From The Mouths of Babes
by Judy Johnson
September, 1968
"Where in the hell is McCartney? He was supposed to be here at eleven o'clock and it's now half past noon!" John was in a foul mood. No surprise there. John was always in a foul mood it seemed. Especially foul since it was aimed at Paul this time, but lately he seemed to fairly radiate with an undercurrent of anger and sarcasm that ran a little deeper than usual. Yoko sat on a high stool beside John. George Harrison, being the only other person within earshot heard her muttering "So rude! Half past noon!" to no one in particular, but obviously in an attempt to egg John on.
Geoff Emerick sat behind his console, far up above them in the control room, phone pressed to his ear. Setting the hand piece back onto its cradle, he mimed with a shrug of his shoulders, hands wide spread to indicate something that the rest of them already knew. Paul was not at the studio and no one seemed to know if or when he would eventually show.
"He only lives four fuckin' blocks away! There's no fuckin' excuse for him to be this late. I've got half a mind to go over there and kick his fuckin' arse!" John continued, getting angrier as the clock ticked the minutes away.
"No excuse, there's just no excuse. You should go kick his ass," Yoko muttered, echoing John's sentiment.
Well, that was the last straw for George. If John wanted to go kick Paul's arse to the moon, George would help him launch the rocket because the four of them could say or do as they pleased to each other, but as soon as Yoko started in on Paul by suggesting damages to Paul or his arse, George was having none of that! And he was surprised and somewhat miffed that John was allowing her such privileges!
"Look, we can't do any of this overdubbing stuff without him, so why don't I just zip over there and see what's going on, shall I? The rest of you can listen to what we did the other night and see what more needs doing, alright?" George spoke as he pulled his jacket on, car keys already in his hand as he was heading for the door.
"You tell him if he's not here in thirty minutes, I'm coming over there to kick..." The door closed on John's words, but the sentiment hung in the air outside in the corridor. George took the steps two at a time to his Jaguar parked just out front in the EMI parking lot. Enjoying the few brief moments of solitude as he sat behind the wheel before starting the engine, George wondered what part of his own anatomy he would be risking if he just turned his car north and headed towards Scotland.
Turning on to Cavendish Avenue, just those few short blocks off Abbey Road, Paul's house was easily identifiable by the ever-present throng of gate birds milling out front come night or day, rain or shine. They started shouting and waving as they recognized his car and he rolled down his window as he pulled up to Paul's drive.
"Hello girls!" He smiled as they rushed to his open window, obviously quite happy at the unexpected bonus of seeing him there today. "I don't suppose you know if he's home or not, do you?"
"Hi George!" They squealed in greeting. "He came home about an hour ago." One of them volunteered. "He had his little sister with him."
"Really! Okay, well how about one of you hit the buzzer for me, eh? Just tell him it's George on his own and I need to talk to him!" George rolled his window up and waited for the gates to swing open, hoping that he, at least, was in Paul's favor today and could be bribed by the news that John had not accompanied him.
Paul's little step-sister Ruth was a gregarious nine-year old and Paul always seemed to enjoy spending time with her. Ruth's mother Angie had married Paul's dad Jim nearly five years back, and high time, too; old Mr. Mac being widowed those eight years. Angie and Jim made a good pair, despite their age difference and Jim seemed to flourish under a woman's care and attentions again. But the real bonus to their matrimony brought Paul and brother Michael a new little step-sister.
After what seemed an eternity, the gates slowly swung wide to allow George to drive his car up the path next to the house and then closed again behind him, leaving the girls outside moaning their disappointment.
Paul appeared at the front door, smiling and holding the door for him, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he was supposed to have been at the studio now nearly two hours ago. George noted that Paul was very casually dressed, had on vinyl flip flop sandals and a baggy T-shirt over worn jeans. Not his usual attire for the studio, so it was possible that he'd merely forgotten about today's session appointment. That by itself set off alarms in George's head. This was all very strange. Not to mention that little sister Ruth was visiting today of all days!
"Hey George! This is a surprise! I expected John to come bolting over the gate frothing at the mouth" Paul laughed. So, he hadn't forgotten today's session after all.
"Paul, have you completely lost your mind? Do you have any idea what's going on over there? You're just damn lucky it's me that came to fetch you and not John."
"Well, I've had a sort of unexpected development. My kid sister Ruthie's here and I've been called upon for child care duty," Paul offered by way of a lame excuse, the effect of which was mirrored on George's face as he turned a skeptical eye on his bandmate. Paul smiled sheepishly as George shook his head in disbelief. George continued on into Paul's kitchen, drawn by a delicious aroma emanating from the vicinity of the oven!
There he was greeted by the sight of Paul's sister Ruthie, kitchen towel around her waist as a makeshift apron, and bowls, spoons, flour and sugar spread out across the countertop as she read what appeared to be a recipe card while cracking eggs in to a mixing bowl. A buzzer sounded on the oven and Paul picked up a towel and pulled a hot pan of biscuits from within.
George started laughing at the surreal sight of domesticity playing out before him. Both Paul and Ruthie looked up at him as though he was the one out of place here.
"Ruth, you remember my friend George, don't you?" he asked his sister, smiling.
"Course I do. Your wife is Pattie, right?" she asked, looking up from her recipe card.
"That's right. You have a good memory." George nodded approvingly with a smile. He then turned his attention back to his bandmate.
"Paul, are you even aware that there's a studio full of people over there threatening to form a lynch mob if you don't show up today? We've been calling you for the last hour. Didn't you hear the phone?"
"The phone just kept ringing and ringing, so we turned it off," Ruth declared, answering before her brother could come up with an excuse. George turned a questioning look at Paul. Paul gave a small grimace, knowing he'd been caught up again.
Paul sighed a deep breath and picked up a spatula and started scooping biscuits off the baking sheet and placing them carefully on a cooling rack on the counter. He avoided looking at George for several minutes and when he finally spoke, it was in a small patient voice, as though he were talking to another child besides his kid sister.
"Yes, I know there's people over at the studio and I'm trying very hard not to feel guilty about that. But it can't be helped. Besides, I didn't think my presence would be particularly missed. I did hear the phone earlier but we were rather busy at the time."
"You said that it was probably John and you didn't want to talk to him," Ruth reminded him, wondering why her brother wasn't telling the truth. Paul gave her a rueful grin.
"Well, you are missed. In fact, John's pretty livid. He said he was comin' over here to..." George caught himself, sparing a glance at Paul's young sister " He's planning to do some "damage to yer person' if you're not there in the next half hour, and that was twenty minutes ago." George said, glancing at his watch. " We need to get those overdubs done, Paul, and we can't do them without you." George reached across the counter and picked up one of the still warm biscuits off the cooling rack as he spoke.
"Hey! Those are for my school project!" Ruth scolded.
"Sorry!" George said taking a large bite. He grinned up at Paul.
"I've finally convinced Dad and Angie to go on a holiday if I'd look after the Squirt here." Paul said, wrinkling his nose at his sister. He chucked her under her chin when she gave him a dirty look at the sound of his nickname for her. "Little did I know that she had this baking project for school. So I'm kind of stuck here playing Nanny, even if I wanted to go in to the studio, which I don't particularly."
George leaned over and snatched another biscuit and Ruth gave him a stern look, hands on her hips. "Can't help it, love. You're a good cook. If I wasn't married already, I'd be on me knee for ya," he teased her, smiling at her blush of embarrassment.
"I don't suppose you've got any milk, do ya?" George asked, looking around for a glass.
"In the fridge." Paul grinned, nodding towards the far corner of the kitchen.
"You don't look too eager to go back there yourself." Paul observed while George poured himself a large glass of milk. George put the bottle back in the fridge and turned back to the counter and sat down on one of the high stools there, grabbing one more biscuit while Ruth's back was turned.
"Not as long as John's in one of his moods, I don't," George said, shaking his head.
"Why is John always so pissy?" Ruth asked suddenly, causing both Paul and George to start. George choked on his mouthful of biscuit at her bluntness. Noticing the shocked looks on their faces, Ruth continued.
"Well, that's what you said. You said John was always so pissy and that's why you didn't want to be around him."
"Ruthie, I never said that," Paul lied, trying to deny a conversation he'd thought would never be repeated.
"Yes you did!" Ruth insisted. "You said John used to be your very good friend, but now that he doesn't want to be your friend anymore, it hurts your feelings to be around him. And I asked you why he doesn't want to be friends anymore and you said it was because he was too busy being so pissy."
George started giggling, thoroughly enjoying Paul's discomfiture at his sister's childish honesty.
"It's not funny! That's what he said." Ruth said, irritated that they didn't seem to appreciate her truthful rendition of the facts.
"Oh, I have no doubts about that, Ruthie. I'm sorry for laughing." George regained his composure and watched as Paul busily put the next batch of biscuits in the oven, probably wondering how he was going to recover his dignity in light of his sister's unwitting betrayal.
"Ruth, you don't have to repeat everything I said," he admonished, trying to cover his embarrassment.
"So what kind of school project have we got going here?" George asked, trying to steer the conversation into safer waters.
"I'm supposed to make three kinds of biscuits for my World History class. They gave us recipes for biscuits from all around the world and each of us has to do three different ones. But I'm not going to have enough if you keep eating them all."
"If you need more flour and eggs, we'll just run to the grocery and get more. Besides, you want to have them tested, just to make sure they turned out alright, don't you? Even royalty has official tasters." Paul pointed out with mock seriousness.
"Plus there's the fact that you'll probably get a better score if you don't end up poisoning the entire class right?" George grinned at her, joining in with Paul's good-natured teasing.
She shot George an insulted glare, but begrudgingly had to admit that her brother probably did have a good idea. It would be humiliating if these biscuits were anything but delicious, and her brother and his friend were a safer risk than finding out they weren't any good in front of her classmates.
"So what kinds are you making?" George asked, after swallowing the last of his milk and reaching for yet another biscuit.
"These are molasses crinkles, for Holland. And the ones in the oven are chocolate chip cookies, for America. And I'm just starting on the lemon cream bars for France," she said, holding up each recipe card in turn as she spoke.
"That's a far cry from the Math and Geography that we had to take, eh George?" Paul laughed as he broke off a piece of molasses crinkle and popped it into his mouth.
Then as if on cue, the oven buzzer sounded and Paul automatically picked up his towel and pulled the soft, lightly browned cookies from the oven. Just as automatically, George returned to the fridge for a refill on his glass of milk.
They had just barely started in on the latest batch, when there was suddenly a loud pounding on Paul's front door. Paul and George both just stood staring into each other's faces, neither making a move to answer the door but both knowing just who was most likely standing on Paul's porch. John had apparently come to make good on his promise to kick somebody's arse for keeping him waiting at the studio. But now that he had two errant bandmates to contend with, his major decision was now probably whose arse would he be kicking first!
"Do you want me to get it?" Ruth offered, since it was apparent even to her that neither of them seemed to be thrilled at the prospect of answering the door.
Paul turned, swallowed the other piece of his crinkle, heaved a resigned sigh and dramatically marched to the door, as if he were sacrificing himself in the line of duty.
"It's about bloody time!" John shoved past him and stormed into Paul's living room. Nostrils flared, his breathes coming in short gasps, he seemed to be trying to keep his temper in check but was obviously having a difficult time of it. Paul was wondering if John had indeed scaled the security gate out front and why the girls out there hadn't buzzed him to let him know of John's arrival. Probably too fast for them, he thought. Another testament to just how angry John really was at the moment. John could never be termed an athlete, unless really spurred.
Paul and George both stood staring at the floor, looking every bit the chastised schoolboys that they felt, and John hadn't even said a word yet!
"I just want to know, were either one of ya ever planning on joining us at the studio today? Because if ya weren't, I wish to God you'd have picked up the phone and just said so. Is that too much to ask?" John spoke in a quiet, reasonable tone that both stunned and scared the living daylights out of the two of them.
Paul, at a complete loss for words, must have had the look of a deer caught in the headlights written across his face and stood silent for so long that even George turned to look at him.
John gave an expectant gesture as he waited for an answer to his question, but said nothing more.
"Hello!" Ruthie's tone of voice made it clear that she had apparently been trying to get someone's attention and her first summons had obviously not been heard. Paul broke his stare and turned to attend to his young sister.
"I said, I need someone to help me with the lemon bars!" she repeated in an exasperated tone.
Paul gave his sister a reassuring smile and gently guided her back towards the kitchen. He turned around and gave John a small smile and said "I'm sorry for keeping you waiting so long, John. If you come in the kitchen, you'll see what we've been up to."
Astounded at Paul's reticence, John followed him into the kitchen, tailed by George.
With Paul's assistance, Ruth was placing freshly made lemon cream bars onto a plate and arranging the three varieties of treats in a row for sampling.
"You remember my sister Ruthie, don't you, John?" Paul asked.
John just shook his head and stood back with his hands on his hips staring at Paul.
"What the bloody fuck are you on about?" he finally snorted.
"John, c'mon! Not in front of a child, please?" Paul pleaded.
George walked past John, heading towards the plates of treats. "Remember, you're in front of a nine- year-old." He said to John in a harsh whisper.
"Yeah, and there's a little girl present too." John remarked sarcastically, his comment directed at Paul.
Paul looked up at him and mouthed "ha ha" at him, acknowledging John's sarcasm, but finding no humor in his tone in front of his sister. The tension between the three of them was broken by a small voice.
"Paul said that you liked chocolate, John. Do you want to try my chocolate chip cookies?" Ruth offered, sounding very much like a peace offering.
At the sound of her small voice, John stared at the young girl behind the kitchen counter. Then he glanced over at the plates of treats on the counter in front of him. Then as if finally noticing the delicious aroma that hung in the kitchen of good things baking, he looked around Paul's kitchen at the baking pans on the table, bowls in the kitchen sink and bags of baking ingredients on the counter. He then returned his gaze to the plate of chocolate chip cookies, his temper and previous anger evaporating at the hominess of these surroundings.
"You made these?" he asked Ruthie. When she nodded affirmatively, John picked one off the plate and started chewing.
"You can try the other ones too. There's molasses crinkles and lemon cream bars, but those still need some powdered sugar on top." She pointed out each variety under John's piqued interest.
Paul and George shared quick grins at John's easy capitulation at the mere mention of chocolate. They stood quietly watching as John sampled the treats before him and seemed to be relishing this unexpected booty.
"Well, I'll need some milk." John stated, glancing up at his bandmates while reaching for another warm cookie. Paul quickly grabbed a glass from the rack on the kitchen counter and headed towards the fridge again. Grinning hugely, George joined John at the counter, scooping up one of Ruth's lemon bars.
"What are you grinning at?" John asked suspiciously, letting his own humor be heard in his tone.
"Not a thing, John. Not one thing." George answered him soberly.
Ruthie watched the three of them moving around in the kitchen in a kind of quiet truce as they enjoyed her sweet treats.
"You know Paul, John doesn't seem so pissy right now," she observed. Paul's eyes grew to the size of saucers. John stopped in mid-chew and stared at her, then turned his glare towards Paul. Turning away, George clamped a hand over his mouth to keep himself from laughing out loud. Paul finally cleared his throat with a nervous laugh.
"Here John, have another cookie," he whispered, pushing the plate closer to his friend.
