"Ella, it's not my fault you went and starved yourself! Now, if you don't eat, I'll... I'll... jump into the Mersey!"
This was the third time I'd eaten outside of the hospital, but I wasn't hungry. The problem was that I was under strict dietary regulations. By the schedule I was obliged to follow, there were seven, yes, seven meals a day. That was more than I sometimes consumed in a week! Another catch was that it had to be a "balanced" meal as well. So there was no possibility that I could enjoy this by eating only sweets and biscuits. This meant salads and green vegetables galore.
"But, George," I whined, "I don't want to eat any of this stuff! I've never had broccoli in my life before, and now I'm expected to eat loads of it!"
He had taken up the position of my caretaker after I'd been released from the hospital the prior evening. My stay had only been for two days after I'd revived, so in that time frame, George went back to his normal life and routine, meaning that he returned to the Beatles and his family. It seemed that he had made up for his sleep deprivation during that period as well. Here it was, Tuesday once again, and George was virtually spoon-feeding, no, force-feeding me my breakfast of runny porridge and rye bread. I couldn't help but feel a bit rueful for all the trouble he'd gone through for me. It appeared that I should become accustomed to having him come over to feed me. As a gesture of compassion, I believe it was meant. I'm sure that, to him, it was an unrequited one at that, since I refused food and was argumentative all the time. Father accepted his omnipresence with an air of acquiescence, for now he realized George's chimerical devotion towards me. Mum's thoughts on him stood firmly.
"A'right, Ella, if you don't eat, I'll never kiss you ever again!"
"That's an empty threat! You wouldn't dare!"
"Wouldn't I? Now, here, eat!" he held a spoonful of bland oatmeal. I opened my mouth and obediently swallowed what was held in front of me.
"Good girl," he praised half sarcastically, rewarding me with a tiny peck of a kiss. "Only," he paused to look at the bowl, "fifty more of those and we'll be in good shape"
I giggled. "You're so cute, George."
"I know," he replied, batting his lashes flauntingly.
From there, I felt that since I was capable of it, I should take over control of the spoon and feed myself. The contents of the bowl quickly dwindled and vanished along with the two pieces of bread. After I was finished, I slid from my chair into his and certainly without protest from him.
"What're ya doin', girl?" he asked innocently. "You an' I both know that we're in your parents' kitchen."
"So?"
"Well, if they come out here and see you..." I cut him off mid-word with a kiss. He reciprocated but only for a fleeting moment. "...sitting in me lap, I'll be the one in trouble," came his finished statement.
With incredible ease, George made me stand up, and then picked me up under my arms to set me on the counter not far from the table.
"You're dreadfully light, Ella."
"Well, you're not exactly huge yourself."
Footsteps were heard coming downstairs right before Dad popped into the kitchen.
"Hi, Daddy," I greeted brightly as he pulled the tea from the shelf.
"Morning, Ella. George," he finished with a courteous nod towards the latter.
"'Lo, Mr. Riley. I got Ella to eat this morning."
Dad chuckled for a second prior to saying, "We're lucky to have you around. She won't do anything for me or Samantha."
"I'm in the room, you know! But can we go out today, Da?"
"Yes, but don't tell your mother. Now, out! She's coming down soon as well!" he exclaimed, gesticulating wildly for us to go. Jumping off the counter, I followed George's lead away from the room.
"So, exactly what plans do you have, Natalie, luv?" he asked in a whisper when we were out the door.
"None whatsoever. Don't you guys have a practice or something today?"
"We always do. It's just a matter of who shows up where and when."
"Let's do that, then. I want to see one."
"There's nothin' to see," George said rolling his eyes. "But if you want to waste a perfectly good day on that, fine by me." Grabbing my hand, he led me in the opposite direction from which we were previously going. It was a long walk to Speke, but with the proper shortcuts, it was, well, shorter.
I'd always gotten that silly, warm feeling when we held hands. Mine were so tiny and porcelain-like in comparison to his and I sighed contentedly and squeezed his fingers tighter.
"What?" he asked when he felt me grip his hand. It sounded like he was somewhere between annoyance and true curiosity.
"Nothing," I replied, shaking my head vehemently and sending my flaxen mane in all directions. Even though it was something, I didn't bother to tell him figuring that it was just a girl love intuition.
"All riiiiight, c'mon, we've got to hurry if this is going to work."
I was yanked forward as he broke into a run dragging me along behind.
---***---
"You have to be quiet if we want to make this quick."
We stood outside of 25 Upton Green while George gave me directions that I thought were rather extraneous.
"Why?"
Because my mum will hear us and she'll want to talk with you for hours on end," he replied.
"Oh God! Anything but that!" I shot back sardonically. "And how do you know I don't want to talk to her if you won't let me meet her?"
"Please, Ella, we don't have time to mess about with this. John and Paul have other things to do."
"A'right, I'll even stay out here if you want me to."
"Would you, angel?" I nodded. "Ta, Ella, you don't know how much easier that makes things." He kissed my forehead and mussed my hair affectionately. "I'll not be long. Just 'ang on."
George jogged inside and slammed the door behind himself. There was a lone tree not far from my standing, so I sauntered towards it and seated myself on the springy grass. Pulling up one blade of it, I twirled it in my hands, tore it apart and threw it into the non-existent wind. And waited... waited longer, while he rang up Paul and John and grabbed his guitar and the scribble-ridden exercise book next to it. All by myself on the lawn, I let Alex drift through my thoughts. Though he may not have been entirely well, I was happy for the fact he was conscious and acting normally, despite the lack of mobility. It was well into July and almost August, meaning that school was in session very soon. Since I was now a college student, (well, almost!) it started slightly belatedly. If I really wanted to, I could skip the first quarter and start even later.
Making a mad dash for the outside, George returned within seven minutes in a precious state of disorganization. I burst into relentless hysterics when I saw him. The notebook was in his mouth, the guitar case in one hand and a beaten-to-death suitcase in the other.
"Can I carry... something for you?" I offered, pushing myself up and brushing my dress off.
"If you would, dear," he muttered through the pages of the notebook.
I took it out and flipped through it. Drawings, illegible notes, tablature...
"I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't do that," he said blushing slightly.
"Why? 'S'ere something I'm not supposed to see?" I taunted.
"No," he answered nervously. "Ella, please, I need that book."
Eventually, I intended to hand it over but not until I could determine what he was so jumpy about. Then, I found it and wasn't so sure that I should have looked anymore. He flinched and grabbed it back once I'd seen it. The lines were filled with sweet nothings like "I ♥ Ella," "Natalie Ellen Harrison," and Xs and Os, but it also had slightly more provocative notes like, "I'd love to fuck Ella," and "I'd do anything to get finger pie from her." Below the nastier phrases were comments from the other boys who had seen the notebook. Since it was snatched out of my hands too quickly, I didn't catch any of those parts.
"Ell-a!" he whined rather unbecomingly.
"Oh goodness, I'm going to pretend like I didn't see that," I said, shaking my head slightly.
"You read it all, didn't ya?" he ventured timidly.
"Well, do you want an honest answer?"
"Oh my God! Did you?!?" he exclaimed, pale and wild eyed. I bit my lip and turned my head. "Holy shit, that wasn't supposed to happen."
Like a little boy caught in the act of stealing, George bowed his head and kicked uninterestedly at the dirt while the exercise book drooped with his arm.
"Well, if it's anything of a consolation," I offered, "I didn't read the other guys stuff."
"You didn't?" he looked up, eyebrows raised earnestly.
"No, little mate," I replied, laughing a little.
He heaved an incredible sigh of relief and threw his head back. George's hair shifted when he did this, so when he straightened up again, I smoothed it back into place.
"Why don't you ever just leave your hair alone? I'd be so much more attractive that way."
"Because it's rather long and I'd look like a girl," he answered, ducking away from my hands as we continued onward towards 3 Gambier Terrace. I myself was nervous about going to such a grown-up place. John and Stu's flat was where the college girls and the boys' friends came together. I was older than George, but that didn't say much in their world.
"So, what's in the suitcase?" I asked desperate for conversation.
"Paul's shit. 'S been in me room for three fuckin' weeks. He asked for it today."
Only a male... I thought to myself adoringly.
"I would appreciate it if you wouldn't talk like that. It's downright degrading and rude 's well."
"Ah, sorry there, Ella, pet. First nature, ya see."
"A little bit of it's all right with me, though. I don't need you completely changing that habit."
"I think you like it when I talk dirty Scouse like that, Ella," he teased, wiggling his eyebrows.
In response, I grinned smugly and pretended to protest.
"The older ones, they aren't... mean, are they?" I inquired, trying to settle my anxiety.
"No more so than John and Paul are. Don't worry, you're such a pretty little thing, they'll leave you alone for sure. An' if they don't, I'll bloody them up good for ya." I rolled my eyes but cracked a smile all the same. "You'll be knowing Stu and Pete?" I nodded, so he continued listing and gabbing on. "And prolly Mike'll be there, that is, if Paul will let him. He takes pictures of the group all the time since he's got nothing better to do. And some of John's friends show up on and off. Geoff, and sometimes even that Shotten bloke, and Ivan pops in every once and a while. Sometimes there are John's old floozies. I used to fancy one of them, that is, a'course, before I knew you..."
"GEORGE!"
"What?!" he shouted back, confused.
"Breathe. I get it. Tons of people I don't know."
"Yeah, basically."
While wandering through the back jiggers and main streets all across the Pool, we passed the cold water flats, council houses, and ruins of the old city. One could tell which buildings had witnessed and survived the wars and which were new and not quite "lived in" yet.
The flat itself was hardly an excuse for one at all. If the outside is anything like the interior, it can't be completely appalling, I coached my mind. Oh, Lord, was I ever wrong. The exterior in its entirety was a large Georgian house, but little did I know that the apartment that Stu actually owned was only a room with a shared toilet. Aghast I was from the very first bit that I saw. Since I was still completely nervous and uptight, I clung to George who probably didn't have any objections. There were the obvious markings and trappings of two art students spread chaotically over the floor. (paints, books, occasional LPs, dirty socks, broken guitar strings) But what was worse was that it looked as if they were supporting a large colony of rats and a few odd cockroaches and ants. I supposed that they must have been sleeping on the mattresses that were covering one portion of the floor in the corner, although I wondered how much sleeping actually went on at night. What must have been a so-called kitchen occupied a 1/5 of the living quarters and it consisted of a few meager appliances and... food. Of all sorts, but nothing that most people would find appetizing.
"Hi, George, you brought Ella," John far from exclaimed, wiping his eye beneath his Holly-styled glasses. John with his horn-rims was a seldom seen thing, but I was indifferent about it as I continued to absorb the sights of the room with utter disgust.
"Yeah, so it seems, but it was her idea to do this anyhow," George pointed out.
"That my stuff?" Paul asked, standing from his original position on what vaguely resembled a piece of furniture.
George nodded with a subdued manner and held the luggage up for his friend to grab.
Stu remained rather taciturn and when we met eye to eye, he smiled weakly and muttered a faint 'hello.'
Of course I wanted to be charming as usual, so I put on my most bright and winning simper and strayed from George to strike up some form of conversation.
"So, Stuart..."
"So, Ella...." came his quick riposte. The way in which he said it almost sounded smarmy to some degree.
"Oh dear me, you must talk quite a lot to have a vocabulary like that."
"Well, that's me, Mr. Loquacious."
I think we're getting somewhere... "You know my name, don't you?"
"How astute an observation there, m'dear, but yes. Through little George."
"Ah, all right. Well, I presume you'd rather be left alone, so I'll see you around then," I concluded, leaving him where he was before. When I stood though, he grinned at me behind my back.
"Eh, I guess Snowball isn't going to show," John stated, again sounding disinterested.
"What'da we need him for, anyhow?" George piped up, ducking under his arm as the guitar strap went over his head.
"Snowball?" I mouthed to Paul who was on my right. All three of the youngest, in order of age, were perched on the piece of wannabe furniture, Paul, myself and George.
"Pete," he replied simply, leaning over to my ear.
"How in the name of God did you all think of that?"
"His hair, luv. Ever looked at it?" I shook my head. "It's got a big white streak down each of the sides."
My lips formed an "o" and blinked appreciatively.
"All right there, mates, let's get something done," Paul announced to the group.
---***---
Apparently, getting something done involved John and Paul going off into the corner, laughing and trying to work out chords while Stu sat in on this bit having Paul criticize the majority of what he did. John and Paul collectively would teach him a line and then he'd play it back with few if any minor mistakes. Of course, John would be supportive, but it was cancelled out by the pure animosity that Paul had towards Stu when he swooped down shouting, "No, that's wrong again!" I became part of the background, which wasn't a problem for me at all. My head rested upon my clasped hands which were propped up by my elbows. Looking over at my dearest boyfriend, I saw that he was bent peacefully over the instrument, carefully picking the notes to a faintly heard and unrecognizable tune. I remembered what he confided in me one night when we were talking about his pursuing a career in music: "For John and Paul, songwriting is pretty important and guitar playing is a means to an end. But that just doesn't interest me. I could a spend whole evening just doodling around with a guitar. But, I could also spend an evening just doodling around with you..." What I recalled most clearly was the last part and the smirk that broke through his seriousness when he said it. But I honestly respected and admired him for his perseverance and attachment to music.
When I felt a hand fluffing out the back of my hair, I turned away from blankly staring at the Lennon/McCartney cat fight, to find that George had forsaken the activity that had occupied him so well for the past hour.
"What do you want?" I asked with mock arrogance, although my smile didn't match my tone.
"You wanna learn something?" he offered.
"Sure, why not?"
He again slipped the guitar strap over his head and set the whole thing against the couch. Seeing that he was freed of everything else, I slid closer and took up his toughened right fingers in mine.
"'Kay, you see the guitar that Paul's holding?" he asked, pointing with our conjoined hands.
"Yeah, at least I hope I do. What about it?"
"That's a Rosetti solid seven, I believe."
"Show off," I giggled. "Then what's John's?"
"That's easy! It's a Rickenbacker 325 Capri. Two years old, it is."
"All right, smart alec, Stu's?"
"Hofner President Bass, 1959."
"And yours, of course, is...?"
"A damn good Resonet Futurama."
"Funny name for such a thing."
"Yeah, but my other ones are pathetic compared to this thing. It bloody well be better for the 55 guineas I paid for it. Paul actually came with me when I got this'n."
Shaking my head, I gave a faint snort of amusement. "I'm so proud of you. My boyfriend is a guitar genius."
Turning towards him, I pushed George back so he'd be laying across the length of the couch. Then, I settled myself into an odd position in his lap. He attempted to sit up, but I pinned him down again and leaned over him. I knew just what kind of advantage this arrangement of bodies gave him and I could tell what he was thinking by where he was looking.
"Eyes up, George," I corrected playfully, pushing his chin upwards.
"Not easy when you have a gorgeously build bird leaning over you with her... in your face," George said, sounding like he was in another world.
Seizing the moment, he lifted his head and closed his eyes while his lips locked mine in a kiss. As time wore on, George unsuccessfully tried to hide the semi-erection that was beginning to present itself. Paul, Stu and John stopped bickering and practicing to silently take in the spectacle. They all exchanged knowing glances while they watched George try to dig himself farther into the cushions so I wouldn't feel his hard on. But even being audience to this must get dull...
---***---
"George, who are they?" I inquired, still curling my fingers in a lock of his hair.
I was referring to the trio of young women who had joined our presence.
"The older girls, Gillian, Cynthia and Dorothy."
"What are they doing here?" I felt like we had wasted an entire day, which we almost had considering that it was four already.
"They belong to the other three."
"As in relationship belong to?!?"
"Well, they come over every once and a while to snog with whoever wants them."
"Don't tell me you own one too..." I demanded, suddenly scared of what I meant to him.
"Of course not. I wouldn't ruin things with you for a wanking session with one of the tarts." He paused philosophically. "You don't trust me, do you?"
"No, I love you and I'd trust you with my life. I thought maybe since you weren't getting any from me that you'd..."
"I'm not that shallow!" he exclaimed, looking murderously incredulous.
"Good, that's reassuring. But I'm not up for hanging around with them. Plus, Mum'll be after both our lives if I stay out any longer."
"I'm coming with you then, luv." He followed suit and hopped up, snatching the neatly packed guitar case and notebook. Not even taking the trouble of saying goodbye, we exited the flat probably unnoticed and unneeded.
---***---
"I love you," he whispered as we kissed and embraced one last time before I had to start to prepare myself for the third degree from Mum.
"No clichés for me, darling. But I love you too. If I can survive this, I'll talk to you later. Or see you most hopefully."
Again we parted each other's side and I backed against the door and slid to the ground, watching his dark silhouette fade in the shadows. But the longing and warmth left me as I received a sharp blow to the cheek almost immediately following my entrance into the house.
"Damn you, wretched child!"
Tears unconsciously streamed from the eye that was nearest the strike and rolled over the rose-turning-crimson mark that was left behind. I was afraid to wipe them, just as I was afraid to cry out or move at all. This wasn't the third degree; this was fucking World War III.
