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They met at the gates of St. Peter’s churchyard.
Or rather, John had gotten impatient waiting for Paul, who was late, and started wandering the grounds. After Paul finally found him, a bit rumpled and short of breath, claiming that his bus never came and he’d had to wait for the next one, they’d spent a good hour or so winding through the headstones, making up stories about different faceless names as they went.
As much as they’d both fancied lying amongst the headstones with their books and the canteen of spiked lemonade Paul’d brought, clinging spirits reading over their shoulders, they’d begun to feel like unwelcome guests. The sun, too, has been out in full force the past few days, and the churchyard doesn’t offer much for shade unless it’s from the effigy of someone’s great-great-great-gran, and John doesn’t fancy curling up at the base of some mildewy slab of rock when there’s a much better spot just down the road.
So they walk the twenty or so minutes to Strawberry Field. More like fifteen, since Paul is so damn quick on his feet. Or his lanky legs, rather. John quips that he’s like one of those shorebirds down off Dungeon Lane that like to dart around on the sand, and Paul whinges about being compared to a bird. A cute one, at that.
Sandpipers? John thinks that’s what they’re called. He asks Paul, says he should’ve brought that old birdwatching book that he keeps in his bedroom, the one John takes off the shelf sometimes for an easy laugh - because why are there so many birds named after tits? - but Paul ignores him.
Which brings John to his current haunt - their favourite haunt, really. He and Paul are situated in their preferred corner of the grounds, under a big old willow that to John has always seemed like its own entity; a huge weepy ancient thing that drops slender leaves into Paul’s hair every few minutes.
They’d spent some time blathering on about the band, their anxieties and annoyances about everyone’s (mostly Pete and Stu’s) playing, what songs they thought would be best suited to the audiences at the German clubs, which they’d heard seldom about other than that they could be very rowdy and demanding, and their shared excitement at going to a new country, a city bursting at the seams with art and music and wildness.
Paul asks about art school, and dances around the topic of Stu; John tells him he’s not going back (doesn’t mention that he’s been expelled, officially, to top it all off) and happily rambles about one of Stu’s latest parties as retribution for being prodded to talk about college in the first place. He knows Paul’s nervous about Germany not panning out and what that could mean for them all upon returning, but John refuses to humour his persistent whinging about the importance of “having a plan in place”. Paul relents, and they talk about what - besides their instruments, of course - they’re going to pack to bring along with them. They leave in ten days, and neither of them has started packing yet.
Now, minutes or maybe hours later, John’s compilation of Wilde, stolen years ago from the bookshelves at Quarrybank, lies discarded next to him in the cool grass. Paul’s nose-deep in his favourite poetry book, some collection of sonnets and whatnot by various Romantic poets.
The early afternoon sun blankets John’s limbs, warming his leather-clad arms and drainie’d legs enough to feel soothing, but not so much that he feels overly hot. The sky is abyssal above them in the best of ways, a lapis lazuli void stretching out in every direction, and rosebushes scent the air just enough to not be overpowering. There’s even a light breeze that dances by every few minutes. It’s all very idyllic, and John preens under the blissful inattention of comfortable silence shared with Paul.
And it would be a perfect afternoon, except Paul keeps muttering to himself under his breath, incapable of reading in silence but unwilling to speak at full volume. It’s annoying; John wishes he’d just bother him with it. Share in it.
Paul turns the page and before he can start on the next passage, John cuts in, “Quit your mumblin’ already, just read it to me.”
“Yeah?” Paul’s eyes flick over to him to where he’s sprawled out. John is lying in the open sunlight but Paul is tucked into a swatch of shade just a few feet away. His eyes are inkpools. John wants to dip into them. Wants to draw him.
“Yeah. Never read much Keats. Read me one you think I’d like. Or your favourite, if you’ve got one, I dunno.”
“Okay, sure.”
There’s a long but pleasant stretch of quiet where Paul flips through the worn pages, considering. The air hums with beesong and faint sounds of traffic and industrial noise in the distance. Sometimes the lush green of Strawberry Field and the smattering of flowers all throughout make it feel to John like they’re ensconced within a little fairy fort, or cloistered away at some medieval abbey. Two wannabe philosophers talking about everything and nothing.
There are no illuminated manuscripts to document their long afternoons of conversation or quiet wondering, though. The only evidence of these retreats they take together is the gratifying ache in John’s joints from hours spent lying on the uneven ground, a humming soreness that sings through him later when he’s tucked into his bed, projecting images onto the ceiling above his head like blank parchment or a white-washed canvas. He revisits these stolen hours with Paul, revisits every word and revelation, recounts them like an evening prayer.
Paul clears his throat with some fanfare, apparently satisfied with his choice, and begins reading.
“O Solitude—”
John cuts him off.
“Of course you picked the bleakest one in the book.”
“It’s not! You said you wanted to listen, so listen.”
John listens.
“O Solitude!” Paul begins again, pausing briefly to level a playfully warning look at John, quelling his snarkiness.
“If I must with thee dwell,
Let it not be among the jumbled heap
Of murky buildings; climb with me the steep,—
Nature’s observatory—whence the dell,
Its flowery slopes, its river’s crystal swell,
May seem a span; let me thy vigils keep
‘Mongst boughs pavilion’d, where the deer’s swift leap
Startles the wild bee from the fox-glove bell.”
Truth be told, Paul’s not very good at reading poetry. He stumbles, tries too hard to sound “correct” in a way that circles right back around to sounding like someone he’s not, and when he’s feeling a bit too self-aware he attempts to add little flourishes and silly voices like John does, with mixed success. But John loves it. It’s all so very Paul, the performances he puts on that in their thinness reveal the messy truth of him. And once he really gets going, that all falls away, anyway, until it’s just Paul, low voice mixing honey-into-tea along with the skylarks and sparrows that jump through the blue, the staccato dog barks beyond the gates, the ship horns baying in the distance out on water. And Paul and John, planted deep in the green underneath it all.
“But though I’ll gladly trace these scenes with thee,
Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind,
Whose words are images of thoughts refin’d,
Is my soul’s pleasure; and it sure must be
Almost the highest bliss of human-kind
When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee.”
John applauds, crows “bravo, dear boy, bravo”, and Paul spins out a lazy flourish with one hand.
“Another one,” John demands.
“You first,” Paul challenges. “You have to read one, too.”
John sighs, but it’s mostly for show. He pries open his compilation of Wilde; finds the one called Apologia that he likes. There’s some birdy metaphors in this one, so Paul should like it. As he reads, he skips the verses that bore him.
“Is it thy will—Love that I love so well—
That my Soul’s House should be a tortured spot
Wherein, like evil paramours, must dwell
The quenchless flame, the worm that dieth not?
Nay, if it be thy will I shall endure,
And sell ambition at the common mart,
And let dull failure be my vestiture,
And sorrow dig its grave within my heart.”
His voice starts out a bit played-up and booming, but he lets it be shrugged off as he reads. He really does like this poem.
“Perchance it may be better so—at least
I have not made my heart a heart of stone,
Nor starved my boyhood of its goodly feast,
Nor walked where Beauty is a thing unknown.”
Paul gives a little hum at that line, because of course he does.
“Not marking how the spotted hawk in flight
Passed on wide pinion through the lofty air,
To where the steep untrodden mountain height
Caught the last tresses of the Sun God’s hair.”
He glances at Paul again, the crease between his ridiculous brows, as he listens with eyes closed. His patch of shade has been infiltrated by bits of sunlight, so now he's gone all chiaroscuro. He thinks back to a few weeks ago when Stu was ranting about a snide comment Paul’d made after one of their lunchtime Cavern sets, how he compared Paul to some pouty boy-prince in a Caravaggio painting. John can kind of see what he meant, but where Stu was trying to be disparaging, John’s never minded Caravaggio.
He continues.
“But surely it is something to have been
The best beloved for a little while,
To have walked hand in hand with Love, and seen
His purple wings flit once across thy smile.”
He shouts the first part of the next line, purposefully disrupting the gentleness of the poem just to see Paul jump, which he does.
“Ay! Though the gorgèd asp of passion feed
On my boy’s heart, yet have I burst the bars,
Stood face to face with Beauty, known indeed
The Love which moves the Sun and all the stars!”
Paul is grinning and shaking his head, and takes a swig from the neglected flask of whisky lemonade before offering it to John.
“Okay, your turn again.” He prods, and drinks.
“Alright, alright.”
John turns his face up toward the sunstreaked clouds, searching for hidden objects and animals in their contours, as Paul spends a few moments flicking through his book, humming nonsense music, before picking the next poem.
“To A Friend Who Sent Me Some Roses,” he begins. John glances back and forth between the sky and the movement of Paul’s mouth as he speaks.
“As late I rambled in the happy fields,
What time the skylark shakes the tremulous dew
From his lush clover covert; —when anew
Adventurous knights take up their dinted shields;”
John blinks the sun out of his eyelids and gazes towards the willow branches above them. Paul’s too bright to look at directly, especially when he’s like this, all Romantic-like.
“I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields,
A fresh-blown musk-rose; ‘twas the first that threw
Its sweets upon the summer: graceful it grew
As is the wand that Queen Titania wields.
And, as I feasted on its fragrancy,
I thought the garden-rose it far excelled;
But when, O Wells! thy roses came to me,
My sense with their deliciousness was spelled:
Soft voices had they, that with tender plea
Whispered of peace, and truth, and friendliness unquelled.”
Paul has to stifle a yawn near the end, so after he finishes, John questions, “Time for a kip?”
This gets an eyeroll from Paul, but soon they’re both dozing in the grass, a hand’s width between them.
They stay put until the sun has dipped below the roofs of the houses across the street, and the coolness of the earth below them starts to seep into their skin enough to be chilly. John asks if Paul wants to come back to his for a bite to eat, but he begs off, says he should go help Mike with some chores around the house. Jim has been a right pain in the arse about their upcoming residency, and even though Paul’s attempts to appease his moods annoy John to no end, he acts the saint and doesn’t say anything biting or resentful. He watches Paul retreat and head down the street towards the bus stop.
He’s not bothered.
They both know John will just be ringing him up again in a few hours to talk his ear off about something or other, anyway.
A week passes, and it’s a crowded collage of shows, planning logistics, and all of them still avoiding doing their packing. They leave Wednesday.
Saturday morning breaks through the curtains with buttery intensity. It’s bright enough outside that John is woken early from his attempted lie-in, and can’t fall back asleep.
He pads downstairs, feeds the cats, and makes an oversteeped cup of Darjeeling. Munches on some stale toast. Stares out at the garden.
Mimi must be out; the house is silent except for the clock ticking away on the mantle, counting out the seconds of the day like a metronome. It’s already gone half-past eleven.
John dials Forthlin, winding the phone cord around his fingertips as he waits for the call to go through. Paul picks up on the second ring.
“Hullo, McCartney residence.”
“Oscar Wilde here,” John says. “Is this John Cleats I’m speaking with? Or perhaps his friend Percy Shellfish? Lord Bygone, bychance?”
“Your Irish accent is terrible. Never do it again.”
“You love it. Hey - you look out the window yet today?”
“Mm, yeah.”
“Another dreadful day out there, it seems.”
“Indeed. Sunny.” Paul scoffs. “Don’t know how one can be expected to get anything of substance done, in such droll weather!” he trills.
“Yes, yes. Only one thing to be done about it.” They both hum in agreement.
And so Paul meets him once more at the cemetery gates.
They find a spot right at the back of the churchyard, under a little willow this time, not the towering monolith that dwells at Strawberry Field. This tree shelters them from the sun that drove them out last time they were here, but it’s slight, a still-growing thing.
John pulls out his flask, unscrewing it and handing it to Paul, who offers John his just-lit cigarette. They take their communion.
Paul takes a long pull from the flask and lets out a surprised noise. “Where’d you find red wine?”
“Stole it.” John had nicked it from Mimi’s liquor cabinet on a whim, minutes before leaving the house. It was a dusty old bottle. “Besides, this deserves a wee toast, don’t you think?
“What does?”
Hamburg, John thinks. Everything spread out on the road ahead of them, and everything that’s still too far away to see coming.
“This dreadful, sunny day.” He slants a smile at Paul as he takes another pull of the cigarette, lets Paul look back at him all soft-eyed for just a moment, maybe two, then exhales in a dragon-like puff, smoke hitting Paul directly in the face. He splutters and shoves at John’s shoulder as they both giggle.
“Settle down! Who do you think you are, the Blue Caterpillar?” Paul asks.
“I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then.” John answers, pulling the quote easily from his memory.
Paul smiles at him. “Always up for a little metamorphosis, aren’t you?”
“When it suits me.” They both go quiet for a few moments. John knows they’re thinking the same thing. Or at least thinking in the same general direction. “Do you…” He falters; clears his throat. “Do you think it’ll be good?”
“Hamburg?” John nods. “I dunno. I think it’ll be different.” John nods again. “I think it’ll be a lot of work. But that’s never scared me, any.”
Paul takes another sip of wine before passing the flask back to John. He licks at his lips but it’s futile, they’re ruby-violet tinted, berry-stained. The metal of the flask has been warmed slightly by Paul’s hands.
John drinks, steadying, and then, “It feels like everything’s gonna change.”
“Yeah,” Paul replies, easy. “But everything already is.”
He leans into John’s side ever so slightly. Or maybe John is the one who leans in, he can’t really tell.
“It’s all movin’, and no matter where we - where the band ends up - I’m not goin’ anywhere, Johnny.”
Paul always has this uncanny ability to tune in to the exact frequency of John’s fears. They both want out of Liverpool, want to take to the air like skylarks, and John wants it badly. But Paul knows he’s also afraid. They both are. George, too, surely. Of the little things, too - having to take a long and treacherous bus ride all the way to Hamburg after they’re off the ferry. Of strange people and foreign places. Of new desires, of old ones, and of catalysts that might blow it all up in their faces before they ever make it to the top, a firework lit too soon, or worse yet, one that might fail to even get off the ground in the first place.
Paul knows, and John knows that he knows. He tells him so. Peers into those pools of ink as he does so, looking for his own reflection.
“I know,” John murmurs.
“I know,” Paul echoes back, almost a whisper.
They smoke and drink their wine for a few more minutes, then pull out their respective books. John bears his beaten-up copy of Lear’s A Book of Nonsense, and Paul is armed yet again with his Romantics.
John makes a solid attempt at reading his own book, but it’s not long before he gives up and shimmies down to lie fully against the ground, tucking his arms behind his head. Paul glances down at him, and by the time John asks, “Read me a poem again?” Paul has already begun flipping through the pages, landing on a dog-eared page, looking as though it’s one that’s been revisited many times over. John's eyes slip closed as Paul begins to read.
“Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear’d,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!”
John’s mind wanders through much of the long, winding poem, listening more to the timbre of Paul’s voice than anything else. Just like before, Paul is a bit stilted and awkward, battling between sincerity and hyperawareness of his own reading voice, but as he reads on, John can tell he gets more and more absorbed in the prose. His voice loudens just so, and his cadence smooths. He reads it like it’s his own writing on the page. He makes it his, and he bears that candidness to John, knows it’s safe with him, here in their hideaway haunt.
The poem isn’t John’s favourite, but he quite likes the ending.
“Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.”