The World Spinning Round (Beatles/Paul McCartney)

13. Here We Go, Malcolm

August 1968
Paul

A few days later, John and Yoko moved in.

They'd gotten bored of Weybridge and decamped to Ringo's flat in Montagu Square. But then there was a catastrophic leak that would take several weeks to fully repair. And it was only sensible to crash with me because I lived closest to the studio.

Sure, great, I told them. Mi casa es tu casa.

John had practically lived at Cavendish while we recorded Pepper, so I was used to him knocking around the place. But I wasn't accustomed to being greeted by both John and Yoko each morning, both of them awake and surprisingly cheerful.

And it was always them, plural. Did one wake up, then awaken the other? Or if they were just so goddamn attuned to each other that their circadian rhythms had merged? Was there not a morning when one fancied a lie-in, but the other was hungry for breakfast, so they had to separate for an hour?

So many questions.

That particular morning, they were seated at the long oak dining table beneath the enormous clock on the wall. John was hunched over a bowl of cornflakes in his dressing gown, reading the Daily Mail. Yoko sipped a cup of green tea at the other end of the table, looking mildly queasy. She was several months pregnant and still had trouble holding down solid food until the late afternoon.

Still half-asleep and bleary-eyed, I threw myself into the nearest chair and winced as the lower half of my back spasmed. It had been three weeks since I'd thrown it out at the Vesuvio, and it was only marginally better.

"Morning', Macca," John drawled, peering at me over the rim of his specs. He overpronounced my name so that it came out like MACK-a in a slightly Scottish-sounding way.

"Morning," I mumbled as I extended an arm toward the ceiling and shifted my waist in the opposite direction in an attempt to stretch the muscle.

"Are you feeling alright, Paul?" Yoko asked solicitously as I squirmed awkwardly, trying to relieve the pain.

"It's just me back," I replied gruffly. "It's been a bit wonky ever since Martha jumped up on me a few weeks ago."

John made a scoffing sound, pushing his specs higher onto his nose. He'd been a mardy bastard for the past week, ever since Cynthia had countersued him for divorce on the grounds of adultery. George had made the mistake of delicately pointing out that he had, in fact, been adulterous. We'd all looked at Yoko... since she was in the family way... and... well... then all hell had broken loose.

I raised my eyes defiantly to meet John's. "Martha nearly knocked me over, don't you remember? It was on Primrose Hill. Because the bird startled her."

We stared at each other across the table, a silent conversation ping-ponging back and forth between us.

He smirked. I think you'll find that your back is fucked because you fucked someone on the floor of a cloakroom.

I tilted my head. It was a closet, and I've no idea what you're referring to.

He tilted his head to mirror the precise angle at which mine rested in the air. You're lucky it didn't end up in the papers, you twat. Everyone knows that if you're going to shag on the floor, you don't want to be on the bottom.

I raised an eyebrow. Still have no idea what you're on about.

Yoko cleared her throat as if she was uncomfortable with the intense eye contact that was happening. I wiggled my arse a bit, trying to find a more comfortable position in the chair, and made a mental note to ask Mrs. Andrews to affix plush cushions to each one.