To meet you in the falling rain...
Paul finds a new direction at the end of the world
Is Paul McCartney dead or alive?
Some mornings, waking cold and hungover to his baby wailing in the northern dawn, he’s not so sure. For weeks now, ever since Abbey Road was released and stoned college kids took his bare feet as conclusive proof that he’d popped his clogs, he’s been hounded to give evidence for his continuing existence.
He’s taken Linda and the kids up to Scotland, to Kintyre, to a farm he bought years ago as a tax write-off, to hide out for a while. But even here, at the most westerly tip of Great Britain, a place that Linda says feels like “the end of nowhere, like civilisation just dropped away”, he can find no peace. Already the Daily Express have been up, poor Judith Simons arriving bewildered in the dead of night. Yesterday he was woken by a couple of hacks from LIFE magazine in search of a scoop. They almost got the contents of the McCartney slop bucket instead, before his inveterate people pleasing instincts kicked in and he brought the kids out for a family portrait on the bonnet of his Land Rover.
If his charm is still functioning then Paul McCartney is still alive. But look at the bleeding state of him. He seems to be deep in mourning. “The Beatle thing is over,” he tells LIFE, leaning on a pitchfork, ankle deep in October mud, though they don’t seem to quite hear him. “It has been exploded, partly by what we have done, partly by other people.”
The shrapnel has hit him harder than most - straight through the heart. On his diary page for Tuesday 16 September 1969, the day that John announced he was leaving the group, after reminders to call Davis and pick up Mary’s rice cereal, he doodled, in big ballooning red ballpoint around a tiny apple,
THE END
Paul had always seemed the one bound for solo glory. Way back in 1965, debuting “Yesterday” onstage at the Blackpool ABC, broadcast live to the nation on ITV, George had introduced the solo interlude: “Tonight, for Paul McCartney from Liverpool… Opportunity Knocks!”. He’d stepped into the spotlight, his tidy fringe, moon face and arched eyebrows perfectly framed for his close up and somehow summoned a phantom string quartet from the wings. Wasn’t this his destiny? John certainly seemed to think so, rushing on, as the screams kicked in and lights went up, with a joke bouquet for the soppy balladeer. “Thank you Ringo - that was wonderful”.
But in truth Paul was the most Beatlesy of the Beatles, the Mayor of Beatlestown, the one who needed the band the most. Weren’t all his deepest solo songs about the terror of being left alone? He was patient zero, the first to sign up, catching something in the sight of a sozzled 16 year old Teddy boy on the back of a lorry in Woolton 1957 that no one else seemed to see. “He looks good – I wouldn’t mind being in a group with him.”
For years now, ever since Brian died, Paul has been the one keeping the show on the road. Right up to the end he’s been insisting they jump in a van, get back to the clubs, show everyone what a great little band they still are. When the rug is finally pulled he’s the last to know. It feels like betrayal. He still can’t believe it.
Walking his dog in the fields before the kids have got up, trying to shake the whiskey from his head, it all feels like a very long, very strange dream. When the mist comes in from the sea, he loses his bearings, his place in space and time. He could be a kid again, back in the wild west of the Speke estates, sneaking down Dungeon Lane towards Hale Head, another place that felt like the end of the world. There were skylarks out there, rising high above the Lancashire fields. He would sit in a tree by the lighthouse and gaze out across the Mersey, past the blazing smog of Runcorn and look out to sea. He’d imagine he was training, getting ready to be a soldier, preparing for the national service just a few years in his future.
The only uniform he ever wore was the pale blue satin of a psychedelic hussar, but nevertheless, this morning, climbing the hills, checking in on his sheep, he feels truly shellshocked, like he’s just back from his tour of duty. They say that on clear days you can look across the Irish sea from up here and see Antrim. But this morning all he sees is the mist rolling in, no way ahead, the Kintyre lighthouse blinking out in the gloom.
But even on the bleakest morning he can still wake with a tune in his head. “That would be something, it really would be something,” he croons to Martha, “to meet you in the falling rain, momma, to meet you in the falling rain.” What is it? A corny old skiffle riff, some ancient blues that’s washed up on this morning’s shore, sprung up from the rhythm of his walk? Whatever it is, it’s brought a smile to his hangdog face. Suddenly Martha has caught the smell of breakfast on the wind and she’s off, haring back down to the farmhouse, and he can’t help it, he’s beating out a basic drum track on his walking stick as he strides off after her, he’s humming along a cheeky little bass line. Even out here at the end of the world a little magic can happen. He runs down the hill to share it with Linda and Heather, and there waiting for him, bawling with all the might of her tiny lungs, is baby Mary, waking once again, amazed at the crazy wonder of another morning on earth.
