Carnival of Light || Paul McCartney/Beatles

30. Où Est Ta Femme

Carnival of Light (Part 2)

29.

June 1968

Paul decided that sessions for the new Beatles LP were best put on hold for the time being, or at least until George and Ringo returned from America. This wasn't a unanimous decision or one he discussed with John. He simply flew back to Scotland with me the day after recording Blackbird without telling anyone or giving them a way to contact him.

We celebrated his twenty-sixth birthday at the village pub, where Paul tried to convince the locals that he was normal. He chatted to them about the work he'd done on the farmhouse and asked them about their sheep and dressed the part of an unpretentious farmer — wellies and jeans and an old henley tee shirt under an olive coloured Barbour he found in a charity shop for a shilling.

We had a telephone installed during this stint at High Park but only Mrs Fitz had the number for it down in London. She had strict instructions to only hand it out to other Beatles, Mal, or Poppy, so it was quite the surprise when the first call we received was from someone else entirely.

"Hello?" I answered, apprehensive because I was dreading this being the call that dragged Paul back to London.

"Allo," a man with a heavy French accent replied tartly. "May I speak to Beatrix McCartney please?"

I hesitated before saying, "C'est moi."

He switched to French too. "It has been very hard to reach you, Madame. I have been trying for nearly two weeks."

"And what are you phoning about?" I asked.

"I represent your aunt, the Contessa di Boschetta-Gregorini," he said. "I am afraid I have sad news, Madame."

Paul looked up from tuning his guitar at the kitchen table. He raised an eyebrow at all the French speaking, but I turned away to concentrate on what I was being told.

"What's that about?" Paul asked once I placed the telephone back in its cradle on the wall.

I left my hand on the phone for a moment, then turned to look at him. He hadn't shaved in a few days and his shirt had a tear where the collar was coming away, but he looked rested and relaxed. Scotland suited him.

"My aunt died," I said.

"Shit," Paul's brows drew together. "The one with the palace in Milan?"

"A villa is a house, not a palace," I said woodenly. "But yes, my Aunt Cecilia. She was only about fifty, that's not very old at all."

Paul set his guitar aside and came to stand next to me, leaning against the kitchen counter and watching me think.

"You alright?" He asked gently.

"I suppose," I sighed. "I haven't seen her since I was a little girl."

"Still," Paul shrugged. "People dying is never very groovy."

"It's not, is it," I agreed. "The funeral is in three days. I should probably go."

"They're asking you to go?" Paul looked surprised, which was understandable as I was not currently on speaking terms with my family.

"They aren't," I explained. "She and my mother won't have spoken in years. That was Aunt Cecelia's lawyer. She made me her heir."

"Her heir?" Paul's eyebrows shot up. "Christ. How much does that make you worth now?"

"I doubt there's much," I couldnt help grinning. "Italian contessas are notoriously bad with money."

"Thank god for that," Paul sighed in relief. "Alright. I'll phone Neil to sort us out flights and a hotel."