The Certainty Of Chance (Beatles Fan Fiction)

2

Compared to May’s life, George Harrison may as well have existed in a different universe. In actuality, he was in London, sitting in the canteen at the BBC Studios, waiting to finish recording a bank holiday special of From Me To You for the BBC Light Programme, and eating a plate of beans on toast at just about the same time that Jack in Aberystwyth was hurling his at the wall. The BBC canteen’s menu was basic at best but George didn’t mind. The simple cooking reminded him of home.

He put his knife and fork down with a clatter and leaned back lighting up a cigarette. Opposite him John Lennon sat engrossed in that day’s paper, wearing his NHS style glasses and sipping tea from a white mug.

“How long’s it gonna be tonight?” George asked, flicking ash into a small foil ashtray.

John finished what he was reading before looking up and replying, “Well, I don’t know, do I?”

George sighed visibly.

“Sorry, George. My psychic powers must be below par today.” John shook his head and went back to the newspaper.

“I can’t be bothered with this.” George said, yawning. There was the prospect of another Abbey Road session afterwards.

“Keeping you, are we?” Paul laughed as he sat down at the table with them. John folded the paper and leaned back on the rear two legs of his chair, putting his hands behind his head. George stubbed the cigarette out and snorted contemptibly.

“What’s up with him?” Paul said out of the side of his mouth to John.

“What? George Harrison in a mard! That’s a revelation! Call the press!” John said sarcastically, banging his hands down on the table.

“I’m not in a mard,” George muttered, sulkily.

“Doesn’t sound like it, son.” John teased.

George sighed. “Well, aren’t you knackered?” he asked. “Albums, singles, radio appearances, TV appearances, press conferences, interviews, American tour, British tour…It’s never ending.”

“Stop! You’re gonna make me cry!” John said, wiping imaginary tears from his eyes.

“We’re all tired.” Paul smiled sympathetically.

“I just keep thinking, next week we’re making that film, then it’s Australia, then America again, then another whip round Britain, then maybe, just maybe, we can have a weekend off.”

The other two groaned.

“Don’t worry, George,” John told him, “If you’re lucky then you’ll be able to get some sleep in between Australia and America.”

“Yeah, on the plane over,” Paul added.

“It’s not that I don’t like it,” George continued. “Well, there are bits I could do without, but on the whole it’s great, but just right now I need a break.”

“You’re having a break.” Paul told him.

“No, not just a break from recording, I mean a proper break, a bit of time off.”

“Ask Brian about it.”

“Mmm.” George said, dismissively. Load of use that’d do, he thought, imagining Brian’s face. The filming schedules had been in place for weeks, the venues for the tours booked even before that, the whole next year of their lives was wall to wall fully booked.