A Most Curious Place - Chapter Two (Rated R)
Author: Lennonsmuse
Title: A Most Curious Place - Chapter Two
Subject: A wee bit of Beatle-bonding with some family angst tossed in for good measure.
Chapter Two: Mimi Madness
“I simply don’t understand why you have to speak like some ruffian during your interviews, John. Especially to those Americans. It makes it seem as though I’ve taught you absolutely nothing! It’s a poor reflection upon me…not to mention the rest of our entire family!” his aunt complains as she carefully places slices of pot roast upon their plates.
John is concerned about his Aunt Mimi’s feelings. Truly he is. She's a serious and devoted woman. Family and the outward image of such mean a lot to her…and for the most part, John is the child she’d never had, but had chosen to dedicate a part of her life to rearing.
He would always love and appreciate her for that.
But at present, the delectable meat being dished upon the plate before him weighs more heavily as a concern.
Four weeks away from home and all they’d gotten was crappy lukewarm room service sandwiches and what looked like hastily tossed together finger food after press conferences. The best of what they’d been served had been in Miami after the last Sullivan appearance, and even that was only because Brian had finally managed to score reservations in the most elegant restaurant along the beachfront.
And nothing was like his auntie’s home-cooked meals. No matter how much he’d liked traveling to America, John was famished the whole time.
Mainly for the flavour of just being home again.
“Do you realize how dreadfully long it's been since I’ve tasted your roast, Mims?” John practically drools while feasting his fuzzy nearsighted gaze upon the plate of delectable-smelling food being served to him. “Mmmm…..” he coos with a wide grin before digging in with his fork, looking up at her through delightfully squinted eyes as soon as his mouth is inappropriately full, “Deelishjuss…”
Mimi Smith glares disapprovingly to the doe-eyed boy seated across the dining table from her nephew. “You and your lot have completely ruined him, you know.”
Paul’s head snaps up and he gazes innocently at the middle-aged woman whose food he had been all but set to devour until her chastisement reaches his ears. “Beg pardon?” He begins to shake his head in genuine denial. “Oh, no, Auntie. Quite the contrary. If anything, it’s I who’ve tried hardest to encourage those values in John that you first instilled.”
“Well, in that case you’d do better to encourage him getting a haircut…” Mimi continues to scold “…and while you’re at it, you could do with one yourself, you know.”
“But I’ve only just had one yesterday.” Paul grins proudly.
“Liar!” John coughs into his napkin as he pretends to choke on juice from the pot roast he’s been chomping greedily. His almond-shaped amber eyes begin to tear as he glares over the table top to his mate. “Doomed to the fiery pits for a transgression like that you are, boy.”
“Ah, sherrup, you right wanker…”
“That’s left wanker to you, son.”
“And I absolutely cannot fathom why it is that whenever the two of you are together in this house you still behave like a couple of school boys!” Mimi interjects curtly to the both of them, shaking her head in amazement. “I don’t care how many appearances you make on the telly or how many lovesick girls scream their heads off over you, I’ll have no more of it during supper, you hear? This is meant to be a civilized meal for your homecoming…" she cuts her eyes at John "...and it began to go to the wayside the moment you set about attacking your plate before we’ve even said a proper prayer.”
“But I prayed it’d all go down when I swallowed before properly chewin’ it up, Mimsie.” John implores, batting his eyes at her. “Is that not proper prayer enough?”
“Don't be cheeky with me, John Winston.” she mutters, dark eyes narrowing at her nephew. “What have those Americans done? Corrupted you entirely?”
“She’s right.” Paul deviously agrees with a little nod and wink at his friend. “They really have, you know.”
“And I’ll hear nothing more of it from you either, James Paul McCartney. Behave lest I tell your father of you. Now bow your head, please.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Paul shoots a slight scowl at John before closing his eyes and lowering his head obediently.
“And you lead the prayer, John.” Mimi insists, bowing her own head, eyes closing.
Surely she knows better than make such a request, Paul thinkst…his cherubic face twisting into a slightly comical grimace as he anticipates the worst from John's "prayer". He sneakily opens one eye to peer at his best friend across the table top and sees the smirk resting upon John's lips.
“Stop gawking at me, Bas'tid.” John whispers from one side of his crooked mouth before bowing his own head, eyes clenched tight. “Dear Lord, bless this food we are fixin’ t'grub upon tonight…and even the hot ole oven from which it cometh. Bless the chocolate biscuits I fully intend to talk Mimi into once we’ve devoured the pot roast and potatoes....and last but not least, bless our ever Heavenly Miss Julia Child for providin’ the recipes. Amen.”
Mimi opens her eyes and snaps out, “And I’ll have you to know that these recipe came from your grandmother Ann. Miss Child had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with any of it. Amen.”
“Amen.” Paul echoes, biting into his bottom lip to hold back a chuckle. “Thank you for the kind invitation this evening, Aunt Mimi.”
“You are very welcome, Paul.”
“Now….’nuff with the prayers and niceties and rot, and pass the bloomin' potatoes, please! I can’t wait any longer.” John growls greedily, accepting the steaming bowl as Paul passes it his way. “You know, Mimi…there’s lots we've yet to tell you ‘bout the trip overseas. How fabulous everything was in America and all that. Next time you should come with.”
“No, thank you.” Mimi retorts, not unkindly, but with her regular stern adamancy. “I’ve not lost a thing in America that I have need to collect, John. I’d much rather remain in places where I’m wanted.”
“Well, we weren’t not wanted there, Mims…” John comes back with a chuckle. “You could've seen that for yourself if you’d bothered switching on telly even once. Didn't you miss me at all? Enough to watch the arrival there, at least? Pure madness that.”
“Oh, yeah. Total lunacy.” Paul agrees, laughing a bit at the still fresh memory while digging a fork into his potatoes. “And that bit at the airport...what was that? Complete and utter madness!”
“Right, we weren’t really expectin’ all that lot, were we?” John agrees in turn with a light giggle of his own, shaking his head in renewed amazement as he recalls their reception in the States from two weeks prior. “We thought at most there'd be a few dozen or so. You know, some reporters and that, but there were kids over the entire bleedin' place. It was just as crazy as the scenes we get over ‘ere. It was virtually littered with ‘em…everywhere! All the way from the airport to the hotel. All over the streets, chasin' down our cars and everything. And then the Sullivan appearances…”
“Ah, yes. Very receptive those Americans, indeed…” Paul completes his friend’s thought “…’cept I doubt they heard us much, if at all.”
“Reckon that might've been a blessin' in disguise since poor Geo had such a rough time gettin' himself tuned up….” John laughs.
“I know. Poor lad never gets it quite right, does he?”
“It was better by Miami though…”
Paul gives a nod of agreement and chews his bite of roast. “Aye. Have to agree with you there. I think it was mostly nerves at first though. We all suffered a bit of that really...'specially in New York.”
“But even overrun with nerves, you could’ve tuned it for him in no time at all…and perfect pitch to boot….”
“Yeah, but he really needs to learn doin' it for himself, doesn’t he?”
“Aye that.” John agrees with a nod. “Love ole Georgie…gifted player and all, but has the tone-aptness of a bleedin' brick when it comes to tunin' up or hittin' the proper note…”
Mimi looks from one young man to the other…her beloved nephew and then his best friend. A tight scowl forms on her thin lips. “I have no clue what either of you is on about.”
“Ah, sorry, Mims.” John grins at her. “Just music talk is all. Macca and I start in with a bit of that then tend to get carried away.”
“Yeah. We do.” Paul chimes in with a subtle wink to the middle-aged woman who has been like a relative to him for the past several years. “Sort of forget that not everyone 'round us is a musician nor cares about that sort of thing, you know. Sorry, Auntie.” He looks across the table to his friend. “Maybe Mimi'd rather hear more about your experiences in the States then, John.”
“And much I'd rather not hear about them as well, I would assume.” she frowns suspiciously, quirking one brow upward.
This time it's Paul’s turn to nearly choke...and with no faking about it. His already large doe-eyes widen as he shoots a helpless look over the lily-basket centerpiece at John.
John flashes him a brief but knowing glance in return, then cocks his head sideways to smile innocently at Mimi, batting a pair of long straight eyelashes. “Now whatever could you mean by that, luv?”
Mimi huffs out indignantly, “And don’t you dare speak to me as if I’m one of your little Yankee tarts!”
“But, Mimsie…” John attempts a protest, trying his best earnest gaze on the older lady.
Undaunted by her nephew's expression of faux innocence, however, she persists. “And don’t you ‘but Mimsie’ me either, John! Whether you know it or not, I did see you boys on telly for a time over at Bernice's place! Saw the entire ridiculous way those American girls fell all about over you, screaming and carrying on like they’d never seen the likes of proper young Englishmen before…” Mimi frowns at him. “And carrying on like that for you most of all, a married man and father, no less! It was all very dreadfully silly. How do you suppose poor Cynthia must feel about that sort of thing?”
It's at this moment, the mention of that particular name, that John loses the endearing grin he'd been attempting at once, his nostrils flaring slightly as a swiftly narrow-eyed glare is leveled on his dear old aunt. “Who gives a right damn how Cyn feels? Mind you, she’s the one left me, remember? It was her decision to up and run off like that before we got a chance to make it to the States or even hear of it, or else she could’ve gone with and then everything would’ve been perfectly fine by her.”
’Why, oh why did Mimi have to say the ‘C-word of all things?’, Paul ponders to himself. Mentioning John’s recently estranged wife these days is about all it takes to make even the most pleasant of social events go wrong, and now his dear old auntie's gone and done it right off the cuff of the evening meal...and worse yet, before Paul's even gotten a good taste of his roast and potatoes.
Too bad. He’d been hoping for a peaceful time tonight and was pretty hungry as well, but it's become all too apparent to Paul now that it just isn't possible and the plesantries will soon be cut short.
He struggles briefly with a thought of changing the subject and exactly how to go about it; reckons he’d just as soon give it a go since, at this point, there's certainly nothing to lose by it. "This pot roast is absolutely lish, Auntie….and the potatoes are really….”
But Mimi isn't listening to Paul. She’s already opened her mouth to press the point about his best friend’s alleged mistreatment of his poor neglected soon-to-be ex-wife even further, despite John's obvious irritation at the subject. “Well, it was your decision to mess about with that horrible little tart of a neighbour of yours or Cynthia wouldn’t have been compelled to leave you in the first place. Believe you me, I've heard all about it, young man.”
“Oh, have you now? From who then?” John shoots back defensively, the hand suddenly fisting his fork dropping to the side of the plate, his eyes becoming slits of pending fury as he studies his aunt. “Ah, right! Some daft ole biddy acquaintance of yours lives down the way or such-one of those with no life of her own to go on about, so she makes a mission of eyeballin’ all the neighbours and conjuring up stories about ‘em! Is that it?”
“No, you disrespectful little Hellion! I spoke to Lillian Powell herself about the whole sordid mess.”
’Oh, Jesus Bleedin' Christ…’, Paul thinks, sighing and giving his eyes a slight upward roll before temporarily closing them as he chomps into another potato, yet all the while feeling his appetite beginning to wane.
First mention of the wife, and now the ever unmentionable Monster-in-Law! This isn't going to be pretty. Not one bit of it. Paul is already silently predicting the outcome and how much longer it'll be before John storms away from the table and out the front doors, stalking up the street in a blind rage as he rants and curses the ever-vigil neighbours for worrying about a resident mad Beatle being on the loose.
“So what the Hell you go talkin’ to her for?” John’s voice raises half a pitch as the fork is slammed from his clenched hand, making a resounding ‘clanking’ sound against his grandmother’s flawless old china plate. “She can’t so much as bloody stand me and never could! She can’t stand you either, and from what I recall the feelin’s mutual, so what you wanna go listen to her about all that shit for then?”
“You mind your mouth, John!” Mimi demands in a threateningly throaty tone as though the young man seated at her table is still the very same teenager living under her roof that he’d been years before.
“But I’ve no need to, have I, Mimi? Not when you’re here to mind it for me the way you try and do everything else that has absolutely nothing to do with you!" John bellows right back at her.
“Ah, come off it, John…” Paul finally intercedes in a calming tone, feeling that things aree soon to get out of hand if he doesn't “…I'm certain Auntie is just tryin' to help...”
“Oh, no, I'm not!” Mimi retaliates, red-faced, angrily sawing at the meat on her plate with a steak knife.
John’s brows quirk upward beneath his Beatle-fringe and he gestures toward her incredulously while glaring at Paul, “There! Ye see what I’m up against 'ere?”
“What I am trying to do, however, is get to the bottom of it all, and Lillian told me why Cynthia took Julian and left you!” Mimi scowls, halting the knifing of her food to glare disapprovingly at her nephew. “The poor girl was an absolute wreck about the whole ordeal. Lillian says she made herself completely ill, sobbing an entire two days about how she'd caught you at it red-handed this time. Apparently there’d been others, and I don’t even want to guess how many! You ought to be ashamed of yourself, John Lennon! Haven’t I raised you better than that? Your poor Uncle George would certainly be ashamed at the sort of man you've become...just like that loathsome father of yours!"
Paul draws a deep breath and it remains frozen in his lungs. Mimi's done quite enough damage already by harping on John, first about Cyn....then about Lillian...
But even worse now, comparing him to Alf?
There'll be no home-cooked meal tonight.
Defeated and not about to defend himself…mainly because he can't in all earnesty and already knows from experience that it will get him nowhere with his aunt if he even tries, John harshly pushes himself away from the table, rises quickly from his chair and grumbles, “Puttin' up with the Stanley women is likely why he drank as well...and now I need a fuckin' drink meself.”
He stalks out of the dining room for the front parlour, leaving Paul to stare dejectedly at the plate of food that's suddenly lost even the slightest appeal for him.
“Don’t worry, Auntie. I’ll go after him.” Paul sighs an announcement to Mrs. Smith, pushing away from the table as well. “Sorry about supper though. What I got a chance to taste of it was delicious at least. And thank you again for asking me over.” Without waiting to hear anything more from her, he politely dabs at his mouth with the linen napkin, stands up and sets off after his best friend.
Paul grabs his black wool overcoat and shrugs it on before grasping the knob of the still half-open door. As he steps into the vestibule, through its windows he sees John standing at the far end of the front walk, lighting a cigarette while quietly slumped against the stone gate post, his own coat slung carelessly over his left shoulder.
“Damn you and that temper of yours, guv, ‘cause I was utterly famished earlier this evenin',” he half-jokes as he saunters down the walkway toward his mate, stopping to pause at his side and gesture toward the coat he isn't wearing. “Should really put that on, you know. It's fucking freezin' out here."
"I don't care." is John's response as he leaves the coat precisely where it is and takes a drag off his ciggie. "I don't give a shit about anything much anymore, Paulie. Fuck it all! Fuck Cyn and that no-good fuckin' meddlin' mum of hers. And if the only living relative I really gave two shits about before wants to side with the likes of them, then fuck her, too."
Paul knows that responding to this is useless. He knows that John doesn't mean what he's saying. Just needs to blow off some steam is all, and Paul decides, as always, to be the supportive friend he'd always been. "I only wish she’d held off a bit before bringing all that rot up…" he shrugs, maintaining a slightly un-biased air, "....at least, until I’d gotten done with me bit of pot roast. It did smell incredible though, didn’t it?”
John sucks another deep drag from his cigarette and releases a long slow trail of smoke, staring blindly at the house next door as a nosy elderly couple he remembers well from childhood emerge from their own house to gape at their quite famous and furious ex-neighbour. “If yer still hungry we can always go to the pub and have a bit of something. I just can’t stand fuckin' bein’ here any longer.”
He peers through a myopic squint back at his aunt’s house as the vestibule door creaks open and Mimi leans the upper half of her body out, calling to him. “John Winston Lennon, stop being a complete fool now and get back into this house straight away! Do you hear me?”
“Have I any bloody choice but then?” John hisses sarcastically, the heat still clinging to his cheeks despite the chill in the air around them. “Just close the soddin’ doors, Mimi. Your good neighbours are watching. Wouldn't wanna make a spectacle of yerself, would ye?”
“But supper’s getting cold.” Mimi insists as though she hasn’t heard him.
He rolls his eyes irritably. “Like I give a flappin' fu…” he begins and then stops short as he feels Paul tenderly nudge his arm with an elbow. “I'm not comin' back in tonight, so you may's well go inside and close the bleedin’ door, Mims, ‘fore you catch cold…and even more stares from all the self-righteous old gawkers next door!” he finishes, purposely and loudly emphasizing the last bit with eyes narrowed again at those who very indiscreetly continue observing.
“What am I supposed to do with all this food then?” Mimi raises her voice, giving her nephew's slumped silhouette a fierce glare through the darkness.
"Ye should've thought o'that 'fore ye flew off at the gob."
But Mimi persists, "Stop being so ridiculous, John and get back in here this instant! All of this food will be a complete waste!"
Finally fed up, John plucks the fag from between his thin lips, sneers through a malicious half-smile and pushes himself off the post, whirling to glare blindly in her direction. “Why don’t you just have Mrs. Lillian Fuckin’ Powell come over to eat it with you, great bloody friend she is and all?” he yells, exhaling smoke and frost from his flared nostrils into the air. “I hear she’s an excellent conversationalist besides a starvin' fat arse cow to boot, so she should 'ave no trouble finishin' it off! Maybe while she's at it she’ll even tell you ‘bout all the other birds Cyn says I shagged since we been together! And while she’s at that, ask 'er if she’s heard 'bout the whores in Hamburg yet…or the desperate lil' stage-side sluts in every fuckin' city we’ve fuckin' been to so far…”
“Ahhhhlright then, Johnny Boy…off we go….” Slightly embarrassed by his mate’s cursing rant in full view of the several senior-aged neighbours suddenly lining the quaint little lane-if only for Aunt Mimi’s sake-Paul gently removes the coat crumpled over John's shoulder, takes hold of his left arm and begins steering him away from the house’s front walk, waving cordially as possible back at the humiliated Mrs. Smith, “Don’t fret, Mims. I’ll take good care of him tonight and make certain he gets the proper nutrition….” adding only loud enough for John to hear “…’fore we get sloppy pissed and such” Then he speaks up again, giving her a reassuring smile. “And don't fret 'bout the food makin' waste. We’ll bring ole Geo round tomorrow for leftovers. Don’t let his bein' skinny fool you....could consume a whole horse 'imself, that one. Right? Ta-ra!”
“Fuck that! I’m never comin’ back here…” John grumbles from between clenched teeth as Paul leads him to the passenger door of the deep green Mini Cooper parked kerbside.
“Like I 'aven’t heard that before. You and Mims goin’ at each other like this is nothing new to me, John.” Paul shrugs unaffected, opening the door for his best friend. “Ah, just come ‘ead, luv. Let’s go eat, be merry and wash all that nasty old sorrow away, yeah?”
John slams himself onto the front seat, snatches the coat from Paul and tosses it in back over his shoulder before pulling the door shut. He continues to drag his smoke so deeply that he can feel it sear the inside of his chest and burn his lips as he waits for Paul to round the front of the car and slip behind the wheel next to him, then speaks again. “I’m not sorrowful. Just sick and bloody fuckin' tired of all this shite surroundin’ being married, separated and that. I never should’ve done it in the first place, you know. Tell me something, Macca…” he turns to look at Paul’s profile, his anger-coated eyes shimmering under the glow of a lamppost that's reflecting off the windscreen “…what the fuck ever did I go and get meself hitched for anyhow, aye?”
Paul shrugs and returns the gaze being directed at him thoughtfully. “Well, for one, you went and got 'er sprogged, din'ya?”
John sighs hopelessly, with a sardonic reply, “Aye...well, there's always that.”
“And secondly..” Paul’s big soulful honey-brown eyes melt into a gaze that resembles one of mild sympathy as his tone softens “…I reckon it's just what you do when you love someone a bit as well.”
“Yeah…” John nods and redirects his gaze forward, for some strange reason suddenly finding it difficult to hear Paul speak of such tender things as love while looking at him straight on “…but not enough for all this. And now Mimi takes their side in it? Lis’nin’ to Lillian Fowell of all fuckin’ people?”
“Well, Johnny…you did tell me you shagged that neighbour bint reason Cyn finally took up and left this time 'round. Not that you had to confess it to me at all, really. I already knew it was likely true….”
“That’s not even the point, Paulie. Thing I’m sayin’ is, with all those women talkin’ daft shit ‘round ‘im about me, how am I ever s’posed to convince Julian that I’m not exactly the same kind of man me own da was?”
“That's easy enough.” Paul inserts the key into the ignition, gives it a swift jerk and then shoots John a sideways glance coupled with a little smile. “Just don't get yourself lost at sea, son.”
John leans back in his seat, takes a final swipe from his cigarette and asks through its smoky release. “But how about the sea of Beatle-mania waitin’ to drown us, Paulie? What about that one, aye? I mean, that whole potty scene over there in America? You can feel it comin' too, can't ye?”
“Yeah, but for the moment, swimmin' 'round in that feels pretty damn good and I'm enjoying it for now. I think we all should. Anyroad, I don’t plan on lettin’ it take me under its current anytime soon, Johnny. How 'bout yerself?”
“Don’t reckon one ever plans on drowin’ 'less they're purposely trying to do themselves in. But when it’s done accidental like, you know…while just enjoyin’ the swim and the whole feelin' of bein' in the ocean, it's only when you get out too far with no raft and the tides suddenly turn on you that ye find yerself in trouble.”
Paul nods his head and then turns the wheel to ease the vehicle away from the kerb, checking the side mirror for an all-clear behind. “Then we’ll just ‘ave to be each other’s life-rafts through it, won’t we, mate? Hold each other afloat…”
“Aye…that we will, guv.” John rolls his window down, chucks the cigarette butt and then winds it back up, after which he settles into his seat again and begins to breathe a bit more calmly as he listens to Paul begin whistling a soft tune.
And with that, the Mini sails down Menlove Avenue and quickly away from the quaint little neighbourhood in which John Lennon had grown up.
Title: A Most Curious Place - Chapter Two
Subject: A wee bit of Beatle-bonding with some family angst tossed in for good measure.
Chapter Two: Mimi Madness
“I simply don’t understand why you have to speak like some ruffian during your interviews, John. Especially to those Americans. It makes it seem as though I’ve taught you absolutely nothing! It’s a poor reflection upon me…not to mention the rest of our entire family!” his aunt complains as she carefully places slices of pot roast upon their plates.
John is concerned about his Aunt Mimi’s feelings. Truly he is. She's a serious and devoted woman. Family and the outward image of such mean a lot to her…and for the most part, John is the child she’d never had, but had chosen to dedicate a part of her life to rearing.
He would always love and appreciate her for that.
But at present, the delectable meat being dished upon the plate before him weighs more heavily as a concern.
Four weeks away from home and all they’d gotten was crappy lukewarm room service sandwiches and what looked like hastily tossed together finger food after press conferences. The best of what they’d been served had been in Miami after the last Sullivan appearance, and even that was only because Brian had finally managed to score reservations in the most elegant restaurant along the beachfront.
And nothing was like his auntie’s home-cooked meals. No matter how much he’d liked traveling to America, John was famished the whole time.
Mainly for the flavour of just being home again.
“Do you realize how dreadfully long it's been since I’ve tasted your roast, Mims?” John practically drools while feasting his fuzzy nearsighted gaze upon the plate of delectable-smelling food being served to him. “Mmmm…..” he coos with a wide grin before digging in with his fork, looking up at her through delightfully squinted eyes as soon as his mouth is inappropriately full, “Deelishjuss…”
Mimi Smith glares disapprovingly to the doe-eyed boy seated across the dining table from her nephew. “You and your lot have completely ruined him, you know.”
Paul’s head snaps up and he gazes innocently at the middle-aged woman whose food he had been all but set to devour until her chastisement reaches his ears. “Beg pardon?” He begins to shake his head in genuine denial. “Oh, no, Auntie. Quite the contrary. If anything, it’s I who’ve tried hardest to encourage those values in John that you first instilled.”
“Well, in that case you’d do better to encourage him getting a haircut…” Mimi continues to scold “…and while you’re at it, you could do with one yourself, you know.”
“But I’ve only just had one yesterday.” Paul grins proudly.
“Liar!” John coughs into his napkin as he pretends to choke on juice from the pot roast he’s been chomping greedily. His almond-shaped amber eyes begin to tear as he glares over the table top to his mate. “Doomed to the fiery pits for a transgression like that you are, boy.”
“Ah, sherrup, you right wanker…”
“That’s left wanker to you, son.”
“And I absolutely cannot fathom why it is that whenever the two of you are together in this house you still behave like a couple of school boys!” Mimi interjects curtly to the both of them, shaking her head in amazement. “I don’t care how many appearances you make on the telly or how many lovesick girls scream their heads off over you, I’ll have no more of it during supper, you hear? This is meant to be a civilized meal for your homecoming…" she cuts her eyes at John "...and it began to go to the wayside the moment you set about attacking your plate before we’ve even said a proper prayer.”
“But I prayed it’d all go down when I swallowed before properly chewin’ it up, Mimsie.” John implores, batting his eyes at her. “Is that not proper prayer enough?”
“Don't be cheeky with me, John Winston.” she mutters, dark eyes narrowing at her nephew. “What have those Americans done? Corrupted you entirely?”
“She’s right.” Paul deviously agrees with a little nod and wink at his friend. “They really have, you know.”
“And I’ll hear nothing more of it from you either, James Paul McCartney. Behave lest I tell your father of you. Now bow your head, please.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Paul shoots a slight scowl at John before closing his eyes and lowering his head obediently.
“And you lead the prayer, John.” Mimi insists, bowing her own head, eyes closing.
Surely she knows better than make such a request, Paul thinkst…his cherubic face twisting into a slightly comical grimace as he anticipates the worst from John's "prayer". He sneakily opens one eye to peer at his best friend across the table top and sees the smirk resting upon John's lips.
“Stop gawking at me, Bas'tid.” John whispers from one side of his crooked mouth before bowing his own head, eyes clenched tight. “Dear Lord, bless this food we are fixin’ t'grub upon tonight…and even the hot ole oven from which it cometh. Bless the chocolate biscuits I fully intend to talk Mimi into once we’ve devoured the pot roast and potatoes....and last but not least, bless our ever Heavenly Miss Julia Child for providin’ the recipes. Amen.”
Mimi opens her eyes and snaps out, “And I’ll have you to know that these recipe came from your grandmother Ann. Miss Child had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with any of it. Amen.”
“Amen.” Paul echoes, biting into his bottom lip to hold back a chuckle. “Thank you for the kind invitation this evening, Aunt Mimi.”
“You are very welcome, Paul.”
“Now….’nuff with the prayers and niceties and rot, and pass the bloomin' potatoes, please! I can’t wait any longer.” John growls greedily, accepting the steaming bowl as Paul passes it his way. “You know, Mimi…there’s lots we've yet to tell you ‘bout the trip overseas. How fabulous everything was in America and all that. Next time you should come with.”
“No, thank you.” Mimi retorts, not unkindly, but with her regular stern adamancy. “I’ve not lost a thing in America that I have need to collect, John. I’d much rather remain in places where I’m wanted.”
“Well, we weren’t not wanted there, Mims…” John comes back with a chuckle. “You could've seen that for yourself if you’d bothered switching on telly even once. Didn't you miss me at all? Enough to watch the arrival there, at least? Pure madness that.”
“Oh, yeah. Total lunacy.” Paul agrees, laughing a bit at the still fresh memory while digging a fork into his potatoes. “And that bit at the airport...what was that? Complete and utter madness!”
“Right, we weren’t really expectin’ all that lot, were we?” John agrees in turn with a light giggle of his own, shaking his head in renewed amazement as he recalls their reception in the States from two weeks prior. “We thought at most there'd be a few dozen or so. You know, some reporters and that, but there were kids over the entire bleedin' place. It was just as crazy as the scenes we get over ‘ere. It was virtually littered with ‘em…everywhere! All the way from the airport to the hotel. All over the streets, chasin' down our cars and everything. And then the Sullivan appearances…”
“Ah, yes. Very receptive those Americans, indeed…” Paul completes his friend’s thought “…’cept I doubt they heard us much, if at all.”
“Reckon that might've been a blessin' in disguise since poor Geo had such a rough time gettin' himself tuned up….” John laughs.
“I know. Poor lad never gets it quite right, does he?”
“It was better by Miami though…”
Paul gives a nod of agreement and chews his bite of roast. “Aye. Have to agree with you there. I think it was mostly nerves at first though. We all suffered a bit of that really...'specially in New York.”
“But even overrun with nerves, you could’ve tuned it for him in no time at all…and perfect pitch to boot….”
“Yeah, but he really needs to learn doin' it for himself, doesn’t he?”
“Aye that.” John agrees with a nod. “Love ole Georgie…gifted player and all, but has the tone-aptness of a bleedin' brick when it comes to tunin' up or hittin' the proper note…”
Mimi looks from one young man to the other…her beloved nephew and then his best friend. A tight scowl forms on her thin lips. “I have no clue what either of you is on about.”
“Ah, sorry, Mims.” John grins at her. “Just music talk is all. Macca and I start in with a bit of that then tend to get carried away.”
“Yeah. We do.” Paul chimes in with a subtle wink to the middle-aged woman who has been like a relative to him for the past several years. “Sort of forget that not everyone 'round us is a musician nor cares about that sort of thing, you know. Sorry, Auntie.” He looks across the table to his friend. “Maybe Mimi'd rather hear more about your experiences in the States then, John.”
“And much I'd rather not hear about them as well, I would assume.” she frowns suspiciously, quirking one brow upward.
This time it's Paul’s turn to nearly choke...and with no faking about it. His already large doe-eyes widen as he shoots a helpless look over the lily-basket centerpiece at John.
John flashes him a brief but knowing glance in return, then cocks his head sideways to smile innocently at Mimi, batting a pair of long straight eyelashes. “Now whatever could you mean by that, luv?”
Mimi huffs out indignantly, “And don’t you dare speak to me as if I’m one of your little Yankee tarts!”
“But, Mimsie…” John attempts a protest, trying his best earnest gaze on the older lady.
Undaunted by her nephew's expression of faux innocence, however, she persists. “And don’t you ‘but Mimsie’ me either, John! Whether you know it or not, I did see you boys on telly for a time over at Bernice's place! Saw the entire ridiculous way those American girls fell all about over you, screaming and carrying on like they’d never seen the likes of proper young Englishmen before…” Mimi frowns at him. “And carrying on like that for you most of all, a married man and father, no less! It was all very dreadfully silly. How do you suppose poor Cynthia must feel about that sort of thing?”
It's at this moment, the mention of that particular name, that John loses the endearing grin he'd been attempting at once, his nostrils flaring slightly as a swiftly narrow-eyed glare is leveled on his dear old aunt. “Who gives a right damn how Cyn feels? Mind you, she’s the one left me, remember? It was her decision to up and run off like that before we got a chance to make it to the States or even hear of it, or else she could’ve gone with and then everything would’ve been perfectly fine by her.”
’Why, oh why did Mimi have to say the ‘C-word of all things?’, Paul ponders to himself. Mentioning John’s recently estranged wife these days is about all it takes to make even the most pleasant of social events go wrong, and now his dear old auntie's gone and done it right off the cuff of the evening meal...and worse yet, before Paul's even gotten a good taste of his roast and potatoes.
Too bad. He’d been hoping for a peaceful time tonight and was pretty hungry as well, but it's become all too apparent to Paul now that it just isn't possible and the plesantries will soon be cut short.
He struggles briefly with a thought of changing the subject and exactly how to go about it; reckons he’d just as soon give it a go since, at this point, there's certainly nothing to lose by it. "This pot roast is absolutely lish, Auntie….and the potatoes are really….”
But Mimi isn't listening to Paul. She’s already opened her mouth to press the point about his best friend’s alleged mistreatment of his poor neglected soon-to-be ex-wife even further, despite John's obvious irritation at the subject. “Well, it was your decision to mess about with that horrible little tart of a neighbour of yours or Cynthia wouldn’t have been compelled to leave you in the first place. Believe you me, I've heard all about it, young man.”
“Oh, have you now? From who then?” John shoots back defensively, the hand suddenly fisting his fork dropping to the side of the plate, his eyes becoming slits of pending fury as he studies his aunt. “Ah, right! Some daft ole biddy acquaintance of yours lives down the way or such-one of those with no life of her own to go on about, so she makes a mission of eyeballin’ all the neighbours and conjuring up stories about ‘em! Is that it?”
“No, you disrespectful little Hellion! I spoke to Lillian Powell herself about the whole sordid mess.”
’Oh, Jesus Bleedin' Christ…’, Paul thinks, sighing and giving his eyes a slight upward roll before temporarily closing them as he chomps into another potato, yet all the while feeling his appetite beginning to wane.
First mention of the wife, and now the ever unmentionable Monster-in-Law! This isn't going to be pretty. Not one bit of it. Paul is already silently predicting the outcome and how much longer it'll be before John storms away from the table and out the front doors, stalking up the street in a blind rage as he rants and curses the ever-vigil neighbours for worrying about a resident mad Beatle being on the loose.
“So what the Hell you go talkin’ to her for?” John’s voice raises half a pitch as the fork is slammed from his clenched hand, making a resounding ‘clanking’ sound against his grandmother’s flawless old china plate. “She can’t so much as bloody stand me and never could! She can’t stand you either, and from what I recall the feelin’s mutual, so what you wanna go listen to her about all that shit for then?”
“You mind your mouth, John!” Mimi demands in a threateningly throaty tone as though the young man seated at her table is still the very same teenager living under her roof that he’d been years before.
“But I’ve no need to, have I, Mimi? Not when you’re here to mind it for me the way you try and do everything else that has absolutely nothing to do with you!" John bellows right back at her.
“Ah, come off it, John…” Paul finally intercedes in a calming tone, feeling that things aree soon to get out of hand if he doesn't “…I'm certain Auntie is just tryin' to help...”
“Oh, no, I'm not!” Mimi retaliates, red-faced, angrily sawing at the meat on her plate with a steak knife.
John’s brows quirk upward beneath his Beatle-fringe and he gestures toward her incredulously while glaring at Paul, “There! Ye see what I’m up against 'ere?”
“What I am trying to do, however, is get to the bottom of it all, and Lillian told me why Cynthia took Julian and left you!” Mimi scowls, halting the knifing of her food to glare disapprovingly at her nephew. “The poor girl was an absolute wreck about the whole ordeal. Lillian says she made herself completely ill, sobbing an entire two days about how she'd caught you at it red-handed this time. Apparently there’d been others, and I don’t even want to guess how many! You ought to be ashamed of yourself, John Lennon! Haven’t I raised you better than that? Your poor Uncle George would certainly be ashamed at the sort of man you've become...just like that loathsome father of yours!"
Paul draws a deep breath and it remains frozen in his lungs. Mimi's done quite enough damage already by harping on John, first about Cyn....then about Lillian...
But even worse now, comparing him to Alf?
There'll be no home-cooked meal tonight.
Defeated and not about to defend himself…mainly because he can't in all earnesty and already knows from experience that it will get him nowhere with his aunt if he even tries, John harshly pushes himself away from the table, rises quickly from his chair and grumbles, “Puttin' up with the Stanley women is likely why he drank as well...and now I need a fuckin' drink meself.”
He stalks out of the dining room for the front parlour, leaving Paul to stare dejectedly at the plate of food that's suddenly lost even the slightest appeal for him.
“Don’t worry, Auntie. I’ll go after him.” Paul sighs an announcement to Mrs. Smith, pushing away from the table as well. “Sorry about supper though. What I got a chance to taste of it was delicious at least. And thank you again for asking me over.” Without waiting to hear anything more from her, he politely dabs at his mouth with the linen napkin, stands up and sets off after his best friend.
Paul grabs his black wool overcoat and shrugs it on before grasping the knob of the still half-open door. As he steps into the vestibule, through its windows he sees John standing at the far end of the front walk, lighting a cigarette while quietly slumped against the stone gate post, his own coat slung carelessly over his left shoulder.
“Damn you and that temper of yours, guv, ‘cause I was utterly famished earlier this evenin',” he half-jokes as he saunters down the walkway toward his mate, stopping to pause at his side and gesture toward the coat he isn't wearing. “Should really put that on, you know. It's fucking freezin' out here."
"I don't care." is John's response as he leaves the coat precisely where it is and takes a drag off his ciggie. "I don't give a shit about anything much anymore, Paulie. Fuck it all! Fuck Cyn and that no-good fuckin' meddlin' mum of hers. And if the only living relative I really gave two shits about before wants to side with the likes of them, then fuck her, too."
Paul knows that responding to this is useless. He knows that John doesn't mean what he's saying. Just needs to blow off some steam is all, and Paul decides, as always, to be the supportive friend he'd always been. "I only wish she’d held off a bit before bringing all that rot up…" he shrugs, maintaining a slightly un-biased air, "....at least, until I’d gotten done with me bit of pot roast. It did smell incredible though, didn’t it?”
John sucks another deep drag from his cigarette and releases a long slow trail of smoke, staring blindly at the house next door as a nosy elderly couple he remembers well from childhood emerge from their own house to gape at their quite famous and furious ex-neighbour. “If yer still hungry we can always go to the pub and have a bit of something. I just can’t stand fuckin' bein’ here any longer.”
He peers through a myopic squint back at his aunt’s house as the vestibule door creaks open and Mimi leans the upper half of her body out, calling to him. “John Winston Lennon, stop being a complete fool now and get back into this house straight away! Do you hear me?”
“Have I any bloody choice but then?” John hisses sarcastically, the heat still clinging to his cheeks despite the chill in the air around them. “Just close the soddin’ doors, Mimi. Your good neighbours are watching. Wouldn't wanna make a spectacle of yerself, would ye?”
“But supper’s getting cold.” Mimi insists as though she hasn’t heard him.
He rolls his eyes irritably. “Like I give a flappin' fu…” he begins and then stops short as he feels Paul tenderly nudge his arm with an elbow. “I'm not comin' back in tonight, so you may's well go inside and close the bleedin’ door, Mims, ‘fore you catch cold…and even more stares from all the self-righteous old gawkers next door!” he finishes, purposely and loudly emphasizing the last bit with eyes narrowed again at those who very indiscreetly continue observing.
“What am I supposed to do with all this food then?” Mimi raises her voice, giving her nephew's slumped silhouette a fierce glare through the darkness.
"Ye should've thought o'that 'fore ye flew off at the gob."
But Mimi persists, "Stop being so ridiculous, John and get back in here this instant! All of this food will be a complete waste!"
Finally fed up, John plucks the fag from between his thin lips, sneers through a malicious half-smile and pushes himself off the post, whirling to glare blindly in her direction. “Why don’t you just have Mrs. Lillian Fuckin’ Powell come over to eat it with you, great bloody friend she is and all?” he yells, exhaling smoke and frost from his flared nostrils into the air. “I hear she’s an excellent conversationalist besides a starvin' fat arse cow to boot, so she should 'ave no trouble finishin' it off! Maybe while she's at it she’ll even tell you ‘bout all the other birds Cyn says I shagged since we been together! And while she’s at that, ask 'er if she’s heard 'bout the whores in Hamburg yet…or the desperate lil' stage-side sluts in every fuckin' city we’ve fuckin' been to so far…”
“Ahhhhlright then, Johnny Boy…off we go….” Slightly embarrassed by his mate’s cursing rant in full view of the several senior-aged neighbours suddenly lining the quaint little lane-if only for Aunt Mimi’s sake-Paul gently removes the coat crumpled over John's shoulder, takes hold of his left arm and begins steering him away from the house’s front walk, waving cordially as possible back at the humiliated Mrs. Smith, “Don’t fret, Mims. I’ll take good care of him tonight and make certain he gets the proper nutrition….” adding only loud enough for John to hear “…’fore we get sloppy pissed and such” Then he speaks up again, giving her a reassuring smile. “And don't fret 'bout the food makin' waste. We’ll bring ole Geo round tomorrow for leftovers. Don’t let his bein' skinny fool you....could consume a whole horse 'imself, that one. Right? Ta-ra!”
“Fuck that! I’m never comin’ back here…” John grumbles from between clenched teeth as Paul leads him to the passenger door of the deep green Mini Cooper parked kerbside.
“Like I 'aven’t heard that before. You and Mims goin’ at each other like this is nothing new to me, John.” Paul shrugs unaffected, opening the door for his best friend. “Ah, just come ‘ead, luv. Let’s go eat, be merry and wash all that nasty old sorrow away, yeah?”
John slams himself onto the front seat, snatches the coat from Paul and tosses it in back over his shoulder before pulling the door shut. He continues to drag his smoke so deeply that he can feel it sear the inside of his chest and burn his lips as he waits for Paul to round the front of the car and slip behind the wheel next to him, then speaks again. “I’m not sorrowful. Just sick and bloody fuckin' tired of all this shite surroundin’ being married, separated and that. I never should’ve done it in the first place, you know. Tell me something, Macca…” he turns to look at Paul’s profile, his anger-coated eyes shimmering under the glow of a lamppost that's reflecting off the windscreen “…what the fuck ever did I go and get meself hitched for anyhow, aye?”
Paul shrugs and returns the gaze being directed at him thoughtfully. “Well, for one, you went and got 'er sprogged, din'ya?”
John sighs hopelessly, with a sardonic reply, “Aye...well, there's always that.”
“And secondly..” Paul’s big soulful honey-brown eyes melt into a gaze that resembles one of mild sympathy as his tone softens “…I reckon it's just what you do when you love someone a bit as well.”
“Yeah…” John nods and redirects his gaze forward, for some strange reason suddenly finding it difficult to hear Paul speak of such tender things as love while looking at him straight on “…but not enough for all this. And now Mimi takes their side in it? Lis’nin’ to Lillian Fowell of all fuckin’ people?”
“Well, Johnny…you did tell me you shagged that neighbour bint reason Cyn finally took up and left this time 'round. Not that you had to confess it to me at all, really. I already knew it was likely true….”
“That’s not even the point, Paulie. Thing I’m sayin’ is, with all those women talkin’ daft shit ‘round ‘im about me, how am I ever s’posed to convince Julian that I’m not exactly the same kind of man me own da was?”
“That's easy enough.” Paul inserts the key into the ignition, gives it a swift jerk and then shoots John a sideways glance coupled with a little smile. “Just don't get yourself lost at sea, son.”
John leans back in his seat, takes a final swipe from his cigarette and asks through its smoky release. “But how about the sea of Beatle-mania waitin’ to drown us, Paulie? What about that one, aye? I mean, that whole potty scene over there in America? You can feel it comin' too, can't ye?”
“Yeah, but for the moment, swimmin' 'round in that feels pretty damn good and I'm enjoying it for now. I think we all should. Anyroad, I don’t plan on lettin’ it take me under its current anytime soon, Johnny. How 'bout yerself?”
“Don’t reckon one ever plans on drowin’ 'less they're purposely trying to do themselves in. But when it’s done accidental like, you know…while just enjoyin’ the swim and the whole feelin' of bein' in the ocean, it's only when you get out too far with no raft and the tides suddenly turn on you that ye find yerself in trouble.”
Paul nods his head and then turns the wheel to ease the vehicle away from the kerb, checking the side mirror for an all-clear behind. “Then we’ll just ‘ave to be each other’s life-rafts through it, won’t we, mate? Hold each other afloat…”
“Aye…that we will, guv.” John rolls his window down, chucks the cigarette butt and then winds it back up, after which he settles into his seat again and begins to breathe a bit more calmly as he listens to Paul begin whistling a soft tune.
And with that, the Mini sails down Menlove Avenue and quickly away from the quaint little neighbourhood in which John Lennon had grown up.