Chapter Text
It had been a week since Ringo's memorial service.
If Paul was to be honest with himself, he could admit to being of the thought that he would be the one parting from this world first, since Ringo had looked so much more invigorated than him and had also sounded so much younger than he was too to boot. If someone had seen them together, standing next to each other without knowing who they were, they would have thought that Paul was the oldest between the pair.
And yet a week ago Ringo had caught the flu, and this time, that was it. His health had always been especially poor, he had showed up at the children's hospital through the years with too many maladies that had left in shambles his body. With the pleurisy and its sequels, it was really not that surprising that his lungs gave up after the flu had escalated to a full-on pneumonia in just a matter of days.
The night he first heard of it, after it became patent that Ringo didn't have just the flu anymore and not a moment before, because God forbid Ringo ever communicates his problems at large if not ‘grave enough’, he had immediately booked a flight to California for the next afternoon to be by his mate's side.
The next morning, Paul had started to organize everything needed for his trip. He called his manager informing him of his plans to be out of England for the week, then proceed to explain Ringo's circumstances and his desire to be at his side, hence the need for a break from composing and his wish to take a step back from the public view while staying at his mate's side. Once that was taken care of, he reserved a room in a Hotel near Beverly Hills for the next week, sent his family a brief text detailing the situation and the fact that contact between them would be at a minimum while this was sorted out, and finally thanked them for their well wishes.
He had just finished packing when he received the dreaded call from Barbara.
Ringo had passed in his sleep that night, Barbara had sounded devastated but not surprised, something he himself couldn't boast about. She had cried while explaining that Ringo wanted to hold two funerals, she was organizing a private funeral for tomorrow so family and friends would have the time to arrive and say goodbye without the world watching. The second being more of a public memorial in Chiswick Gardens with the All Starr Band playing Octopus's Garden for all the world to see, she said that Ringo would have been honored if Paul could attend both events and, perhaps, if he was up to it, be the main singer for the memorial.
His brain hadn't even finished processing the news, nevertheless, he still knew he had to reassure her in some way, so he had sucked in his breath, put his game face on, even though nobody else could see him being less than perfectly composed, and then proceed to thanked her for getting in contact with him so quickly and promised to help her and their family while they grieved. Paul also assured her that he would definitely be attending both funerals and singing at the memorial, even if it was somewhat insulting that they had even thought he wouldn't be there for every step, they would have to take the microphone of his cold dead hands before he allowed someone else to sing his mate's song before him. When all was said and done, he bade Barbara farewell before letting her hang up.
Then, and only then, he had let himself process Barbara's words more than just the bare minimum needed to calm her down.
Ringo had died that night.
Ringo had died that night.
Ringo had died and Paul had not been there.
The last one of his people, of his family, the only ones who had really known him through everything was gone.
Paul could still remember how his knees kept knocking together, chin quivering, hands shaking and eyes watering. He had been obligated to take a seat before his legs gave up, trying to take calming breaths trough his nose, everything seemed to keep spinning and he been forced to close his eyes to avoid giving himself a headache from the dizziness. That was the final nail in the coffin, the first tear dripped as he squeezed his eyes shut, and with it, a mournful sob escaped from his lips as he couldn't fight anymore the urge to cry.
And so he wept for the friend he lost.
For not even remembering his last words to him.
For having received the third goddamned call of a Beatle death.
For Ringo and his never ending optimism.
For the fact he couldn't see him one last time unlike George.
For George and all the years that they had lost to fighting.
For how at least they had been able to forgive each other at last.
For how he was the only one who truly needed the forgiveness.
For how the three of them had at least been together as a family for a short while before they had been lost to him, unlike John.
For John and...
Well.
All John represented at that point and all the other points in his life.
But more than anything, he cried because he was the last Beatle.
The pain that came with that realization was so raw that it turned his sobs in full blown wails, Nancy had run to his side and tried to calm him down, but he was too distraught to stop crying. Nancy had ended up helping him put the rest of his affairs in order before leaving, so they could take the flight they had booked the night before. His harsh wailing had slowly reduced to a soft sobbing while they rode to the airport, and he forced himself to stop even that before the outside world saw him at their arrival.
At least he didn't had to worry too much about the press, unlike his younger self. Their flight had been somewhat peaceful, even if he hadn't been able to say more than a few words of reassurance to his wife, unless he wanted to start crying again. He instead used the flight to compose a brief text about Ringo's passing for his social media. The official statement was undoubtedly out by now, it was fortunate that he was out of the country already with nobody else de wisest.
It was late at night by the time they arrived at their hotel at last, he had wanted to go to Ringo's house at once, but Nancy argued against it, said it was too late to go visit Barbara's house, and better to be early for the funeral the next day.
He knew that the way she said it wasn't Nancy's intention, but Ringo hadn't been dead for more than 17 hours and it seemed as if everyone was already moving on. He hadn't even noticed the hour because Ringo would have let him in at any hour, even in his death bed, maybe even more so because of it. But this was not Ringo's home anymore, it was Barbara's, he wasn't visiting an old pal to catch up, he was going to visit a widow to show support and say goodbye to the cold death body of his mate.
A single day, that's how late Paul had been in order to do a last greeting, and be the receiver of one of Ringo's smiles, before his last goodbye.
He would miss those the most.
The next day, Nancy bought him a black basic suit, with a black dress to match for herself. They had arrived with everyone else at the graveyard in Westwood for the funeral, Paul didn't had a reason to show early if he couldn't see Ringo without nobody else there present too.
Barbara was at the very front with the rest of Ringo's sons, daughters and grandchildren, the next row was for friends from which Paul had only recognized some of Barbara's, and some of Ringo's pals form his post-Beatle time, the rest of them Ringo must have had befriended in later stages of his life because Paul never met them.
That had made sense.
Lastly, there were some friendly acquaintances of the family that Paul wasn't familiar with. Again, it made sense, the last two Beatles weren't as close knit as they had been in the 60s.
When every seat had been occupied at last, the funeral begun in earnest.
Paul didn't have much more recollection after that, he had spaced out while categorizing every aspect of the funeral. The flowers were a mix of red and white roses, the grass was well trimmed, the weather was nice, windy and sunny so you could feel refreshed, you could hear some birds chirping, Ringo's casket was surrounded by beautiful funeral wreaths, colorful and lively, and the framed pictures that were selected for the event showcased the true nature of his friend's buoyant soul.
Ringo would have loved it.
However, the sad, miserable faces, black generic clothing, and teary, red eyes, paired with the father's vapid monologue, which would have bored Ringo to tears, made for an overall depressed atmosphere that he was bound to hate.
When the time for the final farewell had come, Paul was the last to stand up and get in line, he wanted to be the one to actually say the last goodbye. But when his turn came and he looked at Ringo's face for the first time in a while, he was taken aback by the view. He had known that his illness was sure to rob his friend of his vitality, but the harrowing reality of his appearance was far worse than anything his wildest imagination could have conjured. To see him laying there, devoid of the life that had been so characteristic of him even in sickness, was heartbreaking. This last bout had taken a toll in his body as no other ever had, leaving him looking gaunt and tired.
You couldn't even see the trace of his smile wrinkles.
With a last look, he had silently paid his respects and left.
The sole idea of having to mingle with all these people and remembering Ringo without him by his side was nauseating. There ought to be better times to actually remember him as he was without so much sorrow.
And so, he had decided that returning to England was the best course of action, given that he didn't have anything to do in California anymore, he lusted for the privacy of his own home and a cup of tea. Nancy booked plane tickets for the next flight to London that same evening, although, she decided to stay and help Barbara till the memorial took place.
He had felt frozen all way home, as if the world had stopped spinning, and yet, the world had wasted no time reminding him that, in fact, it was still spinning, thank you very much.
It happened in the final stretch between London Heathrow Airport and his house.
Looking back, it was obvious that there would be reporters waiting to get to him outside his home.
The reporters were all over themselves trying to get him to say a few words, they were blocking the entrance to his home, effectively cornering him, leaving no choice but to push his way in if he wanted to finally get the rest he terribly needed. He had taken a deep breath and went to face them, they just needed short answers anyway.
He still remembered how it all started.
Those vultures hadn’t wasted a second before ambushing him with questions all over each other. Someone was asking about Ringo’s last words while another one was questioning the veracity of the statements, while yet another one was shouting about the Beales legacy, overwhelming Paul, and making him remember another Beatle death.
“Paul”, the woman closest to him began, “How do you feel now with Ringo’s passing?”.
He had anticipated that question, it was, at the same time, the easiest and hardest to answer, “I’m heartbroken for his passing, and especially sad because I wasn’t able to see him one last time unlike George. We didn’t know that Ringo’s illness was going to progress so fast. That’s why the news of is passing reached me while I was still in England, a few hours before my flight to California was scheduled”. Good, short, but detailed enough to avoid follow-up questions.
The woman had looked as if she was going to open her mouth again when another younger female reporter pushed her away, and almost shouted her question, “Do you remember the last time you saw him then?”. Just as he was about to answer, she continued, “What were each of your last words?”.
She seemed eager for a story in a somewhat childish way, he almost felt bad for disappointing, but not bad enough to forgive them for blocking his way. “I last saw him two months ago, when he came to England for business, he squished some time in his schedule and came to dinner at my home before having to return to California”. They had had some Ratatouille. It was a personal favorite of his since his grandchildren saw the movie for the first time and begged him to cook the dish for them. He had been happily surprised to learn that it was a vegetarian dish that he could also enjoy. “As for our last words, I’m afraid I can’t recall them, my memory is not what it once was, we had a brief videocall some weeks ago, just to check up with the other, so it must have been a variation of ‘I’ll call you later’”, that ‘later’ never came.
As predicted, she hadn’t look happy with his response, but to hell with them, he had just wanted to rest.
The next one had been an older man, he was at the center of the crowd, that meant that the entrance was still a few meters too far. His clothes were not as outlandish as the women’s and looked a tad bit more relaxed. He needn’t shout for his deep voice to be heard from above the rest, “Mr. McCartney, what kind of consequences do you think Ringo Starr’s death will reap in the music industry?”.
Well, that explained his attitude, a question focused on the music industry wouldn’t provoke the same reactions as the personal ones. “It’s hard to say. Our prime already passed some time ago, his band could go either way, even if Ringo was the leader, the rotative nature of the band could let them keep performing. However, our newer songs did not have the same reach that we once had”. As The Beatles had, “I think that we had our turn to change the world, and now it is other artists that hold the candle”.
They all had appeared somewhat stunned and saddened, but it was the truth, Paul didn’t kid himself, he knew that the reason he still was so famous was thanks to the lads. He may have reached fame in some other way, but not to this point, the people may still listen to his music religiously, but more than the half of them didn’t listen past his Beatle era.
At least their reaction had allowed him to keep pushing his way through, but just as he was about to make it to the door, a final reporter crossed his way and planted himself firmly between him and the entrance. He was young, maybe in his twenties, his clothes were in the wrong side of expensive, making them seem tacky, he had a self-assured smirk as he carried himself in confident strides towards him.
“Sir Paul, while that may seem true to you, we still love The Beatles and have the best wishes to you”. This wanker, he hadn’t understood a thing he said. To disregard his words while bringing up his 60s band, after he had just said their newer songs weren’t really acknowledged, he wanted to scream at his stupidity.
He had been so busy cursing the lad’s ineptitude that he almost missed the question that changed everything.
Oh, how he hated this guy, so bloody stupid to understand the significance of his last answer, and still sharp enough to be the one to ask the truly dreaded question he had desperately wanted to avoid hearing. "What are you planning to do for the next years now that you are the last Beatle?".
Paul had paused his attempts to get past the man.
The last Beatle.
Yeah, what are you gonna do now, Paul?
"For the next years? You expect me to get that old?". He had said, trying to diffuse the attention and hoping to buy himself sometime to properly form an answer that not even himself had.
"Well, of course, you were the healthier and least controversial one between the Beatles. So, I think illness, targeted violence and overdoses are out of the question. Isn't that right, Mr. McCartney?". That sweetly acerbic tone was getting in his nerves.
He had always been healthy and didn’t have any reason to suspect someone might wish him harm, but an overdose, well, that was an idea. In fact, he was an old guy whose mates were all dead, with a family that was thriving in life, a music career that was more than large enough to die satisfied, and a wife that was going to outlive him even if he made it to his hundreds as unlikely as that was. Therefore, it was not a real lose for the world if Paul were to die already, and an overdose would be the easier and least painful way to go. So really, what was he doing still here?
That’s when he noticed the silence, realizing that he had been so lost in thought that he had forgotten to respond, and everyone was waiting for him. He obviously wasn’t gonna say what he had been thinking just moments before, that’ll be a sure way to get a one-way ticket for a repeat of the clusterfuck that had been post-John’s death doorstop interview. On the other hand, he had to say something now or risk the consequences of the press interpreting his silence as they saw fit.
Luckily, that last question had given him a free pass to ignore the one before it, and even better, it conveniently allowed a two-word acceptable response. "...Of course".
That had sounded more lackluster than he thought, and the reporters were clearly of the same opinion judging by their incredulous, deadpan expressions. They tried to ask more questions, but he had finally reached the door and was more than happy to cut them short and kick them out.
“I must insist that you leave now”, he had said politely but firm, “I wish to retire to my home and relax with a cup of tea. Take care”. He hadn’t waited to see their reactions before turning around, and finally entering his house and giving a sigh of relief.
What a day.
It had been a week since Ringo's memorial service.
He’d be lying if he said that after the doorstop interview, he wasn’t rattled. After entering his house, the first thing he had done was make himself a cuppa, he had sat at his kitchen table to clear his head and bask in the warmth of his drink when the same thoughts invaded his mind. He tried diffusing them and keep drinking his tea, but they stuck like a particularly stubborn leech. He next moved to his bedroom to try to get some needed shut eye after the hellish days he had had, but as soon as he had closed his eyes, he remembered Ringo’s hollowed face. He had gotten up so fast he felt dizzy for a minute. He went to the music room in the hopes of maybe settling his soul with his guitar as he always did, and yet the moment he crossed the threshold he had felt himself freeze.
How many times had he crossed the threshold to his musical studio accompanied by a bandmate, to compose something new and wonderful full of their essences, or just to play around with their instruments. He wouldn’t have that ever again, Jimmy, John, Linda, George, Henry, both Denny’s and now Ringo. What was the purpose of it if every person that had shared his passion was six feet underground. Everybody knew the musician Paul McCartney, but there was no one left that really knew Paul McCartney, the musician. If he was being real with himself, there hadn’t been someone that genuinely understood him since John.
He didn’t know how much time he had been standing there completely motionless, but at some point, he had managed to look away and close the door of the studio.
His last stop had been the bathroom, if a long warm shower didn’t make him feel better, he might as well just call it a day and resign himself to his fate. He had let himself relax under the hot shower stream, it had been a long day and he had earned it. He had let the minutes pass, and sooner that he would have liked, he found himself shutting the tap. As he dried himself, his gaze shifted towards the bathroom counter. His and his wife’s things were scattered all over. After their last-minute packing, they hadn’t had time to reorganize the house. That’s the only reason he could think of to explain why Nancy’s sleep pills were sitting at the very top of the pile and not wherever their usual drawer was. She must have taken them out and then forgotten to pack them.
The bottle was unopened, and as he took it to examine closer, he had found himself recalling his last thoughts over pills.
It would really be a painless and easy way to go.
He had taken the pills to his bedroom drawer, just so they didn’t get misplaced, of course, and proceed to try to forget them as he went down to eat at the kitchen. He was mostly successful, but as the night came and his fear over seeing Ringo’s harrowed face grew, he couldn’t stop himself from taking one and swallowing. 15 minutes later, as he felt himself starting to fall asleep, he couldn’t help but to think, what if?
Every morning and every night, the moment he saw the bottle, the same question circled his head. And as the days passed and his apathy towards his music kept growing instead of abating, he thought about it with more seriousness than what ought to have been considered healthy. Nonetheless, he was too far gone to care by the time he took notice of it.
And so, a plan began to take form in his head.
He had already informed his manager of his decision of taking a break from the music industry and the public view for the time being, so he needn’t concern himself with his job. His personal affairs, however, were a tad bit more complicated.
He started by writing a letter to every member of his family.
His grandchildren were the easiest to write to, he told them how proud he was of each and every one of them, and explained how he had loved them since their birth till his death. He proceeded to encourage them to venture the world, to live their best life and to never fear falling in love with the right person, he wished for them to feel the same joy he had felt at their age while doing what he loved the most with the people he had once called family.
His wife’s had been next, hers was the shortest one. He thanked her for being his love and anchor for all these years, for giving him the opportunity of getting to be someone’s husband again after Linda’s passing, and the disaster of his second marriage, and finally, for being his companion for so many years. He had also apologized for the way he planned to go, and the fact that she was the most likely to find his death body. To Nancy’s letter was attached another one with instructions on what to do after his death. His body was to be cremated and the ashes scattered, half of them with Linda’s in Sussex, and the other half in St. Peter’s Church Field.
His children’s letters were the last ones he wrote. He had so much to tell each of them that trying to get everything in a single letter was impossible. He had to finally settle for slightly modified versions of his grandchildren’s letters. Beatrice’s was almost identical to Elliot’s due to her age, although he made sure to reassure her that, even if she came to his life so much later than her siblings, he held her in the exact same regard as them. On the other hand, with James’s letter, he urged him to keep going as he was, he mustn’t close himself to his sisters, as they were going to be the only ones left for him, Paul didn’t want him to relapse. He hoped his music was refuge enough this time. Mary’s and Stella’s letters focused on their own families and successful careers, he wished them peace and prosperity for the rest of their lives.
Heather’s letter was different from the rest.
Hers started with a casual greeting, and unlike the others, he only dedicated a single paragraph to express his love for his oldest. She was a no-nonsense woman, and he knew she would prefer it that way. The rest of the page was filled instead, with Paul’s deepest thoughts and feelings. He talked about feeling adrift, of the interview that had given him the initial idea of ending it all, and how it was not the first time he had thought about it. John’s death had broken something fundamental in him, a wound only Linda and the lads had been able to soothe. It had been the exact same darkness after Linda’s death. Now that he was the last of them, he had seen fit to end it all.
Heather was the only one capable of truly understanding the nuance, she was there after all. He wasn’t abandoning his blood; he was joining his first home. Then, for the first time, he had decided to confess his feelings outside of the privacy of his own head. He’d be dead by the time she read the letter anyway. Paul McCartney had been in love with John Lennon for as long as they had known each other and had continued being in love with his memory to his last breath. For them to have never been together was the real tragedy in their love story. He could only hope that Heather decided to quote him when she went to the papers, maybe then Yoko would finally die from the impact of his declaration. It’d be too late for her to join John though, by the time she arrived, Paul would already be at John’s side, and if Linda forgave him his split loyalties, then by hers too.
When he finished Heather’s letter with his last quiet confession, he finally felt that a weight was lifted from his shoulders. He had kept the secret out of respect for John and Yoko’s relationship, but if he was to die, he refused to let that woman be remembered as ‘John’s only one’ when, at some point in life, that title had belonged to him.
With the letters finished, he had just needed to hide them till the time was right.
Two days before Ringo’s memorial, he had called his legal team. They had a subdivision that handled a variety of personal matters with the utmost discretion, Wills amongst them.
It was just oh so lucky, that the same firm already handled all his legal matters. An urgent meeting with a lawyer and a will writer was arranged for that same evening, thanks to a weak excuse about needing a codicil as soon as possible, and a monetary incentive.
There had not been much in the need of changing, aside for Ringo’s share of his will, he hadn’t completely lied about that. He just needed to make sure that his Goodbye letters could be delivered to every member of his family without fail. He couldn’t let them laying around or even in his personal things and run the risk of Nancy finding them. He gave the lawyers the letters for safekeeping and thanked them for their time as he walked them to the door.
Everything had been taken care of.
It had been a week since Ringo's memorial service.
The actual memorial was beautiful.
It had stunned him when he first laid eyes on it, there were flowers everywhere, the gardeners must have been worked to the bone to achieve it, there were four big rows of flowers of different colors, pink roses, yellow sunflowers, blue tulips, and orange lilies. And in the middle, white daisy flowers formed the image of an octopus.
An octopus’s garden indeed.
There had already been present some bandmates of Ringo, they were practicing the song, but he didn’t think for a second that they really need it, it was impossible not to know how to play the song perfectly form start to finish if you played with Ringo. Paul had joined anyway, he wanted to be perfectly coordinated for his final show, he owed it to Ringo.
At 11:00 am the crowd had started to grow, there had been people present since the doors opened at 7:00 am, but it wasn’t till the hour before the show was due to start that the world at large decided it was time to arrive.
That hour was one of the most gut-wrenching ones of his career, it felt just like the first time he stepped on a stage but with a lot less of nerves and much more sadness.
The band had started playing at 12:00 pm sharp.
He had begun singing 11 seconds into the song.
I'd like to be
Under the sea
In an octopus's garden
In the shade
As he sang, he couldn’t help but remember the lads, their last year together had been hell, one of the worst periods of his life, and yet, as he remember the day Ringo had first shared his idea for a song about an octopus’s garden, they hadn’t taken him seriously. George was the one who had stepped up and helped him give it shape.
I'd ask my friends to come and see
An octopus's garden with me
What wouldn’t Paul give to be in an octopus’s garden with his friends.
We would be so happy, you and me
No one there to tell us what to do
I'd like to be under the sea
In an octopus's garden with you
He had held back tears as he stepped down the stage while Barbara gave her thanks to the people that had come to celebrate Ringo’s life and music.
Paul phased over the rest of the event as he had done in the funeral, gaze sweeping across the garden’s flower arrangement, thinking how spot on they were. Even beyond the colors, which were an obvious wink to the ‘St. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band’ album. The choice in the type of flowers was perfect. Roses were a classic amongst flowers, they never missed and were a reliable choice for any occasion, just like Ringo. The sunflowers, so full of energy, always seeking the sun to eclipse it, that was John’s flower without a doubt. And the lilies were not to be outshined, they had a weight of their own that matched the others, even when they weren’t the typical first choice, George would have loved them.
That’s how Nancy had found him, eyes lost in thought, body completely still.
They leaved shortly after.
Paul tried to enjoy the next few days at their maximum.
He called his family every day that week, even if it was for a few minutes, their voices had brightened the rest of the day. He pampered his wife as much as he could and instructed his manager to postpone the official press conference about Ringo’s death until a full week passed since the memorial. He won’t have to prepare for it that way.
He had wished to be in Sussex for his last days, but if he wanted to maintain appearances, he had to remain in London. He shouldn’t have any reason to leave London if the conference was to take place as planned.
When the evening of the seventh day came, Paul told Nancy he needed the house for himself for a few hours, he said that an idea for a song was itching his brain, but he needed the solitude for it to came to fruition. She had looked at him questioningly, and he understood why, the house was big enough to have the solitude he sometimes needed to write new songs, however, if his plan was to work, he needed her out of the house, so he stood his ground without faltering until she conceded.
An hour later, she was out of the house to visit some friends for the night.
He took the longest shower of his life, dried himself off, shaved, and brushed his teeth. He walked mechanically to his room, put on his favourite suit, and finally lay down on his bed.
It had been a week since Ringo's memorial service when Paul took the pills and fell asleep for the last time.
In 1954, a boy opened his eyes to be faced with the familiar view of the smoke damaged ceiling of his bedroom in Specker, without any recollection of his latest dream.
I could have sworn that I was having the greatest dream of my life.