Go To Him (A Beatles Fan Fiction)

Chapter Thirty-Five - Little Child

27th January, 1962

Dear Diary,

I am exhausted. Not even a week has passed since when I last wrote, yet it could well have been a year as far as I'm concerned, what with the bilious game of backlash in which I was suddenly a reluctant partaker. That's the hardest part done now, at least. Telling people, I mean. How about I stop blathering now and just tell you about it?

Don't get me wrong, Ringo's words of reassurance had consoled me immeasurably, yet as happy as I was, I still felt a certain dread about revealing my little secret to Paul. I could feel the bile rise uneasily in the back of my throat every morning before work, when I awaited his call. The cold sensation of the outer complex's hard concrete steps against my bottom usually wouldn't bother me too much, but I reminded myself that it wasn't just me anymore, so I made myself stand up before I caught a cold. I wrapped myself up toastily from head to toe in snug headscarves and thickly-lined dresscoats (which were great to hide the slightest bit of flab I was developing that would soon give me away in plain sight), yet I still found myself sniffling and red-nosed.

'How am I going to rear a child when I am hardly capable of looking after myself?' I thought melancholically as I stood my morning vigil by the bottle-green telephone box, ' if only Paul had spent less time setting fire to condoms and more time wearing them ... '

Almost as if in immediate reply to that thought, the shrill, penetrating toll from the telephone box set my heart to wild, plunging convulsions. It was him, it had to be him.

I lifted the phone from its perch on the graffiti-infested wall, but when I put my lips to the mouthpiece and willed myself to speak, it was as if my vocal cords had been ground and crushed into eternal dysfunction. Luckily for me, there was no need for me to speak, because a wonderfully familiar voice trickled fondly from the other end, thick as honey.

"Morning, beautiful," he said groggily, as if he had only just gotten up, "I got your letter, I was made up to hear from ya so soon. I -"

"Paul," I croaked hoarsely, finding my voice no quicker than I'd lost it, "there's something I need to tell you, an-"

"I know," he told me, blissfully unaware of the bombshell I was about to drop on him, "I miss you too, so much. It's cruel to be so far apart when we have only just worked it out, but I'll make it up to you. I even wrote a song, it goes like-"

"Paul!" I cried out almost too snappily before trying again, "there's something I need to tell you, something important, and I need you to listen, yeh?"

"Alright," he guffawed obliviously at the other end, "sounds serious."

"It is," I said earnestly, trying, though unsuccessfully, to gulp down all my fears and anxieties as I cleared my throat.

"I'm pregnant," I half-whimpered, half-whispered, as if it would shock him less if I said it as quietly as I could.

There were no questions, no hard denials, no sounds of incredulity. What did happen was much worse than that: silence, and then a dull unbroken tone piercing sonorously in my vacuum of newfound dismay. My heart sank. I was hoping he'd take it better than that, especially after all Ringo had said. I could see my face pulled into a tight frown through the grubby slivers of glass untouched by graffiti. It was more than I could bear to look at, so I wrestled the stubborn door open and hugged myself as I trudged miserably away.

"Sorry," I murmured contritely to my tummy, "I did try."

'Maybe you'd be better off if George were your father,' I continued internally, not daring to say such a selfish, careless thing aloud, 'George would be happy about you. He'd love you, and me too ... '