Carnival of Light || Paul McCartney/Beatles

33. Lisemore House

Carnival of Light

33.

Matthew didn't suggest that he knew I'd been seeing someone else, but it would be just like Matthew to protect me from my own guilt. He was as sweet and gracious as he always was, reassuring me that he knew things had changed between us. He promised to write to me from Australia, and we parted as friends.

It was a relief not to feel like I was lying all the time, to Matthew and to myself. He said it best: he wasn't the chap for me anymore. Hanging on to him was futile and cruel.

Instead of going home to let Mrs Fitz know I was alive, I went to the British Museum and had a wander around. I took myself to lunch at the food hall in Harrods, and walked around Regent's Park before I found myself back in St John's Wood late in the afternoon.

There were the usual gaggles of girls hanging around the gate at Cavendish. A group of younger girls sitting on the wall across the street whispered and stared at me while couple of older girls about my age who'd been around more recently glared openly as I rang the bell three times.

"He'll get bored of you eventually," one of the fans said coldly, making my eyes widen.

Paul opened the gate before I could decide on a response, offering me an easy smile. He was wearing dark trousers and a purple jumper over a grey shirt, his fringe splitting above one eyebrow because his shorter haircut was already growing out.

"Ladies," Paul gave the fans a mock salute, and when I didn't move on my own he took my hand to pull me forward. He locked the gate against the gate birds' glares and kissed me hello, then led me into the house, straight upstairs to the second floor.

"Were they mean?" He shot me a look as we climbed the stairs, Martha bounding after us.

"Yes," I huffed. "I don't know why."

"Don't let them bother you, love," Paul advised sagely. "It'll just drive you barmy."

He guided me into the music room which I'd not been in since he first showed it to me in the summer. He'd acquired an Eduardo Paolozzi sculpture since then, a large H-shaped piece of shiny metal standing against a wall papered in a psychedelic scarlet and orange motif.

Paul sat at the piano in the middle of the room, facing the Paolozzi sculpture, and picked out a few notes. I stood to the side, laying my arm across the piano's closed lid.

"Did you write the soundtrack?" I asked.

"Nah," Paul grinned. "I've got this old rooty tooty number I wrote when I was a kid. I've been playing around with the lyrics."

He started playing a piece of music that I suppose could have been described as rooty tooty, or perhaps a little vaudeville. Paul shot me a winning smile and started serenading me, his hands jumping across the keys.

When I get older losing my hair
Many years from now
Will you still be sending me a Valentine
Birthday greetings bottle of wine

If I'd been out till quarter to three
Would you lock the door
Will you still need me
Will you still feed me
When I'm sixty-four

"Will you still feed me?" I laughed.

Paul grinned as he shifted into a different key, and carried on singing to me most charmingly.

You'll be older too
And if you say the word
I could stay with you

He was just being silly, but it still sent a happy shiver racing over my shoulders as he finished up with a jaunty run of notes.