I just realized that I don't own the Beatles! I kept running around telling people about my revelation. For some reason, they snorted incredulously and asked me if I had amnesia.

A/N: To my Beatles in a Beetle readers: welcome back! And to my new readers: welcome! Enjoy the ride :0)

A/N II:  The photo is of a 1954 Ford Anglia like John and Paul's.

A brisk wind whipped through the scraggly grasses of the Scottish highlands. Grey clouds hung moodily overhead, every now and then a lone beam of sunlight cascading down through a narrow gap. A grey strip of asphalt, barely wide enough to have two lanes, wended through the valleys and hills of the countryside.

A grumbling noise disrupted the quiet whistling of the wind, gathering slowly in intensity. Abrasive black rubber ground down the road, the agitated wind grew more frenzied, a beam of sunlight was cut off from the heavens, and a white bus appeared on the horizon. It sped along the road and zipped past the scraggly grass, eager to get someplace less desolate.

Inside the bus, a young man pensively watched the scenery fly past. Apparently oblivious to the hubbub surrounding him, he pushed his thick-framed black glasses up his nose. He stared at the brown grass and far-off clumps of evergreens, his expression indecipherable.

Everyone else in the bus seemed to be talking at once. Another young man with a softer face, sitting next to the one with the glasses, said loudly, "Come on, Eppy! We just want a little break to stretch our legs!" He made extremely convincing doe eyes across the bus, twisting around in his seat to look at someone else.

"What d'you think, John?" he asked, turning back to his bespectacled companion.

"What?" said John Lennon absentmindedly, turning to look at his friend, Paul McCartney.

"D'you want to stop at the next gas station?" asked Paul impatiently.

"Yeah, course I do!" replied John.

"We don't have the time . . . ." Brian Epstein, their manager, attempted valiantly from the back. Everyone else groaned. "Fine, alright. You can have a quick break," he relented, conceding to his inevitable defeat. "But we must meet up back at the bus after ten minutes."

The Beatles cheered. "Hooray for Brian!" yelled Ringo, sitting across the aisle from Paul.

Mal got up rather unsteadily and stumbled to the front of the bus, swaying from side to side with the vehicle. Conversation started up again as he asked the driver to pull over.

Soon, the bus was pulling off the narrow strip of asphalt into a weed-crusted parking lot. Across the parking lot stood a small, battered yellow building. A sign in the window proclaimed that it was open from eight in the morning to six in the evening.

"Is everyone getting off?" asked Brian. There was a general reply in the affirmative.

"I'll meet you back here at 4:10," said Brian. "Don't be late!"

The second the bus ground to a stop, everyone tumbled out the door. Mal and Neil made a beeline for the telephone booth on the right corner of the gas station. Brian, George, and Ringo all headed inside the slightly dilapidated but still rather cheerful building, leaving John and Paul standing aimlessly outside the bus.

"What now?" asked John.

"I dunno," replied Paul. "Guess we'll just stroll around for a bit."

The pair wandered across the parking lot toward the left corner of the gas station. Paul shivered as the breeze tugged at his suit and mussed his mop top.

"Freezing, isn't it?" he commented.

"Yeah," replied John. "It's kind of nice, though."

As the duo passed the corner of the building, a shimmer of silvery blue caught Paul's eye. He turned to see a battered Ford Anglia languishing in the shadow of the gas station. John also looked over at the old car.

They exchanged a pointed glance before walking over to more closely inspect the car. Paul was sure John also saw the handwritten "For Sale" sign stuck to the inside of the dirt-speckled windscreen.

Paul turned to John.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" asked Paul.

"Doubt it," John replied, staring off at the hills in the distance.

"What're you thinking?"

"Platypuses would make very bad secretaries."

"Ooo-kay, definitely not thinking the same thing, then," said Paul, scratching the back of his neck.

John looked over at Paul. "What're you thinking?"

"That car probably isn't much money."

"Oh! Now I'm thinking what you're thinking. I think."

"We've got to hurry, then," directed Paul. "You go back to the bus and get our stuff. I'll buy the car."

They both leapt into action, John dashing back to the bus and Paul jogging into the gas station. The bassist was in such a hurry that he didn't even notice George and Ringo searching the shelves for snacks as he made a beeline for the counter.

"That your Ford Anglia outside?" Paul asked the woman behind the counter in a low voice. She was probably in her mid-sixties, with slate grey hair and twinkling eyes.

"Yes, that's right," she replied in a crisp Scottish accent.

"I'd like to buy it, if you don't mind," said Paul, glancing warily over his shoulder. He noticed George and Ringo now, but they were too busy looking at the snacks to see him.

The woman behind the counter smiled. "Ah, good to know the old girl's going to get some use again."

"How old is the car?" asked Paul, quickly adding, "Also, I need to be able to drive it right now."

"Oh, she's about ten years old now," said the woman, rolling her rs cleanly. "And still in perfect driving order."

Paul hurried the transaction along as quickly as he could. As he pocketed the car keys, he asked, "Where's the next gas station? I'd buy stuff here, but I have to run."

"Go to the right out of the parking lot, take a left at the next asphalt road, and go another mile or so," replied the woman, her eyes twinkling.

"Sorry, but could I go out your back door?" added Paul hastily.

The woman gave him a conspiratorial wink. "Certainly."

"Ta," said Paul, slipping out the back door and into the cold breeze. John was waiting there, sitting on the Anglia's trunk. Two brown suitcases and a black guitar case were scattered across the cracked asphalt and brown weeds around his feet.

"You ready?" asked John.

Paul raced over and unlocked the trunk. He picked up his suitcase and shoved it inside; John unceremoniously dumped the guitar and his suitcase in next to Paul's.

"Why didn't you bring my guitar?" complained Paul.

"Blimey, Paul, d'you expect me to be able to carry all that and not get noticed? It's a miracle I got past Neil and Mal with all this!"

Paul put his hands in the air. "Okay, okay."

John slammed the trunk shut. The thunk resounded across the desolate plain, carried along by a fresh gust of the frigid breeze.

"Can I drive?" he asked innocently.

"No!" yelped Paul. "You are not getting near this steering wheel, not after Bournemouth!"

John made one of his trademark "crip" faces at Paul, thrusting his tongue under his lower lip and crossing his eyes.

Paul laughed. "Let's get this show on the road!"

Mal was standing outside the phone booth, waiting for Neil to finish up calling the Glasgow hotel to make some last-minute changes to the Beatles' accommodation. He pulled up the collar of his coat against the biting wind and cupped a hand around his cigarette to protect it from the onslaught.

As he idly watched the parking lot, the roadie was surprised to see a beat-up Ford Anglia zoom out from behind the gas station and accelerate away down the road, into one of the rare patches of sunlight that had escaped the heavy clouds.

"You ready?" asked Neil, stepping out of the phone booth.

Mal turned away, almost reluctantly, from the disappearing, silvery-blue dot that had been the Ford Anglia. "Yeah."

A/N: Reviews keep me writing! The more reviews I get, the sooner I'm likely to post Chapter 2! See you then :0)