Night has passed, morning is out there
You went to bed with the idol 
and woke up with the man

Can you still love what you see?
The car’s going faster, nearly misses the wall
This must be home after all.

There are no paparazzi, there are no smiles
There is no-one there to hear your lies
Underneath the thick shades you wear
Deception looms too hard to bear

The car’s going faster as I see your pride fall
This must be home after all.

I am sorry I am not made of gold 
I am flesh and bones and sorrow and love
I am heart and soul and loneliness and longing…

I know this crazy ride will end somehow
I will find home after all.

***

Jonathan looked at the pictures with a broad smile. It was funny to see Adrian all groomed up, his shaggy hair for once neatly combed. The heading on the cover of the album proudly announced the wedding of Adrian Michael Brown and Cristina Maria Souza, July 12th, 1997.

In one of the images in the album, the families of bride and groom posed together for posterity, the church’s humble red brick building behind them. The bride looked every bit like a fairy with her ivory white Empire cut dress and the crown of blue flowers on her dark head. On her side there was her mother, elder sister and brother-in-law, all looking a bit jetlagged (they had arrived just two days before from Brazil and had a hellish trip from Heathrow airport to Norwich) but proud and happy.

At Adrian’s side there were more people, an ocean of brown-eyed folk: Jonathan was the best man, and August Brown, the proud father of the groom. And there were August’s half-brother and his wife and son. The fact that the half-brother’s name was George Harrison, and he just so happened to be a former Beatle made the picture extremely valuable for the general press, which was why the album was only shown to close friends and even closer relatives.

Jonathan’s face got subdued as he remembered that. Two years had passed since that tabloid story which claimed George was Jonathan’s father. It took Jonathan two gut-wrenching months, a blood test and some painful conversations to discover that, while he was indeed linked to George by blood, he wasn’t his son. The tabloids were not informed of the result of the tests – no-one was, in fact. Now Jonathan was himself valuable material for the tabloids. A young, famous musician, straight, single, good-looking and somehow related to the royalty of rock and roll – a good bait to dangle.

“So, how do you like the pictures?” August walked into the living room, carrying a tray with two tea saucers and a pot of sugar. Jonathan raised his head to see his father – straight-backed, white-haired August Brown with his stern loving look in his brown eyes.

“I was thinking how funny Adrian’s looking with his hair combed and wearing something that isn’t a dirty pair of jeans and a dirtier sweater,” Jonathan smiled.

“Oh, that’s true…” August sat down and started to arrange the contents of the tray – there was also a plate with shortbread biscuits and Eccles cakes – on the table in front of him. “Can you believe? Your brother, married! Sure, he has found a nice girl; she’ll take care of him.”

Jonathan nodded. “She suits him to the ground.”

“She’s got more sense in her pinkie than him on his whole body, if you ask me.” August chuckled. “And, speaking of suiting down to the ground, I just had to admire how George’s young lad is a dead ringer of his dad. Don’t you think so?”

“Sure thing he is. Also plays guitar, the bugger. You should see the two of them playing, it’s very good sound coming up.” Jonathan smiled.  “But I don’t think he wants to do that for a living. He’s in university, anyway…”

“Then again, so were you when you were his age.” August chided with a smile. “But he’s smart, dodging the dad’s profession. He’d get it harder than you.”

As Jonathan took another look at the wedding pictures, August continued. “I guess I’m dealing with him better than I thought I would,” August said, referring to George. “We both like gardening. Sure, he’s got enough space for plants in that castle of a house he lives at, comparing with my most humble allotment, but it’s still nice to know he appreciates that too, gives us plenty to talk about – when we are not talking about you, that is!” 

August smiled for a moment, staring at the pictures on Jonathan’s hand. “He’s been a great help to understand the things that are happening to you now”.

Jonathan shrugged. “Things haven’t been exactly wine and roses, have they?”

“Well, can’t say they have” August took his saucer from the tray. “The papers have not been exactly kind to you. Every other week it’s something different…Paternity suit, drug scare, the works. If I didn’t know you better, I’d be dead scared of you by now. With all this going on, bonny lad, that tripe about you being George’s kid sounds like a good fairy tale!”

Jonathan nodded, thoughtful. “And hasn’t it been a fairy tale, dad?”

***

David Lee Keller, drummer of Jonathan’s back-up band, The Nation’s Appreciation Test, was a half-Italian, half-British Goliath of a man, with what Jonathan described as ‘the thickest dark hair this side of the Europe, and the widest smile.’ It was hard to see him in a bad mood.

However, on the studio that morning, two days after the Norwich visit to see Adrian’s wedding pictures, Jonathan noticed that David was not quite himself. Musically, he kept his tempo superbly – no-one in the band noticed a thing. But Brown did see through the smile – there was something else there.

“Dave, all right in there?” Jonathan asked, as the other members of the Nation were packing up to go.

“Eh! Not that great.” David nudged the drumsticks on his bag as he talked. “Why are you asking?”

“Curiosity killed the guitar player.”

“Eh, since you want to know… It’s the little sister. Veronica. Remember her? I brought her to your birthday party last year.”

Jonathan nodded. Veronica Lee Keller was as tall as her elder brother, with yards of black thick hair but with rather gloomy eyes and expression – something that scared Jonathan, because it clashed with David’s lively, warm personality.

“Yes, I do remember. What about her?”

“Problems with her husband - that bastard of a man has Marmite in his head instead of brains. She’s in my flat now, she fought with him – vases flying, neighbours calling the police, the works. I just can’t boot her out, she’s my sister, but she’s positively driving me bananas!”

“Why so?” Jonathan sounded concerned.

“Why so? Because the husband keeps calling her – they keep on fighting in my flat! That’s why so! Sorry,” David sighed. “I guess I’m just having a nervous breakdown by proxy. Does Adrian drive you this mad too?”

“Yeah – but the advantage of a brother is that you can punch the living daylights out of him without feeling guilty.” Jonathan shrugged. “Say, how’d you like an invitation for dinner? Adrian and Cristina are returning to London today, and I have invited them to eat on Saturday, since we don’t have a gig booked...You could use the laughter.”

“Why not?” David shrugged again. “By all means, I’ll take it.”

***

Saturday came, and Adrian and Cristina arrived early to help Jonathan with the food and clean the house (Jonathan said he didn’t need the help, but Cristina insisted she would do it anyway). The phone rang and Cristina went to pick it up.

“Hello, Jonathan Brown’s residence,” Cristina answered, tongue-in-cheek as always. “Yes? Wait a minute, I’ll call him up.”

And then she walked to the kitchen, carrying the phone pressed against her chest. “Jon, it’s your uncle on the line!”

Adrian whistled. “Oy, something’s wrong?”

“Dunno, he sounded fine.” Cristina passed the phone to Jonathan.

“Hello, George? How are you? Fine, thanks…Yes, that was Cristina. Yeah, they have returned this week…No, not really, it’s my day off, and we’re just having a quiet dinner…David’s supposedly coming here as well…You what? Sounds great!”

“What sounds great?” Adrian butted in.

“He’s in town with Olivia and he wants to come around for a visit.”

“Getting famous, ain’t we? Chez Brown - even a Beatle must book a table…George, hope you don’t mind pizza, Jonathan just can’t cook!” Adrian screamed at the receiver.

“Adrian, shut up!” Jonathan cracked up and returned to the phone “Sorry – little brother’s causing a bit of panic. Yeah, he grows old but doesn’t grow up. Sure, by all means, come along. You don’t mind we’re having moussaka? That has lamb in it, it’s one of those weird recipes, but I’m making a veggie version anyway, Cristina doesn’t eat meat…Fine, excellent, dandy. Just watch for the odd paparazzo…Yeah, as of lately they’ve been around. Think positive, at least it’s not gate birds… See you then!”

As soon as Jonathan placed the phone back on its base, the doorbell rang.

“Can’t be the Beatle, now can it?” Adrian said as he went to open the door, to find David on the other side – alongside a tall woman with braided hair and a long, unflattering flowery dress, a bit of sulky air on her.

“Dave!” Adrian smiled. “Greetings, earthling…  Long time no see…”

“You’re telling me!” David laughed. “Oh, Adrian, I don’t think you remember my sister, Veronica…”

Adrian extended his hand to greet Veronica, but didn’t get a reply – instead, she stared back at Adrian with what seemed to be the emptiest pair of eyes that the young Brown had ever seen. Jonathan walked to the hall, biting his lip – David didn’t say he was going to bring his sister along.

“Dave, Veronica – welcome aboard…” Jonathan tried to smile. “Veronica, I don’t think you remember me…”

“I was at your birthday last year.” Veronica’s voice sounded hollow. “I am sorry I am crashing the party, I know you have invited my brother only – but it seems David thinks I’ll break his apartment if he leaves me alone there.”

Adrian and Jonathan quickly stared at each other – what a handful, Adrian seemed to say as he threw elbows. Cristina came to the rescue as fast as she could.

“Well, I don’t think you have been introduced to the wife properly.” Adrian smiled as Cristina walked in, and Jonathan was closing the main door. “David, this is my Mrs. Brown. Cristina, you know Dave. This is Veronica, his sister”.

“Nice to meet you, Veronica.” Adrian’s wife also extended her hand, and this time Veronica accepted the greeting.

“You talk funny. Where are you from?” Veronica replied, in a blunt way.

“I’m Brazilian” Cristina replied, not appearing upset on the surface – even though Adrian knew that the wife didn’t enjoy people calling her accent ‘funny’.

Veronica smiled for the first time in the evening when Cristina mentioned where she was from. “Just like me, then – foreign in the island. Their coffee is awful, just to let you know…”

While Cristina did her best to engage Veronica in small talk, Jonathan nearly dragged David to the kitchen. “Oy, Keller, you should have…”

“I’m sorry, Jon” David apologised. “She ain’t kidding, you know – she would put the flat up its ears if I left her alone – either her or that bastard with Marmite instead of brains, since he has found out where she is.”

“And you bring her to my flat?” Jonathan wailed, trying his best to keep his voice down.

“Jon, what the fuck is going on?” David asked, a bit offended. “If she’s not welcome I might as well hit the street…”

“It’s not that!” Jonathan quickly amended. “It’s that I’m having family coming to dinner too.”

“Your dad’s coming? Oh, great, I could use some agriculture tips, you know…My gardenias are in…”

“It’s not my father,” Jonathan sighed as he interrupted his friend and his monologue about gardenias. “It’s George.”

David slapped his forehead hard. “Aw, Dio santo” he muttered in Italian. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“Because I didn’t know, he just called up asking if it was alright he could drop in with the wife. You know how I try to keep this story as quiet as possible, and so far so good…Veronica’s not a Beatles fan, now, is she?”

“You’re just too lucky she can’t tell Lennon from McCartney, let alone Harrison from the others! If it’s not playing on pop radio then she doesn’t give a damn.”

“She might as well; otherwise it’ll take a bit of convincing from you to keep her mouth shut. I am not telling you she’ll gossip, but you know how these things are.”

“I’ve got it. I’ve got it.” David waved his hands. “If any of this ends up in the paper tomorrow, I’ll send her to a hostel first thing in the morning. Hey, what’s that smell?”

“Oh, shit! The food!” Jonathan ran to the oven, as the doorbell started to ring. “Adrian, for the love of God, open the door!” he yelled.

“Jonathan Roger Brown, by the smell coming from this kitchen, we might as well call the pizza parlour already…” Adrian chuckled as he made his way to the door.

There they were on the other side – George, side by side with his wife Olivia. Adrian smiled, happy, in spite of the noise coming from the kitchen (presumably Jonathan trying to save the food, amidst a falling rain of expletives). George carried something in his hand – a hairpiece. Probably he went around London in disguise, but Adrian made a mental note not to mention that.

“Nice to see you again” Adrian greeted them. “Do come in, don’t mind the mess. We’re having a kitchen accident. Hope you guys like pizza…”

“Adrian!” Jonathan yelled from the kitchen. “One more joke about pizzas and I’m gonna throw you out the window!”

George chuckled. “He’s burned the food, I suppose?”

“Sort of.” Adrian threw elbows. “Kept chatting to David and forgot to watch the oven. Typical! Never mind, do come in. How are things?”

“Fine, thanks… How was the honeymoon?” Olivia asked.

“Oh, grand. We went to Scotland – Cristina wanted to see the Highlands…Freezing up there, anyway. She loved it – not used to snow, the poor thing.”

“It doesn’t snow in Brazil, does it?” George asked.

“Not a morsel!” Cristina said from the living room.

Adrian walked the Harrisons into the living room, where Cristina was talking to Veronica. Both of them stood up to greet the couple. Cristina knew George and Olivia – it was the greatest shock of her life when her then fiancé said he wanted her to know the ‘family’s secret’ and explained that the famous musician, that she adored since she was a young girl, was a close relative. But Veronica was not informed – and by the look on her face, she didn’t recognise the older couple that had just walked into the room.

“It’s great to see you again, Cristina.” Olivia smiled as she greeted Adrian’s wife – the two women seemed to get along very well. “So Adrian took you to see the Highlands, then.”

“Oh, it was one of my dreams” Cristina said. “You understand, I was raised reading Robert Burns and the like. I yearned to see what the place looked like.”

“And off went we, knee-deep in mud and snow.” Adrian sighed with exaggeration “Trust me to get a bloody snow blizzard in the height of summer! She loved it, though, so I am not complaining…though I should!”

George laughed – Adrian was a sparkling soul, always trying to keep everybody in the best possible spirits. “Oh, introductions are in order, methinks…George, Olivia… this is Veronica, David’s younger sister… Veronica, I proudly present you my uncle and aunt, George and Olivia.”

Adrian politely suppressed George’s surname – perhaps he had noticed, with a tinge of relief, the obliviousness in Veronica’s look when the couple entered the room. David’s sister extended her hand to greet them. “Veronica Hill, nice to meet you,” she said, using her estranged husband’s name.

Jonathan walked into the living room, David in tow. “George, hello and I am awfully sorry. It seems that I should have paid more attention to the oven...The moussaka looks like a grand piece of charcoal.”

“We can always order a pizza,” George shrugged.

“Et tu, Brutus?” Jonathan sighed, finally laughing. “No more chef role playing for me. Adrian, call the pizza parlour…”

“Aha! The scorched smell of victory!” Adrian laughed, as Jonathan punched his brother’s arm jestingly.

***

Later on, as usual, guitars were brought into the scene – there was not a meeting between Browns and Harrisons that didn’t end up with a small jam session. David played with a pair of bongos that Jonathan had, and Olivia, Adrian and Cristina were more than happy in just singing along with whatever Jonathan and George played. Veronica, unaware of what was going on all along (she didn’t say more than a phrase or two during the whole night) just stared, listening to the music and not really making heads or tails from the old tunes being played.

It was hard to believe, to someone out of the close circle like Veronica, that the two men were only made aware of their relationship two years ago. For the easiness between them, the obvious bet would be that Jonathan grew up always knowing Harrison was his blood family.

“Ow, will you two decide the tune? It’s a bit hard to play in these tiny drums!” David laughed and then said, imitating Adrian’s famous pouting, “I miss my drum set, mind you.”

“You can bring it with you next time,” Jonathan chuckled.

“Ha-ha. Your neighbours would love that,” David chuckled in his ordinary voice.

“The neighbours ain’t loving the paparazzi and all the mess around here – if we bring a drum set and a Napolitano drummer to play the drums, next thing I’m gonna hear is the sound of an eviction note!” Jonathan laughed, but George could notice the seriousness lining the words. He turned to Harrison, the smile fading away. “I can figure why you moved to Friar Park... No neighbours!”

Jonathan stood up as he finished the phrase. “I’ll put the kettle on. Looks like everyone could do with some tea…”

“Mind if I help?” George asked, standing up.

“Oh Christ, the two of them and a hot water kettle in the vicinity… I’ll have the firemen on guard just in case…” Adrian chuckled, as the two men walked to the kitchen.

***

George seemed less joyful as he walked into the kitchen. Jonathan closed the door behind him, making sure Adrian or David were not prying.

“Spill the beans, George,” Jonathan said in all seriousness. “What has brought you to London?”

“Quick to see through things, aren’t you?” George smiled – he didn’t seem offended with Jonathan’s bluntness, quite the opposite – he seemed relieved to be at ease.

“Family trait, you could say. Something is wrong, and I am sorry you have this troupe for dinner, I wasn’t expecting that – or your visit for that matter.”

“Straight to the news then?”

“Spare me the fluff.”

George stared at Jonathan for a few seconds. There he was - the proud young man whose eyes reminded him so much of his past and the things that didn’t return. Everything has a beginning and an end, George thought. Who knows what’s to begin when I tell you what has happened?

Jonathan stared back at George – something was wrong with him. He didn’t seem at all himself. He looked as if his breath was knocked out of him. And there was a strange, small swelling on his neck that Jonathan hadn’t noticed before.

***

“Jesus Christ in a bloody polyester green jumper and green wellies to match…” Adrian mouthed out his famous phrase in disbelief. “Jonathan, this is… this is…”

Jonathan nodded, his head feeling as if it weighed a ton. Whatever Adrian meant by this, they both knew it was a disaster: George had cancer. The word that Adrian couldn’t muster courage to speak, the word that reminded Jonathan of past pains.

“Look, the doctors gave him good chances. So let’s just stick to that.” Jonathan tried to sound hopeful.

“Jon, they had given good chances to our mother too, and you know what happened to her. Gone in six bloody months, that’s what happened. Christ, that’s not fair. We’ve barely gotten to know him.”

“You think I don’t feel that?” Jonathan sighed.

Adrian looked around – the familiar surroundings of the office of Jonathan’s agent, the windows showing part of the Hyde Park and the Royal Albert Hall. How many stories had that place seen in the last couple of years? Jonathan signing up for EMI, the tabloid story that implied Jonathan was George’s son, the announcements of the singles’ high positions in the charts. And now there were the two brothers dealing with the news George had broken two days before.

“Jon, I know you do,” Adrian said, putting his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Damn it, I know you cover to cover, remember? I know you like him. Just like I do - a bit worse perhaps, because you and he can see eye to eye on fame, you two are in the same boat. At the end of the day I am just an actor and I don’t know what I’ll be doing next month.”

“At the end of the day, we are as lost as we were in the beginning,” Jonathan sighed. “Keep your mouth shut, will you?”

“Promise.” Adrian smiled. “We’ll just keep on praying. That’s what we can do… How is he coping?”

“He’s strong material. ‘Art of dying’, remember that song? He’s putting it to the test. He is awfully calm, he looks as if he’s not fearing death but rather courting it eye to eye…or at least he looks like it. I can’t get through him.”

“Smart of him. But when it gets to the thick of it…Oh, fuck, never mind that. Better not think about it,” Adrian stood up. “And now for something utterly different, that Veronica character was something, wasn’t she? Hard to believe she shares some DNA with Dave.”

“Give her a break, she’s in bad shape lately, according to David…”

“Bad shape is one thing, mate – very different from plain dumbness. Thank God she didn’t recognise George, for one thing…”

“Though I have my doubts about that,” Jonathan sighed, rubbing his forehead. “She is a Lee Keller, ain’t she? Those folks are anything but dumb.”

***

August walked side by side with George in one of the gardens in Friar Park. The two men, from a distance, didn’t seem to have that much in common – August’s hair was whiter and he was taller than George by at least three inches. But if you stared hard, there was something that connected them – those brown eyes, the nose, the hands.

Estranged brothers as they were, they were still utterly uncomfortable in each other’s presence. To August, George represented the past he never could comprehend – the pregnant young woman fleeing Liverpool in shame and arriving, with a suitcase and one in the oven, to the other side of the island, to a city named Norwich, meeting a pub owner named Roger. What was Jonathan’s song verse? People say it’s indecent to take a catch colt as yours. And that was what that man, that Roger Brown, had done.

To George, it was every bit as hard to comprehend. From having to acknowledge a young man as his son, he suddenly had to swallow the bone of accepting a new brother – who was older than any of his own siblings, and whose story he knew nothing about. His own father wasn’t alive anymore to explain, and the man August called father also wasn’t alive anymore. So there were the two of them, two years on, dealing with the situation, or rather putting up with it, because, for some strange reason, George had grown fond of August’s son.

And now those lumps had entered the scene. Attacking George’s weak point – his throat. The scare, the fear, exams, operations, God knew what else. August didn’t know what to say. He had on that road before, and had seen too many people close to him die. He had lost both his parents; he had lost a stillborn daughter; he had lost Mary Magdalene. And being forced to think about the idea of having another relative sick was not good.

So when George invited August to Friar Park to talk about what was to happen, August felt like the ground was taken away from his feet.

“I am not good with words,” August said after a long silence. “As a matter of fact, I am bloody awful with them. I wish I could tell you words of inspiration, but none cross my mind. It’s not like you need them, mind, but still I feel as if I oughta speak them.”

August sighed, looking around him. “So I’ll just say this, for the record…I am here. You are here. It’s been two years and we are stepping on eggshells every time we talk. It’s good to see that we are making an effort to live with one another – not for our own sakes, I know, but for Jon’s…”

“You always feared I was his father, didn’t you?”

“From the moment she said she was pregnant, yes” August nodded. “She loved you. I knew that. But she needed me…That was enough to me. So I let it go. When Jon stated he wanted to live off his music – Christ, it was like I had the whole rough ocean inside my heart.”

“But you let him.”

“George, it wasn’t my life. It was his life. Still is.”  August stared at George. “God has granted me too much. More blessings than I can count. I have two great sons. I was loved by a great woman. And I have a brother – our story is weird, George, but none’s the wiser.”

The two men once again stared at one another. “You don’t have to be strong, George. You don’t have to be anything. You might have mastered the ‘art of dying’, like you sang – but when push comes to shove you are human and human beings fear death somehow…For one second that is.”

August looked away, his face suddenly flushed red. “I am not good with words.”

“Doesn’t look like it.” George smiled.  “You are right.”

“It’s just that it takes a bloody scare like that to put you and me in the same frequency and that does strike me big time,” August said, sounding tired. “You’ve been cordial but not close, looking from the distance at me. It’s been two years…Your other siblings don’t make the effort you make to let me be part of their lives, I notice. Hope you have noticed by now that I am not interested in making a profit from your blood. Hope you have noticed that I care for you, if not because you are probably the only trace of family I will ever have, but…” August sighed, defeated. “…But because my son confides in you things I cannot understand but you can, and for that I’ll be more than grateful. I am scared, more than you can tell. Of losing you –or rather never getting to know you properly.”

They reached a small pond. August stared at the water lilies floating quietly in the water, feeling the wind on his face. Summer was ending, soon it would be autumn and then winter once more. Time walked too fast.

“I understand that” George said, not looking at August, but at the lake. “And I thank you for that. More than you can think. It’s been a weird ride for me as well. This whole situation… It was not something I would expect to happen, but it did and now I am dealing with it. It was a hard slap on my face, but I understand better as time passes. People take for granted that I’m an enlightened creature…But you are also right…in the end of the day I am a man, and prone to fail. And I fear things too. I know that there is life out there, beyond this world you see, beyond all this you see. This is why I am not scared. A bit fearful, like someone before taking a deep plunge into the ocean – but not totally scared.”

August and George kept looking at the pond, each trying to comprehend the thoughts between them – the fear of pain, the hope for life. They could understand one another, but there was still so much between them to win over, before they could see each other eye to eye as the brothers they were. And August feared that such thing would never happen. He would always be someone else’s son, not loved by his own blood kin.

***

Another day, another recording session at All Saints EMI Studios, in All Saints Road, London. And a visitor in the producer’s booth made Jonathan cringe.

“David...” Jonathan turned his back to the glass of the booth, facing his drummer. “What is Veronica doing in here?”

“She wanted to come...So I brought her in.” David waved his hands as if he was trying to catch the words. “Though I think she’s returning to the prat…I mean, her husband.”

“Oh, is she?”

“They’re in talks. Bloody stupid if you ask me, but Veronica will not listen…”

Jonathan sighed. “David, your sister’s been living with you for a month! She ought to make up her mind one day…” and then he stopped, biting the lower lip. “Whatever… Let’s just get to the tune, shall we?”

David nodded, and Jonathan positioned himself in front of the microphone. “Eric, we’re ready for the next take…” he called to the producer, Eric Webber, who was at the other side of the glass panel.

“Okay, any time you’re ready...” Eric’s contralto voice could be heard. “‘This Must Be Home’, take seven!”

Jonathan strapped on the guitar and started playing. Veronica got closer to the glass, looking at the band. She tried so hard to understand what was all the fuss was about. Jonathan Brown, to her, looked and sounded just like any other pub singer. Why did people call him a star, a hero? Because he looked like a Beatle (those overhyped morons, she thought)? David nearly worshipped the ground Brown walked on, and she couldn’t understand why.

She leaned closer as the song played on. She couldn’t understand. Music didn’t talk to her, as David would say. She remembered last Saturday night, the jam session between Jonathan and the old man (David said he was a Beatle – what did she care? They were just another band in the myriad of boring sounds of the past), how everyone surrounding them sang along like the tune would save them from imminent death. It just didn’t touch her.

But there was something bugging her on that song. It was when Jonathan sang ‘I am flesh and bones and sorrow and love’ – she could relate that to another song she heard so many years ago, when her parents were alive and when David was not kissing the feet of East Anglian musicians. The only ‘old’ song she could endure, or even love. What was that it said? ‘Isn’t it a pity how we break each other’s hearts and cause each other pain’, something like that. Her father loved that tune; she didn’t know head from tail, singer from melody. And somehow she related one song to the other. It was the way Jonathan pronounced the words, she thought – the melodies couldn’t be more different.

And she didn’t notice that the song was over.  Eric Webber called a break time, and the musicians went out for tea and David went to see her on the producer’s booth and Jonathan – the star of the show – quietly put his guitar aside and left the room, shoulders slouched, head bent down.

“How is it going then, Veronica?”

She turned to see her brother entering the room, sweat covering his ample forehead.

“He’s just a pub singer,” she sneered. “But you seem keen on him.”

“You are the woman who hates the Beatles and the Rolling Stones. What do you know anyway?”

“Excuse me for having good taste,” she smiled with irony. “And for not enjoying old men’s bands and the blatant new copies of the old bands…”

“Veronica, vaffanculo!” David hoarsely cursed in Italian, something that made his sister blush. He sighed, tired – it was useless to fight with her. “Come on, you. Let’s find a bite to eat. You could do with some food.”

“Thank you, brother…But I’ll just go home”.

“Ah, no you ain’t.” David motioned her to the exit. “Not to trash my flat around again, you ain’t.”

“David, I am not a child!” Veronica sighed.

“In age, you ain’t. But as long as you behave like one…”

Then the door of the room opened in a full swing, and Jonathan entered. Veronica’s face turned to an ashen shade of white. He had heard everything.

But Jonathan walked past them, and straight to Eric Webber. David noticed the absent look of the friend, and thought about what could be wrong. Perhaps something with his father…or Adrian…

And then he shuddered inside. Perhaps it’s something to do with George.

***

The weeks passed, and the recordings of Jonathan’s album had finally come to a close.  The band won a fortnight of vacations before the warm-up for the press duties and the promotional tour. Adrian returned to the Adelphi, where he started to rehearse for the London version of “Chicago” – but for the first time he returned home on time, having Cristina to mind to.

And George started his treatment – he suffered an operation in August, and now was under chemotherapy. During the long days of the chemical treatment (Jonathan couldn’t stop remembering his own mother whenever the c-word was pronounced), the Brown family made sure they kept contact. There was not much else they could do, in the distance they were at. Jonathan and August at times called Olivia up to see how things were going. But visits were out of reach.

Jonathan made sure to send a copy of his new CD to George and Olivia, alongside with a box of comedy movies. “You could do with some laughter – I just hope you won’t laugh at my record,” Jonathan wrote, and Adrian added when Jonathan wasn’t looking, “It’s all right if you do, ‘cause after all he’s doing that bloody falsetto thing again!”

George listened quietly to “This Must Be Home”, sometimes too tired and consumed by pain to even think straight. Indeed, Jonathan still had a lot to learn – but for a man of his age he was better than most. His voice sounded strong enough, even though sometimes it faltered (what Adrian called “the bloody falsetto thing”). Overall, it was a good impression, a decent second album. It could be a sign of better things to come.

Sounded like a good promise, a good new beginning.

August was awfully right, George smiled as he thought about it, looking the shadows of the night settle on the gardens of Friar Park. Jonathan was more than it showed. He was talented. And he was carrying a grudge. It sounded right through the music.

He kept the secret and it swallowed him instead. I asked him not to tell a soul… and indeed he didn’t. Not him, nor Adrian or August. They kept their silence through and through.

They were also his family. It sounded so ridiculous to think of that, two years after, after all the conversations and meetings and awkward jam sessions and wedding parties. There was nothing to fear, in the end. He was home with them.

***

The papers had announced that George had passed through an operation to remove lumps from his lung. David swallowed hard when he heard the news – remembering Jonathan’s sad stares as they recorded the new album. So that was what hidden, then. He was hiding George so we’d not chatter around.

He looked around him, to the empty studio. Jonathan trusted no soul. After someone sold his secrets to the papers, he walked in silence, fearing someone would pin on him untrue stories. David felt sorry for his friend – fame and the friendship of a Beatle didn’t seem to do him any good. David knew Jonathan was a sturdy man, not to be bent by drug or drink – his only release was the music and his voice. But what to do when his voice was locked, fearing the betrayal of those close to him?

***

Jonathan looked terrified, before he entered the stage. It was ‘Later…With Jools Holland’, one of his favourite shows, and he was a bit uneasy, afraid he’d screw it all up. The Nation’s Appreciation Test was all there, making as much noise as they were used to and allowed to, walking around, drinking water, someone smoking a cigarette, the whole mess.

“Butterflies in the stomach, Jon?” David approached his friend, who sat in the corner of the dressing room by himself.

“More like a bunch of rabid bats, alright,” Jonathan sighed. “It’ll be OK, though. I just need to start playing.”

“Eh. If you say so.” David sighed. “Did I tell you Veronica returned to her husband?”

“No more fears of flat-thrashing, then?” Jonathan tried to smile.

David didn’t answer, but his body language indicated he wasn’t happy with that turn of the events.

“Dave…if he is not a good man to your sister, why did you let her return to him?”

“Because it’s her life, not mine. She chose it like this. Don’t get me wrong, Jon, I’d go until the end of the bloody Earth to defend her. But there is only so much I can do against her will. I can’t lock her up in my flat. I can’t put the police against the bastard because she’ll dismiss them...” And then he stopped and smiled sadly. “It’s like you and George. You can keep silence on the things concerning him, but can’t change them.”

“Calling your bluff, eh?” Jonathan let out a throaty laugh – a bad sign, David knew, but he went on with it.

“Yes. It’s all over the papers now. Jon, you really think I’ll sell you out?”

“Yes!” Jonathan lost it. “Someone close to me sold me out and started this mess. I should be thankful – in the end I am – but now I walk stiff scared that my next step will end up there, in the pages! When he told me he was ill, the first thing I thought was that I had to keep tight-lipped. I didn’t want to sell him out.” And then his voice broke down. “Dave, you wouldn’t understand. He might deal well with the idea of death but…I … don’t! I’ve lost a great deal, I take him as family, and I can’t bear the thought of selling him out, even if by mistake!”

Jonathan sat down. “I don’t think I mean that much to him, why would I? He regards me as a friend, I think. Whether he can see the effort, I don’t know…It’s been two years, you see, and I still can’t get across him. A mysterious fella, that one.”

“Then again, Jon, so are you.” Dave smiled. “Mate, I have a feeling he knows your effort. Trust a Napolitano, man – we know these things better than you cold English folk. Don’t sell him short, he knows. He trusts you too damn much.”

“How can you tell?”

“Well, he told you, didn’t he?”

Jonathan didn’t answer. Someone entered the dressing room; it was Kevin McGuire, the bass player.

“Oy, lads, time’s up. Mr. Holland’s waiting for us.”

“Well, might as well go on with the show.” Jonathan stood up, walking out. McGuire and Lee Keller followed him to the stage, alongside the other members of The Nation.

***

Veronica was in the audience. Jonathan could see her, side by side with a somewhat burly blond man who was as tall as she was. Brown stared at them for a quiet moment.  How sad Veronica looked, soulless eyes staring nowhere. She could watch things, but could not see – how terrible could that existence be?

His eyes darted to Adrian and Cristina, at the other side of the auditorium. The shaggy-haired man smiled and waved to Jonathan, and his wife laughed, chiding him playfully. Adrian was too damn lucky to find a girl like that. Perhaps one day, he thought, perhaps Veronica could smile like that. Perhaps in another lifetime, or with another man. Perhaps he could one day make a woman smile broadly like that.

George trusted him. It sounded so stupid, how he couldn’t see it. Perhaps there was more in the looks of the past. But that God alone could tell.

He was at peace on the stage.

The band started to play – they had planned to perform four tunes: ‘This Must be Home’, ‘A Man, Imagined’ (Jools Holland said they wouldn’t leave the stage without singing that one), the single ‘Heart of The Matter’ and a surprise number. The audience had reacted well to the three first songs, but were completely blown away by the surprise number: it was a version of George’s ‘Isn’t It a Pity’.

Veronica, in her seat in the corner of the auditorium, gasped in surprise as the first notes from the song hit the air. That was the song her father loved! That tune, that same song! And to her chagrin, that old grey man she had met in Jonathan’s apartment, the Beatle she didn’t give two pebbles for, was the one that had written that song (or so Jonathan had announced). The one song she could comprehend – and that old man had written it!

“Shush, Veronica, stop crying, you’re making a scene,” her husband hissed in her ear.

Veronica touched her own cheek –she didn’t even notice she was crying.

***

George watched the show and smiled. “The lad’s got something goin’ on.” He smiled as he pointed the screen with the pen he held in his hand.

Olivia smiled. “What’s that you’re writing?”

George put the piece of paper away. “A good old-fashioned letter… To a man who’s not good with words… Turns out I am not so good with words at times, mind…”

Olivia stared at him, not comprehending exactly what her husband meant to say.

Some things take so long
But how do I explain?
When not too many people
Can see we're all the same
And because of all their tears
Their eyes can't hope to see
The beauty that surrounds them
Isn't it a pity?

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