And Your Girl Can Sing

Chapter 46: Do, Re, Mimi

Paul's house might have been hard to find on any other day, but with John and George practicing in his dining room all I had to do was follow the sound of two guitars and a bass. I could have done it with my eyes closed.

Still, I checked twice to make sure I was at the right address: 20 Forthlin road. After a moment's hesitation I stepped up to the front door and knocked. It was my first time at Paul's house; I had never needed to go before, but John had called me at work and asked me to come round to Paul's afterwards, where he said he had something to ask me. He didn't disclose what. So that day curiosity took me on bus from the office area of Liverpool to Paul McCartney's house where a white haired elderly man answered my knock, wearing a sweater and a striped tie.

"Hello," he said in a tone indicating he knew nothing about my arrival. "How can I help you?" He asked kindly but also confusedly. I tried not to look like I was craning my neck around him. "Hello, my name is Cora, I'm John's girlfriend, he told me to meet him here..."

"Ah! I'm Jim McCartney, Paul's father. Yes, the boys are in the dining room. Come in." I walked inside and Jim shut the door behind me.

"Da, who's that?" a younger, probably secondary school age boy asked as he hopped down the stairs. When he saw me he too looked confused but quickly shook it off and said, "Hi, I'm Mike." Mike's looks weren't similar to Paul's at all, and I grinned. "I'm Cora, John's girlfriend."

"You don't look very much like Paul," I voiced my thoughts. Mike had lighter hair and didn't share Paul's famous eyebrows, nor many of his facial features at all.

"Na, I don't. Wouldn't want to look like him anyways." He grinned up at me as he joked and I laughed. The music in the other room suddenly stopped, and I heard a faint voice through the closed door: "Cora is here."

"So, continue the song. She's talking to Mike." Another voice, probably Paul.

Some murmur of assent. "Ye can go in," Jim offered, but I shook my head. I knew my place outside the studio. It was respect that I was very aware fluctuated its levels throughout history with the Beatles.

Jim interrupted my thoughts with a sudden observation, probably to ease the awkwardness. "Egg trays." I followed his pointed finger to the top of a kitchen cabinet. "Noise insulation. I love the lads, but sometimes the music is too much."

"Da, you used to be a jazz musician," came a voice from the hall.

"Not twenty-four-seven. Besides, Mike, your room is upstairs. You don't need anything like egg trays." The singing inside the dining room stopped and John opened the door with a wide grin. "Princess!" The boy felt warm with energy against me as I threw my arms around him and felt the fabric of his white shirt, my face in his chest on tiptoe.

"You all sounded so good!"

Jim watched us from the door, holding a tumbler of some sort of drink. I wondered if Paul had told him anything about me in Hamburg and I felt suddenly guilty. I let go of John quickly. "Come in. We were just done. Is it okay if she comes in, lads?"

"Yeah, yeah," I heard George say. I entered the dining room. George was in the midst of packing up his Gretsch but Paul's Hofner was still on his knee as he plucked out a descending bass line. The yellow walls of the McCartney living room accented with the brown wooden fixtures reminded me of a sunny field. I sat, and didn't say anything, feeling a little out of place. "So, have you all written anything good?"

"No writing today, love, just practicing," George said, snapping his guitar case shut and standing up. "Well, I've got to get home. Cora, you're going with John, right?" I nodded and he bade goodbye to the McCartney family out in the hall.