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He does miss her. Like he misses all of them, really. And all taken too soon from him. From all of them. And in horrible nasty ways. Brian by accidental overdose, then- though not as known, Richard Starkey knows the world owes Rory Storm the persona of Ringo Starr- Rory was taken in the same way. Then Mal went in that dreadful incident with the police. And John, senselessly taken in such a violent way, it still pains him to think of it all these years later. George went the most recently, too good for this world. Between John and George, though, had been his ex-wife of 19 years, Maureen. The mother of his three lovely children, and mother to a lovely and brilliant young girl named Augusta. He knows the world doesn't think of her that way. Not most of it. He isn't too keen on technology, or rather it isn't too keen on him, but he knows enough of the ways of the Internet. He doesn't make a habit of it, but just for kicks he does look at things. The world seems to only want to focus on that affair with George- putting all the blame solely on her, which is unfair but he knows it’s part of the worship of The Beatles, plus men just do get off in those things. He’s learned a lot in 72 years on the planet, and that The Beatles can do no wrong is one of them, that men can be pigs even now are among the top things . He knows he wasn't saintly in the years he was married to Maureen, but people are all too content to call her the whore.
He digs through a drawer at the back of the desk in his study, finding his first marriage license – a facsimile of it at least- tracing over the writing with his fingers. “So bloody young”. He takes a look at his hands as they trace the name “Richard Starkey” and “Mary Cox” then the numbers “24” and “18”. There are faint wrinkles and the only ring he wears now is his wedding ring, the callouses on his fingers rough and worn from years of playing drums. Plus they just look like old man’s hands as far as he’s concerned.
“Soddin hellfire!” He chuckles, that old Scouse-ism was one of Maureen’s favorites, and he doesn’t use it much himself. She’d held on to her Scouse longer, he was never posh, would never be considered posh, not even now, but true blooded Scouse woman was his first wife. “Where’ve the years fuckin’ gone?” He muses, pulling out the picture from his wedding to her.
He doesn’t put it away when Barb comes in.
She looks over his shoulder. “She was so young. You both were. Very pretty though. Gave you three lovely children.” Barbara isn’t a vindictive woman. She had a husband before Richard, and because of the tightly woven world he lived in (still does as far as she can tell) she went to parties where Maureen would be- with Isaac, just there to support either her ex-husband or one child or the other- their paths crossed regularly- And she knows he needs to do this every year. Plus, her own feelings aside, no person disserves to die like that and certainly not that young. 48 was ages ago for Barb but she and Maureen are only roughly a year apart in age so it seems even more starkly young. And knowing that the bone-marrow transplant started to fail around Christmas had to be the most devastating thing. Leaving behind a six-year old daughter had to hurt so much, she couldn’t fathom leaving her own daughter that young. Six is when they’ve finally started to form a bit of an identity, the idea of not seeing what she’d grown up to be- lovely from what Rich tells her and what she sees when all the children get together- always leaves a cold feeling in the pit of Barbara’s stomach.“I’ll be in bed if you need me, Rich.” Barbara almost never calls him Ritchie and certainly not tonight. That was Maureen’s name for him. Ringo had sounded silly to her, she’d said in an interview, so Ritchie it had been. Most nights if it floats out it’s one thing, but on the 30th, Barbara Bach knows better.
Ringo barely looks up, waving a hand, absently flipping through photos. Some are actual, some are print outs- technology and the fame he wrestles with still can be helpful sometimes- but they all are from a time long gone. He looks at the colored ones of him and Maureen at their honeymoon/press-conference, wondering if things would have been different had she not been pregnant when they got married. He squints at the pictures, trying to see if it was even a bit noticeable that she was- and he reckons that had the press been as relentless as they are now they might have speculated about a faint ‘baby-bump’ but really she’d hid being two months on well.
“Ritchie?” Her voice was quiet and shaky in the dark flat, having come down from Liverpool to visit him recently.He wasn’t asleep, just holding her close.
“Yes, love?”
“I…um…we…um…Christ, this is hard. I just went to the doctor’s the other day and…well, we’re …or I’m…that is…I’m expecting. I’m only a few weeks gone but…” She paused, taking a breath as her words had come out in a breathless tearful panic.
He drew a deep breath, reaching over in the dark for Lark cigarettes, lighting one for each of them. He handed her hers and held her close. A million and one what ifs and hows and what will this do to my career and will I be sacked like Pete, and so many thoughts ran through his head. But he didn’t need to look to know exactly how his girlfriend was looking at him. Her deep eyes were probably wide and tear-filled and she likely looked small and every bit her eighteen years to his twenty-four, and she was curled up the way she was so she could pick at a loose thread to keep from being too nervous, and he could hear the occasional ragged breath she was drawing, trying not to cry so hard. So he had to be strong.“We’ll be alright. You’ll be alright, Maureen. This is all gonna work out.” He leaned over and drew finger, the beginnings of callouses starting to rough it up a bit, down the side of her face. “Rest now, love.”
And even though he’d been faking it for her then, it had worked out. She’d seen him through the craziest of years, through ups and downs and everything inbetween. Though it ultimately hadn’t lasted, it had worked out. After a few rough years where he’d been too drunk to care and too lost in his own issues to even consider what he was doing to his children, to their children, but after time it had worked out.
He glares at the computer, as he pulls up a website, finding pictures of Maureen much later in her life, toward the end of it likely. One is particularly striking- she’s so elegant even in the end months, when she was so pale and so ill. He can’t remember if that was a wig, but her hair was always so keen to fall out with stress, with the addition of chemotherapy it probably went tragically quickly. That was always her only real vanity, her hair, considering her former profession as a hair-dresser. Either way, it never seems fair to him that she was taken so soon and young.
“Ritchie?” Her voice was quiet on the phone, older but still he could detect this a conversation he won’t like the end of.
“Yes, love.”
“I…y’know how I collapsed at the opening of The House of Blues a few weeks ago? Well I went to the doctor and they ran these tests and…I’m…it’s…that is….I’m ill Ritchie, very ill. They thought I were just anemic but It’s leukemia.” She paused to draw a breath; her words had been the same breathless tearful panic as that night when she’d told him about being pregnant with Zak.
He wanted a drink more than he’s ever wanted one since he quit. He wanted one and he wanted to hold his ex-wife close. He could see her in his mind’s eye. Dark eyes wide and tearful, looking every bit her 47 years to his 53. Judging by the muffled sound of the phone, she’s curled up somewhere in a ball, picking at a loose thread of a house-coat. Or playing with a necklace or something. Anything to channel nervous energy. He drew a deep breath. There are so many thoughts running through his head- chemo and medicine and what if it doesn’t work and that sweet little girl she’s so fond of left motherless so young. But all he said is what he knew needed to be said“It’s gonna be okay, Maureen. It’s all gonna work out. You’ll beat this, you’ll get right back to being yourself.”
It had looked like it would. It had been so sure it would, that Zak’s bone marrow and platelets and white blood cells would have done the trick. She’d been under in late October, had done well and gone home by late November. But come Christmas week, she’d been struggling. He remembers those last long agonizing days, listening for the same ragged breaths he’d always hated when he’d been married because it meant she was holding back, then they’d gone to mean she was holding on. She’d gone peacefully enough, but Paul’s words in the song that came out a few years later always stung him “Always came too soon.” It always seems unfair. He prints the last public picture of his first wife, draws one long wrinkled and calloused finger over her thin face. “Rest now, love.”