Carnival of Light || Paul McCartney/Beatles

40. I Read The News Today, Oh Boy

Carnival of Light

40.

Tara was dead. It was in the papers, so it had to be true—Guinness heir dead at 21. I didn't really believe it. The idea that Tara, who was so full of life, could be dead. That I would never see him again because he no longer existed. He was just gone and he would never come back because he was dead and that was the end of him. It sent me into horrible crying jags as I tried to comprehend the world without Tara in it. I just couldn't.

Brian Jones was in the papers too, red faced and crying on his way out his front door. That was how he found out Tara was dead – reporters told him and photographed him reacting. Fucking vultures.

Paul was in the papers at the premiere of the Family Way, a politely impassive smile on his face for the photographers. He would have found out about Tara earlier in the day and gone to the premiere in the evening anyway. The papers made sure to point out that he was alone because he was now the one truly single Beatle.

On the third day, I managed to stop crying long enough to ring Poppy to speak to her more about what happened. Most of it had been in the papers, but she woodenly recounted it to me anyway.

"Can you check on Paul for me?" I asked.

"Well—okay," Poppy agreed haltingly.

"I'm going to give you some numbers to write down," I said. "Try Mal first, he knows where Paul is most of the time. Then try Alistair at NEMS, he can usually get a hold of Mal."

"Alright," Poppy said uncertainly.

"And then I'll give you Freda as well," I sniffed and opened my diary. "She's the president of the Beatles fan club."

"The president of the Beatles fan club?" Poppy said incredulously 

"Yes," I sighed. "She's really nice and knows more than she lets on in the newsletters."

Poppy rang me back later to inform me that Mal said Paul was fine. He'd been focusing on work and had gone to his dad's for Christmas, which I suppose was a good thing. He'd told me once he felt more ordinary and normal in Liverpool than he did in London. It grounded him.

The rest of my aunts and uncles and cousins started arriving. My cousin David and Uncle Albert turned up last as usual. They were the ones I usually got on best with but they weren't well-suited to cope with a woman's grief.

Christmas was a miserable blur, the days slowly ticking past. I settled into a kind of trance where I wasn't thinking or feeling much of anything. I slept late and went to bed early, sleeping more than I ever had in my entire life. I watched television with my batty cousins Zara and Daphne so I had something to stare at. I sat with Baby George a lot, minding him so Lavinia could get some sleep. Holding him helped. It was bizarre to think that just two weeks earlier Tara had been alive but baby George hadn't.

We'd usually have a hunt on Boxing Day, but Barney decided a jolly day of getting pissed and riding horses wasn't appropriate when I was grieving for my friend. Some of us gathered in the day room to watch television instead. I seem to remember there was something about horse racing on that afternoon. I stared blankly at the screen with my legs tucked under me, occasionally dipping into the box of Quality Street perched on the settee between Daphne and I. There were three dogs lying on top of me and I was wearing my country clothes, a woolly cardigan and an earthy-coloured tweed skirt with knee high socks, my long dark hair tied in lazy, tangled bunches beneath my ears, my fringe the biggest mess it had ever been.

Mr Everest strode into the drawing room, his posture stiffer than usual, his expression oddly stiff too. He caught my eye and came over to stand beside the couch, ducking his head to speak so only I could hear him.