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The ladder is wobbly, the weather is typical North London grey, and Ringo Starr has never felt more miserable in his life. He dips his roller into the tray of eggshell white, systematically smoothing it over the guttering of Norman Smith’s front porch. Down on the lawn, Norman carries out a grease-spotted paper parcel from the local chippy, setting it down on a folding garden table alongside two cans of pop.
"Right then, Richie, break time," Norman calls up gently, wiping his hands on a tea towel. "Come off that perch for ten minutes and get some food in you. You’ve been picking at nothing all morning."
Ringo lets out a heavy sigh, wiping his forehead with a paint-stained sleeve as he slowly climbs down. His chest feels hollow, weighed down by a cold, heavy dread that has been growing for weeks.
"I brought out some fish and chips," Norman says, unwrapping the steaming paper to reveal golden cod and thick-cut chips. "And the lad down at the shop had some fresh calamari today, so I grabbed a portion of that too."
Ringo freezes, staring down at the battered rings of calamari. His mind instantly flashes back to a sunny afternoon in Spain three years ago—George sitting cross-legged on the deck of a boat, laughing as he tried to convince Ringo that squid wasn't just "rubbish from the bottom of the sea," feeding him a piece straight off his own plate.
A fresh knot tightens in Ringo's throat. He pulls his hand back from the table. "Thanks, Norm. Not really hungry."
"Richie, you have to eat," Norman chides softly, pushing the box of chips closer. "You're working yourself into a state."
"How can I not?" Ringo mutters, sitting down heavily on the wooden porch step, resting his elbows on his knees. "They’re laughing at me, Norm. I know they are."
Norman pauses, holding a chip halfway to his mouth. "Who is?"
"The lads," Ringo sighs, his voice cracking slightly. For the past month, every time he's walked into a room at Abbey Road, the whispering would instantly stop. John and Paul would exchange those sharp, conspiratorial looks, hiding smiles behind their hands, while George would suddenly discover an intense interest in the ceiling tiles. "It’s not just that they’re kicking me out. It’s... they think it’s funny. They’re orchestrating the whole thing behind my back, having a great laugh about how oblivious old Richie is while they send me off on dummy errands to paint your bloody house."
"Richie..." Norman begins, his expression unreadable.
"Twenty-five years," Ringo whispers, staring blankly at his paint-splattered boots. "And I'm just the punchline."
Before Norman can answer, the quiet suburban morning is shattered by the grinding gears of a flatbed truck pulling up to the curb. Ringo doesn't even bother looking up until he hears the distinct thump-thump of a bass drum hitting the back of the truck, followed by the familiar, high-pitched screech of guitar feedback. He lifts his head, blinking against the grey light. Parked right across Norman’s driveway is a flatbed carrying a portable PA system. John Lennon, wearing an oversized pastel blazer and his round wire-rims, is adjusting a microphone stand while hiding a massive, wicked grin. Beside him, Paul McCartney plugs a bass into an amp, leaning over to whisper something to John that sends both of them into fitful bursts of giggles.
And right in the center, holding his classic Gretsch guitar, stands George.
Here it comes, Ringo thinks, a cold wave of humiliation washing over him. The grand joke.
"What on earth..." Norman starts, but he's drowned out as Paul count-beat four on his bass headstock.
The band kicks into an infectious, driving rock 'n' roll groove. John hits the opening riff, and Paul’s bass bounces with that unmistakable, thunderous McCartney energy. George steps right up to the center mic, his eyes locked straight onto Ringo sitting on the porch step.
♪ "I got my mind set on you!" ♪ George sings out, his voice rich, warm, and soaring over the quiet neighborhood street.
John and Paul lean into the side mic together, their harmonies locking in instantly as they sing the response: ♪ "I got my mind set on you!" ♪
Ringo sits rooted to the spot, his mouth slightly open.
♪ "But it's gonna take money!" ♪ George belts out, stepping right to the edge of the flatbed, his gaze never leaving Ringo’s stunned face. ♪ "A whole lotta spending money! It's gonna take plenty of time... to do it right, child!" ♪
Up on the truck, John gives Ringo an absurdly theatrical, affectionate wink over his microphone. Paul is practically dancing in place, pumping his bass in time with the beat, yelling out the backing vocals with pure, unadulterated joy. Ringo looks from Paul’s beaming face to John’s laughing eyes, and finally back to George. The secret meetings. The muffled giggles. The whispers that stopped the second he entered the room. They weren't mocking him. They were terrified of ruining the surprise.
George hops off the flatbed, guitar strap still over his shoulder, and walks straight up the gravel driveway. He stops right in front of the porch step where Ringo sits, unslung his guitar, and sets it carefully against the house. Down on the lawn, Norman calmly picks up a piece of calamari, chewing thoughtfully as he watches. George reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a small velvet box, clicking it open to reveal a simple silver band.
"You're a bloody terrible painter, Richie," George says, his voice soft, a nervous, terribly fond smile breaking across his face. "So stop messing about with Norm's house and come marry me instead."
Ringo gawks at the ring, then up at George's hopeful eyes, and finally back at John and Paul, who have abandoned their instruments to hang over the side of the truck, cheering and whistling like maniacs. All the dread, humiliation, and misery vanish in a single, overwhelming breath. A huge, tearful laugh bursts out of Ringo’s chest as he stands up, wiping a streak of white paint off his cheek.
"You absolute bastards!" Ringo yells over to the truck, his voice thick with emotion before turning back to George. "I thought you were replacing me! I thought you were laughing at me!"
"Laughing at you?" George scoffs, pulling Ringo into a tight, desperate hug that lifts his feet off the gravel. "Richie, we’ve been losing our minds for three weeks trying to keep John from blabbering!"
"Hey! I kept the secret!" John shouts down from the truck. "Mostly!"
George pulls back just enough to slide the ring onto Ringo's finger, kissing his forehead right over the paint smudges. "I'm never letting you go anywhere, soundcheck or otherwise. Now say yes so I can stop shaking."
Ringo looks down at the silver band, then smiles, pulling George back in by the jacket lapels. "Yes, you absolute idiot. Yes."