The Life We Once Knew

What Happened to Paul McCartney?

After the party, I did everything I could to avoid Jane and I was sure she was doing the same thing. I would check out the peephole in the door before stepping out, I would always ask Paul if Jane was with him before we got together, and I would purposefully stay out of the house for as long as possible. It's horribly difficult to avoid someone when they live down the hall from you.

I needed a distraction. After the party, I was more invested in music than I ever had been before. Nobody could get through to me, not even Tabitha. Only Linda ever got me to listen, and that was rare. She knew to leave me alone and let me work through my problems with the drum. It was a lot easier to beat your troubles out on a drum than to talk to people. Sometimes, you had to do both.

To this day, I say Linda Eastman is a blessing. She got me through so much, from the death of a love to the growth of another, I'm sure I would be dead without her. She was smart, kind, loving, and loyal. Without The Lovely Linda, I wouldn't be here. She's a saint and I still swear by that.

After a long afternoon show at The Sycamore Club, I was eager to get home. I wanted to get Vera from the babysitter and spend the day watching movies with her. Linda and Heather were supposed to come over later, maybe even staying the night. They had been spending more time over at my flat the past few months.

When I rounded the corner to my building, I was met with a choir of shouts. A mob of reporters was eagerly waiting at the door to the building. They could easily be waiting for Paul, but I knew they were waiting for me. If they wanted Paul, they'd go to EMI as everybody knew he was recording. The only person who would be at home right about now was me. As soon as they saw me, they began to scream, "Amelia! Amelia, over here!"

Within seconds, I was surrounded. Tape recorders, cameras, and notepads were shoved in my face. I gripped my drumsticks to my chest and did my best to hide my fear behind a mask of suavity. Reporters were a lot like rabid bloodhounds, as soon as they caught the scent of a story, they would do anything to get at it, including tear the person apart. You had to act completely calm as if there were no story to tell. I was faced with a pack of bloodthirsty people all waiting to get a nip at me, even though they never touched me.

"Amelia, how is your brother, Beatle Paul McCartney?" one reporter asked.

I lifted an eyebrow, "Er-fine, why wouldn't he be?"

"There is a rumor that he died in a crash late last year," the reporter continued, "They say The Beatles replaced him with a look-a-like."

All of the reporters waited for an answer, but I couldn't find the words. This was the first I was hearing of such a thing, and it was ridiculous. My brain was at a loss for words at such a dumb idea.

There was and always would be only one Paul McCartney. He was irreplaceable, and John, George, Ringo, and I knew that better than anybody. Nobody could be Paul exactly like Paul could be. They couldn't write like him, they couldn't laugh like him, and they couldn't cross their arms and shift their weight to one foot when they were annoyed with me like he could. Nobody could master his puppy dog eyes or his scoff. Nobody could master Paul except for Paul, the fact that these reporters were claiming he was replaced was ridiculous.

"Who said?" I asked.

"The fans," another reporter answered, "They say The Beatles left clues in their last four albums."

"It is also said that it was an inside job and you were aware of it. You made this evident when, back in 1964, you wore socks on the stage without any shoes," another reporter added.

The fact that they remembered that was ridiculous. During one show, I had lost my shoes and Ellen said I could just play in socks, nobody was paying attention. Not only were they paying attention, but they were constructing theories so mad, it seemed like they were on drugs when they made them. Giving the timing, they very well may have been.

I stared at them, "If it is, they got one bloody good actor. He has to be to fool me."

"Are you saying it is true?"

"Of course not, it's a load of rubbish," I chuckled, "The stupidest thing I've ever heard."

"So, you're saying that your brother, Paul McCartney, is, in fact, alive and well?"

I nodded, "That's exactly what I'm saying. Paul was a bit roughed up in that accident, but he's alright now. It's just a rumor."

The reporters all began to ask more questions. I shook my head and pushed through the crowd. I had enough to deal with besides pushy reporters. When I made it to the door, I saluted and escaped into my building.

Interviews weren't terrible, so long as it was one on one. When a mob of reporters had the opportunity to have a go at you, nothing would be left behind. You'd be picked down to the bone just like you had a row with a bunch of vultures. It's especially bad when they're waiting for you outside of your home.

I made it to the door of my flat without meeting any more reporters. Even reporters had limits; they would wait at the steps of my building like flies, but they drew the line when it came to going inside my private home. It was nice to know the dogs had a shred of decency. Sighing in relief, I opened the door. When I made it inside I saw the babysitter was gone and in her place was-

"Paul?"

He sat on the living room couch with his head in his hands. Instantly, I knew something was wrong. His shirt was wrinkled like Da's face in the morning, something which Paul would never allow to happen. His hair looked like he couldn't stop running his fingers through it and he had a glass of liquor in front of him. Whenever he met my eyes, I saw the broken man underneath.

"The babysitter let me in," he slurred, "Vera's asleep."

I cocked my head, "What's wrong?"

"Jane broke up with me."

For a moment, I stared at him. He looked on the verge of tears, but he held them in. He was the sort of lad who wouldn't cry unless someone gave him permission. I sat next to him and wrapped my arms around him, giving him all the permission he didn't really need. He gripped my shirt and shuddered, allowing a few tears to escape his eyes.

"Why?" I asked.

"She said," he sniffled, "She said she can't love me when she loves someone else-someone she sees every time she's with me."

I fell silent. Paul grimaced, "I bet it's John, the wanker. He's always been a flirt."

I said nothing. In that moment of sadness, I felt a little glimmer of hope followed by a wave of guilt. I told myself it was one of the lads, though a tiny voice at the very pit of my stomach hoped otherwise. I swallowed my pain and hugged my brother tighter, "Paulie, I'm so sorry."

For a few minutes, he didn't reply. Sobs threatened to escape his body, I could feel it in the way his muscles trembled, but he held them in. Squeezing him tighter, I muttered, "It's alright to cry, I won't think any less of you."

"I know you won't," he mumbled before he burst into tears.

To this day, I know Paul loved Jane with all his heart and vice versa. The two of them were so in love, it was gag-worthy. They loved each other then and they love each other now, but they have learned. They learned the love they had was different. On that day, two people once in love embarked on a journey to find themselves and their true soulmates. A moment of heartache can lead to a lifetime of happiness, Paul would see, if he could only get through the pain.

"She kicked me out," Paul said once he calmed down slightly, "Can I-?

"You don't have to ask, the guest room is yours," I replied.

"Thanks, Lia."

"Anytime, big brother," I smiled, "Now, how about another drink?"

"I would love to get piss drunk right now."

(Photo- Paul and Martha, 1967. Taken by Amelia McCartney.)