The Arch of Love ~ Paul McCartney

18. The sign of the times

Liverpool, 8 May '67, approx. 2:25 PM

Just like I had imagined, this weekend was exactly what I had needed. A weekend spent with my family, eating supper made by Ma, playing chess with Pa in the afternoon spending time with Trudie and her bright sunflower of a bubba. I even managed to nip over to Marty's and spent an afternoon with him and his wife. She was pregnant and very ready to welcome her first child.

It was a perfect weekend. Without anything that reminded me of this certain rock 'n roll bandmember I was desperately trying to avoid. Well, there was one thing; the photograph of me and Paul, hung on my bedroom wall. For the life of me I couldn't make myself take the photograph down, even though I knew I probably should. I couldn't even stop myself from looking at it.

It had been taken over five years ago by one of Paul's friends, one of the very few I had actually met. Two young, bright and happy faces smiled at you from the picture. The boy had his arm around the girl's shoulders, pulling her close. There was a visible connection between them that seemed closer than just a friendship. There was something else.

Both of us had changed since, but it was still very clear who was who. Even back then I knew it had been a bold move to hang the photograph up as no one was supposed to know yet. Everyone that took a good look at my bedroom, must've noticed it right there, in the middle of more photographs. Five years ago, when I was packing up my things to move to London, I couldn't make myself take the picture down, just like I couldn't do it now. So the picture stayed right there, prominent on the wall, reminding me of who I was fleeing to London from.

I had agreed with Angela to pick her stepson up at around half two, as it was a four-hour drive back to London. I didn't want to drive in the dark and no way that I was letting this bloke drive my car. So after a heavy goodbye to Ma, with the promise of more visits, I made my way over to Angela's.

When she had given me her address, I had been surprised to find out that she lived in a really posh neighbourhood, but when I parked outside the house, I was gobsmacked. She must be really well off! This house was massive and had a gated garden! Sure, the gate was open and I could walk up to the front door without any problem, but still. It was gigantic! Who did she marry?

I rang the doorbell and waited patiently for someone to open up. It didn't take long for Angela to open the door, a smile on her face. 'Ah, Archie, there you are. He's just packing up and should be out in a minute. Thank you again so much for doing this. The foolish boy wanted to take a taxi all the way to London. Can you imagine?' A waterfall of words came over me as she opened the door.

I shook my head and was about to open my mouth to say something, but she continued, not giving me the chance to even respond. 'Do you want something to drink before you leave? You should come inside,' she said and she moved aside, wanting to usher me into the house.

'Oh no, thank you ma'am,' I declined, standing my ground. 'I think we really should get going. It's a long drive. Is your stepson ready?' He surely was taking his time.

'Let me call him again, excuse me,' she smiled and walked deeper into the hallway, by herself. She called something up the stairs, which I couldn't quite make out. She must've called him.

From the door to her left, another person appeared, an older man that seemed very familiar. Too familiar. I must've seen him around the towns before. His face lit up when he noticed me. 'Archie Murray, right?' he exclaimed and he walked closer.

Oh no, I recognised him now. This was Paul's father. Why was he here? Please don't tell me he was married to Angela? Because if he was, was Paul the stepson I was supposed to bring back to London? Who did this to me? Were the stars aligning to make Archie's life as miserable as possible.