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You had first met George Harrison in the summer of 1956. You and your father, who was a colleague and close friend of Harold Harrison, had been invited for dinner at the Harrison’s family home in Speke of where you lived not too far from. You had only ever met the man of the house, Harold, as your dad were accustomed to dragging you along to his place of work- deeming it would toughen you up and learn how to be a proper man. You had just turned fourteen and George was thirteen- something you father had been quick in informing you, telling you to behave and make friends. Something of which puzzled you. You weren’t some ruffian and behaved as well-mannered as the next person in Liverpool so you couldn’t figure out as to why he gave you such a warning. Okay… sure, you had a tendency to be foul-mouthed and blunt but, really, your dad was more to blame than anyone else. He took you to his workplace at the docks! Of course you were going to pick up on the native language of dock workers and sailors and drag it with you home. But you knew well enough from right and wrong in how to behave as a guest. So you bit your tongue and followed him silently lest you wanted a beating come tomorrow morning. You were getting quite enough of that to begin with.
What greeted you as came around the corner to the right address was a modest little council house. And behind its small fence and gate, stood a young boy; around your age, lanky with arms that looked to reach his knees, and with wide protruding ears. You stifled a giggle as he greeted your father with a wide smile and a wave of his paper thin arms. He looked at you with curious eyes and a tilting head as he lead you towards the house, talking a mile a minute. And he had sent… interesting glances your way. Something you couldn’t quite decipher. Maybe it was just curiosity at this stranger entering his home? He didn’t break what was proper and costume and only talked to your father- something told you George’s father had had a talk with him too prior to the dinner. Your father was a hard and disciplined man. No respect for children and hardly any for women too. Your mother had left without a trace years past with your baby sister, and to you, it was no wonder why. You were only mad she hadn’t taken you along. It left your father bitter and cold. And with a bottle of beer in hand, he let the anger that filled him up to the brim out on you. Hell, you were properly going to get a whuppin’ no matter how you behaved tonight.
The dinner was nothing to write home about, so to say. The Harrison weren’t well off, though neither was your family. It was a nice little catfish with a hearty arrange of potatoes and greens. It tasted well and certainly was far better than what you ever had to make at home for yourself and the old man. After, there was a talk of dessert which excited you but much to your dismay; you were informed that first the adults needed a grown-up chat and sent you along with George and his siblings upstairs. You followed George, silently and close behind him, to his room. It was a tiny thing and all around stood memorabilia that depicted memories and interests of the young boy. What caught your interest the most was the old guitar leaned up against the boy’s bed. Your eyes met as you looked towards him and he gave you a shy smile, “d’you know how to play?”
He asked with excitement lingering at the end of the sentence. You nodded, suddenly feeling bashful. “I know a number or two,” you muttered and sat down on a chair near the bed. A sudden anxious feeling was creeping up in your chest and laid heavy. It was different from the usual shy and reserved sense of being one felt at being in a strange and new room. George gave you a toothy grin and grabbed the guitar by its neck carefully, “I’m still learning.” He took careful steps towards you. “Could you… maybe, if you want to… play something?”
You reached for the guitar, but hesitated as you looked up into his brown eyes. You loved the opportunity to show off but your head screamed no and pushed on the temptations of throwing the guitar and running away, but deciding against all of that, you took the guitar firmly in hand and mentally went through the song you had in mind for George. The minutes flew by as you played ‘Sweet Sue, Just You’ with George watching you intently. While it was nowhere near the quality of which you could find on records, George looked enthralled and spent seconds in silence afterwards with a hazed look in his eyes and grin. “That was belter,” he awed and was about to continue in his praise but was interrupted by the loud voice of your father calling your name. With wide eyes in panic, you quickly handed him the guitar and rushed up from the chair- “I got to be going,” you heaved out and swiftly moved towards the chair. “Will you come back and teach me?” George hurried in asking before you had completely left him. You before managed out a ‘yeah, yeah, sure,’ before you all but vanished down the stairs.
And you did see him again. A few weeks later, you managed to sneak away from your father’s sight and made your way to George’s house. You were nervous which, in a way, frightened you. What could possibly make you so nervous? Tiny George and his guitar? Harrumph!
He greeted you at the door with a smile and quickly lead you to his room with exciting chatter about what he had done the last few weeks and how he had practised and practised on his guitar and how he was so excited to show you and for you to teach him ‘Sweet Sue, Just You’. His eager commotion confused you. You had never experienced a person making such a buzz about you in such a positive way. You knew not how to react or act and lead him pull you into his room and silently watched him twist around on the floor, playing the guitar, and mimicking Elvis Presley. Your mind was slowly unravelling as you watched him. And it went further and further apart as you sat crossed legged across each other on his narrow bed as you taught him to in and outs to the song he had been so eager to learn. He was quick to learn and as you adjusted the placements of his fingers on the strings, he suddenly stilled and you looked up with a raised brow in question. He looked wide eyed at you and before you could react- he placed a light and quick peck on your lips.
You shot back from him and fell on your back. You heard him stutter, but that was all you heard before you rolled out the bed and rushed out of the room, out of the house, and ran home. You knew not how to react. You knew not how to feel. All you felt was the adrenaline rush through you as you ran to your room and threw you against the door as you slammed it shut. You fell to the floor and praised the miracle that was your father not being home. You liked George- you really did! But what was that! He kissed you! Was he supposed to do that? Was boys supposed to do that to boys? It was disgusting… but you found yourself, the more you thought about it on the cold floor of your room, that you liked it. You liked George. But this couldn’t happen. It shouldn’t! Your father would surely kill you if he found out.
It was the summer of 1960, your relationship with George changed drastically and, at the same time, not at all. After the certain event of the summer of 1956, not much had really changed. The next time you saw George (it was weeks before you showed up at his door again), all was as if nothing had happened. George acted like the last few minutes had simply… been erased and, while there was a small sting to it, you could live with that. A heavy feeling lingered when you saw him- especially as he grew into the age of girls and furthermore; into their arms. But by 1960, it was numb. It was barely there. And it was something you could live with. You hung out still. He was in a band- you watched him; you cheered for him. It was all nice and the act of not feeling that feeling went quite well, actually, but then one evening it all crashed into itself.
The two of you had been sitting, mulling over a few beers in the back garden of your small house. It was the night before he left for Hamburg with his band The Beatles, of which he was a guitarist. He had come over with the beers in hand and a serious look written across his face. Normally, you would have him taken anywhere else, but you were in such a luck that it was the day that your father would go to the pub and pass out somewhere in the back of it. The owner of the establishment had already called and informed you of your father’s stay there. So you had gladly opened the door for George and his case of beer, and off you went into the deep crevices of intoxication. And it soon became clear as to why George had had the generosity of the bevvy, it was clear that there was something he wanted to say and could not get out. You carefully placed your hand on his shoulder and gave it a slow rub as you looked into his sunken eyes and waited.
“D’you… do you ever think about the summer when we first met?”
He asked in so low a voice you almost hadn’t heard the question. You nodded, anxious to know where it was leading. “I… often do,” he continued in the same voice- hushed and quiet. An emotional pain radiated for it and you felt responsible. You blinked, in lieu of not knowing what to say. You had thought he had completely forgotten about it. While, for you, it had never left your mind. He leaned towards you and you felt his warm breath and the dank smell of cheap beer hit you in the face. “I love you,” he choked out and slumped his head against your hard shoulder. “… George,” you whispered and felt him stir against your jacket. “Georgie,” you persisted and lightly pushed him from you. Tears hung desperately in his eyelashes as he looked at you with his dark eyes, the pain and hurt as visibly as the night sky above you.
You wiped the tears from his cheek as they finally fell. His skin was soft and burning hot and you rested your cool palm against the heat as you looked into his eyes and slowly got lost as you whispered- “George… I,” you swallowed deeply and felt tears burn at the edge of your eyes,”… I love you too.”