset for a moment with half-open mouth, and his heart lost a bit: “You’re telling me that you want me to come with you and I don’t have to pay for anything?”
“Exactly.” John answered, laughing.
“Anything?”
“Anything at all.”
It was amazing how John couldn’t stop smiling, laughing, feeling euphoric and thrilled about something that hadn’t even happened yet.
“But, John! It’s your money, you should use it on yourself, or save it for the future or-“
“Oh, shut up, you’re starting to sound like Mimi. Just stop fucking ruining my fucking plans! I’d really appreciate it. It’s my money and I’ll use it for whatever I want. And Paul, I’d really like to go on holiday with me best mate.”
He had just said the magical word. Actually, the magical words, plural. He knew that Paul wouldn’t be able to resist to those precious words: best mate, for all his fucking heart breaking thoughts that in his opinion John would have prefer Stuart to him. But they were two completely different people and in John’s eyes, they had two completely different roles, Stuart and Paul.
The smile on Paul’s lips confirmed that John had hit the nail on the head.
“To be clear, Paul, if you don’t come, I’ll find some other travel buddy in no time. I think George would like to -”
“No, no, no, I’m in.” Paul answer hurriedly, his face was suddenly on fire, “I’ll go with you.”
“Good!”
“It’s just that… my dad, it won’t be easy to get his permission.”
“I’m sure you’ll do your best. Just think about what’s waiting for us: new exciting adventure, birds, food that doesn’t taste like harbor, birds, and new kinds of arts and… did I say birds yet?” He asked laughing and his euphoria managed to infect Paul.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“You’d better be persuasive, Paul.” John said, grabbing Paul’s chin with his hand, “Otherwise I’ll kidnap you and take you with me, princess. No matter what.”
Then he pushed his shoulder with one hand.
“Go to your daddy, now. Or there will be no fucking way he’ll let you come with me- if his lunch is late.”
“John!” Paul scolded him, with his voice and his stare, “You’re the one keeping me from preparing it.”
The boy just giggled and started to pull back. Paul stayed on the doorframe, looking at him.
“You should put your glasses on, you prick, Spanish girls don’t like black-and-blue faces.”
Just past the gate, John put his glasses on, turned to him and smiled, lifting his thumb. Roger.
The next moment John was gone from his view, but Paul had still his eyes fixed on the spot where his friend had stopped to smile at him. He was unable to move, unable to hear anything but the sound of John’s voice inviting him to go on holiday with him or the sound of his own heartbeat hammering fast in his ears.
He smiled, the smile he’d been holding back, thinking of all the times he had to hide the effect the boy with the glasses and the aquiline nose had on him. That effect he’d had on Paul since their first meeting, since his life changed on that hot, sultry day in July.
****
He heard the squeals of children playing and the anxious, scolding of mothers all around him in the churchyard. However everything seemed to Paul like a single muffled sound, like he had just stuck his head in a bucket full of tepid water and the voices, the noises came to his ears as distorted and blurred vibrations. The feeling was strengthened by the odd heat of that day. The sun was shining up in the sky, warming the surroundings, but it had a bigger effect on Paul. Sweat drops beaded on his brow and neck and he was sure he had just felt one of them slide down his back. But as long as his hands weren’t sweaty, it wasn’t a problem for Paul.
He was playing and singing “Twenty Flight Rock” with a guitar that wasn’t his and he had to turn it upside down.
He was playing with a dozen of eyes fixed on him: there was his mate Ivan, who had convinced him to go to the fete and there were the members of that little Skiffle band. They had already played earlier in the day, on an improvised stage.
Paul had watched their performance, concentrating so hard that everything else seemed vanish: Paul had stood right there, in front of that trembling stage, captivate by the music he was listening to, sucked into a place where it was just him and those guys, his equals who were not so different from him. He had never felt so excited, so involved and it was because of an unhinged and unknown band, whose singer didn’t remember the lyrics of the song he was singing and was playing with an arguable technique. Maybe this was exactly what had impressed him so much.
The Quarrymen, or whatever their bloody name was, weren’t afraid of make mistakes, even if it was in front of dozens of people who were there to listen to them. And it wasn’t because most of the audience wouldn’t notice their mistakes. They weren’t afraid because in that moment making a mistake or playing the right chords wasn’t important. What was really important was playing, just playing. Playing until every fucking injustice of life vanished for a moment. Playing with your friends, sharing that feeling that couldn’t be replicated in any other way.
Just let go. To hell with everything else!
The Quarrymen’s singer seemed to know it well. Ivan was a friend of his. His name was John, Ivan had told him. And Paul had been amused: such a simple and common name for a bloke that was certainly self-confident. Judging from his attitude on the stage, with those cocky moves and smirks. He made fun of the audience, rather than seek its approval. He was quite eccentric too.
He couldn’t be “just John”. Something like Humphrey or Driscoll or, why not, Gaylord would have been more appropriate. Really, a name that made an impression, a name you could go around and say: “Hey, I know a guy named Gaylord.”
Someone would surely asked you: “And what is he like?”
And because a guy with a name like that must have unique traits for sure, you could start to list every single, juicy detail about the guy, you could be sure that everyone’s attention would be on you while you did. But John? You couldn’t say: “Hey, I know a guy named John.”
All anyone would say to that would be: “So? I knew at least seven Johns.”
Maybe even John would agree and that was the reason he depended on his look (Teddy boy’s hair, fucking fashionable), the expressiveness of his face (he was always so cheeky and twinkly), the attitude (bold and insolent)… All that was designed to capture the attention of someone, of anybody. Well, he had succeeded. John had all of Paul’s attention.
And now John was returning the favor, staring at Paul with his magnetic eyes. Charmed, he observed how the fingers of Paul’s left hand moved skillfully on the guitar strings. The chords he played were a little different from the ones that John knew. And, yeah, maybe more appropriate, but just a little bit. He was just a kid, however. How old could he be? Fourteen? He couldn’t possibly know more things than John, who was already a man. That Paul was just a child, a child playing with something bigger than himself.
He played well, though, John had to admit. He would never have believed it, when Ivan joined them with that toddler, interrupting the celebration of a successful gig. He had introduced him as “Paul McSomething”. John had greeted him with a simple nod, before concentrating on his beer and their post-gig comments. But then Ivan had added something about Paul being able to play guitar too. John really hadn’t find it that interesting, after all a lot of guys knew how to strum a guitar, it wasn’t that special. If John wanted, Paul could play something right there, right now, with his guitar, John’s guitar. No, John didn’t want him to, not at all! However he didn’t want to ruin the party, in case he made the insecure kid cry because of his lack of regard. So he gave his guitar to him with a look that went from “if you just have to do it” to “I’ll fucking cripple you if you scratch it”.
Paul wasn’t as insecure as he looked . The moment his hand touched the guitar’s neck, his expression changed . As if holding that instrument in his hands meant everything to him. It meant finally being complete. John had sensed that was the case, because that was what happened anytime he grabbed his guitar and started to play. It was the most important thing in his life.
After just a few chords and the first words Paul sang, John had realized that he wanted the kid in his band. Paul would improve their technique and sound. It would lend steadiness to their shaking wreck, set the screws in their trembling wheels.
On the other hand, though, John was also afraid. Paul seemed to have a similar attitude to John. If John let him in his band, he would have to share the leadership with him. Paul wasn’t like the others, Paul had something, something John was searching for and was afraid of in anyone else: self-confidence. It was something John only pretended to have. And right there, watching Paul play so fucking well, it had vanished all of sudden, making him feel so naked. It was likely that in the end Paul wouldn’t just share the leadership with John, but maybe he would usurp his role, relegating John to a simple fragment in that painting named Paul McSomething.
What did he have to do? What did he have to do now, when Paul finished his song and everyone was looking at John?
The young man shrugged his shoulders, took back his guitar and handed it to Pete. Then he wrapped an arm around Paul’s shoulders.
“How old are you, sonny?” he asked, his mouth a few centimeters away from Paul’s face.
“Fifteen years old.” Paul sneered but not for long. His face relaxed into an eager expression.
“I’d have given you fourteen.” John said, impressed.
“What’s the difference?”
“Whether or not you have a wank while you’re in the bathroom.”
Paul opened his eyes wide, blushing violently. John giggled with his mates and gave Paul a hard pat on the back.
“Would you like some beer?” he asked, offering him his bottle of beer.
“No, thanks.”
“Well, then…” John sighed, taking a gulp of his drink, “Paul, it was really lovely to meet you, but you know, we have another gig tonight. As with any artist worthy of respect, we need to relax and regain our energy.”
Paul nodded in understanding, John gave him another hard pat on the back and waved to the other guys. Paul turned around and left and John followed him with his eyes. Without noticing it, the smile widened on his face. He had made a decision in his head and his heart. A very dangerous choice. But John Lennon loved a risk, no one could doubt that.
Paul loved a risk too. Nobody knew it, but there was a part of him that was fearless and intrepid. It was exactly what had helped him to play not only well, but very fucking well, just minutes ago. Because of that he was able to ignore the pressure of those curious and surprised looks he was given. Because of that he was able to ignore his more meticulous side, when John leaned on him and talked to him with his beery breath. His two contrasting sides argued a lot because on one hand Paul thought: “What the fuck does this prick want from me?”
On the other hand he was sure that the said prick was different than he appeared to be. That there was something completely different in him that was drawing Paul in and that Paul could learn to love.
John had that something that would change his life forever.
****
And he really had changed his life. Thanks to John, who had accepted him in his band, Paul had experiences that otherwise he could have just dreamed about. His life was a succession of events that had made him grow up, mature musically and personally.
Paul now was a young man, sure of what he wanted. And what he wanted was to follow John, wherever he wanted to go. In a funny way, every time Paul went along John’s ideas, whether they were eccentric or ordinary, he never regretted it.
He sighed, still standing in the same spot where he had just watched his friend leave. He was sure that John wouldn’t let him down this time either.