Work Text:
Some time in 1966
Pattie turned the radio up a couple of notches. It was partly because it had got to a tunes that she liked, Daydream, and partly because she’d just at that moment thrown the sauce onto the onions and garlic and the sizzling was drowning out the music. So, because of the music and the cooking, she didn’t hear the thud of the car door. But she did hear the front door slam.
It wasn’t just closed. That was a slam. Pattie paused in the stirring of the food and cocked her head to listen more closely. There was no call of “hello!” as there usually was when he got home. She turned to look at the door, but no head popped round it to greet her. All she could hear after the slam, and it had without doubt been a slam, was an ominous silence.
She continued to stir the food as she didn’t want it to stick, but she chewed her lip and frowned. Oh dear; apparently a bad day. Again. The sauce had to simmer and reduce. She turned the heat down, and crossed the kitchen to the store cupboard to hunt out spices. She did it quietly, ears straining for any sound of him.
When she did hear him, no straining was required. The explosion of the guitar strings, tuneless, grating in its volume, discordant. So. He was in the music room, grandly called the studio, and she really didn’t know whether or not to follow him there. If she didn’t it would look as if she were ignoring him. If she did the evident anger might spill over onto her and she didn’t want it right now. Or at all. Pattie weighed up the options as she checked the food, and came to a decision. With one last stir of the curry she replaced the lid on the pan and, taking a deep breath, she left the kitchen and went down the hall to the music room. Or studio, as he seemed to want to call it these days. She opened the door and peered around it.
He was hunched over his guitar, his head low, hair falling across his eyes, shoulders curved almost protectively forward, and it was a posture she recognised and her heart sank a little. Previous experience told her that there was little or nothing she could actively do to drag him out of it all, though similar experience strongly reminded her that there was plenty she could do to push him further into it, if she were to make a radically wrong move. He must have known that she’d opened the door, but he made no sign of it. He continued to sound out fury with the strings of his guitar.
She drew a breath. “George?”
No response.
“George!”
At that he did look up, in her direction but she could tell that he wasn’t actually looking at her. This was just as well, as his eyes were black, and hooded, and not what she’d been hoping to see at the start of a rare free evening when she was cooking spiced lentil dahl and had Chablis chilling in the fridge.
“George? What’s happened?”
The answer was a grinding discord from the strings. Pattie pursed her lips in what she hoped was a sympathetic manner, and closed the door and sloped back to the kitchen and the sauce.
There was nothing she could do but wait it out. She turned her radio up again to help drown out the sounds of discontent, and measured out the rice.
A while later, cooking done and a glass of wine already consumed, Pattie became aware that she hadn’t heard the noises of fury for a while. She listened carefully, and heard sounds of activity in the sitting room. Did a change of scene denote a change of mood, she wondered. It was worth a try. Once more she left the sanctuary of the kitchen and peeked into the sitting room. George was there, leaning back on a couple of the huge floor cushions which they used for chairs. She moved into the room and took a couple of steps towards him.
“George. Eat something. Or tell me what’s happened.“ She paused. “Or both.”
He looked up at her; in fact looked at her for the first time since he’d barged his way into the house. He didn’t speak but at least he looked at her properly, and his eyes were a confusion of sadness and anger both at the same time. He took a long drag at the joint he was smoking, and then held it up her. She crossed to the cushions and sat next to him, and took the joint. She drew on it deeply, and exhaled slowly. She said nothing more, but looked into his face.
“Sorry.”
That was a surprise.
“What was it?” She paused to take another drag on the joint and then handed it back. “Or, who was it?”
His reply was a derisory snort. He didn’t answer her question directly, but what he did say told her all she needed to know, really. For the second time that evening her heart sank, as she heard him say, “It’s a good tune.”
Pattie looked at him closely, as he dragged fiercely at the joint and stared at the fireplace across the room. She held out her hand for another toke, and, even more surprisingly, he smiled faintly at her as he handed it back. “Which tune?” she asked.
“Isn’t it a pity.”
“But…!”
“I know,” he simply said.
“It’s a beautiful song.”
“It could be.”
“It is!”
George leaned back heavily against the cushions. At another time she would have leaned back with him and curled up and snuggled against him, but she sensed that he felt far too spiky and testy to be able to that kind of thing. Besides, if she were snuggled against him she couldn’t have watched his face, and it was always important to be able to do that so as to get the full story. Or, as full as she was ever likely to get. It would never all come in words. That wasn’t how he worked these days.
“He didn’t even listen.”
She scarcely dared ask. But she did. “Who?”
“John.”
Pattie let out a long sigh. And reached across for the tin, and busied herself extracting papers and sticking them together. It was as well to have something to occupy herself while she was waiting for the full pain to emerge in words.
“I said, the arrangement could be anything they wanted, it could be changed. Didn’t even give it a minute. Not a fucking minute.”
Her blue eyes looked at him over the joint she was building. “Paul?”
He shook his head. “Obviously not good enough for him!”
She ran her tongue along the papers and finished the rolling. “George. It’s a beautiful tunes. You know that.” She handed the joint to him and he took it and lit it and then abruptly sat forward and let his head fall forward over his raised knees. He said something that she couldn’t catch. “What… what did you say?”
He looked up at her again. “I can’t do it any more.” He chewed at his lower lip, and she saw the cheek muscles tense as if he were grinding his teeth, which he probably was. “I can’t, Pattie. I’ve had it, I can’t.”
She had to be sure. “Can’t do what, George? Write songs?”
“Don’t be fucking daft!” he exploded. “Course I’ll write songs. I have to! I’ve got so many! I’ve got so many and they…” he stopped again.
Pattie took the joint which had been unthinkingly proffered to her, tucked her hair behind her ear equally unthinkingly, and continued because she had to. If he really was thinking the unthinkable, feeling the inconceivable, he had to articulate it. At least to her, for a start. “So, what can’t you do any more?”
It had to be said. And he said it.
“The Beatles. I can’t do the Beatles any more. I can’t stay like this! I can’t do this!”
She reached across and took his hand in hers. She squeezed it and then stroked her thumb across his palm. He stared at his hand in hers.
“I hate him.”
“John?”
“All of them.”
“No you don’t.”
“Yes I do.”
“No. You don’t hate Ringo.” She paused and took another drag. “No-one does.”
For some reason this drew out of him a laugh so unwilling it emerged as a choke. She squeezed his hand again, and smiled back.
“You hate them now. But you don’t hate them.” And she reached out her arms and drew him into an embrace and miraculously she seemed to have timed it just right because he folded into her arms as she lay back into the supportive cushions. She hugged.
“I do hate them.”
“No you don’t.”
His voice was muffled against her. “Pattie. What’s happened?”
“You have.”
Another snort. “What’s that mean?” He took the joint and drew on it and then settled back against her.
“You know what I mean, George. They’ve always been the same. And you were always fine with that. And sometimes it annoyed you and sometimes it didn’t. But now…” She paused, and he waited in her arms. “Now, you’re different. You’ve grown. You’re as good as them. And you know that. Now.” She hugged, tightly. “Isn’t it a pity is a wonderful song.” She paused again. “They should have listened.”
George lay in her lap, his back against her as she held him close. A long silence fell which she knew he was filling with his thoughts. Thoughts perhaps of long friendships, tenuous, balanced; and now unbalanced. When his words came they were very quiet.
“I don’t want to do this any more.”
Her arm was supporting his head where he lay, and for a moment out of time she felt a touch of tears on her bare skin. Pattie tightened her embrace; then she felt him shift slightly. He twisted round in her arms so that he was looking up at her. His eyes glistened, but no more tears. Instead: “Fuck them,” he announced.
Pattie leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on his forehead. “Fuck them,” she affirmed. She kissed him again, a long kiss, and then broke away and whispered into his mouth, “Food’s ready.”