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Brian promised them the world. He would make them famous. He would make them rich. He would take them away from all of this.
It was 1962. So far their EMI contract had taken them to Birkenhead, New Brighton and Southport. John was only days from becoming a married man. Perhaps that was why he'd accepted Brian's invitation to a day by the sea at Formby.
They huddled in the lee of the dunes, sitting on a rug with a couple of scratchy wool blankets over their knees. Dark, piled clouds scudded past, delivering little spits of rain and shafts of sun before moving on again. The wind blew incessantly, driving low, pale veils of sand in sinuous ropes along the smooth, dark sand of the beach. Waves crashed. Far away across the water one could see the small finger of Blackpool Tower, illuminated by fickle sunlight like a beacon.
"Don't know why we're here anyway," said John, his mouth full of a roast beef sandwich that was leavened with gritty bits of sand. "No one else is here. We could be at Blackpool Pier. Or indoors in the warm, in your parlour."
"We could," said Brian, gazing around the deserted beach like an emperor surveying his territory. "But don't you think this is grand? I do."
"Och, aye," John replied, his Scottish accent an indistinct mumble. "Grand."
"I wonder how long one could stay in the surf before one was battered to bits by it?" said Brian speculatively.
"Only one way to find that out."
"You're right," said Brian. He raised an eyebrow. "Quite right, John."
Without another word he got to his feet and began to strip off his clothes. Jumper, turtleneck, shoes, socks.
"You're mad." John shook his head. Whether in fear or admiration he wasn't sure. "Barking. Totally cracked."
"I am," said Brian with a brilliant smile. Looking around only briefly to check that no one was about, he pulled off his trousers too. Goosepimples were already beginning to form on his pale skin. "Aren't you going to join me, John?"
"I prefer to stay dry, thanks."
His words had an edge of humour to them, but John fumbled with a cigarette trying to disguise his nerves. It wouldn't light in the wind. The swells were very large, breaking heavily.
Brian pulled off his underpants.
"If you go in there," John continued, flicking his lighter over and over again and just as grateful for the excuse not to look at Brian's naked body, "don't be expecting me to go in and haul you out again."
"I'm a strong swimmer," said Brian, with the assurance of a boarding school boy who was used to cold showers and other mortifications of the flesh. "Not to worry."
John watched as Brian ran into the pale line of surf, not hesitating for an instant before he dove in. The man was courageous, you had to give him that. For a moment, Brian's dark head was visible in the water and then he was entirely lost in the foam and the spray.
He hummed to himself, a little chant of Eppy, Eppy, Eppy that was half cheer and half incantation against harm. He marked off the seconds in his mind, a steady metronome tick that left him wondering how long he should wait before abandoning his words and going in after Brian. It was cold, very cold. The wind whipped spray up onto the beach. A man could die in the Irish Sea, and not slowly either.
It seemed ages before Brian returned.
He stumbled up the sand back to John and the rug, breathing in short, painful gasps, shuddering with the cold. He looked exhilarated.
"You're bleeding," said John, staring with fascination at Brian's heaving chest. It was scraped raw, abraded against the sand of the sea floor.
"It doesn't matter," Brian said, waving his hand dismissively. He reached for his clothes and hurriedly began to pull them on. "I've done it. Now pour me some tea from that thermos."
Utterly bedraggled, Brian sat drinking his tea with hands that were shaking almost too much to hold the cup. He hadn't bothered to dry his hair and water ran down his neck in rivulets. He was still breathing hard, as if he were still out battling the breakers rather than on shore in a nice woolly jumper.
Another cup of tea and no effect.
"You're not warming up, are you?"
"I don't think so," admitted Brian. "That was not the most intelligent thing I've ever done."
"You can say that again. What are we going to do with you?"
"Don't know."
Brian wrapped his arms around himself and rocked back and forth in a fruitless attempt to reclaim some heat.
"Well, we've got to do something. Your lips are turning purple."
John's all-knowing, all-powerful manager now seemed someone a little more flawed--and a little more human. Only a few years older than John, really, and clearly not much more sensible.
Leaning back against the grass of the dune, John held his arms out to his friend, warmed by pity and perhaps a touch more.
"Here, Eppy," he said, his throat suddenly dry. "Come here."
Without demur Brian obliged, leaning into John so that he was huddled against his chest. John held Brian tight, vigorously rubbing his back to try to coax some circulation into him.
"There, Eppy, there," said John, keeping his hands moving so as not to dwell on the fact that he was cradling his manager in his arms. "Is that any better?"
Brian made a small noise that could have been assent. He was damp and trembling and heavy against John's chest.
"Are we going to be famous, Eppy?" asked John, the same question that he always asked. The one question. The only question.
"Bigger than Elvis," assured Brian. His teeth were chattering, his voice muffled by John's jumper. "I have... every confidence in you. Every confidence."
"The toppermost of the poppermost?"
"Without a doubt."
"Really?"
"You must trust me, John."
"Oh really," John said dryly.
"Yes."
Brian curled a little more tightly around himself, brushing a sandy hand against the blanket and tucking it close between his legs. He shivered all over, once.
"Why's that then, Brian?"
It was cruel. Of course it was. But nothing like as cruel as the relentlessness of the waves.
"Because," said Brian convulsively. "Because... you know why."
Silence.
John kicked at the sand, burying his boot up to the laces. The damp from Brian's sopping hair was soaking through to his skin. The wind whistled mournfully along the shingle. Neither of them moved except to breathe.
"Is it my fault that I love you, John?" said Brian finally, in a faint voice.
"You're a fucking queer, Eppy, is it my fault that I don't?"
He said it gently enough. As gently as such a thing could be said.
When Brian finally lifted his face, an eternity later, it was salt-stained and wet with the sea. He looked away, covering his face with his hands.
"I've got a bit of grit in my eye," he said, choked. "That's all."
Shaking out a half-numbed arm, John whistled an uncomfortable tune, one that would never have the girls screaming. He cleared his throat and busied himself with putting away the picnic things.
"Here we are at the seaside, Eppy. You and me, just like you wanted. Happy now?"
"Not in the least," Brian replied, his brow furrowing.
It made two of them.