Chapter Text
August 1962, the Cavern
George was the first of them off the Cavern’s stage that afternoon. Most of the lunch crowd today was alright, and the set was just fine, but there was that heckling lot again, who just wouldn’t shut up about Pete. He was fed up. Whipping open the door of the tiny dressing room, he stormed inside, guitar in hand.
It was impossible not to notice how absolutely dejected Ringo had looked by the end of the gig. Brian had been getting enough threats lately that he’d actually had to hire a bodyguard. Even now, Brian and the other fella were escorting Ringo straight out the back themselves, no waiting around. That had been planned in advance. They’d all be meeting up at the Vernon Arms a few streets over afterward, their usual pub across the street currently being a little too close for comfort. Since when was this supposed to be what it meant to play in a band?
For his own part, George was determined to make sure all of his stuff was safe before going anywhere. He wasn’t in a trusting mood where the maniacs were concerned. He grabbed the rag by the mirror and wiped down the fretboard of his beloved black Duo Jet before carefully tucking it away into its case.
No sooner had he done so than Neil popped in to retrieve the case, vanishing again through the rear door (which led through a nearby exit tunnel) with barely a murmur. George sighed. Neil was another one who wasn’t happy about Pete getting sacked. It wasn’t a nice business, that’s for sure. George knew that their very angry roadie had been wavering on the edge of quitting himself. They were walking on eggshells with Neil these days.
But we needed Ringo, George thought, and that’s all there really is to it.
He looked around to see what else he might be able to lock up inside their little cupboard designated for the purpose. His hand reached out and retrieved his long black leather jacket from the wall hook. All four of the lads had sprung for matching ones– distinctive, unique, luxurious. After a moment he rolled it up quickly and stuffed it into the cupboard. It was warm enough today that he wouldn’t need it, and he certainly didn’t want anyone out in the club messing about with it.
The door flew open suddenly and John appeared, identically garbed in their standard white shirt, dark pants and vest, and tie. The sweat was still glistening on his face, and his commentary on recent events was brief and predictable. “Stupid gits.”
George acknowledged this truism with a half-nod and a commiserating raise of the eyebrows, but remained quiet. John was grabbing a paper bag of his from a corner of the room– George thought he remembered him stashing some extra guitar strings and socks there earlier– when another friend of John’s suddenly materialized in the doorway to convey the news that Brian’s car had been trashed.
“Bloody hell.” John was seething. “I’m going down there. I know he’d parked close to the Arms, anyway. And if I catch any of those...”
He didn’t wait for further conversation, but his words trailed after him as he slammed out of the rear exit.
Alone once more, George shook his head. It would be a relief to get to the Arms in a bit and have a breather with the lads over a pint. This state of chaos was mental. All because they’d had to change up a drummer.
A rumour had gone round that Pete was ousted because he was too good-looking and popular with birds. Mona had probably started that rubbish, George thought scornfully as he ran a comb quickly through his tousled locks. Anyone with half a brain would see how pointless and self-sabotaging that would be. Why would the Beatles want to risk losing a mass of fans for no good reason, just when they were newly signed and about to start recording seriously? Anyway, Paul got plenty of extra attention from the birds too, and he wasn’t about to lose his place in the band.
George smirked at the very idea, then chuckled out loud, unable to help himself. John losing his marbles and kicking Paul out of the Beatles. He closed the little cupboard, spun the combination lock, and permitted his imagination to explore the novelty of this silly alternate reality. An indignant Paul would probably start a rival band the next day, revenging himself on John by working his pants off until he became twice as successful. If he knew Paul, that’s just how it would go down.
None of it would ever happen, of course. The Beatles couldn’t afford to lose the one person in the band who could sing anything, play any instrument, shift into any role that served the group. George thought of his Duo Jet, deeply thankful that he hadn’t been forced to switch to bass. Say what you like about Paul– even at his most infuriating, he was a hell of a team player.
If, in this mad fantasy-world (thought George, still half in daydream), John dismissed Paul in that way, he would almost certainly leave too, in solidarity. And Ringo might leave along with George. Paul had insisted on bringing George into the band, despite John’s initial misgivings. George was equally insistent about Ringo. Nervy, cocksure John loses his whole band if he loses Paul. They were all properly patched in, now. Pete had never been a part of that...
A loud scuffling noise came from the direction of the still-packed club, and George was jerked back from his reflections to the present. He glanced at his watch. The gig had ended less than fifteen minutes ago. He could still hear a few idiots out there proclaiming “Pete Best forever!” The hell was the point? The band was gone, Ringo was safely off the premises, and... George stopped, his dark eyes snapping up.
He took a quick stride to the stage door, turning the handle and peering out into the dank interior of the still-crowded club. Lord, it was true... Sure enough, there was Paul at the back of the room, indefatigable, his long black jacket tossed casually over one shoulder, a hand raised in expository peace-making mode, trying on his charm with the irate Ringo-haters. George could only catch a few phrases, but Paul’s placatory tone seemed to be covering a definite growing irritation underneath.
George didn’t know whether to roll his eyes or curse, his own irritation mounting. Their manager needed a bloody bodyguard in the wake of Pete’s sacking, and Paul was pulling a stunt like this? In most situations, Paul was the most cautious person he knew, mindful of all possible contingencies and hazards, except when it came to his own hide. He still thought that a winning smile and some happy fans would make him personally invincible. But that wouldn’t work here and now. Pete had charm too, and the loonies were out at the moment. It was just like Paul to think that if trouble hadn’t come yet, then it never would. He should know better.
George managed to catch his eye through the crowd, making urgent motions indicating hurry. Paul gave a quick nod and the slightest flick of a finger, his standard gesture for just another minute or two. George groaned impatiently.
His eyes were diverted by a movement of a small knot of people directly opposite him on the other side of the stage, some distance from Paul. He recognized Flynn, the hulking brawler who had been giving George grief the past couple of days over some girl he’d been flirting with. He looked furious now, and definitely drunk. All other sounds dimmed in George’s mind as he focused on the words coming out of Flynn’s mouth, snarling and bitter.
“I’m getting that McCartney. As soon as he’s in the arches.”
George froze. His mouth went dry. Something shot through his nervous system... an adrenaline of fear.
What came to his mind in that instant wasn’t sentiment. It wasn’t personal, even. It was the band.
The last fellow on the receiving end of Flynn’s brawling was still walking round with a sling on a broken arm. They were in the recording studio with Ringo for the first time in less than two weeks. If something happened to Paul– a broken arm, a sprained wrist even– what might become of their big chance? Would all this circus surrounding Ringo have been in vain, blackening his name in Liverpool for no reason? Hell, what would John do?
Paul was, at this particular moment in time, the one indispensable figure. He could fill in for others; they couldn’t fill in for him. As these notions ran lightning-fast through his mind, George hit upon another thought: right now, he was the most dispensable. The idea didn’t bother him. There was no personal feeling in the moment– just pure, anxious dismay and foreboding. As quickly as the thoughts came to him, he began to move.
He was discreet; no one seemed to notice him particularly as he shifted through the crowd. Paul, however, soon spotted him again and read something in the expression in his face. With another few words, he turned and (finally) started in George’s direction. When they were close enough, George hissed, “C’mon,” flung open the dressing room door, and latched it behind them quickly.
Paul, only slightly disheveled, flung his leather jacket onto the hook recently vacated. He opened his mouth as though about to deliver some explanation, but George cut him off. He spoke flatly, rapidly. “Y’got to move out, right now. Brian’s– Brian’s car was trashed.”
Paul’s eyes opened wider, and somehow this made George’s urgency feel twice as strong. Suddenly, the face of Stu Sutcliffe flashed before his mind. Why the hell was he thinking of Stu? It had been four months ago. In another flash, he saw John sitting in Stu’s old rooms where he painted, lost and quiet, and himself standing beside him. He pushed the image away as soon as it came. No time for this. No one was going to die... there was no jinx on Beatle bassists. Maybe.
He grabbed Paul’s arm and pulled him towards the back door, beyond which the outer arches led to the upper entrance. “Hurry–” Damn it, Paul was practically moving in reverse. George flung the back door open desperately and blurted out, “John needs you– you have to hurry!”
It was the only thing he could think to say– probably, he’d said it because of the split-second of memory of the studio he’d just had– but it did the trick. Paul still looked baffled, but whatever was in George’s face and voice must have carried weight. He scrambled out a little awkwardly, and the sound of his footstep faded quickly down the corridor, then up some distant stairs. George grabbed Paul’s jacket and made his way out the back door and into the shadowy arched corridor himself.
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He paused uncertainly, and finally made up his mind. He flung the jacket over his shoulder. At the same moment, another loud shout of “Ringo Never!” rang from inside, along with several near voices, one that might have been Flynn.
From beyond the arches, the crowd inside heard a Beatle call out from the corridor, his voice softened and pitched up a bit: “Sod off already!”
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At that, Flynn staggered through the archway and spotted said Beatle, the leather jacket over his shoulder, the mop of dark brown obscuring the down-turned face, lingering in the shadows of the doorway.
“You asked for it, McCartney!” he raged. “Bloody traitor.” Grabbing his quarry by the shoulders, he head-butted him hard in the eye. George suppressed as much of the exclamation of pain as he could, keeping his head down. He staggered back against the wall and lifted his arm to continue to shield his face. Stars burst before his vision, and he fell, dizzy. A sharp and brutal kick caught him on the upper part of his right leg.
In the midst of the disorienting pain, George perceived a second man pulling Flynn away, who retreated back into the club, muttering tones of triumph.
The man came back and knelt down in concern. “Paul...?”
It was Neil. George looked up and his friend give a start. His exclamation was cut off quickly by George. “Don’t– don’t let him know it was me.” He winced and gingerly felt his throbbing brow. A black eye, for sure. “If he– thinks it was Paul he paid out, he’ll leave him alone– now.”
Neil blinked. Then he reached down to help the younger man up off the dingy corridor floor. “Don’t ye think Paul can fight his own battles, mate?”
George wobbled where he stood, and shook his head. “Not this one, no. And this was– on account of the band.”
Neil picked up Paul’s jacket and looked at George, who was gazing back with one eye already red and swelling.
George took a deep breath and took a step forward, in the direction of the back exit. “I’ve got to leave now. Before anyone else sees me, or Flynn–”
Neil nodded. “I’ll just– make sure I’ve got all the rest of the gear then? You don’t need a ride?”
George took another deep breath, this one of relief. It was the first time Neil had offered one of them a ride since Pete was sacked. Neil wasn’t going to leave them. He understood. “No ride, ta. We’ll just be down at the Vernon Arms. If you want to do a good deed, keep an eye on Flynn, and see if they’ll kick ’im out of the Cavern for a week or two on account of brawling with the performers.”
As Neil disappeared back into the club, George gingerly made his way down the corridor and slowly ascended the stairs exiting the Cavern. His bruised leg protested loudly. A hint of warm August sunshine streamed over him from high above the narrow alleyway as he came outside. He covered his left eye with a groan as his feet reached the pavement of Mathew Street. Had to keep going, get to the lads. Paul would have found John by now.
His head was still splitting. And then unbidden, it came again– the image of Stu. Astrid had told them all about his headaches. He’d been thrown against the wall, too, hit his head, probably fractured his skull. John and Pete had been there to get him to safety. John broke a finger that day. Yes, that was exactly what George had meant to avoid. Better him than Paul, and no more broken fingers. His own head would be fine, he was sure. Didn’t feel that way now, though.
Distracted by aches and his own preoccupations, George’s steps were mechanical. The pub was just minutes from the Cavern. Unthinking, he stepped into Dale Street. If he hadn’t still been shielding his brow from the dizzying sunlight, he might have noticed the shadow of the double decker bus.
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It’s a bad day, this.
That was the sole thought that was left in George’s bewildered mind as he found himself suddenly jolted off his feet, on his hands and knees in the middle of Dale Street. Luckily the bus was slow-moving and had only clipped him. He was sufficiently self-aware to scramble quickly away to the pavement on the other side of the street.
“Oi!”
A figure was approaching. John.
“M’alright,” George said quickly before John could say another word. He didn’t look up as he brushed the gravel from his fingers. Thank goodness for those hard-won callouses.
“Saw you walk right under the bus, son. Y’can’t be hammered yet, it’s just–” John stopped abruptly as George lifted his face and met his eyes. Even without his glasses, George knew John couldn’t miss the truth at two feet away.
“You’re a right state! Did it get you in the face?”
“No, that was back at the club,” George muttered, feeling dejected. “Not a good day. You saw all the scallies in the crowd, het up about Ringo. This was Flynn.” He touched his face gingerly.
John’s eyes narrowed. “That guy who was after yer girlfriend, wasn’t it. He would be making trouble. Always liked Pete best, excuse the pun.” He paused. “I’ll kill him,” he added helpfully.
“That would defeat the purpose,” said George drily. He looked at the scuffed toes of his boots, stretched his arms out before him, flexed his hands nervously. “Flynn was meaning to go after Paul. You know how Paul can get, tryin’ to charm his way out of a bad scene. And he just wasn’t leavin’. I heard what Flynn meant to do, and just managed to get Paul out– told him to go after you and be quick about it. So, then.”
Comprehension was alighting on John’s still-angry face. “So you took one for the team, eh?”
“We’re goin’ in the studio soon. Better me than Paul. And you can’t be splitting any knuckles or breaking anything, either.”
George’s tone was light and almost dismissive, but John was undeceived. He stared. George thought he saw across his face the same thoughts that passed through his own. John’s broken finger, another of their bassists threatened by a thug... Stu...
George gave a shaky sigh. He shouldn’t have said anything that would remind John of Stu. He swallowed and dropped his eyes again. The deeply-buried sentiment, dormant under his pragmatic concerns about the band, was starting to prick the corners of his eyes. Like hell was he going to cry in front of John Lennon. It wasn’t just Stu, there were other things. Damn it all... he didn’t want Paul to get hurt. He didn’t want Ringo to be bullied. He didn’t want John to fall apart. He couldn’t bear any of that. Better to have both of his hands unfit for the studio than to bear any of that.
He knew that John hated this descending feeling of vulnerability; it made him angry, inclined to lash out. George waited in trepidation to be told off or sworn at. The waiting was only a few moments, but it felt like an age. When he heard John’s voice again– he still couldn’t raise his eyes to meet John’s– there was a strange note in it.
“Listen here, Hazza... you’re every bit as much of a member of this group as Paul is.”
It was the last thing he had expected to hear. George looked up in mild shock. Technically true, he thought, but John doesn’t really mean–
John took the younger man by the arm and began steering him in the direction of the Vernon Arms, further down the street. “You’re an equal in this enterprise, son. One-quarter of the Beatles. That’s always going to be true.” He cleared his throat, as though a little self-conscious of his earnestness. “I get why you did it. And you’re a good lad. But y’can’t get yourself banged up before we get in the studio, either. You know Paul can’t really solo himself out of a paper bag.”
George couldn’t suppress a small, choked guffaw. John was right, actually– though Paul had certainly been improving on that front as of late, from what he could tell. But George couldn’t recall John ever saying anything like that about Paul in front of him before. Would wonders never cease this day?
He knew John hadn’t said it to knock Paul. This was John’s way of telling him that he was needed. Needed for this band, just like Paul was needed. Like George knew that Ringo was needed.
As the pub came closer into view, a new wave of determination washed over George. One-quarter of the Beatles; that’s what he was. That’s always going to be true. And he would do every bloody thing in his power to make sure that Ringo would understand that about himself as well.
And he’d hold John to it, by God.
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Later that evening, John and Paul were at Forthlin Road for a songwriting session. During a lull, John filled his partner in on his earlier conversation with George.
Paul’s mouth fell open and he dropped his cigarette. He retrieved it quickly with an absent-minded oath. “But... all he said earlier was that Flynn was pissed about Ringo joining up. More-or-less implied that he got smacked because Flynn already had it in for him about the girlfriend thing. That’s what I’ve been telling people, too.”
“Well, little Georgie was actually saving your hide, mate. Loyal bugger.”
It took another moment for the stunned bassist to process. Finally, his quiet answer came: “He is.” Paul slumped a little, crossing his arms. His face was plastered with guilt. “I was just trying to calm everyone down, so nothing like that would happen...”
“Didn’t work,” said John. “Don’t stay to bat lashes at the mob, is the lesson here. If a good dust-up isn’t worth it to you, sometimes gettin’ the hell out is all that’s left to do. Had to learn that in Hamburg, didn’t we?”
Paul was quiet for a moment, his brow puckered, as he began to doodle absently in the margins of the notebook on his lap. But we’re not in Hamburg, he thought. It wasn’t supposed to get like that here, right here. The occasional fisticuff, all right, but Paul had known how to stay out of it. Or he thought he did. That reminded him–
“Did I ever tell you about Ritter? A mate of mine back at the Institute, or I thought he was. I introduced him to George one afternoon, and you know what our lad did?” Paul’s storytelling hands were expressive. “Without a word, just lunged right at him and head-butted him– whack! Just like he got today, in fact. Ritter had a black eye for weeks.”
John laughed.
“Anyway, the other fella ran off bawling, and George stood there just shaking, little scrap of a thing. Couldn’t even get mad, I was so surprised, y’know? I did just manage to ask him what that was for. And he said that the kid wasn’t worthy of my friendship. I mean, what! What little kid says that?”
“Was he right about Ritter, then?”
The corners of Paul’s mouth rose slightly. “He bloody well was.”
“He’s got the pack mentality, I think. He did it for the band, you know.” John took a drag on his ciggie and frowned slightly. “I shoulda kept everyone together. We saw a bad lot wanting to make trouble. We shouldn’t have separated.”
Paul’s concession to the last point was swift. His flustered mind was settling back into structure mode. “Now we’ve got Richie and things are a bit more mad than they’ve been, we need to stick together. We already do, but I mean, we need to step it up– for safety, like. Two together at least, four if we can. Until things start calming down again. It can’t be mad forever, can it.”
The smoke curled up to the ceiling as John leaned back in his chair and watched it. If things go well at EMI, he thought, it could get even madder. One madness to replace the other. It could go up and up, wafting up to the roof. That’s what he’d been aiming for, anyway. How dear would the cost be?
Well, he sure as hell wasn’t going to let some stupid toughs think they can get away with roughing up his best guitarist. Or his new, hard-won drummer. Or Paul, by God.
He glanced across at Paul, who had taken up his guitar again and was adjusting the tune. Paul, amazingly, normally... intact. For just a moment he saw the dark possibility that George had seen. The surge of affection rising in John was immediately countered by a deep burning inside of him, anger and shame striving for the upper hand. George was the only one of the band still a teenager, still a kid. John vowed to himself to never let anything like that happen to him again. These were his lads, his mates, his band.
George really might have saved their bacon earlier with that so mad-it-was-sensible stunt. It even seemed to have brought Neil back around to them.
He’s a good lad, thought John.
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