Carnival of Light || Paul McCartney/Beatles

07. Enchanting Tripping Glaze: Part 2 (Paul)

Carnival of Light (Part 2)

07.

Paul woke up flat on his back, feeling impossibly heavy. Opening his eyes was like trying to lift a boulder. His eyelids fluttered as consciousness swam in, but he couldn't open his eyes or lift his head. For a good ten seconds he was wide awake but he couldn't move. Then like throwing off invisible shackles, he sat up in bed like a shot, sucking down a lungful of oxygen.

Fucking hell. Paul scrubbed his hands over his face and reached for his fags. Nicotine helped as he tried to recall the night before. It was blurry and weird, and when he remembered why it was so blurry and weird he felt fucking dafter than he'd ever felt in his fucking life.

That was it. Too far. Too bloody stupid. Too dangerous. Apparently this was what happened when there was no girlfriend to keep his head screwed on straight. This was what happened when you let London get under your skin and forgot who you are.

Paul dragged himself out of bed to get a coffee off Mrs Mills and had another fag, then rang Alistair Taylor with a plan of action. He needed a way to shake off London. Liverpool would usually do the trick, but after the last few nights, something more remote appealed to escape the Big Smoke.

"Hi, Paul," Alistair sounded tired. "How can I help?"

"Need you to go up to Scotland for me, man," Paul said.

"Scotland?"

"To my farm in Campbeltown. I want to go up soon but I've no idea what state it's in, y'know? No one's been living there since November."

Al knew. "You want me to make sure your farm is habitable for you and Beatrix to get away to?"

"Mmhmm," Paul hummed around his fag. "Can you go today?"

"I don't think I'll be able to get a flight..."

"Get the train then," Paul said blithely.

"Okay, sure," Alistair agreed, sounding tired again.

Paul found the telephone number for Lisemore next. Beatrix was staying there two nights on her way back from Wales. It was only for emergencies, she'd said as she wrote the number down in his diary.

What counted as an emergency? For all of ten seconds that morning (late afternoon) Paul thought he was going to die and he wanted to hear her voice. She'd be happy to hear his voice too, and happy to hear about Scotland.

Everest, the old butler who'd been alright to Paul on Boxing Day answered on the fifth ring. Paul decided not to bother with any kind of subterfuge.

"Hey, man. It's Paul. Is Beatrix about?"

"Paul whom, sir?"

"Y'know," Paul hesitated, feeling daft. "Paul McCartney."

There was a long pause.

"Her ladyship is currently out riding with her brother," Everest said.

"Can you have her ring me back?" Paul said, lighting another fag.

"I'll do my best, sir, but it's a bit tense at the moment. Her ladyship may not think it wise to telephone you."

"A bit tense?" Paul frowned. "Is her mum giving her a hard time?"

"The dowager countess is displeased over a certain revelation, sir," Everest said. "If you take my meaning."

"I don't take your meaning, Everest. Be a bit less delicate for me, mate."

"The dowager countess has become aware of your relationship with her ladyship, sir. She is not pleased."

"Oh, fuck," Paul scrubbed his hand over his face. "Have Beatrix ring me back, yeah?"