"You mean, like supernatural interventions and God 'n all that?" A breathless whisper.
"Like a trip through time" replied the pair, at the same time.
"You can't be serious" John laughed, too loud, the sound startled a nearby family of magpies in a...
Friday the 9th of October 1964 in Gaumont, Bradford
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John Lennon was celebrating his 24th birthday in a premiered country club, with the very first night of the U.K. tour wrapped up and put to bed. Well almost. After the crowd had screamed rounds of "Happy Birthday", or rather to John, a cacophony of ambiguous northern chorus encored with several hysterical catcalls from over-excited lasses.
He didn't mind it all really, just the aspect of constant media attention, and the perilous task of having to watch himself every time one of the patriarch twats interviewed with special superciliousness. He had heard the paper's talk about his anger as "dry witted humor". John was just used to talking down Mimi's obnoxious lodgers, perhaps, he thought, it was the bleak outlook he had retained more so of life, since Julia's passing. The world becomes grey and every voice of repression becomes stupid. Disappointing. He squinted out of the second story window, a look of trepidation settling into the planes of his expression.
West Yorkshire was a familiar setting, although free from the omnipresent tendrils of smoke that clung to the docks of Liverpool. You could breathe easier. Holdsworth had half an acre of lush grassland surrounding the pathway to the club's back entrance, many large shingle deposits formed subtle slopes to bursting, effervescent flower displays of tiger lilies, sunflowers, wild rose bushes and keened wild flowers. A pompous selection of conifer brushes and high reaching trees aligned the perimeter, shaped by the steady hand of a trained gardener, the presentation was overzealous. Not that john was complaining, the animals here evidently enjoyed the vitality of such diverse nature. Overall it felt tenuously romantic, as if the scene had been painted by Rossetti himself.
Suddenly he wished to stay. Nostalgia for the pieces of freedom he once had, a Picnic with Cynthia, or the many times he had loved her under the boardwalks of the beach, the smell of saltwater laced with the soft, floral scent of her ivory skin. He wished for his love to revert back to prior bliss, willed his youthful passion for Cyn into existence. But nothing except a diluted echo, a mere tugging of the heart in grievance remains. A fleeting thought of a song lyric passed before a new topic preeminently distracted him. John blinked, stirring from his reverie.
"Johnny, Bob Dylan is getten' a bash on in the area"... Paul's brow raised alluringly as he coaxed John into their conversation. Paul had gotten changed out of the showman suits, and currently wore a pair of green velvet trousers and a tan turtleneck. The hard-shelled patient leather boots protruded from under the bar, to nudge at John's still beatle garbed exterior.
"Eppy won't allow it ya soft boy, 'suppose there's enough booze in our posh house anyway". They all knew Brian's rules when it came to tour nights, suffering the hangover when performing was restitution enough, did he really have to book a surplus of interviews as punishment too? But John knew how Paul felt, the edges of his lips pulled down in rebellion of his own reply. Ringo and George looked around dejectedly limbs slumped, excavated at the mere thought of staying in this empty watercoloured lounge whilst Bob Dylan brought the party. John slowly stood up, knowing that resisting Macca was futile.
"We can set a curfew y'know, be back in before he finishes setting up the next venue" Paul turned to George conspiratorially. They exchanged a grin and headed round the bar door to grab a few cases of gin, akin to naughty school boys.
"Think of it as a birthday treat, John" Ringo placed a warm hand on his shoulder and John couldn't help but smile at Ringo's centure relief. relief that shouldn't matter. John needed this damn piss up more than any of them. He grabbed his coat, winking at the drumer in reply.
"Ay up! Gis us a cig then Georgie" John chuckled knowing that an escape with his mates for a few hours is what he needed, and perhaps then he wouldn't spend his birthday thinking of just how fucking lonely he was inside.
