July

Three

July 7th

            Paul had two days left, and for now, at least, he had to deal with his brother. He hadn’t believed Paul at first, declaring that his tosser of a brother would never be invited to anything, ever, by John Lennon. It had gone something like:

            “Where were you yesterday?”

            “Seeing John and his band play.”

            “No.”

            “He’s invited me to join.”

            “No.”

            Mike had decided to turn this into a joke, as he saw it as an excellent opportunity to poke fun at his brother.

            “I’m going out to see John Lennon,” Mike said theatrically as he headed towards the front door. “He’s invited me to be the best man at his wedding.”

            Paul made a strangled hissing noise over his toast, shooting a murderous glare at the door that had already closed.

            Jim shot a sympathetic glance towards his older son. “He’s only trying to get to you,” he said unhelpfully. Paul nodded, turning his tea around on the table like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it.

            “This…this band thing, it’s just a…summer thing, isn’t it?” Jim asked, peering at Paul anxiously.

            The younger McCartney’s eyebrows shot up. “A summer thing?”

            “Well… it’s not really serious, is it? You know your mother wanted you to go to grammar school…”

            “Don’t bring mum into this,” Paul said with an edge. A small flare of pain rose up inside him, and he waited a few seconds for it extinguish. He regretted his harsh words then, adding: “I don’t know, honestly. It’s probably nothing. It’s just Mike who’s making this more than it really is.”

            Jim nodded, and an awkward silence filled the breakfast table. Paul gulped his tea down quickly, hoping to leave the table. Mike had already headed out, probably to meet friends or god knows what, he was always very vague about his outings.

            “I have to do some stuff in my room,” Paul said, picking up the plate, which was sprinkled with crumbs, and the empty mug. He couldn’t be bothered with making up what he was supposed to be doing, and his father seemed to accept his exit. No morning where Mary was mentioned in conversation was a good one. This was a general McCartney rule that no one broke with impunity.

            Paul climbed up the stairs to his room, wondering if he should be getting ready for the rehearsal tomorrow. Would his musical knowledge be tested? A shiver of nerves went down his back; he could hardly remember what he’d learned about the notes and the rhythms. Then his mind went back to the day before, and John’s guitar that was tuned like a banjo. No, this definitely wouldn’t be a contest of knowledge.