Real Life or Fantasy? - 'Bohemian Rhapsody', Roger Taylor

Life on the Farm

Rockfield Farm, 1975

"Recording studio?" cried Roger, his boots squelching in the mud as they stepped out of the car.

"The idea was to get away from all distractions," explained Paul, retrieving their luggage from the trunk of the car.

"And go to the edges of civilization? This place looks like it will fall over if you shut a door too hard."

"No rough sex then," resolved Freddie with a smirk. No one was quite sure who that remark was directed at.

"Come on, I'll show you inside. Freddie, I've got your suitcase." Paul gestured for them to follow him.

As they headed inside, Roger reached out towards a chicken who was walking along the fence, jumping back when it turned towards him. Mal laughed as he ran to catch up to them.

Ignoring Roger's complaints, Paul showed them inside and directed everyone to their rooms. "Now I know it's not the Ritz, not even close, but here we are. Lots of great albums have been recorded here! All right-" They reached the top of the stairs. "-Freddie, you're here, biggest room. Roger you're there, next door."

"All right."

"Brian you're across the hall here, and Mallory, right next to your brother."

"Of course." Mal went inside, tossing her suitcase onto the bed.

"And you're downstairs, John."

"Could've told me that before I walked upstairs," John sighed, hauling his luggage back downstairs.

Mal went over to the window of her room and looked out over the farm. She had a perfect view of the chickens.

She jumped onto her bed, collapsing onto her back staring up at the wooden ceiling. The bed-frame screamed and groaned in protest - it was an extremely creaky bed.

Feeling like she might change, then go for a walk and explore, she got up to shut the door.

"Mal." She looked across the hall to see Roger's door open a crack, his head of blond hair just peeking out. He made a face, making her laugh, before both slipped into their rooms.

----------------------------

That night, Mal opened her door a crack - wincing as it creaked - and tip-toed across the hall to a certain blond's room.

"Rog?" she whispered and softly tapped on the door. "May I come in?"

Roger sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes. "Yeah, come on in."

"Oh sorry, did I wake you?"

"No, no, Love, that's fine."

"My room's bloody freezing!" she cried, stepping inside and shutting the door. "I don't think the window shuts all the way. Shove over." She moved back the blankets and climbed in next to him, instantly warmer. "Also, I barely breathe and the bed creaks, and it's driving me mad."

"Not too much better here, I'm afraid," Rog said, bouncing up and down a little, making the bed creak.

"I can't believe we're really here, really doing this," she whispered up at the dark ceiling after a moment of comfortable silence between them.

"What? Sharing a bed? It's happened before, if you've forgotten." Even in the dark, she could sense him smirking.

"No, silly!" He laughed when she smacked his arm. "I mean here, in a band, working on an album. An album! With a manager, and a record label! And a lawyer for God's sake! It's brilliant!"