Hamburg

8. Peter At His Best

"He's a nancy, you know," said Pete, nodding towards a lanky, fair haired man. "A right nancy."

"He is not," Paul said blowing a discrete raspberry. "I saw Rory with a buncha birds just the other day. He looked pretty chuffed too!"

"That's cos Rory here is off his head on gin and whiskey all night," Pete said. "He hasn't even had a hangover in his life cos there was never one Saturday morning for him. His whole life is bloody Friday night."

"Sounds great," said Paul.

"No, it doesn't. He's in denial, you know. He's a right poof. I can tell. After the war, there were a bunch out in the streets, where all the sailors were, y'know. By the Mersey, all there, dressed in their best suits, trying to get lucky. It was disgusting. They all smell like cheap women's cologne."

"That's what we all smell like, us lot. That's about all we can afford."

"Not me, I don't."

"That's right, Peter," Paul nodded. "You smell like leather, grease, cigarettes, socks and sweat. That is, dead cows, fat, cheap tobacco, socks and sweat."

"You aren't any better if you stink like them queers," Pete smiled and stubbed his cigarette down on the heel of his boot- he was seated on a chair with his one leg crossed over the other.

"Ah but crushed jasmine and peaches smell much better than dead cows, fat, cheap tobacco, socks and s-"

"Sweat," Pete laughed. "Yeah I get it. Alright, you've made your point. I guess, I gotta take a bath sometime."

"Yeah you do," George walked into the room. Both of them turned to look at the source of the voice. "Or we'll put you in the bloody laundry bags."

Pete laughed and shook his head. He didn't really know why but he was in a pretty good humour that day. He felt alright. Maybe it were the extra rest he had been able to take from not performing last night, when George suddenly disappeared.

Speaking of...

"Ey," Pete nudged George lightly with his elbow. "Where did you go off to last night?

"Yeah," nodded Paul. "We couldn't play without you!"

"You flatter me, Paul," George stuffed his mouth with a chocolate bun.

"Well?" Pete said.

George swallowed the piece of bread and spoke, "Went out with one of the lads from Rory Storm's band."

"You know they're all queers right?" Pete said.

"Which one?" Paul asked George, ignoring Pete's accusations.

"Ringo Starr," George nodded. "The drummer."

"The little one?" said Pete. "He's definitely a queer."

"What?" Paul looked at Pete, slightly frustrated. "You think everyone is a queer."

"He's not queer," George said in a mocking tone, pointing to Pete.

"Oh no, no," Paul joined in. "Not perfect Pete."

"That's right," said Pete. "I'm not. And I know Rory is a queer too."

George and Paul laughed in pity.

Pete looked at them seriously, "It's not a joke. I'm serious"

"Oh dear," George said, looking at Paul. "He's serious!"

They heard the bell go off, as a customer entered the café, but everyone except George turned to look. The smile wiped off his face as he recognised a familiar visage looking just as unsurely as himself. A certain pair of blue eyes that made him feel tingly.

"Hey," Peter said, nudging George. "Speak of the Devil. It's yer mate, why don't you call him over to join you."

"Yeah," nodded Paul, but with different- polite- intentions. "Go 'head."

Ringo quickly turned around and ran right out. George remembered the words he last spoke to him and a bitter taste took over his mouth.

"Never again, okay?"