The World Spinning Round (Beatles/Paul McCartney)

28. Seven Days (Part One)

November 1969
Paul

Day 1.

Tin cans and strings, tin cans and strings, tin cans and strings.

That's what George always said whenever anyone asked how the gate birds knew where we'd be. It's all I could think of as I navigated the Land Rover onto Cavendish Avenue and saw the heaving mass of people in front of our gates. At least 50 girls of all ages milled about holding LPs and autograph books, along with a dozen reporters ready to confirm that I was, indeed, alive.

"They always know," Alice said, bewildered. "Did someone in Liverpool tip them off, do you think?"

"Cousin Andy must've needed a few quid," I joked as I ran a hand through my hair. Except it was genuinely irritating that so many bloody people were at my house, clearly expecting our arrival. Especially since the reason we'd done the long, miserable drive from Scotland was to avoid the circus at the airport.

One of the girls spotted the Land Rover and began to point excitedly. Another next to her began to scream and the pressmen raised their cameras. Another girl shrieked, and then another, and I felt vaguely nauseous as I remembered something that Ringo once said about us being zoo animals on display.

Alice shifted nervously in the seat next to me and then glanced to the back seat where both Louise and Martha were having a kip. She glanced at me, and then reached over to squeeze just above my knee.

"You okay?"

I glanced over at her briefly. "Yeah, I mean... it's not like we can do a runner at this point. They've seen us. We're committed."

She pushed her fringe off her face and shifted again, running a hand over the hem of her short yellow-and-black houndstooth skirt. She'd gone to the shops in Liverpool to buy a new outfit and had taken more care than usual getting dressed that morning, so perhaps she'd also been nervous about being on display. You'd think we'd be used to it, but something about the isolation of Scotland and turned that part of my brain off. I hadn't even realized it until we were back in the madness.

"The fucking daft part," I continued as I took my foot off the pedal so we'd have a few more seconds to ourselves. "Is that they're going to think it's not really me anyway. 'Cause I'm dead. I've been bamboozling you since '66, baby."

"Maybe you have been," she countered as I steered the car turned toward the gate and wondered why we hadn't asked Mal to be there to open it. Or we could've had him install the electronic thing that would automatically open it. Surely someone could have foreseen that the McCartneys arriving home would be like the second coming of Christ?

"Maybe you've been brainwashed and you don't even know it," she replied teasingly, obviously trying to lighten the heaviness that suddenly permeated the car. "Your real name is Peter Periwinkle and you only think you're Paul McCartney."

"I bloody wish I was Peter Periwinkle most days, though," I muttered, putting the car in neutral and pulling up the parking brake just outside the gate.

I froze, knowing that the hordes would descend. Alice leaned toward me and reached out to put a hand on my wrist. Our eyes met and I sighed. The previous night I'd thought that maybe she was right, it was time to go home, but something about this felt all wrong. I was like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon with a damaged wing and antennae that were no longer useful.

IloveyousomuchPaaaaaaaul. Alice, is that a new haircut?  Mr. McCartney, any comment on the rumors? Mrs. McCartney, is that a new haircut? Paaaaaauuuuulllllllllll.

We held eye contact for another few seconds before we both looked away at the girls surrounding the car. My mouth twisted into a sardonic yet cheerful Beatles smile and Alice lowered her gaze a bit, assuming a pleasantly neutral expression. The screams of the girls blended together, reminding me of the sheep bleating at the farm. There was a pang of claustrophobia, which I hadn't felt in years.