Carnival of Light || Paul McCartney/Beatles

29. Mellow Yellow

Carnival of Light

29.

There were the usual rows of girls hanging around Cavendish when I arrived, but it was quickly apparent they'd been joined by a rowdy group of new fans, all of whom had American or Canadian accents. They were armed with posters, magazines, records, and flowers, and had formed a tight knot around the bell, creating tension with the other girls.

"Paul won't come outside if you do that," one of the regular fans huffed impatiently. "You'll just make him mad."

I lit a cigarette as I joined this wayward group of girls on the pavement, standing beside a girl about my age who was hanging back from the main group, watching them warily. 

"What's going on?" I asked.

"Tourists," she said, glancing at me sideways, her eyes lingering when she recognised me.

I frowned at the tourists, who seemed to be plotting how to get Paul to come out of his house.

"Does this happen a lot?" I asked.

"More and more often," she heaved a sigh. "They come in big groups from all over to try and meet the boys. I think it's because they're not touring anymore. Now the fans are coming to them."

"Blimey," I said, my eyebrows raising.

"You'll just make him mad," one of the regular fans complained, a little blonde schoolgirl still wearing her uniform.

"He already answered it twice, though!" A tourist countered, their accent all twangy and American.

"That's because he's waiting for someone," the schoolgirl said impatiently.

That felt like as good a cue as any for me to make my presence known.

"Excuse me," I said to the girl who seemed to be guarding the bell – she was at least seventeen but still wore her hair in pigtails.

She narrowed her eyes at me. "Who are you?"

"She's the one Paul's waiting for," the school girl rolled her eyes. "God, you lot are thick."

"Why's Paul waiting for you?" Another American or Canadian girl asked me, more hostile than seemed called for.

"Because I walk his dog," I explained. "I'll see about him coming out, but you've got to stop ringing the bell."

I could see a distinct lack of trust in me, combined with irrational jealousy that I had access to the man of their dreams. Eventually the one guarding the bell was persuaded to move and I rang the buzzer three times.

"Yeah?" Paul sounded hesitant.

"It's me," I said.

"Thank fucking God," he sighed.

I stood back and looked around at the girls. Too Old For Pigtails was glaring at me outright and there was something threatening about how a few of the other girls were staring, but the overwhelming majority were just curious about me.

Paul unlocked the gate and opened it wide enough to brace his hands on both doors as he settled in to glare very effectively at his fans. He was wearing a navy jumper and some very groovy mint green trousers that fit him like a glove.

"You lot are really getting on me last fucking nerve," Paul informed the girls tartly, his eyes sweeping over them.

He reminded me of an especially stern school teacher — one who wore very groovy mint green trousers. 

"I tried to tell them, Paul," the school girl piped up.

"Thank you, love," Paul glanced at her and she beamed like the sun. "Now clear off, the rest of you. I don't want you out here anymore, alright?"