Into My Life

Chapter 4

A painful thump in the middle of my back startled me awake. I raised my head and looked around, momentarily disoriented.

John was sprawled next to me on his back, still asleep, and he had just flung his casted arm across my back. The drapes were pulled, but full daylight had pried its way into the room. It was nearly eleven A.M. I vaguely remembered waking up once about eight and turning John back onto his back and giving him another pain pill. That real event was foggy, but the sweet, intoxicating dream of dancing with a faceless stranger was fresh and clear and I wanted to go back to the dream, back to the dance, back into his arms.

I turned on my side toward John, and instead of going back to sleep I found myself watching him sleep, studying him, thinking how peaceful he looked. No pain, no worries, no anger. No sarcastic remarks or stubborn set to the jaw. No gleam in the eye revealing a funny -- and dirty -- mind. No gentle smiles, no knowing looks that left me feeling both unnerved by their accuracy and warmed by their sensitivity.

Was this the face of the man I had dreamed about? I wanted to put my arms around him and see if he was the dancer from my dream. And if he was -- and maybe even if he wasn't -- I wanted to go on from where that dream left off. That half awake extension of my dream was enough to make me blush, embarrassed by my extension of a passively received dream into an actively created daydream. I forced myself to more rationale thoughts.

Tour or no tour, he was married and that was the end of that. I would not think about the way I felt when he looked at me with that nearsighted but knowing gaze, the way he made me laugh with his silly mugging and outrageous comments, the way he teased me, argued with me. Or the way I felt when he let down his guard and I saw his fears and pain. And I definitely would not think about how I felt for that brief moment when he had pulled me up against him. The only thing I remembered, or at least the only thing I found sensible, from all the years of Catholic catechism classes was the admonition to "avoid the near occasion of sin." Don't go near places or people that may expose you to temptation. John Lennon was a near occasion if I had ever met one.

John stirred. He opened his eyes and turned to look at me, a sleepy smile spreading. "So! It would seem you slept with a Beatle!"

"Slept is the key word."

"Sorry to disappoint you!"

"I wasn't expecting much, so I'm not terribly disappointed," I teased.

"Oh, God! First I have to actually ask a bird to sleep with me, then she says she didn't expect much!"

I laughed at him and sat up and stretched. The stretch ended abruptly when he asked me, "And do you have anything on under that, then?"

I looked at him, unsure if he was teasing and realized I had to pretend I thought he was regardless. If he wasn't, any other response would move the discussion to a place I didn't dare let it go.

"A parka, thermal Long John's, and a chastity belt. I came prepared."

He laughed. "You needn't have. I can't even move without help. I'm harmless."

"You poor thing," I said in mock sympathy as I untangled the blankets and got up. Harmless? Black and blue, hurting from one end to the other, hog-tied in splints, this guy was still capable of making me want the kind of things I was taught to slap boys for trying!

John stretched and the accompanying yawn turned into a moan and a disgusted "Oh bloody hell" as battered muscles reacted to their wake up call.

For the next hour, I was busy getting John up and dressed. Bathroom, then back on the bed for a shave, shampoo, bath. Mal, Neil, and Brian were in and out and I finally got him dressed. I left him sitting up in the chair and went to get myself dressed.

I was in the shower, shampooing my hair when I heard a tap on the door. Over the sound of the shower I could hear John call something to me, but the only words I could make out were "Ciggies" and "George." What was he doing up out of the chair?

I was surprised he could manage getting out of the chair, and his balance was so bad he wouldn't make it far without falling. What was he doing? He must be headed across the hall to cadge some cigarettes!

If he fell . . . I didn't even want to think about it. I scrubbed frantically at my hair to rinse it.

Jumping out of the shower, I grabbed a towel, wrapped it around me and peeked out into John's room, hoping I was wrong. The room was empty. I had brought my clothes into the bathroom with me so I grabbed my underpants, struggling into them without toweling off. I had decided to wear shorts, thinking I might be able to spend some time out on the balcony in the sun, and I tugged them on.

A bra seemed an impossible task unless I took the time to dry off, but the top I had brought in was a thin nylon shell I couldn't possibly wear without a bra. The shirt John had worn the night before was hanging on the back of the bathroom door. I grabbed it, pulled it on and ran though John's room, buttoning as I went.

I burst into the sitting room and nearly plowed into George who was standing next to the chair where John was comfortably and safely seated. Ringo was sitting across the table from John, Brian was sitting with them and Paul was getting a cup of tea from a room service breakfast cart. If that wasn't enough, about half of the road crew was wandering in and out. They all looked at me, startled and amused by my bursting in on them with dripping wet hair and bare legs and feet.

John looked up at me. "Hungry, Tess?" he asked with a smile.

"I thought you took off on your own! All I heard was something about ciggies. I thought you were headed across the hall! I was afraid you would fall -- you get dizzy and your balance isn't good and without someone holding on to you, you could have fallen and broken something else and . . ." I was babbling and finally wound down with "Don't ever do that again!"

"He called and said he needed ciggies," George said. I turned to look at him. "I brought them over and helped him walk out here." He was smiling broadly at me.

"Ever so sorry, Nurse," John said with a wicked grin that belied the apology.

"Ready for breakfast?" Ringo asked. He was also smiling at me. "We decided to bring breakfast over here. The other room is a mess."

"Let me dry my hair --"

"Eat first," George said. "Before it gets cold."

"Here, I'll pour you a cup of tea," Ringo said taking my arm and leading me to the breakfast cart.

Paul hadn't moved. He stood there with a coffee cup in one hand, coffee pot in the other, looking at me strangely. "He doesn't recognize me again," I thought. The last image of him from the night before, hands all over a girl, popped into my mind. Maybe Paul McCartney only recognizes girls by touch!

I was intensely aware of Paul's eyes on me as I told Ringo I would prefer orange juice. I picked up a sweet roll and reached for a napkin, afraid to look at Paul for fear I would stare at him and get some kind of goofy, moonstruck expression on my face. Plastering what I hoped would be a warm, friendly smile on my face, I looked at him and found him still looking intently at me with those gorgeous eyes. Just as the red tints in John's hair had surprised me, this first close up daylight look at Paul's eyes was a surprise. What I had always thought to be dark brown eyes were startlingly complicated. Although they were basically brown, the clear morning sunlight brought out hazel and green and gold flecks that made the color even more interesting than the shape. I forced myself not to stare and turned away to go sit at the table next to John.

George and Ringo joined us and crew members stood around. I took a sip of juice and looked around the room. Big smiles. What a cheerful bunch -- I had expected hangovers this morning. I picked up the roll to take a bite and hesitated. They were looking at me expectantly, and still smiling.

"What?" I asked suspiciously.

They looked at each other and laughed. "Nothing, luv," said John, but his eyes weren't on my face. I looked down. I knew the shoulders of the shirt were soaked, but I didn't realize that as the white fabric got wet it became nearly transparent. As the wet hair brushing my shoulders dripped, the area spread. I was wet down to the second button. No bra straps showing through, so they knew that given enough time . . .

I stood up to leave, smiling at John. "You eat a good breakfast. I'll be in flushing your pain pills down the toilet."

Paul came up behind me and put his jacket over my shoulders. Everyone else protested.

"Thanks!" I said to him, startled. I certainly hadn't gotten the impression he was remotely prudish. He was still looking at me strangely, but as he looked down at me, a smile broke through. "The shirt looks better on you, Tess. Wet or dry." I was so startled, I think I managed to avoid that moonstruck look and give him a real smile.

I headed to my room and got dressed. When I got to my hair, I debated only for a second about putting it in curlers. I didn't have my hair dryer and it would take a couple of hours to dry by itself. There was no way I was going to let these guys see me in curlers! I started to pull it up into a bun, but then remembered John's hair dryer. I went back out and asked John if I could use it.

"Yeah, but you'll want to bend over." I must have looked confused but actually I was a little suspicious that this was some kind of Liverpool sex joke.

"Cyn always does her hair upside down with it," he explained. I wasn't sure what he meant. I had used his hair dryer on him that morning and had never seen one like it. It was a hand held blow dryer, huge by today's standards, but still smaller than the bonnet type we were still using to dry heads full of big curlers.

"Thanks," I said, and disappeared back into the bedroom. I started to put my hair up in curlers, planning to blow them dry, but the possible meaning of what he said occurred to me. I figured I could always wet my hair down and start over if this didn't work, so, feeling more than a little foolish, I bent over and dried my hair. I was amazed with the results. A tenth of the time of curlers and -- wonder of wonders -- hair that looked more like Pattie Harrison's than Sandra Dee's! I wasn't sure where I could buy one of these new-fangled inventions, but I decided right then I would find one.

I put on some makeup, and finally ready, picked up Paul's jacket to return it to him. Catching the scent of his aftershave, I stopped for a moment just to hold it up to my face. I breathed in the scent, picking up more than just aftershave. It was mingled with tobacco smoke, sweat and pure maleness. This was decades before researchers reported that scents called pheromones were responsible for sexual attraction, but as I stood there, I was only too aware of the effect Paul had on me.

Oh great! Now he didn't even have to be in the room and he got me crazy! It made no sense. I had hardly exchanged two words with him! Besides, John had always been my favorite and he was proving to be every bit as interesting as I had imagined. Paul might well turn out to be all looks and no personality.

Back out in the living room, everyone was reading newspapers and going over the reviews of last nights concert and watching the noon news coverage of it. One look at John relieved any concerns that this was upsetting to him. He was smiling gleefully as review after review said it just wasn't a Beatle's concert without John. All of them seemed to find it hysterically funny that they mentioned how the music suffered without him. "It was the only thing that saved us!" Paul kept laughing.

That didn't make any sense to me, but the noon news was reporting on the concert and the brief clips showed it well. There was a roar of sound as they took the stage, hysteria as they rocked through the opening numbers, and then Paul stepped up to the microphone to greet the fans with the usual "Glad to be here in Minneapolis" bit. When he started to say that John sent all of them his love, the place went nuts. They waited, laughing and looking around at each other, and when the sound level came down a bit, they launched into "Taxman." But the sound level in the stadium continued to drop. Low decibel sobbing was replacing high decibel screams. As the TV camera's panned the increasing number of sobbing not screaming girls, the difference between the studio version and the live version was painfully obvious. It wasn't the lack of John's distinctive voice or even rhythm guitar. Terry was doing fine on that score. It was the lack of double tracking and other backing.

"We did all the usual stuff we've been doing all year to cover it up," George explained to John as the TV clip ended. "Shook our heads, danced around to get them screaming when we needed them to cover the bad spots, but they just weren't doin' it!"

"They were all bawlin' and hanging on each other!" Ringo said.

"After that one, we had a couple of oldies that weren't such a problem. We conferred for a bit -- I wanted to skip "Drive My Car" and put George in on "Secret" or something."

"But then I said "Tell 'em to scream for John," Ringo said.

"And it worked! I told 'em "Show John you miss him!" and they went nuts."

"Every time we came to a weak spot," George said, "we just yelled "Do it for John!" or some such and they wiped out the sound!"

Dr. Latham showed up then as did the RN who was to check in on us. Mal helped me get John up and we walked him back into the bedroom and Brian joined us.

I went over how John was doing for Dr. Latham, reporting on the swelling, the dizziness and unsteadiness, pain level, headaches. He questioned him about where it hurt and how bad. He said the dizziness was most likely due to the Percodan, but the balance problem was from the skull fracture and would take a month or so to resolve. The leg immobilizer and arm sling could be left off when John was in bed. "Do you have any questions?" he asked John, and I knew what the question would be.

"When can I go home?"

"That's a long trip," Latham replied. "I don't want you to try it until the headaches ease up in a few days." John stared at him and seemed to consider that answer. Then he nodded and looked away. Mal and Brian exchanged a look, and I was surprised that no one pushed for a promise of a specific day.

Latham asked if I had any questions, and then told the other nurse that John was doing fine and there was probably no reason to have another nurse check in after all. He would be in daily himself and could always be reached by phone. The other nurse, an older lady who probably would have worked out fine as she seemed totally unimpressed with the fame of her patient, agreed and told Brian she would be available if I needed a break. She picked up her bag and signaled to me to follow her out the door. I did and she thoughtfully made sure I had her phone number. "If you aren't sure about something, feel free to call me before you resort to calling Latham," she said. Mrs. Stevens had made the same offer. Experienced nurses all knew that students have questions it doesn't take a doctor to answer.

I thanked her and she went on her way.

When I stepped back into John's room, Latham asked when John had last been medicated for pain. "About an hour and a half ago," I said.

"Good. I want passive range of motion exercises done to his left arm and shoulder three times a day." He turned to John who was sitting in a chair. "If this isn't done, your shoulder will freeze up and you'll lose movement in it permanently." There were shocked looks all around at that dire prediction.

After demonstrating for me exactly what directions to move it, how far to flex and extend and rotate it, and how many repetitions of each movement to do, he looked at me over the top of his glasses. "Can you do that?" he asked. I nodded shakily. John had cried out in pain and surprise with the first movement and swore through the rest of it. Dr. Latham had calmly apologized for hurting him, repeated that it had to be done, and not missed a step in the procedure or his running commentary to me. I could do the exercises but not as dispassionately as he had.

Dr Latham left with Brian and Mal. John and I looked at each other. "Ciggie, Tess," he said. I got one for him. My hand was shaking as I lit it and his shook as he held it.

"So," he said with a grim smile, "If I let you do that to me three times a day, what do I get to do to you?"

"I think lit matches under the fingernails sounds about fair," I answered.

We rejoined to others out in the living room and when Brian came back, Tony and several other people were with him and they were talking about setting up a press conference. John didn't want to talk to anybody, but apparently all kind of rumors were flying. He was dead, dying, in a coma, paralyzed, maimed, mangled, blind, had been whisked away to the Mayo Clinic, or it was all a publicity stunt. Tony, who was basically their press agent, said the only way to put an end to the rumors was for John himself to talk to the press.

John reluctantly agreed to do it, and the discussion then centered on me. Would it be best to have me there, in my nursing uniform, to answer questions? Apparently Dr. Latham had made it clear he did not have time for media hype. He had given them a statement to read that said basically that John's injuries, although painful, were minor and prognosis for complete recovery was excellent. They wanted me available to answer specific questions.

"I can't release medical information!" I protested.

"You have John's permission to freely discuss his case. Right John?" Brian said.

"Yeah," he said. "Don't worry, Tess. Just use big words and they'll think they're getting something."

I didn't want to do it. I didn't want to stand up in front of the cameras and answer questions, didn't want to see myself on TV, didn't want even 15 minutes of fame. But Brian and Tony felt it was important and, like John, I couldn't see how to get out of it.

The press conference was quickly set for five p.m. I was too nervous to eat breakfast or lunch or whatever it should have been. Time seemed irrelevant. People came and went. I gave up trying to keep track of whether they were reporters, promoters, or business men with some advertising scheme. In between being cornered by people who wanted autographs, stories, record deals, donations for charities and pictures, the Beatles all took turns calling home. All except for Paul. He was the only one not married.

I knew that he had split up with Jane Asher just before Christmas after dating her for nearly four years and after being engaged to her for only a couple of months. Fan magazines, which I occasionally scanned surreptitiously at the grocery store -- too grown up to be caught with Tiger Beat -- had reported the news with no details of what every girl was dying to know: WHY?? Since then, every issue had a picture of Paul with a different girl and a headline suggesting that this one was "Paul's New Girl!"

After I had talked to Cyn, updating her on how John was doing, John said his head hurt and I helped him escape to the quiet of his room. He stretched out on the bed, I closed the curtains, and sat down to read while he rested. A little later, there was a tap on the door and Neil came in to find out if everything was OK. John told him all the noise and commotion made his head hurt, but he was fine. It got quiet out in the living room after that and I assumed that the group had been moved across the hall.

I was too nervous about the press conference to sit still, and, when John fell asleep, I wandered back out into the living room. I was surprised to find Paul, George and Ringo sitting there with Brian and Mal. Apparently all the visitors had been asked to leave.

Brian asked again if John was all right, and I assured him he was but I saw George and Paul look at each other. A quick look, but there was something grim in their expressions. Brian was asking me if John would be up to the press conference and I told him I thought he would be fine after he rested for a while and that I would give him another pain pill when he woke up.

Terry -- the suitcase Terry, not guitar Terry -- came in to tell everyone that it was laundry day. If they wanted anything washed they had fifteen minutes to gather things up. Everyone scattered, and I went back into John's room and got his clothes and brought them out to Terry. I asked if he was the official launderer to the Fab Four. "No," he said "Official Guard of the Laundry. The hotel will do it, but someone has to be there or half of it goes missing."

"Don't let anyone cop onto me socks," Paul instructed him, coming back in with his clothes. "I'm down to the last."

Terry left and (gulp) Paul sat down next to me on the sofa. When Brian came to tell me to get John ready for the press conference, I realized Paul and I had been talking for nearly an hour. Somewhere in the middle of it he had talked me into eating something and ordered a sandwich from room service. Nothing but casual conversation, but he was relaxed, funny, and seemed genuinely interested in hearing about school, my roommates, whatever.

Although I was constantly aware of his physical presence, when he got up to go I found myself thinking how nice he was, not just how nice he would be to touch. Progress!

John was awake and I helped him to the bathroom, changed his shirt, and combed his hair. Neil took him out to the living room where everyone was gathering and I went to my room to change into my uniform. I changed quickly, pulled my hair up, stuck on the cap. John groaned when I came back out. Ringo smiled and said "You look fine, luv."

"What you can see of her!" John grumbled.

Paul went into John's room, came out with a jacket for John and said, "Time for another go with the fourth estate."

John informed him he was ready. "No more jackets, no more ties. From now on, if they ask a question they are going hear what I think, not what I'm supposed to say. They can take me as I am and if they don't like it, screw ' em."

"It's like the concerts," George said. "If we can keep it going without all the crap, I'm in. Otherwise, that's it. I'm not a Beatle anymore."

His words hung in the air for an eternity. No one spoke, no one moved. John wanted to change the ground rules for being a Beatle, but George had just said the words that could end it all. He wasn't talking about cutting this tour short or even about the end of touring. He was talking about the end of the Beatles.

I wanted to protest, to say they couldn't quit, but I had seen and heard enough in two days to understand. Besides, I didn't belong here, shouldn't be hearing this discussion much less speaking up.

Ringo leaned forward to put down the magazine he had been reading and sat with his elbows on his knees, head down. Paul walked over to the windows and stood there staring out. George watched him, then looked at John. John met his gaze for a moment, then leaned his head back against the back of the couch and closed his eyes. The silence was deafening.

Brian breezed into the room. "Ready lads?"

Paul turned around, walked over and tossed the jacket on the couch next to me and said, "Ready, Brian. Let's go." His tone was far from lighthearted or gung ho, but it was much closer to normal than I had expected. No anger or regret, no weariness. It was almost as if the moment before had not happened.

I stared up at him, astonished. There was nothing in his voice or his face, but I couldn't believe that was how he felt. John's voice and expression told me as much or more than his words, -- not that he ever minced his words -- but I couldn't read Paul at all.

Neil's words about Paul not letting his real feelings show came back to me. That night at the lake and that unguarded moment when John's words had cut him were certainly not the norm.

The press conference was strange. I had only seen bits of film clips, read quotes but now I learned that a full press conference was a weird situation in which reporters asked the same questions phrased a little differently over and over again. Brian read the statement from Dr. Latham and, as expected, they wanted more information. John waved me out from the sidelines where I was trying to hide and introduced me as "Tess Martin, my nurse."

Ringo got up to give me his seat along side John, then stood behind me and gave me a little reassuring squeeze on the shoulder.

I listed John's injuries, throwing in terms like contusions, ulna, clavicle, scapula, soft tissue injury, linear fracture. It worked! They quit asking about his injuries and started asking if it was true that they had brought in a specialist from the Mayo Clinic. Was it true that they were going to take him to the Mayo Clinic? Was it true that he would not be able to play the guitar? (Paul and George in unison: "He never could!")

When they got to questions about how the accident happened, how far had he fallen, I escaped back to the sidelines. Neil smiled and put his arm around me for a quick hug.

Was it true they had canceled the rest of the tour? When would they be leaving?

When would they be back? I held my breath on that one. Paul leaned forward and promptly answered that they had not begun to make plans for next summer. John and George exchanged glances as Paul went on to say that they were all going to take a little holiday and when John got the cast off they would start work on a new album. Someone asked when their next album was coming out. "Two weeks," they responded.

"Is it like Rubber Soul or are you going back to your usual style of music?"

"We can't go back, now can we?" Paul asked. "It's all been done, that "Yeah, yeah, yeah" stuff. We can't keep writing that over and over."

"Do you think the fans will continue to buy your music if you change it?"

"They have done," John said. "Rubber Soul is still selling."

"And Yesterday and Today is number one," Tony hastened to add.

After that the questions were silly things like "Are American fans different that those in England?"

"Faster off the mark," John answered quietly while the others said "No, they are just as loud." I knew he was referring to the ones who had seen the opportunity to break through the barricades, but the reporters didn't seem to catch it.

"Do you think you will still be popular a year from now?" George: "Perhaps not, but my mum says she'll still love me anyway."

"If a girl manages to sneak into your hotel, do you talk to her or is she thrown out?"

Paul: "That depends. If security catches her, she is out. If we find her we'll have a bit of a chat with her if she isn't carrying on."

Ringo: "It's a bit hard to chat up a bird who is hysterical."

Brian announced the end of the press conference and thanked them for coming. I moved up to walk John back to the wheelchair waiting in the next room. As I reached John, a man pushed his way to the front of the group waving a Bible over his head and yelling, "Your injuries are not an accident! They are God's punishment for your blasphemy and well deserved! The Christian people of this community do not want you here!"

John stared at the man and I thought for a moment he was going to say something, but he just looked away. For all his bravado and big talk about "take me as I am or screw 'em," the expression on his face was not anger, irritation, or disgust. He just looked stunned and hurt.

The retort that had come to me, as all good retorts do, too late to use on the nurse at the hospital, popped into my mind.

I leaned over John's shoulder and spoke to the man, not realizing that the microphones were still on. "If you are an example of Christian love, then John is right. In fact, Christianity is not in trouble, it's already dead." There was a momentary silence and then some of the reporters began to laugh. The fanatic glared at me and then around the room at the laughing people. He stomped out of the room. John looked at me and then turned to Ringo.

"Hug her for me. Hard," he said. Ringo stood up and hugged me. The reporters laughed and snapped pictures.

As I helped John up and got him out of the room reporters questioned me about what is was like to be John's nurse. "He is an ideal patient," I said and John and the others burst out laughing. Several reporters requested, demanded actually, interviews with me, and shoved phone numbers into my hands. When we finally escaped into the elevator, I shoved the slips of paper into John's pocket. "Just in case you ever have a need to discuss your favorite color with someone."

Having been held back by reporters and getting John into the wheelchair, Brian, John, and I were the last to get back upstairs. As we got off the elevators, I could hear Paul doing an imitation of a reporter. "Are American fans different that those in England?" he called out. In unison George, and Ringo yelled, "Longer legs and better asses!"

Brian said "Oh bloody hell," and made a bee-line for their room.

He pulled the door shut, but not before I heard:

"And do you think you'll still be popular a year from now?"

"Unless I get a social disease!"

"And if a girl gets into your room, do you throw her out?"

Brian shut the door but John was laughing and yelled out the response, "That depends on the size of her knockers!"

I was laughing too, and the embarrassment on Brian's face only made it funnier.

"It's OK, Brian," I said. "I stopped believing in the tooth fairy years ago!"

The door opened just far enough for Ringo to pop his head out. Finding himself face to face with Brian, Ringo plastered a big phony grin on his face. "Oh, hello Brian," he said, all cheery innocence, then turned and yelled over his shoulder "You've gone and done it now, Paulie!" and shut the door in Brian's face.

Brian looked back at us with a laugh, "Well, no harm done, I suppose. After all, you've spent time with the worst of the lot, you can't have too many illusions left!"

John grinned proudly. "And I'll continue to see to her education."

Back in his room, John stretched out on the bed. All but Brian, Mal, and Neil were taking an evening flight to New York and then back to London in the morning, so those who were leaving wandered in to say goodbye to John. After a bit, John said, "Let's get it over with, Tess" and we did the exercises. It was bad, but John didn't yell and didn't swear and I didn't cry.

George came in halfway through. He watched, expressionless. When we finished, he said, "Well John, wild sex is fine, but I think I'll pass on the sadomasochistic bit . . . We're all going for a swim. Come down with us?"

I changed into shorts (no swimsuit, much less a bikini in my suitcase and I wouldn't have been able to go through with wearing one in front of them anyway) and got John into the wheelchair. Brian joined us and we headed downstairs. It was a beautiful evening after a hot day. The hotel management had closed the pool to everyone else whenever the Beatles wanted it. Apparently they would do about anything to keep their English guests happy, no doubt hoping to avoid a lawsuit over the broken railing. They were all in the pool when we got there, and word was out. Fans and reporters were gathering at the gates to the pool. Mal and the security crew patrolled.

For the next hour I sat back and watched. As I said, it was a beautiful evening and for me quite a fascinating one. So much to see. George doing impressive dives off the board. Ringo and Paul horsing around with Neil in some weird game involving beach balls. Even though it was nearly seven, I kept my sunglasses on for a long time. That way I could stare without being obvious. Ringo was as I expected after dancing with him. Perfectly proportioned, arms and shoulders showing the effects of hours at the drums.

George was lean and rangy, and it was interesting to see how coordinated and athletic he was. Not something you could see in concert clips or the movies. Neil wore a tight, skimpy, swimmers-type suit. A nice body, but I couldn't get my eyes past the outlines of the swim suit area! And then there was Paul. Not thin, not heavy, not muscular, not fat. Like Ringo, shoulders and hips in proportion but instead of Ringo's small, slim shape, Paul was larger, stronger looking. I had expected a chest covered with black hair, and maybe even (ugh!) his back. But his chest had a spray of dark hair tapering down to a thin line that disappeared over his stomach and reappeared, widening just above his swimsuit.

And did I mention Neil's swimsuit? Or how disappointed I was that the others all opted for ordinary, more loose-fitting suits?

After about an hour, they had enough and, shivering, raced for the elevators. Brian and I got John up and followed them, but were waylaid by a small group of reporters. John and Brian smiled and politely declined to answer questions. Well, Brian was polite and John was not rude, but he did look irritated.

As we got into the elevator one of them shoved a piece of paper into my hand and yelled through the closing door "John Haywood from Tiger Beat! Call me!" Another piece of paper for John's pocket.

Upstairs they changed out of their swim suits, we ordered dinner, watched TV, laughed and talked. There was a real change in atmosphere. Now there was no press conference looming over them, no more concerts. Just a few days of hanging out until they could go home. And for the first time, there were no outsiders except me. I wasn't sure how such things were decided, but visiting hours were over. They were relaxed, laughing, kidding each other, arguing, and generally confusing the heck out of me because I couldn't follow the conversation. I'd already figured out that "Koom ‘ead" meant "come on" since it was something they all used frequently, and John's "Fookin' bloody 'ell" was old hat. But "Strite oop!" and "E's gone spare!"? Just when I was beginning to get a feel for the Liverpool scouse, someone, usually John, would launch into a plumy Britishism spoken through stiff upper lip or roll out a Scottish burr or Irish lilt that would have been every bit as hard to follow even if it hadn't been part of some inside joke.

After we ate, Mal asked if they wanted him to arrange anything for the evening. After he spoke he looked quickly at me and rephrased it. "I could bring people in. Do you want a party or just a few people?"

They looked at each other and laughed.

"Dylan in town?"

"Mama Cass?"

"John, why couldn't you arrange to do this in L.A.?."

"We could be hanging out with the Byrds, or the Beach Boys."

"Or Elvis."

That got big laughs and they told me how when they first came to America they wanted to meet Elvis. "Where's Elvis?" they asked each other. No one seemed to be able to set up a meeting on either of their first three tours. Finally, last year it was arranged. An evening at The Kings L.A. home. They arrived only to be greeted by his men. Elvis finally joined them, said hello, and sat moodily quiet as the Beatles talked with Colonel Parker. After an uncomfortable hour, lightened only by Paul discussing bass playing with The King, they left. In the limo on the ride back, they looked at each other. "So where's Elvis?" John asked.

We settled in for the evening, moving the TV into John's bedroom so he could lie down. Ringo made himself at home on the bed next to John. Paul slouched in the chair with his feet up on the bed. George and I sat on the floor along side the bed. Neil and Mal were in and out. We watched TV the rest of the evening. This was in the days before remote control, but they did an excellent job of channel surfing anyway. They were fascinated with the number of channels and shows. Apparently in England you had a choice of the BBC or the BBC. When the late news came on, I suffered through a mercifully brief clip of myself at the press conference reciting John's injuries. The camera was on John most of the time I was talking because he was hamming it up, looking shocked to hear the extent of his injuries.

After the news I noticed John was getting quiet. I asked if he was getting uncomfortable and he said his head really hurt. It didn't surprise me. I knew the pain pills only worked for about three or four hours before the headache started building again and by six hours it was bad. But the others got very quiet. Paul and George looked at each other.

It was almost time for a pain pill, so I got one for him. The others offered to leave, but he didn't want them to go. "I'll be fine once I get my fix," he laughed and did a little imitation of a junkie with the shakes.

We laughed, but I was sensing some real tension. George got up and left the room. "Ciggies" he muttered as he went out the door.

Ringo got up and turned the TV down and the mood was subdued after that. George came back shortly and we found an old movie, "Arsenic and Old Lace," to watch. After a while John was obviously feeling better. Inspired by the movie about corpses, he asked if I ever had to do anything with dead bodies.

"Students always get called to help after somebody dies. We may get through nursing school with little practice in starting IV's but we can do post-mortem care!"

"So you have worked with . . . them?" Ringo asked.

"I have only seen really old people or people who were sick for a long time. They don't call us for the ones where the family is all upset."

"But have you ever been there when some actually died?" John persisted.

"Yeah, a few times."

"What was it like?" George asked with obvious interest.

"Kind of disappointing, really. They just kind of wind down. Like a watch ticking slower and slower and finally stopping. I thought there would be a specific moment when I knew they were gone, like on TV. I thought you could look at the clock and say "he died at 1:07 p.m.," but . . . they just slow down. After a while you just finally decide that there aren't going to be anymore breaths and then you look at the clock."

They were all listening intently.

"But there has to be something. Something besides they stop breathing!" John said, sounding irritated either at my lack of insight or at the lack of drama as we leave our bodies.

I had to laugh in spite of the challenge in his voice. "The first time I actually expected to see some sign of the spirit or the soul or whatever leaving the body. A misty shadow moving upward, or at least a feeling. I even looked at the curtains, thinking they should be stirred by the breeze of a passing soul.

But . . . nothing."

"Then what?" John asked.

I hesitated. I had been asked these questions before, and depending on the situation, was perfectly capable of grossing out non-nurses with details of post-mortem care. Trying to get the eyes to stay closed, putting the dentures back in, propping the jaw shut, taking out an IV from a stick site that never bled, the waxy, yellow-grey color of the skin. But both John and Paul had mothers who had died. I didn't think they would want to know about that.

"What do you mean?"

"What is like to be in the room with them?" John asked. Paul was sitting silently in the chair. Impossible to read. Again. For someone with a face that showed so much expression at times, he could close it down really well. George was looking at me as if he were hoping for insight into life, death, infinity. Ringo's expression showed the most normal response; "Yuck!"

I thought for a moment, trying to find the words.

"It is like looking at a house right after someone moves out. The body just looks . . . empty. The person is gone."

Ringo looked relieved, George disappointed, John satisfied, and Paul looked away.

Teddy Roosevelt was charging up San Juan Hill again blowing his trumpet, directing our attention back to the movie. During the next commercial, I ducked into the bathroom, and when I came back, conversation abruptly halted. They looked at each other and John said to Paul, "Go get it, son."

Paul looked at me a little uncertainly, then back at John.

"John," he said, and there was something in his voice that I picked up on immediately. It was the same thing I heard in my own voice when I had to disagree with John and knew I risking being on the receiving end of a cutting remark. I hadn't heard that from Paul before. He was usually pretty good at dealing with John when John was hurting and irritable. Whatever they were talking about, John apparently was not in a mood to compromise and Paul was treading carefully. "Perhaps a little later . . ."

"Suit yourself," John snapped. "You're becoming a drag, son. George, go get it."

George looked at Paul, shrugged his shoulders and started to unfold himself from his spot on the floor. But Paul held up one hand and said amicably, "Alright mate. I shall go along. Just this once, mind you -- you know I'm not that kind of boy!"

That got the desired laugh from John, and Paul left the room. "Well, he may not be keen on the new, but at least he's not regressing on the tried and true!" John said. I had no idea what that meant, but George found it especially funny.

Before I could ask what was going on, John asked to go into the bathroom. I helped him up and walked him into the bathroom.

"You're not going to ask?" John said as I shut the bathroom door.

"I bet I don't want to know," I said dryly. His laugh told me I was right.

When we came out, Paul had returned. There was a blue TWA bag on the bed and they were all busy rolling cigarettes. I watched and once again wondered what that "prudent nurse," that mythical paragon of nursing perfection to which the legal system compared all nursing transgressors, would do in this situation. The thought occurred to me that Nurse Prudent wouldn't have gotten herself involved in any of this in the first place!

Well, marijuana wasn't on any list of respiratory depressants I had ever seen. In fact it was being studied as a method of pain control in conjunction with other meds.

"You're not going to try and stop me?" John asked. It was a dare.

I thought about it for a bit. "No," I said. "But I am going to have to go in the other room and pretend to be asleep. If I get caught in the middle of pot party, they will kick me out of school."

"Mal knows what we are doing. He won't let anyone in." Paul assured me.

"And George is the fastest flush this side of the Pecos," Ringo added, taking his first, long, drag and smiling then handing it over to John.

I could always zip through the bathroom into my room. I decided to stay. I felt better about keeping an eye on John if he was going to do this. Besides, although I knew pot use was increasingly common especially among college kids, I had never seen anyone smoke it and I was really curious.

It turned out to be nothing more than a couple hours of them feeling good, mellow, and happy and a lot of silly giggling. There was an episode of rolling on the floor laughing, stories and jokes that reverted to that Liverpool accent so thickly I couldn't follow.

At two a.m. we ended the night eating ice cream sundaes from room service, carefully intercepted and brought in by Mal, and listening to WLS on the radio. I had even done John's exercises. It went easier this time. The pot or maybe just the distraction of the others talking and laughing seemed to help.

They talked about music, new groups, old favorites. Guys from Liverpool and Hamburg days, what are they doing now? I found out that Ringo was a big country western fan. George talked about wanting to go to India to meet Ravi Shankar. It was the first I had heard of him. The conversation moved into the future. Their future as a group. Whether or not they could keep going if they concentrated on the music and not on Beatlemania. No tours, no live concerts. TV appearances didn't appeal to them. As Neil had said, the only thing available on TV was the lip-synched guest appearance.

Making another movie would be OK but finding a script . . .

All they wanted to do was records.

"So what do we do if that doesn't work? If they want more?" Paul asked.

"Come on, Paulie," John answered. "It's lasted years beyond anything we ever expected."

"I'm not giving any more," George said. "If that isn't enough, then it is over. I'm not going to be a loveable mop-top the rest of my life!"

John bopped him on the back of the head with his cast. "You never were loveable!"

"Was so!"

"Was not!"

"Was so! Watch this!" He got up, pulled me to my feet and sat me on the edge of the bed. The he faced me, air guitar in hand and let loose with a full volume "Yeah, Yeah, Yeah, Ooooh!" complete with the famous shake of the mop-top and best Beatle grin. We all started laughing and really cracked up when he shut it off just as if someone had unplugged the Beatle as well as the guitar. "That was loveable, wasn't it Tess?"

I responded with my best "fan at the Ed Sullivan show" imitation; "George, I love you George, George, George, George!" I squealed and sobbed and bounced and toppled over onto Ringo in a swoon. We were all laughing when the door burst open and Mal rushed in.

He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw there was no horde of fans invading. Neil and a couple other security people piled up behind him. Mal marched over to George, shook the handful of cards he was clutching under his nose. "Full house, Aces and queens. Best bloody hand I had all night!" he said and the stomped out.

"'Course I'll miss that sort of thing," George said.

****************