And Your Girl Can Sing

Chapter 59: Real Life Is Just Like School, But Magnified

GERMANY—HAMBURG—The first place I had been to in my new trip to the sixties, the first place where John and I shared ups and downs, late night walks and falling into the river, the poverty days of the Beatles, pre-fame and fortune, and I had been there with them for a large portion. Here we were June 30th, I was feeling bittersweet, we all were, because tomorrow we were leaving.

"Toast! A toast to—" Paul started, raising his glass of beer.

"—Money!—" John cut in.

"—Women—" George.

"—Fame—" Pete.

"—Hitler—" John again.

"Sod off," Paul said, bringing the glass to his lips but John caught him by the arm, bringing his mouth close to Paul's ear. "Sorry, Macca, go on and be patriotic and all that. No more interruptions."

"You're not even from Germany."

"I can be patriotic for Germany if I want to, after all those bombs that rained from the sky back in the wee forties missed me, didn't they? Come on, a toast. G'head. What are ye all thankful for?"

"We're not American, no need to do the bloody thanksgiving." George played with his glass, his fingers curled around the material as the brownish liquid inside swirled round. "Hurry up, you lot. I'm thirsty."

"Drink, then!" John suddenly roared, his mouth open in a wide, raucous smile, tilting his head back and bringing the glass to his lips. We followed suit, shouting congratulations to who knew what. A waiter saw us and doubled back the way he came. Our last night and we were at our local pub round a large wooden table, having lunch before we had to head home and pack. I wondered what we would have said if we had followed John and mentioned our thanks like the American holiday.

Dot had come and gone a few days ago. She and Paul stayed in a bungalow by the Hamburg docks. Paul had managed to get hold of a former cleaner from the Indra and ask her to stay there. And oh, when he was with her, McCartney was attentive, caring. I watched the way he was with Dot, his eyes sparkling, that dopey smile never leaving his face, his face looking devilishly angelic like the boy in the painting Springtime by Pierre-Auguste Cot. They were usually alone, but sometimes they would come out with John and I and we'd double date. By then John had gotten over me not being Bridgette Bardot. He didn't need to tell me I was enough because I knew it.

I ended up using Paul's bed while he was with Dot, having shrugged and moved out from Anna's place, not wanting to leave any bad blood with her and George; we had shared a goodbye, me telling her, you'd better not forget to write to me.

When John brought up the suggestion of me moving in to the Top Ten for the last few days I looked at the other two for looks of unease but found none, only, yeahs, you should do it. When I asked John about it later, he told me the same thing he told me on the bus ride from the Tate: "You're one of the lads, you're just as good as any of us." I had hummed with amusement, laughing, and realized it was true. Playing with the band and all. I really was one of them.

As we demolished the plate of meat in front of us and ordered more bread, joking around, I realized in less than twenty-four hours we would be on the plane, headed back to Liverpool to play in the Cavern. Our table was full of hope, glasses clinking and silverware chiming merrily amongst the sauerkraut and roast beef on the table. We were ready, so ready for the near future and what it held, what it meant as a band.

***

"Looks fine to me," John said from his bed. I frowned, looking down. "I'm not even in a dress. I'm dressed in black."