And Your Girl Can Sing

Chapter 75: In Which Things Could Have Gone Horribly Wrong

St. John's Hall, the Aintree again, Blair Hall, Blair Hall, the Cavern Club, and then we were teetering on the edge of July. Five days. Paul had made no mention of his decision regarding the band. When I saw McCartney in concert among the dancing of the crowd and the sound waves crashing in the air, he looked more tired under the stone walls of the Cavern and smaller against the space that the Aintree Institute provided.

    Neil's van, dozing in the back. After the show in the Cavern. The streetlamp outside twinkling merrily, partially obscured by the slight drizzle of rain. Neil's kind face looking back, asking if we wanted to make a stop to get some dinner at Penny Lane before driving us home, his thick brown eyebrows raised in the form of a question. George nodding, grinning at the thought of food, John yelling something in approval, glancing to catch the eye of his bandmate as the van stopped and they and Pete piled out, but his bandmate was asleep in the back of the van next to a crash cymbal. John looked slightly off, like he was looking for something he normally had but couldn't find it, but his excited glance was automatically directed toward me. "Cora?"

    "Yeah?"

    "You coming?" he gestured toward one of our usual haunts, a fish and chips place.

    "Um..." I took a worried glance at Paul. "I think I'll stay. George knows what I want."

    "That I do!" he yelled through the window. Someone had slipped him a few beers at the show—probably a loving fan who knew a little something about their habits in Germany. "Come on, Lennon."

    John gave him a glance and nodded. "Cora, come on. Ye—ye can't stay here with Macca."

    "Should I wake him?" I asked.

    "No. Come on."

    I stepped out of the van, leaving him behind, blanketed by shadow and snoring lightly, the crash symbol partially obscuring his face. John took my hand and squeezed it gently, leading me inside the shop.

    "Can I help you?" An older, slightly plump man behind the register. I felt something in my hand—a few coins—as John slipped them into my hand and made his way to the register, placing an order. "Take that back to the van when you're done, love. I'll be in the van."

    I nodded, slightly confused, and felt a little nudge in my back from George to hurry and order. I placed my usual and waited by the counter before walking to the window where I could see Neil's van. I moved my head slightly and behind the crash cymbal I saw two figures sitting together: Paul and John. I squinted harder.

    "What are ye doing?" George behind me, his hand on my shoulder. Pete joined me on the other side.

    "John," I pointed out, rolling my eyes a little. "I wanted to see if Macca was all right bit I s'pose John wanted to do it."

    "He just didn't want you and Macca alone in the van," George pointed out dryly, his hand already dipping into the grease-covered brown paper back and extracting a few fries. I frowned. "I mean, I could've talked to him."

    "Lennon knows him better."

    "Mm. That's true." The man called my name and I went to take John and my order: three paper bags. I took another look at the window and realized that the third bag John had ordered was meant for Paul.

***

    I took my seat with John once we got into the van. Paul was awake now and looking slightly grouchy with a hint of thoughtful, sitting there holding his paper bag with his supper. I didn't know what John had talked to him about, but I was certainly curious.