Friday the 17th of October 1958

Playing music was what Paul wanted far more than passing his exams. I tried to stay neutral on the matter. It was very difficult for me as someone who was very much on the side of things. I was very much used to John and Paul around me almost always. John was here extremely often and the two would work on their original stuff, listen to records and attempt to replicate and mirror what they heard. It would go on for hours. I'd be outside hand washing the laundry and I could hear it from outside. It was often a secret joy that would bloom in my heart to witness the two playing together. It was so special.

I would forever carry those in my heart and treasure them ⎯⎯ even the lucid John Lennon. He was a boy grappled with pain and loss and it would forever pain him. I would back away and surrender if that's what it took for him to tolerate me more. I had nowhere to go and it made me try so hard not to take this whole beer thing to heart. It was a mistake kissing Paul but not a mistake somehow. I cannot bring myself to regret it but I could not afford to let myself forget the dangers of it.

The lamp cast a dim light in my shoe-box room drawing me back to my newfound reality. At times I'd forget where I was ⎯⎯ that I had woken up on a footpath, dizzy, distorted and very much confused with Paul McCartney looming over me.

I was reading before bed and I could still hear Paul splattering and coughing down the hall. The poor thing. He had suffered the past couple of days with the flu. I had been playing nurse bringing him hot tea and homemade soup when I wasn't working. Jim would chuckle at my antics, calling me a sweetheart. I think it had saved him from Paul's dramatics and how he was one to suffer from the man flu.

I liked being domestic. A homemaker of sorts. I found value in it. I made sure Mike and Paul had ironed school shirts and folded them neatly. I made sure all three had there lunches set for the day when I left for the bakery early in the mornings. It made me feel somewhat useful and use up time in my days.

I knew it got stuffy when you had a guest or visitor in the house for long lengths of time. I tried my best to minimise that and do things how they all did it.

I knew we had a lamb roast on Sunday lunch after church to St. Barnabas and then bubble and squeak for dinner. I knew how Mike liked his socks folded and that he was always loosing them. I knew that Paul would hyperventilate if I arranged his records the wrong way. I knew that when we had guests that weren't family Jim would use his late wife's special tea-set and tray and bring out the good biscuits.

I tried to fit in the best I could and tune myself to what I was expected to. I hoped it was working. I still had phrases and wording of my own that were odd and my oblivious nature to certain things such has events or appliances sometimes were clearer than others. But I could blame it on my Australian-ness. I was from another country of course. Not to forget another time.

I turn the page of my novel. It was Virgina Woolf's 'To the Lighthouse.' I was just beginging the second section of of 'time passes' when I heard Paul continue to cough. I stand and my pink cotton nightgown falls to my ankles and I tug at my sleeves quickly don my purple dressing gown.

I flick the switch on the chrome torch and open the door ⎯⎯ the door hinges squeak and I flinch at the loud sound. I trudge over to Paul's room. I open the door and I shine torch light on Paul's face and he quickly covers his eyes.

"Oh love, cut it will you?" Paul complains and coughs. I switch off the light and stand in the dark.

"You're coughing a lot. Do you need something?" Paul coughs again. "Do you need some warm water and salt? It'll sooth you're throat when you ⎯⎯ I'll go boil the kettle."

I trudge out of Paul's room and into the hallway and down the stairs. I think he likes it that I'm looking after him. I make my way into the kitchen and switch on the light. I settle the torch on the counter and fill the kettle and place it on the stove and light gas with a match. I was used to the electric stove at my nana's house, but I was getting the hang of this. I take the jar of salt and level out a tea spoon and empty it into the mug I had ready. Once the kettle whistles and its pipping hot I took it off the stove, turn it off and pour enough hot water to mix it in with the salt.

When I return upstairs Paul is waiting for me. His lamp is on, casting a dim light in his room and he is propped up in bed. I see the collar of his flannel pyjamas and the blankets are pulled as high as he can make them.

"I'm back," I declare in a whisper. Paul blows into his hanky and I can see how miserable he must be. I really hoped that he was by the end of it.

"This is hot. Go to the bathtoom when you can, maybe wait half an hour, this is really hot and gargle this okay?"

"Pardon?" Paul asks and there is some amusement in his eyes.

"Gargle," I reaffirm.

Paul giggles a little.

"What are you giggling about?"

"Oh, y'know. . . your accent."

"You're supposed to be stuck with the flu not laughing about accents."

Paul sighs. I am clearly ruining his fun. I didn't think my accent was odd or difficult to comprehend.

"I'm going back to bed," I announce, it was getting late. I lean over to give him a kiss on the cheek. "Goodnight, Paulie."

Paul moves his face at just the right moment and I end up kissing him on the lips. Oh, dear.

"You could have just given me your cold!" I whisper-yell.

Paul giggles more and he smiles in the way that makes my heart flutter and grow warm. I am so glad I am the one that made him smile. I am glad of all of it.

"If you're giggling this much. I am not making you breakfast."

"You loved it!" Paul croaks out. I did in fact love it but theres no way I would ever confess that.

"Goodnight," I inform him and I turn on my feet.

"Goodnight Princess," Paul speaks and I smile. I cross my foot over the other and curtsy and I hear another round of Paul's laughter. I never thought myself to be the funny type. It was either that or he was delirious.

"Be sure to send my regards to the Queen and Buckingham Palace."

Paul coughs again. I hesitate at the door.

"Do you think you need me to watch over you?"

"Oh very much so," Paul says softly. We both very much knew that he would be okay on his own.

I untie my dressing gown and place it over the chair and I lift the sheets of his twin bed to settle beside him. I am greeted by his warmth, the faint smell of lavender and cigarette smoke.

"Is this okay?" I ask, knowing that we'll be squished together like a couple of sardines.

Paul brings his arm over my waist, inching us even closer together. It was squishy but I loved being close to him. I don't think I had been this close to someone before. Last time when I couldn't sleep it was a bit different.

"Your hair smells lovely," Paul whispers. "Like soap."

"Thank you. I'll go to sleep now," I promise and together we do.

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Saturday the 18th of October 1958

The following morning I untangle myself from the trap of Paul's arms and leave him to sleep. I pull on my dressing gown, go to the bathroom to run myself a bath, brush my teeth and make the best of my messy and unruly curls before I make breakfast. I had made an effort to get up before anyone else. I was groggy and sluggish and much more of a night owl than a morning person so I hoped the bath would help.

I descend down the stairs after my bath and I make my way into the kitchen. I decide on bacon and egg sandwiches, sick of the great amounts of porridge or spreads on toast I had endured. I set up the plates and the miss-matching tea cups upon the small round table.

I am glad that I am inside as I cook some bacon, looking outside into the sunlight beginning to stream through the windows and not having to go outside at all. I hum to myself a song by the Pony Tails about being born too late. It was one that I know all too well.

I hear a guitar strumming in the front parlour. It's the Zenith guitar I think or that was what he showed me. And knowingly it's Paul. He spends hours writing usually and it doesn't surprise me usually until this song does. I can no longer pay attention to breakfast because what I am hearing is wonderful. I make my way to the front parlour and stare as Paul making out the chords to what I am sure is a Beatles song.

I realise that I am foolish and that I shouldn't disturb him so I leave him alone. I toast bread in the toaster and butter it all on four plates, dishing up the bacon and starting on the eggs. I'm not sure how everyone likes their eggs so I've tired to make it not too runny or too hard. I prepare the tea with four bags plus one. Jim taught me that, always for all the people in the room and an extra.

One day, you'll find
That I have gone
But tomorrow may rain, so
I'll follow the sun

I try to refrain from feeling the lyrics too much. I try to hide how this song that has been in my life for as long as I can remember and how it has such a deeper meaning unfurling. Paul was writing something that was going to happen sooner or later. I'll have to let the sun shine on me and let this all fall away and move on from it all.

It hurts my heart so deeply at the thought of it. How could I be expected to go onto bigger and brighter things? I struggled enough as it is.

"Daisy!" Paul smiles as he comes into the kitchen.

"I see you're much better," I comment with a frown. Paul still had a bit of a stuffness to his voice but other than that he seemed back to normal. He was dressed for the day.

"Yes, ta, love. Listen to this ⎯⎯," Paul begins. He wonderfully plays me an entire rendition of the song. It was very close to what would be put on Beatles for Sale minus the percussion by Ringo I believe and the lead and bass guitar. The whole time he is grinning ear to ear with that boyish smile of his and I can hear it whilst he plays. I am haunted by how he sings so hauntingly, his voice was truly mesmerising.

"It is beautiful song," I comment setting the eggs on top of the plates I prepared. "The lyrics are very poetic. Did you write that one alone?"

"All alone," Paul tells me. "I was looking through the lace curtains and it came to me."

"What a mind," I whisper to myself.

"You're not wearing an apron!" Paul scolds with an outstretched finger, then turning away to put his guitar somewhere safe. "Darling, do always cook without an apron?"

I look at Paul flabbergasted when he gets on his knees, he swipes a cloth from the sink and tries to get dab at my dress to remove the stain. He called me darling. To me calling someone love was just apart of the vocabulary here, but darling, oh darling, darling. . . was a term of endearment.

"Your breakfast is getting cold," I murmur. "You have a talent show gig thing shortly."

"Mmm, Johnny and the Moondogs," Paul acknowledges.

"You guys changed the name?"

"Er, I suppose so. Collin can't be on drums."

"Oh wow, that's exciting!"

Paul stands aiming with one eye closed to get the cloth in the sink. Suddenly he looks so bummed out as he turns to me, his intense hazel gaze sweeping over me.

"Daisy I think you need to take that off," Paul hums whilst tapping his chin.

"Why?" I ask.

"I'm going to have to soak it in the sink. There's a bucket to give it to a soak right now."

"Breakfast," I order, trying not to linger how suddenly forward Paul was. I was glad that there was no pushing on our relationship. I had no idea what to do. "Then you go upstairs and use the salt water I made last night. You have to be right for your gig."

"Only if you're coming," Paul comments.

"You want me to follow you around the house?"

"Yes," Paul murmurs and then says something inaudible that I can't hear.

"Wow," I laugh. "I'm so honoured."

Paul laughs too and the sun is shining through the kitchen window. I think of something Paul said to me, the clouds will roll away  ⎯⎯ this confusion and hurt will slowly dissipate and he was right. He was the one that had bandaged my heart, glossing over all my wounds. Somehow he was making it all better.

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Author's note: Hiya everyone! Are we liking the updates so far? I'm finally starting to get to the end of things with this story (at least this part. Paul and Jude will forever have unfinished business). I've been really enjoying coming back to these people and characters after a really hard year and a half. I've been finally able to include certain things that actually happened — songs Paul had written around this time and age and gigs with George and John and little details. Please let me know your thoughts I'd love to hear them ❤️