Carnival of Light || Paul McCartney/Beatles

03. Micky Dolenz at Cavendish

Carnival of Light (Part 2)

03.

Because their hazy job descriptions covered everything from roadie to valet to man-with-a-van, Mal and Neil helped me fetch my trunks and bring them over to Cavendish. Paul was still pulling himself out of bed when I left, complaining that waking up at nine o'clock in the morning was "unnatural."

Mal and Neil drove me over to Belgravia where we gathered my things and I gave Mrs Fitz the telephone number at Cavendish should she need me. I promised to check in once a day on the telephone to find out if anyone rang for me, and twice a week in person to pick up my post and have a cup of tea with her.

Paul had managed to drag himself out of bed by the time we returned to Cavendish. He was wearing black trousers and nothing else, his hair a wild mess and his face unshaven.

He watched, bewildered as Mal and Neil carried my trunks into the house.

"What are those?" Paul sounded perturbed. "They look like bloody coffins."

"They're my trunks," I laughed.

Paul raised one very elegant eyebrow at me.

"Is that some posh person thing? You don't have cases and boxes like normal people?"

I shot him a withering look that made him clear his throat and turn away to watch Mal and Neil wrangle the trunks up the spiral staircase. One went into the bedroom, which still had no closet space for me. The other to the small study on the second floor beside the music room. It was a small, cosy room with a sloped roof and a brown leather sofa along one wall. Paul had found time to paint it and put up shelves for me and I thought it would do quite nicely.

I immediately started to unpack my work things, transferring the boxes containing my manuscript onto the desk and the shelves and arranging my work space.

Paul came up to join me after he'd had a shave and pulled on a shirt and socks, his hair neatly combed and shiny.

"You sure you don't want to come watch?" He wrapped his arms around me, pulling me back against him. "Martha's coming."

I shot him an amused look over my shoulder. "As much as I would love to come stand in a freezing field watching you all ride horses, I'm afraid I have to work."

"Suit yourself," Paul kissed my cheek. "I should be home about five unless it drags on."

Home. A silly grin spread across my face as I pressed myself back against him. "I'll see you later."

I finished unpacking and got myself situated at the desk, threading a fresh piece of paper into my typewriter. Mrs Mills made me a cup of tea and let me know she was going to the shops, and after a cigarette and a rubbish attempt at some meditation to centre myself, I settled in to write.

Then the gate buzzer started going off downstairs.

It wasn't the secret three buzzes — a pathetic code — which meant it was a delivery or the fans, whose numbers were growing and becoming more International by the day. The new ones were unfamiliar with the etiquette the more regular girls had established after studying the intricacies of Paul's habits to make themselves less annoying and more appealing to chat to. Aside from his habits regarding me, of course. Then they were all too happy to intervene.

They were a clever lot, those gate birds.

The bell kept going off as I jogged downstairs to the intercom in the hallway.

There was muffled laughter and a shriek when I answered.

"Is Paul in?" Came the crackled response.

"He's gone out for the day," I said. "But he'll be back later this afternoon."