Saturday the 11th of October 1958

"Fancy a visit to the beach?" His soothing scouse accent drawled, snagging me out of the daydream my mind had sunken into —— maybe it was clear I was bored of playing cards with Paul as I always seemed to lose.

It was too hard to hide my grin yet it was easy to cover with the playing cards in my hands. I knew my brown eyes twinkled with I met his awaiting gaze, "Perhaps."

"We've been busy and all that, I thought it would be nice to do something and get out of this blasted house, y'know?" He admitted peering at me across the table.

I leant back into the wooden chair, tucking a few rich brown tresses of my hair behind my ear, "I'm down, in all honestly. I like the beach."

A smile danced across his lips at my words. It was a sort of smile which was warm and bright, strangely it was different from his signature boyish grin, it was softer, one which sparked a starry look in his hazel eyes.

Paul's palm which was riddled with his cards slammed against the table with a slightly louder voice than I expected, "Dasiy wins!"

The wooden legs of the chair scraped softly against the tiles as I stood to my feet, smothering my flowing knee-length skirt to smooth out any crinkles, then lifting my fingers to fix the Peter Pan colour of my white blouse. It still felt so silly to dress like this, although I'll admit it was sort of fun to experience it. Nevertheless, I would trade it to wear my old jeans and red knitted sweater folded in the chest by the foot of the bed (in what was considered my room) upstairs literally any day.

Yet, I rolled my eyes at his theatrics, knowing that it was clearly evident that he would have won again and that he was just being overwhelmingly sweet. It angered me wholely, most certainly more so after the event that occurred on Friday morning.

Despite how the following days that lead to this Saturday morning weren't all the eventful, well, not really but they were busy. It consisted of work, more work, babysitting and then on Thursday it was John's 18th birthday, which I didn't attend but had to deal with the aftermath of.

All the boys in John's inner circle had gotten hammered, then at three in the morning, Paul had clambered up the drainpipe which was very unsafe and he risked falling and injuring himself. Although, I was assured that he was only tipsy and proceeded to let John in from the back door; who was in no condition to even possibly venture up the drainpipe as Paul had. I had never heard such a racket as Paul bounded up the stairs, leaving John alone on the couch in the parlour or in other words the living room.

It was amazing how the rest of the house –– Jim and Mike had remained asleep. However, despite checking on John a couple of times throughout the rest of the night or well morning, even placing a blanket over him, a bucket at his feet in case he wanted to spew his guts up and place a glass of water on the side table. I had never been so mad at Paul. I didn't really know why to be honest, maybe it was because of losing precious hours of sleep which were so very much needed. It wasn't my place to tell him off or anything, but I didn't understand how on earth it slipped his mind that he had school the very next day.

Again, I had played the role of looking after John more so than Paul. I did not dare to enter Paul's room knowing that it would probably end in myself losing my temper. Instead, I woke at five, an hour than I usually had before I would have before readying myself and left for work. I took it upon myself to make them both some toast and tea.

John had slept through it all, even when I had placed the tea and the plain toast with a little butter next to the side table, he remained curled up on the couch in an innocent ball with his messy Elvis-like quiff. For a mere moment, I saw the innocent little boy who had endured so much throughout his life and a void within his soul that he wished only to be filled. I felt an ache of pain for him —— a somewhat kindred understanding.

I had taken mightily quick steps to Paul's room with his own tea and slightly buttered toast, ignoring him as he snored ever so softly, shuddering at the cool air that swept throughout the tiny room from the window. I placed down the contents down upon his little bedside table. As I had turned to close the door behind me, there was a tiny hint of dawn sprawling through his window overlooking the street. His was voice drenched with sleepiness and it halted me to the spot like a deer in headlights.

"Thank you," he had murmured softly to me.

I nodded sharply and despite how angered I felt, which was no debatably expressed through my face, my voice was gentle and considerate, "You have to be ready for school soon. Lennon is still asleep on the couch by the way. You're very lucky he has a strong stomach."

And that was the end of it.

We were silent as we pulled on our coats by the front door and pulled on our shoes.

"Daisy?" Paul called my fake name from behind me. Sometimes I had wondered what my real name would sound like with his accent, not just singing it —— to hear my name spoken with the gentleness and delicate way he had said 'Daisy' now.

"What's wrong?" I asked with a shy smile, from time to time I really wondered if he ever saw how I panicked. Sometimes, I wondered what I was building, this facade of another girl in this other life —— would crumble to pieces if he merely said the word.

Pauls's fingers reached to fix to the hood of my yellow raincoat without any warning, smothering the collar for non-existent wrinkles. Once he had finished, he flashed a wry grin, it was almost as he if knew what I was thinking.

"Thanks," I murmured, my eyes gazing into his. Paul shrugged his shoulders but said nothing and moved towards the door and opened it for me.

Stepping outside, it was evident that today as I had suspected, was nothing but a miserable gloom. It was the worst days of all days to go to the beach yet that didn't diminish the veil of excitement that lingered fresh on Paul's features.

Paul was quick, fluid in his brash moments as he moved past me, following the small and narrow path to the front gate. He waited for me patiently, hands deep in his pockets.

"What's the plan?" I asked. He seemed far too smug with himself as if he was the greatest genius to ever walk the planet.

"Well, my Daisy, I am happy you asked. On you hop, love," Paul bemused, gesturing to the red bike next to his paint-chipped blue one. My eyebrows creased together at the sight of it –– it was very old fashioned. I had seen both boys use their bikes on occasion but Mike had a tendency to use his more than Paul used his. And I did not think Mike would be happy with me borrowing his bright and shiny red bike. I knew it was his pride and joy but in my personal opinion, it very much resembled a death trap.

Maybe, I had decided, that a trip to the beach should be held off. It was starting to get a fair bit colder, winter was around the corner, "But Paul won't Mike need his bike?"

Paul smiled as he turned to face me, "Daisy, love, what Mike doesn't know won't kill him."

I examined his face for a moment as if it would provide me with an answer. A very, very stupid mistake. Nevertheless, that innocent look on his face would convince me to do anything remotely idiotic. I gave a skirt nod and crossed my arms over my chest, "Fine, if I get caught, you're getting all the blame."

Paul laughed a harmonious sound which warmed my heart and he dove into an explanation as if to soothe me, "Mike is at choir practice. Won't be home until 'bout half-past three and Dad's watchin' him. Afterwards, I suspect that they'll head to Auntie Gin's for a good ol' Sunday roast."

"D-Did you want to go?" I stammered, it felt sort of wrong. I felt that Paul should have been spending time with his family rather than me.

"Nah, I'd rather spend my time with ya."

"That's quite nice of you," I whispered quickly, my cheeks heating under his gaze. It had taken time but whenever he said something like that, I noticed he was always watching my reaction, looking for something within it. Sadly, I just never seemed to know what.

"Do I have something on my face?" I asked so softly, so shyly, the words so light on my lips that it was almost unlike me.

"No, of course not. Don't be daft that face of yours is perfectly alright." He stammered and it was so unlike him with his cheeks flushing red for what I registered as possibly one of the first times ever.

I laughed and playfully punched his shoulder, instantaneously wanting to get a move on with things, "Let's go then Macca!"　 　

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It was a wonderful feeling with the wind in my hair, the sights of Liverpool blurring only to eventually replace with the sight of the mighty blue ocean, grainy sand and the pestering sounds of a swarm of seagulls overhead.

I couldn't deny the lurching feeling of freedom soaking into my bones and the wind playing with my hair but of course, my luck only ever lasted so long. Mike's bike that I was borrowing slammed to halt, it's tires fused with the large amounts of sand that suddenly peppered the path —— and I was fell sideways into the hard surface with a loud crash.

I let out a dramatic groan, my bones aching and my knees stinging and burning relentlessly.

Shit.

I pulled myself to sit, aware with the fact that, yes, riding a bike with a skirt was a terrible idea, to begin with, and I could've flashed everyone, for all I knew. Then again, the beach looked empty and deserted.

I watched as Paul peddled onwards, lost in his own world, obviously not aware of how I shamefully —— very much embarrassingly, I might add fell off the bike.

It was clear, I was never someone who was supposed to look elegant and graceful and all that. My purpose on this earth was to be a klutz and say all the wrong things at the wrong time.

Paul glanced back for a moment and continued peddling without a care in the world. Then he skidded to a halt, a leg thrown out to keep his balance as his hands pressing against the brakes and he looked over his shoulder to meet my gaze.

I merely just stood, flashed a picture-perfect smile with a thumbs up and dusted myself off and repeatedly told myself –– Don't be a wuss Jude, be a woman. I glanced over to Mike's bike, it seemed okay from a distance. No scratches, no broken chains or anything of the sort. . .

I walked over to it and gripping the handles and I pulled it upright. The shiny red bike was, well, shiny, minus the bits of damp sand stuck to it. I was about to swing my leg over the frame but a hand, Paul's hand, gripped my wrist.

"Don't."

"Why? I'm perfectly fine."

His voice was firm and harsher than I had ever heard it, "That's pure gobshite."

I kicked down the stand and let the bike be. "Wha' you on 'bout?" I asked, narrowing my eyes at him. Unfortudanlty, I didn't always the best of understanding what he was talking about.

"Ya limpin' around like a wounded puppy and have that look in your eyes like you did when you hurt your head. Let me have a look. I'm clearly the expert."

"If I recall, you crashed into me, Princess Paulie. Then I hit my head."

"Hah hah, very funny, Daisy. . . ," Paul pointed over to a wooden bench only a few feet away, "Now sit."

I sighed, giving in, knowing that I couldn't compete with his bossy and stubborn nature.  His fingers applied weight against my shoulders and forced me to sit down against the bench.

I reluctantly lifted my skirt, scrunching up the material to just above my knee, it almost felt scandalous, like how it was in the Victorian times when women were forbidden to show their ankles.

"Ye quite the clumsy Clara aren't ya?" He bemused with a soft voice, examining the bloody mess of my scraped knee.

"Is it bad?" I whispered, tilting my head away. I had always been squeamish of blood.

"Nah, I think you'll live," Paul murmured with a teasing smile and a playful glimmer in his eyes.

I made a distraught face at the sight of the blood even if it was a little bloody scrape. My eyebrows knitting together.

"Did ya want me to kiss it better?"

"No!" I roared too loudly. Paul laughed heartily, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and pressing it against my scrapped knee.

"Does it hurt?" He asked me very seriously, no more of that playfulness from before.

"No, not really. Just stings a bit but I'm pretty sure that's what happens when you graze your knee."

"There's no need to be sarcastic, Daisy."

"Hmh, yeah whatever you say but speaking sarcasm every day keeps the doctor away."

"I've never heard that one before," He admits softly, but the grin that dances upon his lips nearly dulls the pain as he ties the enormously large handkerchief around my knee with a secure knot. "I always thought it was for apples."

I let out a raddled sigh, shifting on the chair as Paul stands offering a hand I accept. The sun faded wooden sign with white painted writing reads, 'Crosby Beach.'

From the corner of my eye, I glanced at Paul. He was looking forwards, over spattered towering spurts of grass, over the sand to the wide, endless, crystalline shimmering blue ocean.

An idea instantaneously sparked in my mind and my feet moved, forgetting about the bikes, forgetting almost everything as I raced forwards from the path and onto the grainy sand, calling over my shoulder with a laugh, "Race you!"

Automatically Paul scampered after me, already gaining on me when I had seconds at my advantage. Then what surprised me most was how a secure hold knitted around my waist, snaring me backwards into him and soon to both my shock and dismay onto the sand.

I didn't really care about the sand or the fact that it was in my hair or all over my clothes. What was more concerning was that Paul and I were nothing more than two bodies sprawled across the cold and powdery sand.

When my breaths finally evened and recognising exactly how unfit I was, I turned my head to Paul. There was nothing but sheer elation adorning his features as he'd remained like me with his back pressed against the sand, looking towards the wispy and feathery white clouds contrasting against the pale blue of the sky.

Maybe he had some sort of sixth-sense, some sort of superpower because I could see how he'd grinned as if he knew a secret I didn't.

"You have sand in your hair," Paul mused, gaze fixated upwards towards the sky.

"So do you," I murmured trying to commit this very moment to memory. Inky wind-tousled locks, peppered with sand. The soft curve his jaw. The exact hue of his hazel eyes and the specks of gold and green you could see in bright lighting. I knew, minutes, hours, even years later that my memory would never get him right and a part of me would forever believe that he was nothing more than a beautiful dream I conjured up with my imagination.

After a few moments, Paul bolted upright and his eyes scanned my face and very seriously, despite that playful glimmer dancing in his eyes spoke, "You still have sand in your hair."

"Meh, oh well," I shrugged my shoulders, sitting up too. "I just have a bath later."

"Daisy, love," Paul spoke warningly. "It's quite bad."

I rolled my eyes, folding my arms across my chest. "Your hair is probably just as bad, Macca. Anyways, you tackled me and now we are both covered head to toe in sand."

Paul, in turn, scrunched his face together as if he'd tasted a sour lemon, "I'd never willingly do anything of the sort."

I snorted. "Yeah. Right. I totally believe that. Then where did all the sand come from then, pretty boy?"

"Did you just call me pretty boy?" Paul asked, discarding the whole conversation, a subtle blush fanning across his cheeks.

"Yes, but that wasn't the question."

Paul was grinning like a Cheshire cat as he'd tapped his forefinger against his chin, "Well, I imagine that it was the wind, in fact, a very very strong wind."

My look was sceptical. Maybe it was because I'd complimented Paul sort of that he'd been unable to think of anything else? "Hmph. That wasn't very creative."

"I'll admit wasn't my best," Paul admitted in a gentle murmur, his eyes meeting mine. Then he was laughing, truly laughing with his face crinkled together and soon, I couldn't help myself because I was laughing too.

When the laughter died out, cautious calloused fingers reached out, tucking a selection of my lengthy chestnut tresses tenderly behind my ear. Paul had a sparkle in his eyes, shimmering within the deep honeyed pools of his eyes were like starlight when his eyes finally met my own. And then he'd smiled, that boyish, signature smile of his.

I smiled back, lazily and sloppily, then eventually mustered enough courage to lift my hand just as cautious Paul had and attempted to lessen the amounts of sand that were evident in his raven locks.

Paul chuckled ever so gently, his hand meeting and folding over my own, lowering my hand from his soft and silky sand-ridden hair and very hesitantly, I had noticed, let my hand go.

"I'm afraid, the damage has been done, lovely Daisy."

I rolled my eyes, blushing much worse than I had all day, maybe the worst in all my time with him. "I was just trying to be nice."

"I know," Paul admitted with a cheeky grin. "But getting all the sand from our hair and our clothes is a bit of a hopeless case at the moment, I'm afraid."

A moment passed and as our gazes remained interlocked and I couldn't dare to look away. Paul gaze shifted into something much deeper than before, it was hard to recognise it because I don't think that he'd ever looked like me like he was now. It was different to say the least but not unwelcomed. It was more startling than anything when his face inched closer to mine, so close that his lips were merely a hairsbreadth from my own.

Panic grew through me, sizzling throughout my veins, like a wildfire. No, it wasn't because I hadn't wanted to kiss him. A part of me was aching for me to do so but this other rational part recognised how much of a mistake it could be. It could make this into an ugly gushing mess, it could ruin something, just as my rapidly growing connection with him I didn't understand was.

Just as his lips finally touched my own, so leather light, so gentle and warm, I hastily leant back, shuffling backwards on the sand. I wish that I could find the words and tell him that it wasn't his fault –– that I truly completely and utterly adored him. That in another circumstance I would have let this happen, no matter how quickly things seemed to have escalated.

It was unexpected, as he'd processed what happened as something flashed in his eyes as they'd fluttered open. Hurt.

I caused this. I made him feel like that. I was hurting him already. Unshed tears stung at my eyes, a deep breath snagging within my lungs before I whispered the only truth I could, my voice cracking as my tongue rolled over the words, "Y-You hardly know me."

"But I'd like to," He breathed, his hazel doe-like eyes capturing my very soul.

It was for that very reason, I painfully stood. I was sinking deeper than I'd ever imagined into this world, into this and even into his life.

I stammered over the words, disoriented and lost. "I'm going for a w-walk, okay? I'll be back in a sec."

Paul only gave a sharp nod, unable to meet my gaze and I walked away, leaving him to sit in his solitude.

Eventually, after a couple of seconds determining where I'd venture too, I wandered towards the shoreline, watching the waves crash against the shore. Over and over again.

The salt water burned my senses, devouring them. I blinked it away, welcoming the warm kiss of the sudden sun against my face, and I savoured the feeling, it was always so rainy and gloomy here. It was a miracle that I had somehow gotten a little bit of sun, even if it was for a little while, even if I could feel regret on my shoulders.

Maybe I should have let him kiss me. I had wanted to kiss him. But I knew not to be selfish. I had to protect Paul from me. I had too, even if it was ruining me in the process.

I settled myself in the sand, close to the shoreline and far away from wherever Paul had decided to walk to. I pulled off my shoes and socks, wriggling my toes in the grainy texture I smiled for a moment, but instantly my face fell blank, burning with tears. I suddenly missed the heat, the smell of the eucalyptus trees in my grandmother's small backyard. It was happening far too soon as images and flashes of everything I loved beckoned towards me. I was stunned by how much I was beginning to desperately miss home.

In fact, I was horrified by it. I should be okay. I should learn to be happy, no matter what the circumstances that are thrown in my path. I should not be weighted down by this unfound and unexplainable weight which gnaws and chews at my heart.

There was homesickness but it ran deeper than that, something ebbing from the inside, wishing to be set free. But sometimes, when I allowed myself to think about it all, it felt as if a part of me was being clawed out from the inside. It made me feel sick in a way I had never felt before.

I was certain that I had no clue of exactly how long I could stand this everlasting weight I yearned to release off my shoulders. But the clock, ticking away, never once faltered, never once yielded because it was always ticking because Paul McCartney was already capturing my heart.

And I had no indication how long it would take —— how long I would have until I was completely torn apart.

author's note: did i cry whilst writing this chapter? yes i (in fact like a blubbering baby) did. anyways, here's the good news! i'm back!!