George stood at the bus stop and fished about in his pocket for a fag, found a packet and pulled it out.  He cursed when he realized the pack was empty, then cursed again when he looked about at the lingering fog.  He’d always hated days like this, when the fog stayed ‘round so late, everything looked so ghostly and scary.  He shivered uneasily.

His ears caught the faint sound of an approaching voice and a grin crossed his face as his fears were stilled.  Was that John?  Sounded like him!

“’ey, George, where ya off to?”

George blinked and his grin widened; the fog was lifting and he could make out his mates’ faces!  Trying to appear cool, he simply nodded a ‘hullo’ instead of rushing to greet them.

“’morning, John, Stuart, errrrm, jus’ headed home,” he replied as casually as he could, scratching his head to hide his lingering uneasiness.  Where had he been off to?  He couldn’t remember!

“Yeah?” John asked with an easy smile.  “We’ll ride with ya.  Think yer mum might be willin’ t’ fix us some brekkie?”

“Yeah, might,” George allowed, feeling somewhat queasy at the thought of food.  He quickly changed the subject.  “We gonna practice?  ‘s Paulie comin’ over?  What ‘bout Ritch…”

George paused in confusion, somehow realizing that something was wrong, there seemed to be little buzzing insects in his head, whispering things to him, what was wrong with him?  Something wasn’t quite right…  He shook his head as if trying to rid himself of the voices plaguing him.  The buzzing continued.

John and Stuart exchanged a glance, then Stuart shook his head.

“Nah, Paul’s not ‘ere, nor Ringo, but we can practice some tunes, if ya want,” he replied.

A bus rumbled up to their stop and they climbed on.

“Gotta fag?” George asked as they settled themselves on the upper deck. 

It was turning into a lovely day, and the sunshine was rapidly burning the fog away.  He watched from the corner of his eye as John and Stuart exchanged another glance.  George resolutely ignored the buzzing in his head.

“Nah, those things’ll be th’ death o’ ya,” John said with a grin, and Stuart snorted a derisive chuckle.

Uneasy again, and not knowing the reason for the feeling, George looked out at the passing scenery, enjoying the play of sunlight upon the houses they passed.  He saw a few old mates and shouted a ‘hullo’ to them in passing, received a few waves and smiles in return.  The bus trip was short and they were soon at their stop, swinging off the bus and ambling up the lane, pausing only to wave a hullo to Rory as he ran for the bus.

“Hungry?” John asked casually as they walked.

George swallowed and shook his head.  He must be coming down with sommat, his stomach felt as if it would heave with the mere thought of food!  He couldn’t really remember the last time he’d eaten anything, but thinking of food simply made him nauseated.  The buzzing in his head din’t help matters, either!

When John and Stuart nicked into a corner market, George followed out of habit, wondering if they were stopping for a pack of fags or what?  When John picked a gleaming red apple from a barrel, with Stuart quickly following suit, George had to look away.

“C’mon, Hari, try one, ‘member what they say, ‘an apple a day…’” Stuart said quietly.

George glanced over at him in time to see his friend bite into his stolen goods.  Stuart’s even white teeth broke the skin of the apple and crunched into the flesh of the fruit, the juice running down his chin.  The fresh apple aroma made George’s stomach clench.  He couldn’t look away, no matter how much he wanted to.

“C’mon, George, jus’ try one,” John added, biting into his own apple.  He held out an apple to George, a perfect piece of fruit ready for the taking. 

George watched as his own hand, of it’s own volition, slowly reached out to take the fruit from his friend.  That same hand brought the apple to his lips.  His eyes closed at the subtle scent emanating from the fruit, the smell bringing to mind autumn and crisp weather and falling leaves.  Without regard for his stomach, he nibbled at the apple, the fresh, crisp flavour flooding across his tongue, his mouth nearly going into raptures at the taste. 

When had he last tasted an apple this good?  When had he last tasted anything this good? 

When had he last tasted anything, period? 

He couldn’t remember, and pushed the thought from his mind as he greedily attacked the fruit, savoring each bite as his stomach decided it liked the treat.  He was simply starving, and the apple tasted so good!

“An’ just what are ye boyos up to, eh?” an adult voice interrupted George’s single-minded enjoyment.

Looking at the approaching figure, he was astonished to see old Mr. Wilson bearing down on him; the old man had a wide smile plastered across his swarthy features.  George hadn’t seen the old shop owner in…well, in a very long time, seemed like!  And the old man had always been cross and frowning, not smiling like this!

Grinning foolishly, with the apple core clutched in his hand, caught utterly red-handed, George couldn’t do anything but gape.

“Good apples t’day,” John said, casually finishing off his fruit.  “Ta, Mr. Wilson!”

Stuart echoed his friend’s comment around a mouthful of apple.  “Yeah, ta!”

“Off with ye lads, then, I’d imagine Louise is waitin’ fer ye, eh?” Mr. Wilson said, winking at the astonished George and collecting the apple cores before waving the lads along.

What?  No fingers smacked for thievery?  No caustic comments about taking what didn’t belong to ‘ye?’  No angry growls, no being chased from the shop by the business end of a broom?  George allowed his friends to lead him out the door and back onto the street, whilst looking back over his shoulder at the shop owner all the while.

“Feel a bit better?  Ya looked a little dizzy, George,” Stuart remarked.

“Yeah,” John chimed in.  “Don’t think ya been eatin’ right, son, looked like ya needed sommat in yer stomach.”

What was going on?  George’s head was spinning.  When had John ever acted benevolent like this, looking at him with such concern?  George sat down on the kerb, lightheaded and out of breath.  Was something seriously wrong with him?  He didn’t bother to look up when he felt two bodies flank him on the kerb, didn’t raise his head when he felt a warm and comforting arm draped across his back.  He didn’t move as a hand tousled his hair in rough sympathy.

“Easy, George, yer okay, let’s jus’ get ya home, right?” John asked.  “Yer mum’s waitin’ fer us.”

They let him rest for a few minutes, waiting until he nodded, then helped him to his feet and put solicitous arms about his waist, letting him lean on them as they walked.  George gratefully accepted their support; his legs felt rubbery and tired and his head continued to spin with strange, buzzing thoughts intruding into his mind.  He tried to push them away. 

His home appeared through the lingering wisps of fog as they turned the corner, and he thought if he could only make it inside the old two up – two down, he’d be awright.

“Mrs. Harrison?  Georgie’s ‘ere,” John called as he pushed open the door, letting it bang loudly behind him once they were all inside.  Typical John.

“Mum?” George asked faintly.

Louise came through the kitchen door, her beaming smile welcoming each of them. 

“Ah, son, you look like you’ve been through a war, come and sit down, love,” she said.

Louise took his arm and helped him to the sofa, somehow getting a brisk hug in during the process.  She smelled so good, like fresh baked pastry and lovely spices, and George breathed it in, closing his eyes in relief.  He sat down heavily as another figure came through the kitchen doorway into the living room, and he felt an overwhelming wave of déjà vu sweep over him at the sight of his father.

“George, son, it’s good t’ see ya, lad,” the elder Mr. Harrison boomed, reaching out to seize George by the shoulder, giving him a restrained shake, a smile on his lips.

“Da?” George croaked. 

He had to clear his throat, because no other sound would come out.  The buzzing that had seemed so loud in his mind became memories crowding into his brain, his world was spinning in tighter and tighter circles as a small part of him noticed John and Stuart looking at each other in concern.  But his Mum and Da were just smiling at him, fondly, happily.  He tried to push the crowding memories and thoughts aside, but found he hadn’t the strength to do so.  They crashed over him in waves, and he was stunned by their force.  This was…this was…unbelievable…

“What’s goin’ on?” he breathed.  “What is this?”

Louise took his hand and squeezed it.  “You’re all right, son, everything’s all right.”

“Whur am I?  What is this?” George asked again, faintly.

“I’ll just fix you some brekkie, dear, your friends can chat you up,” Louise said, standing up and releasing his hand.  She hesitated, then leaned down and kissed him on the cheek.  “Relax, love, everything’s all right.  It’s lovely to see you, my dear.”

Da grinned crookedly and followed his wife from the room.  George watched them go, his stomach queasy and his head continuing to spin.  At least the buzzing had passed, but now he was simply flooded with memories, staggered at their depth and scope.  He looked over at John and Stuart, both of them watching him closely, both of them uncharacteristically silent.

“So…” George began when they didn’t break the lingering hush in the room. 

He fell silent again as Corky jumped into his lap.  He absently petted the purring cat, amazed at the silken texture of the animal’s fur under his fingers.  Under his strong, youthful fingers.  He looked at his hands in amazement, then unceremoniously dumped the surprised cat from his lap as he stood up to stagger to the mirror and stare at his reflection.  He reached trembling fingers to touch the mirror’s surface, then touched his own face as he watched his reflection.

Unbelievable!

He found his way back to the couch and sat down quietly, then decided that he might as well take the plunge, no sense in delaying any further!  It was obvious what was going on, but he had to put it into words for his own sanity’s sake.

“So…I never thought th’ afterlife would look like th’ ‘Pool in th’ 60’s.  Never thought I’d see meself as young an’ strong again.”

He ran his tongue over his teeth, damn, he’d forgotten what sharp canine teeth he’d had as a youngster!  No wonder he’d had them capped in the 70’s!

“But that’s it, innit?” he continued.  “This is th’ afterlife, innit?  That’s why Paulie’s not here.  An’ Ritch.  I knew thur was something wrong when I asked about him, I barely even knew him when I was this age.  An that’s why…”

He hesitated again; he simply couldn’t bring himself to say his wife’s name, or his son’s.  That’s why they’re not here.  He ignored the pain of his thoughts, shrugged and went on.

“Rory.  Mr. Wilson.  Mum an’ Da.  Th’ two o’ you lads.  That’s why every person I’ve seen has been somebody from me past, people that were gone before I…before I died.  That’s right, innit, lads?”

John laughed and Stuart made a face before reaching into his pocket.  He pulled it back out, looking regretful and irritated as he slapped a coin into John’s outstretched hand.

“Told ya he’d twig pretty fast,” John said smugly, pocketing the change.  “Can’t pull much wool over Hari’s eyes.”

Stuart grumbled a bit, but a reluctant smile flirted with his lips, curving them just a touch.

“Yer gonna be insuff’rable now, John,” he announced, then turned to George with a serious expression on his youthful features.  “This is a transition point, Georgie.  Some people are pretty disoriented when they get ‘ere, it’s a bit of a rest stop, I s’pose,” Stuart explained.  “A place t’ get yer bearings, b’fore ya move on.”

“But th’ ‘Pool?  In th’ early 60’s?” George asked, incredulous. 

He wondered about Stu’s comment of ‘moving on’, but decided he’d ask about first things first!  Seemed bloody odd that he’d be a teenager in the afterlife!  He’d had enough of that the first time ‘round!

John took up the explanation, a smug expression lingering on his young face.  George noted that Corky had moved into John’s lap and was glaring at him, affronted at having been dumped from the lap he’d originally chosen.

“Well, th’ transition point’s dif’rent things fer dif’rent people, o’ course.  Fer you, it’s a memory of a happy time, afore ya got famous,” John replied as he stroked the cat.  “It’s a bit different fer everyone, it was learnin’ chords with Julia fer me, an’ it was workin’ on a paintin’ fer Stu.  Julia said it was a trip t’ Scotland fer her, one she’d taken as a young girl.  Seems like ev’rybody just gets a bit of a rest stop when they first pass over, a place they remember as bein’ a good time in their lives.  I figger a rest stop like this gives ev’ryone a chance t’ adjust t’ having …died.”

“But why th’ ‘pool, why am I a teenager?  Why not th’ Japan tour with Eric, why not th’ day I met…?” George began.

John shook his head and interrupted.  “Nah, I know what yer askin’, but ya can’t go back t’ yer son’s birth or th’ day ya met yer wife or anything like that, it’s gotta be someplace an’ people in th’ past that ‘ave already passed on.  Dhani’s not ‘ere, George.  Neither’s Eric or Olivia.”  He shrugged.  “Neither’s Yoko or Sean, or Julian.  Or Astrid,” he added with a nod to Stuart.  “Don’t wanna bring any of ‘em ‘ere afore their time, right?”

George shivered, as if someone were walking over his grave.  Then he chuckled at the thought.  He didn’t have a grave, did he?  Well, unless you considered the Ganges his grave!  He wondered if Livy’d even had the chance to scatter his ashes yet, or had the inevitable media circus broken and prevented her and Dhan from doing that? 

He tried to pull his thoughts away from the wife and son, from all those he’s left behind.

“Breakfast is ready, boys, come and get it whilst it’s hot!”  Louise’s voice floated out from the kitchen.

George found himself on his feet, pulled there by his friends, and they helped him into the kitchen.  He looked around as a wave of nostalgia passed over him; everything was as he remembered, the spice cabinet and the plates, the chairs and table, his parents, everything as it had been in the early 60’s.  He sat down without comment and the smells from the plate set in front of him reminded him of how long it had been since he’d been able to eat a real meal.  The apple had simply been an appetizer; the potatoes were cooked crispy on the outside and were probably soft and tender in the middle, whilst the fluffy pancakes were dripping with butter and syrup.  His mouth watering, he took a small bite of each and then dug in with gusto when his mouth went into raptures at the flavours.

“I know you were fairly vegetarian as an adult, George, is this all right?  I didn’t want to fix bangers or anything that might upset you,” his Mum asked worriedly.

George swallowed hurriedly and nodded.  “’s fabulous, Mum, ta.  Can’t ‘member when I last ate, can’t ‘member when anything ever tasted so good.”

Whether this was fantasy or an after-death experience or whatever, it didn’t matter, he thought as he reached out and hugged his mother.  Mum felt real, and the food smelled and tasted absolutely incredible, the flavours flooding over his tongue and taste buds, evoking memories of meals he’d enjoyed in the past.  And Mum was clearly delighted with his reaction, fussing a bit over him as he tucked back into his meal, pausing only to ensure that his mates had full plates before she left the kitchen with his father in tow.  George looked over at John and Stu, they appeared to be enjoying their meal, and George found himself wondering if they were real, or if this was all simply part and parcel of his imagination?

If they were real, why were they here, hadn’t they already ‘moved on’?  Were they just here to greet him, to help him through the transition, the ‘rest stop’? 

Did it matter? 

George took another bite of his potatoes and pondered that thought.  What is reality?  What is unreality?  Is one more valid than the other?  And what about an afterlife being set in Liverpool, and being a teenager again?  Even if this was only a transition point, it was still pretty bizarre!  But is one view of the afterlife more valid than another? 

After all, any road will take you there.  Isn’t that what he’d always believed?  Yes, absolutely.

George put his fork down, his head beginning to spin again.

“Don’t think on it too much, son,” John advised, pointing his fork at George in a stabbing motion.  “Just accept it as a rest stop and enjoy yer rest.”  He scooped up some potatoes and chewed vigorously, swilling his tea to wash his mouthful down.  “Sometimes ya just have t’ accept things as they are, an’ not analyze it much.”

“Yeah,” Stu added earnestly, setting his tea cup down in its saucer.  “Spend too much time thinkin’ on it an’ yer gonna make yerself crazy.  Ya just gotta take some things on faith, I s’pose, an’ go on from there.  It’s like this, George!  I dunno how an automobile runs, but I know it does, an’ I count on it t’ get me from place t’ place.  I don’t need t’ know what happens under the bonnet, I can just accept th’ fact that as long as I put petrol in it an’ take it t’ the garage fer repairs, it’s gonna keep takin’ me from one place t’ th’ next.”

“Ya gotta be sure an’ watch th’ oil, too,” John supplied helpfully.  “Don’t ferget how ya blew th’ engine on Asser’s mini after we went back t’ th’ ‘pool that time!”

Stuart slugged John in the shoulder, and George had to grin at his mates’ fooling about.  He shook his head and picked up his tea cup, blowing on the hot liquid to cool it, enjoying the aroma of the fragrant steam rising from it.  His stomach had settled and his head had cleared, he really thought he was feeling better than he’d felt in … years!  He turned his thoughts back to Stuart’s comments, giving his old friend a wry smile.

“I gotta admit, I never thought th’ afterlife would ‘ave cars an’ buses an’ markets an’…. an’…”  He looked around for any example, and his eyes fell on the spice canisters on the counter.  “An’ cinnamon or sugar.  Or tea!” he added, taking a sip and breathing a sigh of enjoyment.  Perfect, sweet with sugar and creamy with milk!

John grinned.  “Just accept it fer what it is an’ yer gonna be a lot happier, George, don’t try an’ psychoanalyze it.”

George pushed his plate away and savoured his tea to the last bit in his cup.  He sighed as he set cup down on saucer.

“So…what now?  Where do I go from here?” he asked curiously, trying his best to follow John’s advice.

Stuart shrugged.  “There’s no set way, nothin’s right or wrong.  When yer ready, ya jus’ take a walk through a door.”

“That’s it?  What door?  Whur?” George asked.

It was John’s turn to shrug.  “Any door.”

“What d’ya mean, any door?  How do I know it’s the right door?” George demanded.

Stuart laughed, the sound joyful and jubilant.  “It’s always th’ right door, ya daft thing!  An’ I said it happens when yer ready.  Not before.”

“So I could walk through the pantry door, or I could walk through the kitchen door into the living room, right now, and I’d be, errrrr, moving on, eh?” George asked, incredulous.

“Yeah, if yer ready,” John replied.  “An if yer not ready, yer gonna find yerself standin’ like a fool in a dark pantry.  Or yer gonna walk through th’ kitchen door an’ into th’ living room an’ have another cuppa with yer folks.  I told ya, son, don’ think on it too much, jus’…”

“Just go with th’ flow?” George suggested, when John seemed at a loss for words.  Didn’t seem as if he had any choice in the matter, p’rhaps that was the best way of things.

John nodded somberly.

George stood up abruptly, waited for John and Stu to climb to their feet.

“Thanks fer meetin’ me, boys,” he said.  “I ‘preciate it, means a lot t’ me.”

“Good t’ see ya again, Georgie,” John said, hugging him fiercely, a library of unspoken words contained in his embrace.

“Yeah,” Stuart said with a smile, hugging him briefly after John let him go.  “Good t’ see ya, George.”

George smiled at them, then turned towards the kitchen door.  Indecision speared him for a moment, then he squared his shoulders and took a deep breath.  Would his next steps lead him to the living room and the promised cuppa with his folks?  Or would they take him through the door and away from his rest stop, to wherever that might lead?  He didn’t know.

He realized he didn’t care.

It’s always the right door.  And it happens when you’re ready, Stuart had said.

Cheryl Mortensen has been a Beatle fanatic since the 1960s, but somehow went on to other things in the late 1960s, only rediscovering her passion for "all things Beatle" in the late 1990s (and on into the new century).  She is a computer programmer and an avid photographer. (Concert photos of bands and performers is her favorite area -- ask her about her Ringo pictures!!)  Cheryl lives with her husband of many years (Mike), her German Shepherd (Sorsha), and a bunch of fish in the tank and the pond that they've never bothered to name.