like a pomegranate | george harrison

4 - Rupert and Joss Stick

~~~
April 12th, 1968

Cloud awoke the next morning finally feeling rested. It was another sunny day. Bright rays poured in through the curtains and warmed the quiet room.

The house was dead silent. Upon trying to sit up she was amazed at how much better she felt. She planted her bare feet onto the soft shag carpet.

Her first order of business was to get changed. She grabbed the linen shirt and pants that George (or Pattie? She was still unsure) had laid out for her.

Searching for a bathroom to change in, she first found a closet filled with two leather suitcases, what looked to be an old camera case, and several fabulous coats.

The next door was a bathroom in dazzling colors. The walls and floor were a very pale spring green, the bathroom tiles featuring a funky paisley pattern.

Cloud looked at herself in the mirror. She stared at her underwear, a simple sixties bra with vertical lacing down the front and a pair of boyshort bottoms. A certain feeling of deja vu pricked her just then.

A strange man's face flashed into her brain.

"So you're a sixties gal?"

Cloud brought a hand to her chest. When did she have that conversation? With that... who was it?

Odd snippets of a few days' worth of dreams were still floating around her mind. It must've been one of those dreams, she thought; not a real person she was remembering.

Out of curiosity she peeked in some drawers. There wasn't much, save for a floral tube of lipstick, an unopened packet of incense, a pack of Mayfair cigarettes, and a box of matches.

Might as well, Cloud thought. She struck a match and lit a cigarette for herself.

The clothes fit her well. She really did look like a hippie hitchhiking from Woodstock.

"Maybe you'd like to ditch this place and just live there. The Woodstock life?"

Another part of her strange dream, Cloud guessed.

~~~

Hesitantly, she stepped barefoot into the hallway.

In the daylight she could see it was lined with dozens of hanging pictures: there were black and white photos, mostly of other people—only a few with George in them—and random pieces of psychedelic artwork.

Some looked hand-drawn, possibly by the Beatles themselves. Others were clearly by some very talented and perhaps expensive artists.

She moved slowly, afraid to make a sound lest she disturb anyone in the house.

She passed what looked to be a small library with a record player. Towering stacks of albums stood in disorganized piles alongside letters and envelopes on the floor, some opened, some not.

She looked behind her to see if anyone was around, then quietly entered the room to pick up a stray letter.

"To: Beatle George!! 16 Claremont Drive, Esher, Surrey."

Hearts and peace signs were doodled all over the envelope. It was signed by one Marcie McKenna from Glasgow, Scotland.

The windowsills were lined with beautiful antiques and knick-knacks: porcelain sculptures, a vase of daffodils, small statues. The room was entirely covered in bohemian decorations and worldly souvenirs.

It certainly looked like the home of an eccentric lead guitarist.

She passed another small room with a handful of ukuleles and guitars strewn about. Inside sat a piano that had been painted with stars and rainbows like an acid dream.