Tuesday the 1st of October 1958

What I had come to notice about the McCartney household was that it was always filled with laughter –– and music which I instantly noticed that my own household was very much lacking. Ever since mum passed away, dad couldn't stand music, anything to do with it in fact and poured himself into his work. I was little at the time but as I grew older I understood why –– it reminded him of mum. It was the reason my grandmother had all her things, all her records.

My grandmother handed it all the best. She didn't stop listening to music or the Beatles. She didn't stop talking about mum or recalling fond memories. Instead, she took me under her wing and took charge of caring for me most of the time. It grew less as I got older, as a part of me couldn't stand stepping into her house. After all, my mother had grown up there and it was riddled with nothing but her ghost.

I remember specifically on the eve of my twelfth birthday, with a rare conversation with my father he told me that I was the lucky one. That I wasn't haunted with memories and constant reminders. That I was better off not knowing her. It was not long after that he began to date other women, all of them lasting no more than two weeks at most, that was until he met Sally, my step-mother-to-be last year. I was happy for dad, she made him happy and that was what I wanted — but it hurt. It dug deep into my heart and crushed it. I wanted it to be mum.

And I hated it. I hated it so much. I hated that drunk driver and I hope that as they rotted away in the ground somehow knowing what they took away from me. I hated that night. I hated that I would never see her again. That I wouldn't know her as dad or grandma knew her. I hated it when my dad told me that I was too much like my mother, it was too painful to comprehend because I never knew what he was talking about. And the very thought of it made me feel hollow.

Paul nudged my shoulder gently in a boyish and friendly sort of way from beside me on the piano bench, his hazel doe-like eyes concerned for me. He always seemed to know when I grew distant. It amazed me that he was always worried about me and always too caring and kind. I never felt like I deserved it. In all honesty, I thought he'd be sick of me, as a normal person would, but instead, he was fascinated. Paul always asked questions about my life in Australia. It made me feel even more disgusted with myself when I lied. But the conversations always found their way back to music and it made it a bit easier as Paul was clearly infatuated with music. Even now I could see that he was destined for it, Paul McCartney had always been destined to be a performer, that was clear as rain.

Hazy tobacco ringlets of smoke from Jim McCartney's pipe riddled uncomfortably through my lungs from across the living room or palour as if was referred too, I could make out the newsletter print of The Liverpool Echo, folded on his lap and it made me wonder if he had completed the second half of his daily crosswords yet.

I reeled my attention back to Paul as his fingers hounded away against the ebony and ivory coloured keys. Whatever he had begun to play was some very old tune, to me at least, it was very jazzy and upbeat and party-like. I almost laughed. It could have been one of his 'granny' songs for all I knew. Paul's fingers grew to an instant halt on the keys and he turned to me, smiling devilishly, "Why don't ya play somethin' Dasiy?" I could feel my face pale, I instantly came to regret that I had some, however small musical talent.

"I, uh, don't think that it's a good idea. I haven't played in years," I spoke reflectively knowing it was true but it was those hazel puppy dog eyes and a sad pouted lip that convinced me otherwise.

"Alrighty then," I whispered in defeat. I cracked my fingers, even if I knew it was a terrible habit, unable to hide growing nervousness as I settled my fingers on what I hoped was the right keys. "Do you like 'Somewhere Where Over The Rainbow'?"

My words piqued Mr McCartney's own interest. "A beautiful melody, that one is," Jim spoke. I remembered Paul once told me that Jim was in his own jazz band 'The Jim Mac Band' in the 20s. Again, it made me even more nervous. I was surrounded by British musicians. I delicately played the song, humming the lyrics to myself and I could feel Paul's burning gaze on me even if I had tried to ignore his presence completely. It caused me to slip up for a mere moment during the bridge to the chorus before I composed myself and moved on from my mistake.

"And the dreams that you dare to dream, really do come true. . ."

It truly made me happy when it was all over. As much as it was a mistake to touch a single key on that piano, there was a mixture of a heartwarming nostalgia of a childhood of sunlight and laughter and music yet it was undertones with nothing but a weighted melancholy of suffering and loss. It reminded me too much of my mum.

"That was a lovely rendition, Dasiy. I'd best get supper ready, no one would want to eat at midnight!" Mr McCartney said with a smile in my direction as he heaved himself with a slight struggle off his armchair and moved to pat Paul's shoulder lovingly before he moved out of the living room and towards the small kitchen.

I noticed Paul was studying my face, "What's the matter?" He whispered softly, his voice low and gentle and it dawned upon me that I was in tears and I blinked them away furiously.

"It was her favourite. The Wizard of Oz," I admitted solemnly, trying to not show anymore hindering sadness about it.

Paul's grinned faltered and his features morphing into a frown but I see in his hazel eyes, tones of an empathetic realisation. There was a deep sadness beneath the hues of brown and specks of green and it dawned upon me that he knew exactly who I was talking about.

"How old was yer when she passed away?" Paul asked suddenly, his eyes dancing over towards the lace curtains and out the window into the tiny front yard, his reaction was nothing but natural I suppose. The male gender was as a hard a stone these days, always hiding their emotions and in my time that was only just beginning to change.

"I was seven," I admitted painfully.

"I'm so sorry," He spoke clearing his throat, but his voice was raw with emotion. He did his best to hide it but failed miserably and it amazed me how easily I saw through him.

"I'm sorry about your mum too. I'm sure she was lovely." Paul and I shared a long depthful gaze of an understanding, a mirror of the pain of losing someone we loved before he abruptly broke it, turning back to the piano and seconds later I did too.

I almost fell off the piano bench when he began to play it. Although, it was not the beginning to the song I remembered, not as polished as it was on Sergeant Peppers it still struck me with so much surprise I let out a strangled gasp. I hoped that he didn't notice my strange reaction. I knew that Paul had written some or most of the song a long long time before the recording of the album but I wasn't expecting it to be now. Not in 1958 with a girl from the future hanging around –– that was just a catastrophe waiting to happen.

"Did you write that? I haven't heard it before," I asked trying to hide my brimming curiosity but failing hopelessly.

"Yes, love. It's just one I've 'made up' as my dad would say. Anyways, it's just a melody, no lyrics yet."

"It's quite lovely nevertheless," I quipped honestly.

There was that smile on his face, the one when he came up with his 'genius' ideas, "Y'know what? Ye could help me. If ya like. Help find the lyrics."

"No, no. Paul, I'm not qualified." I deadpanned my voice a little sharper than I would have thought it to be.

To my surprise he just smiled and quick-wittedly spoke, "Neither am I."

I sighed at his inability to give up. "Why don't you ask John? Aren't you two supposed to be songwriting partners?"

"I would but he's not here is he, Daisy? Anyways, this is more my type of music than his." It was a decent point in future reference at least.

"Oh," I admitted in a soft manner, so defeated I turned my gaze to the light mustard coloured wallpaper engraved with floral print.

"Yer like music and all that right?" Paul promoted with his calm and charming demeanour slipping away and growing so serious I could have laughed.

"I never said I didn't," I spoke gruffly. "But there are a hundred things I need to do, for example, I have to do all the clothes washing, which takes ages by the way and I have to mend that blue dress of mine –– it will be dark soon and from that burnt smell coming from the kitchen I think Jim might need some help."

Paul let out a sigh, flipping through a school note book that appeared out of nowhere and I wondered if it was the famous one where he kept all his songs, "I'm not going to let you off that easy y'know?" He scribbled neatly a title on the top of the page in pencil and from the very corner I noticed it was, 'Daisy's theme.'

I let out a chuckle and shrugged my shoulders, trying to hide the panic coursing through my whole body. This was dangerous and also very very stupid. What if I had ruined something? What if I was changing the song? I was an utter idiot and it was then was a new and extremely important rule: never sit in the living room while Paul is writing or completing anything musical and always ensure he's writing everything with John.

I stumbled into the kitchen in a bit of a daze but only snapping out of it when I saw Jim, fumbling over pot of what I guessed was some sort of soup or stew. "Is everything alright?"

Jim turned to face me with a slightly embarrassed grin, "Oh yes, there was just a little mishap."

I gave my best and politest smile, "I can take over if you like. I promise not to burn the house down."

There was a spring relief that washed over Jim's face as he moved aside for me to take over, "Thank you, Daisy. I'll go finish all that washing aye?"

It didn't even last five minutes, before the familiar melody from the piano came to a dramatic halt and I furrowed my eyebrows ever so slightly before I hummed it to myself, unbeknownst that it was the tune of 'When I'm Sixty Four.'

"What'ya doin'?" I jumped out of my skin but I could feel myself relax knowing it was Paul, I turned to face him with a lazy smile.

"I'm cooking dinner. . . well finishing it of at least," I concluded with a grin and a shrug of my shoulders.

"Need some help?" He offered with a charming smile and I couldn't help but smile brighter at his words, once again, no, probably for the thousandth time touched by his kindness.

He probably should be doing something productive, like homework or something, "No, I'm all good Paul. Thanks though."

Paul subtly wedged himself next to me and took the wooden spoon from my hand before smugly speaking, "I have my bivouac badge, not to worry love." A smile curled my lips trying to image Paul as a boy scout but it faded out of my mind quickly.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked.

Paul looked at me fleetingly for a moment before winking at me in a playful manner, "It means I can help in the kitchen, love."

I nibbled at my bottom lip, before I met his eyes and tried my best to politely pry the wooden spoken from his fingers but he raised it teasingly above his head where I couldn't reach, "What about whe––your new song?" I snatched the wooden spoon from his hand with a lazy effort grin.

I noticed that Paul looked at me in a sort of disappointed way, before he rolled his eyes and it was the first time I ever that he had a real stubborn attiude, "I have tomorrow and the next day don't I?"

"Okay. . ." I drawled. I couldn't help but have a terrible feeling in my gut. What if I was ruining everything in his own life and those around him? What if Paul was supposed to be out and about in Liverpool with his mates or writing one of his song? My mind swarmed with questions, gnawing at me to find the answers that were impossible to answer. Everything would be so much easier if I knew about all the early stuff, not just bits and pieces I had picked up over the years. But there was panic, quick and weighted on my chest –– what if I never could go home?

"Ya always have a look in ye eyes again." I blinked rapidly, knowing that I had spaced out and enhaled a shaky breath and flashed a nervous smile.

I had to play it cool but I ended up being defensive, "What's wrong with my eyes, Macca?"

"Nothing, there lovely. . . Uh, it's just that I worry about ya all the time, y'know? I want ye to be okay." Tears burned in my eyes and I turned away from Paul, focusing all my attention on the stew.

Suddenly, a hand caught gently under my chin and it forced me to meet his hazel eyes. Warm, gentle caloused fingers brushed my tears away and I drowned in his doe-like eyes, I knew they should have provided comfort and reassurance but I was unable to forget all of it. It always came back to me, washing over me in waves as the thought of being stuck here forever, as much as it was a gift it was a very cruel curse. His hand fell away and he pulled me benevolently towards him and I was engulfed in his sweet smell of lavender and slightly wavering cigarette smoke.

"Hush now, sweet Dasiy. No need to bottle it all up, love. It's going to be alright, the clouds will roll away, hear me?" I let out a muffled cry unable to form any words upon my lips and I buried my face into his shirt, fisting the material of his sweater and clinging to him. It made Paul hold me tighter to him and his fingers gently raked through my terrible attempt of curled hair to comfort me.

His words, got to me. But what was so much worse was that I would never be able to tell him what I was upset about. Perhaps he thought I was upset about my mum. It seemed like the most logical explanation. "I'm so so sorry," I admitted but the words were muffled against his knitted sweater, it amazed me that he heard me.

"Ye have nothing to be sorry about. I know how it feels, Daisy. I was just a wee bit older. Fourteen. My mum Mary died of breast cancer. She was here one day and gone the next. I was a real git to her at times too. It took me a while to come to terms with it y'know, but I discovered music."

Paul inhaled a deep, shuddering breath before he whispered gently into my ear, "Please just let me help ye, Daisy." My heart lurched at his pleading words and so I untangled myself from his embrace to look at him. Really look at him.

I wiped the remaining tears from my eyes, before finding every answer I was looking for within his hazel eyes, "Okay."

────── ✮ ──────

author's note: it was about time i updated even if this chapter is a serious mixture of both sombre and sweet. but i am so so sorry about not updating for a little longer than i planned as wattpad wasn't saving this current chapter properly x