Above: The band was attacked! It is only right to quickly clarify, the 'attack' wasn't all that serious but it did see The Beatles' trademark black suits messed up after they suffered a flour bombing from 50ft above the Colston Hall stage (10th Nov '64). The group didn't seem to mind, they were laughing after the incident. Four young students, one a policeman's daughter would you believe, were responsible for the heinous crime. They said: "We dropped the flour and ran for it. We did it to prove security and the hall was a farce." They also claimed they had watched The Beatles' 1963 performances from the same vantage point! (Photo at the end)

 @ 10th Nov 1964 - finish of the tour of England.

"Knock, knock!" With a grin and a nonchalant gait Paul graced his fathers living room. He was very pleased to be met with a sea of tea and tray of treats; Like it was laid out in anticipation of his arrival "Awww, for me... you shouldn't have" Home cooking was great cooking; Paul grinned cheekily at the spread.

His every wish nowadays, granted. His every whim, answered.

"Get your paws off that lot. Ang is having some ladies round for tea any minute now"

Except, that is, when you go home.

Jim rolled his newspaper as he stood, and walloped the end across Paul's derrière as he retreated. A mock sulky face appeared and was thrown over his shoulder as he clutched his behind and wandered toward the bottom of the staircase. Jim followed at his own unique pace. A speed somewhere between leisurely Sunday stroll to the corner store for smokes and being told dinner was on the table. "Come 'ed I've got your rations up in the spare room"

"It's an attic Da"

"It's a room. It's windowed and has four walls. It's mostly vacant. Thus, a spare room"

"I hope I get pretty little small cakes the likes of those on that tray down in the front parlour up in the atticccc"

"Probably the burnt ones. Why she tries to do numerous chores at once is beyond me. If you are cooking- cook. It you are doing the smalls, do the smalls. A woman is never still and we have the proof of that very fact, in the spare room. So tell me, how was Liverpool? You were there this past week were you not? Visited Gin and all your kin I do hope"

"I didn't have much chance of using the bathroom while we were there, let alone the time to get lost in a sea of familiar faces. Was a rush as always, in and out, wham bam thank-you mam, you know how it is"

"I certainly hope you weren't whamming and bamm-ing all over the United Kingdom and especially in the 'pool! I don't have the room for oodles of grandchildren"

"Now hang on, just a minut-" Paul scoffed down a couple of small, dry, haphazardly iced cakes and took a great swig of tea to get the lot down, banging on the front of his chest for good measure. The lot had stuck right there, dead centre. He still managed to take the opportunity to tease his old man though "Anyway Da, there's these little tiny pills the ladies take nowadays that stops all tha-"

"I know, I know. I had to fill Ang's script just yesterday..." Jim scowled like a true actor of merit then let amusement lace his features..... He'd done well shutting the boy up, making Paul think of oldies having a shag. Now, where did he leave that blasted photograph album...

Paul tossed an old photograph album on his mother's heirloom side table that was positioned beneath one of the two windows in the room. He then took a seat on the sofa he and Mike had lugged up the three flights of stairs the last time he visited.

Dragging his feet up and over the end so he could lie down, Paul toed his shoes off as he went. Clunk, clunk they sounded on the floor.

"Don't let them drop like that son. Sounds like a bomb has dropped downstairs you know. We'll have Ang yelling for a bit of shush next."

As Jim tugged the door closed, he mumbled to himself about oiling the hinges as he ran a finger down the rusty juncture pin. Dusting his hand free of non-existent dust, he reached over Paul to run a hand over the cover of the album. 'Here goes nothing' began running 'round in his head; anticipation of Paul's reaction sitting foremost in his mind. As he took hold of the album and placed the book of memories on his favourite armchair Jim continued on and traversed the room to the other window. He couldn't sit just yet, as pent up nervousness leached through his veins.

Paul was different.

Older than Michael, Paul had the memory of an elephant always.

Any little change or promise–Paul recalled, and with pedantic accuracy too. A tiresome but handy characteristic that had ultimately helped the lad with his vast mountains of conjured up lyrics and tunes that addled his head at the most obscure of times. The tune Yesterday, being the pinnacle of the elephantine trait, having been perceived in a dream and hours later recalled through his fingertips, note perfect.

And then there was Mary.

Paul often brought up his mother in a most reverent and beholding way. An angel could be no better angel than the heavenly being that was the mother of Paul McCartney and that was wonderful, fantastic really, the way it should be. But getting between a boy's grand worship of a 'can do no wrong' mother and dropping an adult-sized surprise like Theresa in the centre of it all was bound to create havoc, if only in the younger man's mind.

Oh, he wouldn't make battle per se. He wouldn't bluster about and toss books flying here, there and everywhere, but a mood would likely drop like a mask over the lad.

Make a normal jovially, talkative people pleaser, introverted and clam mouthed. With even a familiar audience of family or friends, words hastily shrivelled and sat drying in his throat instead of outward and public carnage.

Instead, those words would be taken away from the situation of which he was offered them. Then, on the long drive back to London, they would be sharply bitten out in the confines of the motor along with the ensuing melee of it all being pulled apart, dissected to within an inch of its life and, if he could, annulled.

Whereupon, one James Paul McCartney would either:

One. Place a call through to 'Rembrant' and apologise profusely to his father.

Or two. Not talk to his old man for a month of Sundays.

Jim hoped for the former.

"Right, I asked you up here because I have news"

"Oh yeah? The gee-gee finally paid back for his horse feed did he?" Paul grinned up at his father who stood at the head of the sofa. Jim was upside down. "Neiiighhhh! Did all the other horses get scratched from the race? Hang On! ...Or fall over!" Paul belly laughed, Jim did not. Paul stiffened, his kidding self, quietened. Paul the kidder scrambled to sit up on the seat "You sick then.... What is it? Let's have it out then"

"Paul..."

".... You should have told me on the telephone, instead of waiting... Have you been to the doctor's yet? Did they run tests? Do you have the results"

Son!" Jim scrubbed a hand over his face, grabbed the album and slumped in the chair to wait for Paul to take a breath.

"I have contacts now. Lots of -"

Stop lad! I'm not ill!!" Jim settled himself to a calmer state, leant forward toward his eldest son and reiterated with a loving, indulgent smile for his caring child "I'm not ill son"

Paul took a breath and leaned back with feigned nonchalance. Like he hadn't just taken a sharp turn and gone and jumped off the deep end of his worst fears.

".... Although... I wish all this to be over with, quick smart. To know what you think of it all"

As with Michael, the letter was passed over and a mawkish look blessed Paul's features. Even though his mother's name was written on the page he still huffed indignantly as he roughly handed the page back.

His eyes had lit up, albeit momentarily, with some semblance of joy when Jim mentioned the lass's name.

'Theresa' was his mum's middle name. Paul had always liked the name. Every now and then, when George turned about and occasionally called Pattie by her full name of 'Patricia', the 'sha' sound at the end oddly pierced into random memories of his own mum. Silly really but different things always snapped him straight back to her. The tinkle of a bicycle bell. A nurse in uniform. A baby's cries. The feelings for his mum would seep into his mind like an unstoppable waterfall of brilliant colours, happy moments they had, before that dreadful final day, scrambling out of a dark closed off place inside.

Which, for his sanity's sake, was mostly locked up tight.

The fleeting joy, quelled with thoughts of charlatans, money-grabbers and get rich quick scam artists. This thought alone had the very idea of 'Theresa' die back to annoyed disbelief. These types appeared all the time now that the band had money. Anybody, anytime, rocking up and wanting something of them, taking something, using the excuse of 'Paul's loaded' or even overcharging by thrice only because it was The Beatles.

The wonder of 'perhaps' was sent packing with a quick flick of his long fringe and one foot tapping at great speed on the end of the sofa.

And that photo album. The photo album that Michael caressed with care and welcome was not given the same loving treatment. It was handled roughly, trolled through in haste.

Paul scowled at the letter sat nestled safely in his father's hand. Scepticism etched his still boyish cherub face. Yes, there were photographs.... but, well,.... that could be anyone stood there with his auntie Lo and uncle Phil, couldn't it?

"Are you sure you're not ill" With a slap, the album was tossed blindly up on the table behind him.

Jim could only flinch. Paul would take stubborn to new heights; he could feel it in his bones.

"I think you should see the doctor. A specialist, come into London next week and I'll have a top quack sorted for you"

"I'm not ill" With a sigh Jim ran a hand over the airmail page, flattening it on his thigh. He tried again. I'm not ill and your mother and I-"

Paul cut his father off "No bother, a bit of check-up. Count the heartbeats of that ticker of yours. Bit of a tune up if you will"

"I'll not be wasting a good doctors time with nonsense, Jimmy"

The nickname Jimmy wasn't used very often due to the fact Jim was James and Paul was James. However, now and then, when Paul pushed, the pet name flew from Jim's lips.

"Well, what then? This is idiocy this is. Have you up and gone balmy? Has Ang slipped you some homemade tea from the back gardens weed population?"

"I'll have you know there is not one weed in that back garden!"

"See.... I'm asking if you 'ave been drugged and you're only bothered about weeds" Paul watched his dad carefully. He found nothing to suggest fact or fiction, pranks or brainwashing. Yet still... "Crackers" was mumbled under the lads breath.

"What did you say!"

"I said – crackers Da." Paul stood tall over his father, Jim never cowered but the lad was livid and Jim knew better than to stand toe to toe. Paul carried on... "This gurl has put some rot in your head and now you think you have a grown-up daughter living in the outer colonies! She's playing you, you know that, right? It's just absolute porky pies that."

"Not wanting to upset the pecking order then, is that it? What if I make Theres-"?

"Don't say that name!" Sinking to the sofa opposite his father, Paul continued on in earnest "Christ, would you listen to yourself Da. It's a load of rubbish. You know I'm the oldest and that's that"

"Theres-"

Da. Nope! I'm not listening to any more of this tripe. I come all this way to see you and you're... Well you've just gone plain balmy, you 'ave!" Ditching the sofa and pulling on his shoes, Paul fled the spare room "I'll see myself out. Ta-rah"

"Well at least his silent treatment didn't make an appearance"

Jim smirked at the wobbly jest he could still hobble together after all Paul's huffing and puffing. "He'll come around...."

Perhaps when he meets her and sees her with his own two eyes...

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

"......... Just listen to your old man Paul. I've come to the conclusion he's got to be the straightest fellow in the entire Northern hemisphere. If he says you have a sister – ye have" John stretched for the bottle of ale on the kitchen table and frowned at the mess Paul was making. The newspaper didn't deserve to die by Paul's hand, but die it did. Tiny pieces were piled up higher than the height of the salt shaker that sat between the pair of them "You know you're buying me a new daily for ripping up that one"

"You read it; it was going in the trash anyway"

"I hadn't done the crozzie yet, you wanker. Always do the crozzie then toss it.... I feel slightly bereft"

"Theresa"

"What's she done to you then?.... Smiled and got her, more than likely, disgusting pink muscly tongue of hers stuck in a gap in her hundred-mile fence?" John shuddered then tried to get his own tongue in his gap.

"Put your tongue in yer head slapper and no, she didn't stick her tongue in a fence ya nob! Gee what is it with you and tongues this week"

"Wouldn't you like to know" Grinning, John began rolling his tongue provocatively all the while leaning closer to Paul across the table.

"Ugh! Naff off with that slimy thing!"

"What did she do then!?"

"Her name is Theresa, apparently...."

Grinning, John got on with the entertaining job of enjoying himself as he annoyed the crap out of McCartney "Well we'll have to label her I suppose, just in case your Theresa looks slightly like you and you two get yourselves muddled up. Wouldn't that be a muddled pickle of multifarious McCartney's"

Cocking an eyebrow at the rather strange word choice of multifarious Paul awaited John's retort.

"...Three across- yesterday's crozzie"

"Of course it was" He had to grin, yet he still felt like clocking someone.

"Theresa tickled a tippling tippler. A tickle of the tippler tipped 'er. Think! How did the tippler tip Theresa?... 'Cause she was nibbling the tip of his-"

"Shut it Lennon! La La Laaaa" Paul began grinning a little more openly though. John could always make him feel better about a crappy situation. He wouldn't let Lennon know that though.

"...If Theresa picked a peck of pickled peppers, Where's the peck of pickled peppers Theresa picked?"

"Shut up, you imbecile!!!!!!!" Paul flicked the pile of John's newspaper in his mates general direction. Black and white newsprint drifted across the room, falling all over the floor.

"No need to get narky Paulie. I was just picking on Theresa's poor perfectly pickled tickled tipplers" John figured- say the lass's name enough it might be better received in Pauls brain or he'd hate her even more. Both likely possibilities.

"Come on man, a little help would you please. Someone's trying to scam me Da"

"Your Da knows his mind Paul. He doesn't take fools, or indeed me, lightly" John, rolled his lip. Yes, Jim McCartney still had not succumbed to the Lennon charm and he'd been laying it on thick for more than five years!

"What if she's out to hurt him"

"What if she's here to love him..."

"But it's inconceivable all that. Poppy-cock. All this time, not a call or visit. Why??"

"Perhaps she didn't have a penny for the telephone... Perhaps the colonies are more backward than forward in the outback of the back to front of beyond the black stump, cobber..... Look I don't know but give your old man some credit. He's not an imbecile.... and I bet my next hit record..."Paul gave John a surly look "Sorry, our next hit record, he's never steered you, or the family, wrong...."

Pausing for effect John continued on with a flourish, lifting his beer in a toast "Righteo!! .... Congratulations mate... your Da just gave birth to a one-hundred-and-fifty-pound, give or take, baby girl. Your sister!"

The chair scratched the lino as Paul went to stand. Mad at everybody within a hundred-mile radius, even if they didn't know him–he was mad at them "You're as mad as he is... I'll see you in town yeah?"

"Yeah ok.... Bring your sister if she's a looker. What am I saying. If she has your eyelashes and puppy dog eyes, she's going to be a smashing hit with all us lads"

"Fuc- Oh, hello Cyn. Better go, gotta dash. Tar-ah, cheerio and all that" Paul fled, annoyed at Johns relentless teasing. John wouldn't be let within metres of his sister if she was his sister anyway.  John definitely wasn't a help; If anything, he was enabling his own dads hare brain announcement.

"...Hey! Paul!" John called down the hall after his friend "Remember to buy me the bloody paper!!!!!!!!!" The front door slammed and Cyn tapped her foot and glared at the mess covering the floor. John did the only thing a good husband should do "What's for dinner luv?"