Carnival of Light || Paul McCartney/Beatles

08. High Park Farm, Kintyre 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿

Carnival of Light (Part 2)

08.

It only took about twenty minutes from the moment my family arrived at Poppy's wedding for them to find out about Paul and I. The gossip had spread from the London crowd to the debutantes and the "posh cunts" to their mothers and aunties, and then it spread to Mamma via one gossipy lady of leisure who cornered us beside a table of Pimm's.

"You look positively radiant, Beatrix! And such fascinating news about you and Paul McCartney. Can we expect to see an engagement in the Times soon?"

My mother turned to stare at me, her mouth puckering — her tell that she was furious with me — her eyes going so cold I thought she might turn me to a block of ice just looking at me.

The wedding reception wound down and I travelled back to Lisemore as planned, though I probably should have run for the Welsh hills. Once we were home Mamma gave me an uncharacteristically verbose dressing down. It was as if she was letting out twenty-four years worth of frustration with me too.

"What in heaven's name do you think you're doing, you stupid girl!!"

"Have you thought about how this reflects on the rest of us? What it means for us? The whole wedding was talking about it!"

"My God! Paul McCartney? One of the Beatles? Have you taken leave of your senses completely!"

"Taking up with a pop star who can't keep his picture out of the paper! You must be mad!"

"For God's sake, Beatrix, how could you do this to yourself!"

The only reprieve was Barney's attempt at being a supportive older brother. He had an unfortunate habit of thinking of me as a delicate flower in need of looking after, which was why he was so keen on Matthew, whom he trusted to take care of me. I got the impression Barney was less sure Paul could be trusted to do the same. He hardly looked comfortable as he told me Paul seemed a "capital chap" and suggested we "get McCartney out for a shoot sometime" so they could get to know each other.

I caught the train back to London Tuesday morning as planned, dying to see Paul after only five days away from him, and randier than I could ever remember being in my life.

When I stepped through the front door at Cavendish Martha came bounding down the hallway, delighted to see me. Mrs Mills followed, wiping her hands on a tea towel.

"Oh, thank Christ," she sighed in relief when she saw me. "You're back."

I laughed as I set my case down and said hello to Martha. "Is Paul about?"

"He's in the back garden," Mrs Mills glanced down the hall uncertainly. "He's, er, in a bit of an odd way."

"An odd way?" I frowned.

"I can't think of how else to put it, duckie,"  Mrs Mills winced. "You best go see to him yourself."

Martha followed me through to the sitting room, where the french doors were standing open, letting in a lovely breeze. Paul was sitting on the steps leading down to the garden, smoking a cigarette with his back to me.  He was wearing a brown paisley shirt tucked into mint green trousers, his black hair shiny in the garden's dappled sunlight, shifting on a breeze.

"Well, that was a complete nightmare," I sighed, trotting down the steps to sit beside him.

I'd expected a smirk and to be pulled into Paul's arms for a kiss hello, perhaps with the promise of something naughty before we raced off to bed.

Instead Paul turned to look at me like he was surprised to see me there. He blinked hard.

"Oh," he said, dazed. "Hey, love."