Chapter Text
Tuesday, July 15, 1958
Supper was late and Jim McCartney, tired from a long day at an unsatisfying job, was unusually annoyed with his son. The 16 year-old Paul could normally be counted on to get things rolling on the evening meal so it would not be a long wait to eat, and then there would be clean up and finally to settle down with a cup of tea, and a bit of time on the piano or with the wireless, before it was time for bed. Too soon the whole draining process of being a workingman and the single father of two young sons would begin again.
“Michael,” he called out, “set the places for supper, please. And where is your brother got to? Why isn’t he here?” As if I didn’t know, he grumbled to himself. With that Lennon boy, of course. A bad seed, that one. Paul’s excellent marks were going to suffer next term if he didn’t buckle down and give as much attention to his studies as to that so-called “band” that was taking up so much of his time.
And that Lennon, with his Teddy ways, the surface manners that seemed to travel on a shiny veneer of contempt for nearly everyone. And that look he had about him, as though life were nothing but a big joke.
Life, Jim McCartney knew, was too serious to shuffle along with. Things could turn on a dime, and then you’re scraping by, making do and darning socks long past mending and going to bed alone because the one you love has been taken too soon…too soon.
Well, his Paul was going to be reminded that music was an alright pastime – Jim himself was a musician, as were many of the McCartney’s and he understood how it could soothe by a lonely hour or liven up an evening’s company – but the world would be demanding something more of him than a guitar and a silly hairstyle. Tonight, he would have words with his elder son, try to catch him by the jumper and remind him of who he was and what he owed the family, while his sweet nature could still be worked upon.
He hated to be hard, but Jim McCartney knew that Paul had it in him to really be someone – to break out of the lower class that had such a stranglehold on all of them since their families, his and dear Mary’s, had come to Liverpool to find work and escape the dreary, dream-killing poverty of Ireland. The lad was smart, not so much with the maths, but he knew his literature and his history and his marks at school were high enough that Mary had dreamed of his becoming a doctor, while Jim hoped to see him grow into a university lecturer.
Imagine that! A McCartney as a physician, or holding forth on Shakespeare before a crowded hall of higher-born students. Unthinkable before now, but Paul McCartney had the potential to bring that about, make them all proud, if he would just stay in line, be responsible, and remember his priorities.
He watched young Mike set out places for the supper, thinking what a good example Paul had been to his brother up to now. It couldn’t be allowed to change. “Did you hear what I asked, son? Where is your brother? With that Lennon?”
“Not sure, Da,” the boy answered. “Haven’t seen him at all. Why do you always call John ‘that Lennon’, Da? He’s so cool.”
Jim couldn’t stop a smile from tugging at his lips. “That’s just the thing, lad. He’s so very cool. In too many ways.”
“I like him, though. He’s always nice to me.”
“Well, that’s a thing, anyway, isn’t it?” His father said as he gave the potatoes a stir.
They heard the front door open with a crash, and there was Paul making a mad dash up the stairs, slamming the door to the loo. A flush. A handwash, and then he was scrambling back down, making his way toward the street again.
“Paul!” Jim called out, heading through the living room to catch him. “Paul, hold on.”
His son stopped, one hand on the doorknob, the other holding a light jacket, although he already wore a sweater. Paul turned to his father, his face flushed, bathed in a sheen of sweat. He was breathing heavily, as though he’d been running a long way. “Not now, Da, please,” he panted, “I’ve got to go - ”
“You’ll go nowhere until you explain to me why you’ve let the supper go unattended and left your brother to himself all day,” his father said with a frown communicating serious displeasure. “Little enough is asked of you, lad, and it’s not like you’ve a job to distract you.”
Paul closed his eyes and kicked back at the door with one foot as if he were angry at himself. “I’m sorry, Da, truly. I’ve lost track of the time. But I’ve got --”
“You’ve got to have a meal with your family, like a civilized person, and then you and I need to have a talk.”
“No, sorry, I’m not hungry, and I have to -- ”
“It wasn’t a request, Paul. Consider it a command performance, and get in the kitchen to help.”
“Fuck the supper, Da, I’m --” The sentence went unfinished as Paul felt the sharp sting of his father’s hand upon his cheek, and they both gasped.
It was no small thing for Jim McCartney to take a hand to one his boys. Promises had been made about that. And now, father and son stood looking at each other in a kind of dazed horror, mirroring one another as they each brought a hand to their own cheeks – Paul to feel the tingle that was already threatening to swell, Jim to feel the heat of his own shame. He’d struck his son, and his gut was roiling at his own action, his surprisingly quick fury.
But Paul had to know he’d earned that. For that matter, Michael had to see it, before he ever thought he could talk to his father like that and get away with it.
“You’ll not use that tone or that language on me, son,” he said, forcing himself to hold a gaze with Paul, whose huge eyes betrayed a humiliation Jim found almost unbearable to behold. “If this is what hangin’ about with that Lennon and that band is bringin’ out in you, we’ll just end all that tonight. I’ll not have it. You’ll keep a civil tongue in your head, or it's done.”
Paul held his father’s stare for a long moment, startling Jim with a look of unreserved anger (and with a confusion behind it he’d never seen in his son), before he ducked his head down and looked away.
“I am sorry, Da. I am. But John’s missing…” He looked up again, his eyes shining black with determination. “John’s run off, and I have to find him.”
Jim couldn’t hold back his disgust as he sighed, “I knew it. He’s no good, son. Likely he’s off with one of his hoodlum friends, and you’ll not go off with him this night and join up with that, if I have to hold you back with my own hands.”
Paul kicked the door again, this time in frustration, and shook his head, gritting his teeth and growing ruddy as he as he raised his voice, another rare event.
“God, will you listen, Da? Will you listen?” He lifted his chin in his first open defiance of his father. “You’ll not keep me. I have to find John.” His voice broke at his friend’s name, and Paul stopped, gulping hugely at Jim McCartney before he could choke out the words. “His ma’s dead... Julia.” Paul could hear Mike gasp from across the room.
“She’d been visiting at Mimi’s, and as she was crossing the street to head home she was hit by a car. She’s gone. John’s lost his mum.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Jim breathed, crossing himself and closing his eyes, his whole body registering the news like a punch to the gut, dragging his proud shoulders down. “It’s too awful.”
“John’s gone off,” Paul continued. “No one knows where. I have to find him. I have to be with him.”
“Aye…” Jim went to Paul, patting his shoulder, suddenly gleaning why Paul had the jacket with him. A good lad. “You do. Sure, he’ll need a friend who knows…”
Paul nodded. “He does. He needs me.”
“And I’m sure his auntie needs him, too, poor woman. Poor lad.”
They stood like that for a moment, a Northern man and his son, both looking down, no longer able to hold a gaze because the moment was too tender, too dear, their own wounds at the loss of Mary McCartney still too fresh to bear sharing through a meeting of eyes and minds. Paul was nodding, his own hand upon his father’s. He gulped again.
“So…I have to go, Da, I’ve no idea where he is.”
His father’s nod answered his own. “Aye, you go. I’ll save a plate for you.”
“Thank you. I don’t think I’ll be hungry, though. Not sure I'll be home.” Paul patted his father’s hand and opened the door, stepping outside, and felt his father pull him back a step. His eyes full of regret, Jim silently raised a hand to Paul’s cheek, delicately touching the red mark he’d left there only minutes before. “Be careful.” He leaned in and gave his son a quick, fleeting kiss there. “I’m proud of you, Paul.”
Paul stood raised his eyes, a blush building as his nerves fluttered a bit and his eyes began to tear up. His father hadn’t kissed him since his mum had died, and now both of them let out shuddering breaths at the memory. “Tell your friend…” Jim bit back the words, “When you find him, tell John…tell him I am very sorry for his trouble.”
“I will, Da. Thank you.” Paul closed the door quietly as he left.
***
He’d spent hours looking, checking with their bandmates and all of their mutual friends, but no one had seen John Lennon. Paul even headed out to Upton Green on the off-chance – the admittedly very off chance – that John had simply started wandering and had ended up at George’s place. It wasn’t entirely outside the realm of possibility, after all. Paul recalled all too well the sense of disorientation that had gripped him when his own mother had died, and how he had moved through the city all out of focus, like a blind man without a stick, until he’d suddenly found himself on George’s doorstep, just standing there, announcing to whoever opened the door, “My mum is dead,” and feeling Louise Harrison -- that warm, giving woman -- tugging him into her arms as he wept his first open tears in grief against her softness.
It had been like reliving the moment, seeing the same scrubbed door open to him as he brought the same bad news, this time, “John’s ma is dead.” And once again, Louise drawing him to herself, hugging him with one arm as she closed the door, and called after George.
He’d stayed for a bit – Louise seemed determined not to permit Paul to leave without a cuppa and some toast, and some biscuits for in case he found John.
“She’s everyone’s mum, now, isn’t she? It's her way,” George shrugged as he stood with Paul, offering to join him in his search and reaching for a jumper. Considering it, Paul finally shook his head. “Be glad for your company, but…no. I think…I don’t want to overwhelm him, yeah? I need to just find him, meself. But thanks, Georgie, you’re a one.”
***
He found John, finally, in the growing shadows of the golf course that lay between their neighborhoods, slumped down upon himself, smoking and staring at his shoes as the blackbirds chattered in the gloaming. He was sniffling and shivering in the damp air.
Paul stood above him thinking how much he wished he did not have to be here, doing this. He recognized in John the defeated posture that had been his own all-too recently.
“Hey,” he said softly, “I’ve found you, John, love.”
John hesitated before raising his head to Paul, unwilling to be seen, to show the younger lad his eyes. “I’m almost out of ciggies,” he said, rubbing his forehead, “have any?”
“A few.” Paul joined him on the ground and put his jacket around John’s rounded shoulders. “You’ll catch a cold out here, son, if you stay. I can hear you snuffling your snot already and you’ll be sneezing soon. From the damp and all, you know.”
John nodded, drawing the jacket more tightly about him. “Aye, it’s the damp. Ta, Paul.”
They sat in silence, watching small bunnies dart about in the green grass, taking their supper before darkness fell, listening to the last buzzing of the bees before they retired and the starlings and martins fluttering about. “It gets so busy, this time of day,” Paul mused, just to make conversation, put something out there for John to focus on besides his exquisite pain.
He’d always loved to watch the birds and wondered why he’d never thought of the golf course as a natural bird sanctuary – here they were, tattling and slooping like colorful fireworks amid the dying skylight. All wild and alive in the midst of gloomy death.
“There’s bluebirds,” he pointed out to John who looked away, only turning back after he’d swallowed and released a great sigh. By then, the birds had flown past.
Paul lit two cigarettes at once, passing one to John. “Me mum used to talk about how the world -- how the wee creatures, anyway – would all come out in the twilight, like now, and be all so noisy. She said her ma, my gran, had told her they were making their own sort of vespers, yeah? Like they were sayin’ evenin’ prayer for the rest of us.”
He studied John’s face, so determinedly, resolutely closed. “Evensong, you know? As if we learned it from them. Her Irish fancy, o’ course, but still…I always liked that.”
John Lennon exhaled a huge cloud of smoke and gave Paul a blank stare before biting out his words with a voice like a flick knife. “You do know my mum is dead, right? And you're comin’ here telling me about your mother and your granny and all?”
Paul nodded, letting the flick-sting pass him by, not holding on to it as he watched the birds. “I know, John. And you know I couldn’t be sorrier about it. Everyone is. Georgie, the band, all our mates. It’s just, you know…it’s good to remember the things our mums have told us. I think it is.”
John managed a grunt that sounded half a growl, and leaned forward into his lap, hiding his face in his hands, murmuring something indecipherable.
“What say?” Paul asked, leaning forward, laying a hand upon John’s shoulder. “Didn’t get that, son.”
“A fucking copper,” John repeated beneath his hand. “Off-duty and full of the drink. He just mowed her down.”
“Christ,” Paul gasped. “I’d not heard that bit. Oh God, I’m sorry Johnny.” He wasn’t sure how it could be but somehow that made Julia’s death seem even worse, more unjust. Not just an accident, then, but a true recklessness. Someone so selfish that he didn’t care how his own actions could steal so much from the lives of others. He ran his hand across John’s shoulders as his friend shuddered his way through tears he was unwilling to show, and Paul didn’t think he could bear to see.
“Yeah, a fucking cop,” John said, sitting up straighter, putting the jacket. He quickly wiped his eyes and cheeks with the backs of his hands and squinted. “I have a headache.”
“You’re probably hungry, then,” Paul said as he reached into his pocket (grateful now for how pushy and insistent Louise had been) and handed John the biscuits, wrapped in a small paper. “From George’s mum. She’s sorry for your trouble, John. As is my da. And Mike.”
She’s everybody’s mum, now, isn’t she? Paul decided not to repeat George’s words – true as they seemed -- to John, at this moment.
John unwrapped the biscuits, but seemed to forget them immediately. “I’m not sure I can do this, Paul.” He said.
“Eat them, they’re good. And you need your strength.”
He turned his head sharply to Paul, narrowing his eyes, “Are you being deliberately obtuse?”
"Aye." Paul looked back at John, his eyes huge with a shared sorrow, as though he was trying to wrap his friend up and bring him inside himself with the power of a look, so they would neither of them ever have to talk about this again with actual, useless words. “You can do it, John. If I can, you can.” He took his friend’s wrist as Lennon silently shook his head, ‘no’.
“Yes, you can. I know you can. You’re much stronger than I.”
“How?” The question was wrenched from the depths of John’s misery. “How, Macca? I keep thinking of all the times I fucked up, all the times I used my sharp tongue just to…I don’t know, have a little of my own back, make her realize…make her hurt and watch her smile fade away, just so she’d know...”
“That she’d hurt you first. And that you were still feelin' it.”
“As if it mattered!” John howled. “As if all of my fucking fuss and all my stinkin' furies meant anything in the face of it. My fucking stupid…it didn’t matter, did it, after all?” He turned toward Paul, breathing hard in his regret. “I feel like…I threw away so much time playin’ that game, and it left so little of her, then, to be with. To hold on to. I’m not goin’a get that time back, Macca, and I’ve no way to undo the things I did, the words I said…” He gripped the collar of Paul’s shirt, nearly choking his friend as wrapped the fabric in his hand, pulling tight, forcing Paul to move forward if he wanted to keep breathing.
“John, too tight,” Paul gasped out, both of his hands coming to John’s face as his own went scarlet. “John…” Paul stared into Lennon’s wild eyes, wondering if John could even see him, and how to get through to wherever he had taken himself. Straining to swallow, he put pressure on either side of John’s face. “Johnny…” he said again, and getting no response, he leaned in, quickly kissing his friend’s lips, and then his forehead.
It was enough. Paul’s unexpected kisses shocked John back into himself and he released the younger lad from his chokehold roughly, with a stunned and mortified expression. “Oh, God…sorry, Paul…”
“It’s okay, John,” Paul started.
“I’m sorry…I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry, please…”
And suddenly John was in Paul’s arms, letting loose with a high-pitched, agonized keen -- so loud, so terrifyingly raw and primal that it drove the birds from the tree above them, and warned the small creatures away from their little patch. “I’m sorry, oh, God, forgive me...I’m sorry." A sob hitched his words, spinning out his apologia into an uneven wail. "I’m so sorrrry…”
And Paul was rocking him, and patting his back, and breathing words that he knew John wouldn’t hear but that still needed saying – the soft croons of comfort and consolation, whispering that it was alright, and that if it wasn’t really alright now, it would be someday, and that John was forgiven -- of course he was forgiven, because no one was to blame…no one at all was to blame for all that remained of the slip-ups and faults that seemed to remain and to resonate between the living and the dead. It was all just how it worked in a broken and hurting world, wasn’t it, after all?
Paul whispered as tenderly as he could, hoping John could not hear the strain of his voice as he lost a battle with his own empathetic tears, because he knew that John’s apology, wailed out toward the heavens, wasn’t being made to Paul, but to Julia. He recognized a boy’s cry to his mother, for forgiveness, for redemption, for a way back to love, to something sane and kind and comfortable when her leaving felt like so much madness, like such a cold and endless night that will never be warm again.
Paul knew well that cry, knew well that coldness, because he’d made the same desperate pleas, offered the same contrition to Mary McCartney, and to God, as he’d all but flogged himself with regret for his stupid, immature, insecure remarks – foolish words he wished he had resisted and never said -- smug, asinine words of no use to anyone or anything beyond his own insecure self -- because it was too late, after all to take them back. The fresh-mouthed way he had mocked his mother once, teasing her for “trying to talk posh,” and seeing her embarrassment. The way he’d gaped, trembling and understanding nothing the only time he’s seen his mum in hospital – her pale face, her weak voice, and those damned bloody sheets he would never forget. “Pray with me, my lovies,” she had breathed, and he and Mike had managed to gasp out a “Hail Mary” while they stared at each other, too terrified to look at their suddenly frail mother.
And just days later, “She’s gone, son,” and Paul, stupid fucker, stupid, thoughtless, scared Paul, blurted out, “What will we do without her money?” Without her earnings, he had meant -- and what sort of son, what sort of senseless, mercenary, idiotic, unloving, cold-hearted son was he to say it? To come out with that to his da’s own face and before his mother’s body was cold?
The horror of himself, James Paul McCartney! He would never forget it, never forgive himself. Perhaps his mother would – perhaps she already had. Perhaps God would forgive it, maybe, if God was really good. But he would never forgive it. Even now, as he held his best friend in a deathgrip, as the tried to console John with all the right words, he knew they could never be true words for him, that he would never accept “It’s alright, no one is to blame.” He was to blame, and he would take it as he'd earned it. If no one else would be hard on him for his mistakes he would be hard on himself, and forever, and forever, and for as long as his mother Mary would be lost to him, and forevermore.
And forever.
From the periphery of his own grief, he began to realize that John had quietened, his wailing had mellowed into soft, quivering sobs as his tears began to slow. He was still clinging to Paul with all of his strength, but no longer choking on his sorrow. His head was resting fully on Paul’s shoulder, his hands gently rubbing circles on Paul’s back. It almost felt like reciprocation, but a sincere one. As though John was trying to give back to Paul a measure of consolation as they continued that slow rocking, back-and-forth.
Paul hadn’t noticed, actually, that he was crying as hard and as fully as John, that they'd each of them gone lost in the depths of their shared torments and heartache. The two boys were snuffling and groaning and shivering and burying their faces into each other’s necks as though this was the only safe place left in the world.
Christ, what a useless loser of a friend he was, Paul thought as he comprehended his own state. Come to support John and here he is, falling all to pieces like this, needing consolation for his own self, like an infant. “I’m not much use to you,” he sniffled at John, “I’m a bad friend, I’m sorry.” He shrugged, trying to remove himself from his partner’s solid grasp. “I’ve no business tellin’ you anything, when I don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about. And I need a ciggie. And I’m sorry.”
They released each other, finally, feeling the cool night air come across their chests as they parted and this time John lit two cigarettes, passing one to Paul. They smoked in the new stillness of a blue-tinged night, both of them studiously, purposely ignoring the way their bodies seemed to shiver as they inhaled, and then convulse with release as they blew their clouds, tilting their heads to heaven as they watched the stars come out, holding their faces in their palms whenever that felt too much like an undeserved peace.
“How do you get over this,” John asked his friend directly. “How do you go on?”
Paul barked a remorseful laugh. “You’re asking me? Clearly, I ain’t over anything, son.”
John reached over, covering his friend’s hand with his own. “You know, Macca, it’s only been what, a year and a little? Maybe it’s okay that you ain’t over her passin’. Pretty sure it’s gonna take longer than that for me.” He moved his hand away. “And you’re wrong. You’re a good friend.” He tamped out his ciggie and looked away. “You’re me best mate, and I thank ya.” And then more softly, “You might be everything, now.”
“Maybe you don’t get over it,” Paul said softly, having missed that last bit, “Maybe you just…kiss her up to God, you know? Say, ‘God, you’ve got me mum. Don’t fuck with her. Just…just help me remember her.’ And maybe that’s all there is, the memory, and we just hang on to that for all it’s worth. ‘God gave us memory, that we might have roses in December.’”
John raised his eyebrows. “That Shakespeare?”
“Naw, the Peter Pan guy, I think. Whatsis...Barrie. Anyway... I hope the memory is enough. Sometimes I feel like I can’t remember what my mum looked like, and that’s…it’s a bad, crazy feeling. Like, what son forgets his mum? Am I a bad son? Did I even love her?”
“You know, Paul,” John leaned into him, until they were shoulder to shoulder, and murmured at him, as though he were telling a secret. “I know I just said you’re me best mate, and it’s true an’ all. But Christ, you’re crap at this.”
Paul rubbed his forehead as he heard Lennon stifle a rueful laugh, then swallowed his own. “I know,” he sympathized. “I’m crap. I’m sorry. My arse is cold and I’m crap, and I’m sorry.”
John stood and pulled Paul up beside him. “Let’s go home, then, before it rains. Mimi is probably putting up tea, you know…”
“She probably needs you,” Paul said, remembering his father’s words.
“Aye. I know. But…for what? I don’t know if I have anything for her.”
Paul shrugged. “Just be around, then.” He pushed away the memory of his father sending him and Mike away after Mary's death. "I'm sure she wants you with her through all that's coming."
“Will you stay?” John asked a little tentatively as they headed toward Mendips. “I know it won’t feel happy, but can you come in with me, and stay, yeah?”
“If Mimi doesn’t’ mind, yeah.”
“She won’t mind. Why should she?”
“Oh, aye? Wasn’t too many weeks ago I asked if I could come in and she said, 'No, you may not, with those sheep eyes and your dirty shoes. You’ll wait for John in the yard!'”
John burst out in unexpected laughter at Paul’s precisely accurate mimicry. Hearing his friend's laughter like a balm to the younger boy’s own ragged heart.
“She didn’t say that,” John chuckled.
“Aye, but she did you know. And then she gave me one of her baleful old glances, like she was the queen, and I was a commoner who forgot to bow and tug a forelock.”
“Well…” John allowed, still laughing. “You can’t say she’s not consistent.” He looked over at Paul, and saw the smile playing at his lips, a contrast to his red and puffy eyes. “But you’ll stay, right? You won’t leave?”
Paul took his arm, wondering how John would ever find his way home in the dark, with no glasses and his own eyes so tellingly swollen.
“I won’t leave ya, John, love. I’ll stay. I’ll be with you through all of it, yeah?”
John sighed, betraying one last shivery breath. “Good. Thank you, Macca. Couldn’t do it any other way.”