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Paul nudged him awake with a squeeze followed by a gentle kiss on his cheek.
“Happy birthday, love, you thirty-three-year-old.” A second kiss was placed on his forehead. “You sleep alright?”
John turned over under the blankets, blinking in Paul’s face in the early dawn. Grey October light was only just beginning to filter through their windows. He could practically feel the cloak of fog lying low in the dips along the fields. The pumpkins would be ready by now, surely, and the apples in their dry barrels in the barn would be perfect for pressing.
“You awake, Johnny?” Paul’s voice danced lightly by his ear.
“Mmhm. Morning, Paulie.” He paused, yawning in a moment of fall-themed day dreams mingled with consideration toward Paul’s earlier question. “I slept great. Best in ages, really.” He frowned at that, realisation setting in. “You let me sleep the whole night. Why didn’t you wake me up for Stell?”
“Because it’s your birthday,” Paul chuckled, long hair shaking in amusement at John’s expressed befuddlement. “And she slept nearly the whole night anyway. Just a bit of fuss at about 2.”
“Hmm.” John narrowed his eyes, trying to be cross, but relented when Paul reached down beside the bed and pulled a small bundle up with him. How on earth was he supposed to stay mad when the sweetest little miracle he’d ever experienced was within arms reach? He sat up to take his youngest daughter into his arms. “Good morning, sweet girl. You slept good last night, I hear.”
“Just needed some food and a change,” Paul agreed, slipping down next to John on the mattress. “After all that fuss over you while you were inside, you turn out to be easy on the outside. Can’t say I’ll complain about that.”
“Me neither,” John agreed. The past few months were hardly something he wanted to repeat, especially when it had broken Paul down to his exposed nerves and strained their marriage in an entirely new way. Not to mention both Stella and the mother had been technically dead for something like nine seconds immediately following the birth. The doctors had pulled John aside and told him after the fact, while Paul was holding their newest child. Paul still didn’t know, though, and John couldn’t imagine himself ever telling him. “Watch her be a high maintenance teenager, though.”
“I’ll take that over the past nine months.” Paul whispered a kiss to her forehead. “You can be a teenage rebel like Daddy sometimes if you want, just remember to come home at midnight.”
“Otherwise she’ll turn into a pumpkin?”
“Otherwise she’ll turn all the way into you.”
“You’re the one who fell in love with me,” John reminded.
“And I’ve had my share of sleepless nights because of it,” Paul said in a warning answer. He squeezed John’s leg with a careful grin. “I’ll leave off today, though, seeing as it’s your birthday.”
“Very generous, m’Lord.” John cupped the side of Paul’s face with his hand. Dark hair framing pale skin, sweater vest layered over a white button-up. “This the same one you wore for Magical Mystery?”
“Hmm?” Paul blinked, then looked down as the words caught up with him. “The shirt or the vest?”
“Both.” John felt his mouth pull into an easy smile just at the memory. God, he’d been cute. That vest and the pinstripe trousers. This on a man who’d never worked in an office building or for a firm of any kind a day in his life. It only stoked John’s affection more, the contrast and occasional obliviousness in everything that Paul was.
“Just the vest, I think.” Paul’s eyes met John’s again, face dusted pink. “Pretty sure you ripped the shirt off me in the back of the bus one day.”
John let his head fall back, laughter shaking through him and gently jostling Stella. “God, I remember that. In my defence you looked really sex—”
“Good Lord, John!” Paul cried, starting to laugh himself. “It’s not even 8 in the morning!”
“Well that’s not my fault, is it? You’re the one who woke me up.” John grinned, watching the colour rise on Paul’s ears. God, he was easy to mess with this way, loving him and teasing him and folding him into his arms. “How’s it someone as lovely as you is still with me, hmm?”
“Johnny,” Paul’s blush deepened, his face flustered, “none of that. Should look in a mirror, you.”
“Not with this beautiful view in front of me. Better than anything I’d dream up, even.”
“In that fantastic head of yours?” Paul shook his head, mouth desperately fighting that almost elven grin of his. “I don’t believe it.”
“You’ve never been good at humility, have you?” John teased.
“You’re impossible, you know that?”
“I’ve been told.” John stroked a thumb across Paul’s cheek. “Mainly by you.”
“Can’t think why,” Paul muttered, but his eyes glowed. “You ready to greet the day, then? Thirty-three and fearless?”
“Always prepared, m’Lord.” John let his hand fall to squeeze Paul’s.
“Right then, well,” Paul squeezed back. “I’ve started on breakfast for Jules and Heather, if you want to get them up and dressed. Mary’s having a bit of a lie in, still.”
“Same cough?” John asked, jogging his brain into morning mode. It may have been his birthday, but it was also a Tuesday.
“Yeah, I didn’t hear much last night, though. And she sounded pretty good this morning. She’s got that appointment tomorrow just to check in.” Paul pushed himself from the bed, then turned to take Stella back into his arms. “Jules’s teacher conference is Friday afternoon, too, if you can make it. Otherwise I can leave the call with Martin early.”
John nodded automatically, the weekly calendar falling into place. “Yeah, 1PM, right?”
“Mm.” Paul flicked on a switch, letting warm light fill the room. He slipped Stella to his right arm and retrieved the baby sling from the back of one of the arm chairs. “Can you help me a moment with this?”
Confirmation was given readily, and John shuffled from the bed to carefully wind the fabric around both Paul and the baby. He’d been sceptical at first, when Paul first bought it for Mary, but then the wrap had given the pair of them four hands again, and with two toddlers plus house chores, it quickly became a necessity. There was also the added bonus of the last wrap segment being a tuck in the back, which provided an easy excuse for John to enclose Paul in his own embrace — something he did in short order.
“John!” Paul laughed. “I’ve got the marmalade rolls in the oven!”
“And I’ve got you here now. Not to mention I’m still thinking about that time on the bus,” John murmured. He dipped his mouth to kiss at Paul’s neck. “God you smell good. Did you shower this morning?”
“John,” Paul tried to warn. “Later, alright?”
“It’s my birthday, though,” John continued, lips sucking gently. His fingers pressed against the front of Paul’s thighs.
“John Lennon!” Paul insisted, squirming and laughing simultaneously. “Not with our youngest child in the room!”
“Fine,” John relented, though he wouldn’t have continued with Stella there regardless of Paul’s protest. Still, he pressed the kiss harder for a second or two longer. A red mark bloomed when he stepped back. “You’ll have to cover that up at the doctor’s tomorrow.”
“God John, I’ve already told you you’re impossible, what else am I supposed to do?” Paul turned and swatted John’s hand away. “Now go make yourself useful before I throw you out on your ear.”
“And reconsider your promise of a rendezvous later this evening?”
“I might just,” Paul answered, striding from the room and throwing an attempt at a stern look over his shoulder.
John did his best to look apologetic — difficult in any setting when Paul McCartney wasn’t entirely mad at him — and set to the routine of the day. It was, after all, still a Tuesday.
He slipped on a jumper, a white cable knit that was certainly one of Paul’s, and hopped into a pair of pale jeans. He’d worn them yesterday, and he knew Mimi would chide him for it if she’d been here, but that was why they’d moved to the country, wasn't it? A slow life where they could be people and their children could be messy and the days could be anything.
As he started toward Heather’s room, he smiled at just how well she exemplified the joy of gentle chaos. She always began the night in the middle of her bed, tucked carefully beneath the blankets with Fritz the horse, but by morning she was falling off the mattress, still entirely asleep. John had taken more than a few polaroids of her in such a state, amused and somehow charmed that her lively personality carried over into sleep.
He usually woke her first, knowing her energy levels rose immediately after her eyes opened and that it would be no trouble leaving her to get dressed while he moved next door to Julian’s room, the occupant of which usually required a bit more reassurance in the morning. So he scooped her from bed and blew raspberries against her stomach and let her twirl around the room as he picked her clothes for the day. He selected a felted jumper with a sheep on it and a pair of little corduroy trousers and some wool blend socks, then snagged her around the middle as she hurdled past. He kissed her on the forehead and tickled her just to hear her squeal and feel her press herself into his arms with a joyful shriek and perhaps the loudest “Happy Birthday, Daddy!” he’d ever heard. His left ear would surely deafen over time if it was a yearly occurrence, but he found he didn’t care.
God, he’d made that child. Every bit of her was somehow part of him, and it was wild and bright and beautiful and freckled and eager and loving and perfect somehow. He’d never even thought about having kids of his own until he and Paul were along in their relationship somewhat, and then he never imagined anything could be more perfect than Julian was when he was born. But then they’d decided to try for another, and John remembered telling Paul one night a few months into the pregnancy how badly he wanted it to be a girl. A little girl who looked like him or Paul or the mum or no one and who would be like little Julia or Jackie and twirl in skirts Mimi made her and learn all the things her brother did and be the spark of energy in their little family.
And that had been Heather. Still was her, he mused, watching her tug on her socks after her trousers and stuff her head through the hole in the jumper and then fly from the room and down the stairs, Fritz in hand. He paused, waiting to hear her safe arrival in the kitchen, before letting himself into Julian’s room. The night light was still on, a quiet and reassuring warmth filling the room, and Julian was plainly visible in the centre of his bed. Unlike Heather, he hardly moved when he slept well. No nightmares last night, then.
John crossed to the window, opening the blinds and revealing an almost fully daylight view of the sheep pasture. The fog was still there, only just starting to dissipate above the golden brown fields. A perfect view, in all honesty.
Julian was stirring when he turned back to the bed. “Good morning, baby. You sleep well?” Julian only moved a bit more, clearly still in the dregs of sleep, and John sat down on the edge of his bed. “It’s time to get up, Jules. School today, remember?”
That seemed to wake him up a bit more, and with a few added words of coaxing, Julian let himself be led from bed and fitted into his navy blue jumper and khaki trousers. He didn’t particularly enjoy having to wear a uniform now that he was in Year 2, but he hadn’t complained more than twice: once because the tag was itchy, and once because he wanted to wear his red jumper for their class trip to an apple orchard. He let John fuss over his hair, too, untangling a few strands with a comb.
“Your hairs getting a bit long, love,” John noted as he tucked a few stray bits behind Julian’s ears. “Could give it a trim, if you like.”
Julian shook his head. “I like it this way. And you and Dada always say how pretty it looks.”
“We do, don’t we?” John kissed the crown of his head. His hair was lovely, straight with a bit of a wave at the end, brown with hints of auburn. It looked just like Julia’s sometimes. “You’ll always be beautiful, no matter the length of your hair.”
“That’s nice,” Julian replied, beaming with sincerity. He was so earnest it practically melted John’s heart. “I like your hair, too. It’s thin and soft.” Julian touched it carefully. “You have pretty birthday hair.”
“Thank you, Jules.” John tried not to let his eyes water. “Not as thick as Dada’s, though, hmm?” John let Julian pet it a bit longer, then squeezed his hand slightly and straightened up. “Ready for breakfast?”
“Yes, please. And no, his is like sheep,” Julian agreed. He took John’s hand and followed the prompt toward the door. “But you’re still beautiful.”
“Like sheep?” John arched an eyebrow.
“No, not like sheep.” Julian frowned, trying to think. “Like sheep hair, like… like wool!”
“There we are,” John cheered. “You have a project on that, don’t you?”
“Mhm!” Julian nodded excitedly. “All about farm animals. We get to choose one and present in class. I’m not sure which one I’ll pick, though. There’s a long list.”
“Any that we have?” John led them down the stairs, the scent of birthday marmalade rolls growing in the air around them.
“A lot,” Julian answered, serious as ever. “Ducks and chickens, for birds. And then horses and sheep and cows are an option, too.”
“Which others? Ones that we don’t have.”
“Goats and pigs and rabbits and also llamas. Oh, and geese, and I think pigeons, too, but I didn’t understand that so well. I don’t know anyone with pigeons. And wouldn’t their eggs be too small?”
“Usually, yes, but most pigeon farmers use pigeons for other things, baby.”
“Like what?” Julian looked up, eyes wide with curiosity.
“Umm.” John counted himself lucky that they’d just arrived downstairs, a place full of distractions. He didn’t much fancy telling Julian that most pigeons were bred for meat and plumage. “Why don’t you go sit up at the table with Heather, baby? Got to get some breakfast in you before school.”
Julian followed along in perfect agreement — good Lord he was a well-behaved child — and John ruffled both his and Heather’s hair as he passed the kitchen table on his journey to the stove. Paul was swaying slightly, Stella a bit fussy in her wrap, as he scrambled a few eggs.
“Morning again, love.” Paul leaned over to kiss John on the cheek. “All went fine upstairs?”
“Yeah, two for two. Heather had a safe landing, it sounded like.”
“On all fours, but yes.” Paul grimaced. “She’s taken to jumping off the middle step on her way down. I’ve tried warning her but she’s never listening when she’s so riled up—”
“I’ll talk to her about it,” John assured. “And a bump on her head from an accident or two won’t be the end of her, either. Try not to worry too much, darling.”
“Easy for you to say,” Paul muttered, but there was no spite to it. “Would you mind terribly getting your birthday rolls out of the oven? And the milk pitcher is in the fridge.”
“Same temperature as normal?” John asked, falling into step beside Paul. They’d done this together for so long, making breakfast, starting the day together. The kitchen here was a fair bit bigger than at Forthlin and Mendips, where they’d first begun fixing eggs and toast side by side, but somehow they always ended up drifting back to each other, touching elbows and kissing shoulders.
“Yeah, maybe a bit cooler, just in case I accidentally spill some on Stell.” Paul blew John a kiss over his shoulder. Yet another of their breakfast routines: John warming him milk in a little saucepan.
“Noted.” John kissed the side of his neck. “Jules, Heather! Do you want apples or pears with your eggs?”
“From our tree?” Julian inquired, pushing himself up a bit to peek into the kitchen.
“Both the apples and pears are from our tree, yes,” John answered. He fitted an oven mit onto his hand and opened the oven, stooping to withdraw the tray of marmalade rolls. “And make sure you wash your hands, alright?”
“We will!” Heather called. From the sound of the thunk in the kitchen, she was clearly already on her way to the bathroom sink. “And apples please!”
“I would like apples, too, please Daddy,” Julian requested. He slipped from his chair a bit more gracefully, footsteps falling Heather down the hallway. “I love you!”
“I love you, too, Jules.” John blew a kiss at his retreating jumper. He set the tray on a tea towel, shielding the counter from whatever adverse effects hot glass had, and moved on to extracting the milk from the fridge and the appropriate fruit from the fruit bowl. “Apples it is.”
“I can slice those, Johnny. The eggs are done.” Paul turned down the burner and shifted the pan off the heat.
“An angel, you are.” John handed over the apples, again with a kiss, and took a pair of sippy cups down from a cupboard. Julian might have been careful and coordinated at the table, but Heather’s energy was usually enough to spill any number of cups, even without meaning to. Lids were a necessity if they didn’t want to scrub the floors every day.
“Calling me angel, Mister Lennon?” Paul inquired, eyes dancing. “Been a while since I’ve heard that one.”
“Mister Lennon-McCartney,” John corrected. He squinted in an attempt to pour an equal quantity of milk in both cups, then screwed the lids as tight as he could manage. “And yeah, I figured it would be a good time to bring it out again. Win me some extra birthday love.”
“Hush, you,” Paul chided. “You don’t need to sweet talk me to get anything. It’s called unconditional love, you know.”
“I knew there was a reason I married you.” John gave a gentle nudge to Paul’s hip. “It’s been, what, seven years now? Since Paris part two?”
“And 12 since the first time.” Paul pulled a wooden cutting board from a lower cupboard, setting it on the counter and beginning to slice the apples in even lengths. Behind him he could hear John arranging a saucepan on the stove, milk being poured in.
He’d never have imagined, on that night in Paris, the two of them confessing their feelings and exchanging their first kiss with nervous eagerness, that it would turn out like this. John beside him in the kitchen, kids settling themselves at the table, autumnal mist lying wispily along the fence lines like nature’s birthday garlands.
“Daddy can I have pears actually?” Heather’s voice rose toward them from the table.
“No sweetheart, you asked for apples,” John informed patiently. Paul scooped up the apple slices into his hands and set them on the plates John provided. “Apples and eggs and marmalade rolls, alright? And drink all of your milk, please.”
“But I want pears—” Heather started to protest.
“Heather, you heard what Daddy said,” Paul enforced. “Now eat your apples, or you won’t get any marmalade rolls. No means no.”
The noise that left Heather next was rather akin to a grumble, but she didn’t roll her eyes, nor did she refuse to eat the apple slices. When the plates were set on the table, she mowed through the fruit with rather uncoordinated determination, then practically inhaled her eggs. The marmalade roll apportioned to her plate was gone in seconds.
“She takes after George,” Paul noted, amusement reaching the corner of his eyes as he watched John try to wipe her mouth.
“Heather, sweetheart, hold still for me, please.” John carefully rubbed the damp tea towel against her chin. “What have we said about trying to go slow? So you don’t get those tummy aches you tell us about?”
“But my mouth wants more!” Heather insisted. “And my stomach doesn’t hurt yet.”
“If you keep eating as fast as you do, it will,” John sighed. “Now can you drink your milk slowly for me? Five sips at least, please.”
“I can do it in two sips!”
“ Heather, ” both her parents spoke at once.
Another grumble almost followed, but Paul gave her a meaningful look just as Stella began to fuss.
“You’ll be wanting some milk, too, I’m guessing.” He patted her head, then touched John’s shoulder. “I should go check on Mary while I’m up. Make sure she’s not biting through her crib. Will you be alright getting them off to school? And taking the saucepan off the burner?”
John nodded assent. “Bike’s all ready to go. Just gotta get their backpacks packed up.”
“Their lunches are in the fridge, same colours as always.” Paul’s hand rubbed against Stella’s back. She was crying in earnest. “Alright, Jules, Heather, be good, yeah? And have fun at school. I’ll see you both this afternoon.”
“When we celebrate Daddy’s birthday?” Heather pressed, milk dripping slightly from her mouth.
“Yes, when we celebrate Daddy’s birthday. I love you both!” With that, he made a swift exit from the room, footfalls and Stella’s cries retreating up the stairs.
John listened to the noises fade to the lowest volume possible inside. It was endearing, really, how much the fourth baby finally being born had settled things, settled Paul. Settled the whole family, to be honest. Julian was less nervous, Paul less tense, and the girls seemed more relaxed, too. John, for his part, felt relief knowing everything was finally alright, as he’d endeavoured to promise nine months ago when they first heard the news from the doctors.
There was some sadness, of course, in having lost a child. Nothing could change that. There was just joy in what they still had. It was a strong joy, too. Julian in Year 2, Heather in kindergarten, Mary’s lungs stronger by the day, Stella alive and breathing. Paul was pushing back into music a bit more, too, writing and recording in their little home studio, meeting with some session musicians up in London. Ringo and George were doing well up in Henley, baby Dhani looking every inch like his biological father and already trying to laugh like his other one.
It was the best birthday present, really, John supposed as he strapped Julian and Heather into their bike seats a quarter of an hour later, bound for the small primary school tucked onto a lane in Peasmarsh. Better than what he’d suggested to Paul that morning in their bedroom. Better than the painted pumpkin mug he’d accidentally seen Julian working on last week. Better than Heather shrieking with glee as they went past golden hedgerows and under trees turning copper in the crisp fall air.
It was the best Tuesday he could remember having in years.