Rooftop Sessions: Very Beatle Christmas

Paul stumbled in through the door and made his way blindly through to the living room, unable to see past the stack of packages he was carrying in his arms. He turned sideways and moved to a big chair, where he set the packages down with a sigh of relief.

“So nice of you all to come help me in with all this,” he said sarcastically.

“Sure, anytime, what are friends for?” replied John, not bothering to look up from his book. He was sprawled comfortably across the couch in front of a cheerily crackling fire, and he did not really feel like moving just now.

“I’ll help you, Paul,” said Ringo, standing up from his chair and crossing the room. He began picking up some of the packages.

“Where d’ye want these, then?” he went on, his own arms now full.

“Oh, I dunno...the closet in my room, I suppose,” Paul told him. “Thanks, Ritch.” With that, off Ringo went.

“What’s all this, then?” asked George, emerging from the kitchen with an enormous sandwich in his hands. “Been shoppin’ for Christmas, have we? Any of those for me, by any chance?”

“No, sorry,” replied Paul, “I haven’t gotten around to you lot yet.”

He eyed George’s sandwich and added, “I hope you’ve left a bit of food for the rest of us. Looks as though you’ve got the whole bloody cupboard in that thing.”

“There’s more for later,” George told him, taking a bite of his creation, “But we do need a trip to the grocery.” This last was muffled by his mouthful. He swallowed and added, “We are runnin’ scarce on some stuff.”

“That’s cos yer always stuffin’ yer gob, son,” said John, laying his book aside and hauling himself to his feet. “Yer like a bloody pig.”

“You don’t do too badly yourself,” said George, a bit defensively. “Who was it finished off the last of the crisps and those cupcake thingys, too?”

Ignoring him, John picked up one of Paul’s packages and began shaking it next to his own ear in an experimental fashion. Paul snatched it back and put it with the others on the chair again.

“Give me that, John!” he snapped. “Yer like a bloody kid.”

“Sorry Daddy, I’ll behave,” said John with a smirk, “Just don’t cane me again, I didn’t mean any harm.”

Ringo came back into the room and sat back down in his chair, removing his shoes. “Better find another place for the rest o’ that stuff,” he said to Paul. “That closet is fair stuffed. Mebbe in the laundry, or the attic.”

“Who’s it all for, Paulie?” asked John, picking up another of the boxes and beginning to shake it. Paul grabbed it from him. “Leave off,” he replied. “They’re for my family, and Jane’s. She’s got legions of relatives going to be there this year, and I thought I’d best get something for each of them, though it’s costin’ me a bloody fortune.”

“Aw, it’s only money,” said Ringo from his chair. “What good is it if ya can’t use it to make people happy...and it’s not like there’s any shortage of it these days, is it.” He stretched his feet towards the fire and leaned back, closing his eyes.

“I’ll help yer with the rest of this stuff, Paulie,” said John, picking up some of the boxes. “Where’re we takin’ ‘em?”

“The laundry, I suppose. Thanks, John.”

The two of them went off through the kitchen, leaving Ringo and George alone in the living room. George was finishing his gigantic sandwich. Ringo regarded him, his blue eyes looking amused.

“I don’t suppose you’re up for that trip to the grocery,” he said.

George tucked the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth and stretched out on the couch John had vacated.

“Maybe later,” he replied, closing his eyes. “Right now, I fancy a kip.”

“That’s what I thought,” said Ringo, putting his shoes back on. He got up from his chair and went to the closet for his coat. He shrugged into it and crammed an oversized cap onto his head to conceal his giveaway hairstyle. “I’ll go,” he added. “If anyone asks after me, tell ‘em I’ll be back quick like.”

George nodded sleepily, and as soon as the door closed behind Ringo, his friend was snoring softly.

***

A light snow was falling when Ringo got out of his car in the grocery store’s parking lot. He pulled the collar of his coat up and wrapped a scarf around the lower part of his face to avoid being recognized. Ordinarily, Mal would have been dispatched for this duty, but he had been sent home to be with his family and would not be back for three more days, after Christmas had passed. With George and John eating the way they did, they would starve by then if someone didn’t buy some food. Ringo closed the car door and went into the store.

It was warm inside, but Ringo kept his scarf and hat on just the same. He wanted to be in and out of here as quickly as possible, and that wasn’t going to happen if he was besieged by adoring fans. He went up and down the aisles, tossing things into his cart as he went, not bothering to check the prices.

At the checkout, Ringo piled his purchases on the counter and kept his head down. The clerk was an older woman, and it might be okay to talk to her, but who knew. She might have a daughter or a niece or something at home who would love a Beatle’s autograph, and he didn’t feel like being recognized in such a crowded place. Once he had paid the woman and was leaving the store with his cart full of bags, Ringo began to relax. There was a Santa outside with an iron pot hanging from a tripod, and he was ringing his bell tirelessly. Ringo put the rest of the money he had on him into the pot and looked at the old man. He certainly looked the part, but he looked a bit cold. Ringo took off his scarf and wrapped it around “Santa’s” neck.

“There ya go, old fella,” he said, giving the man a smile. “You have a nice Christmas, then, Santa.”

“I’d have a better one if I could get some help with tomorrow night’s deliveries,” said the old gentleman. “You wouldn’t happen to have a few friends willing to come along with you and give me a hand on my sleigh, would you?”

Ringo grinned at the old man.

“Sure, Santa, you can count on me an’ me mates,” he replied. “Just pick us up on your way by tomorrow night. Bye, now. Gotta get these groceries home before the other lads starve.”

“See you tomorrow night, Richard,” called the old man as Ringo walked away, “And your friends--tell them to dress warmly!”

Ringo stopped and looked back. “Santa” was no longer looking at him; he was ringing his bell and talking to a young woman with a baby in her arms. As he loaded the bags of food into the car, he wondered how the old gent had known his name. It seemed odd that, even if he had recognized him as a Beatle once he had removed the scarf, he would call him “Richard” instead of “Ringo.” Well, it wasn’t as if his real name was a great secret. By the time he arrived home, Ringo had stopped thinking about the old man.

***

The next day was Christmas Eve, and the boys spent the afternoon in a typical fashion; George and Ringo watched old American western movies on television, and Paul and John sat at the kitchen table with their heads together over some song lyrics, trying to get the music figured out. It was early evening when the phone rang. It was Brian, calling from his mother’s house. He was staying there with her for a while because she wasn’t feeling well, and the boys weren’t doing anything in the studio that week.

“How are you boys doing?” asked Brian when Paul answered the phone.

“Oh, we’re fine. We were just figuring out what we wanted to have for supper. We have a big meal coming in from the hotel down the street tomorrow, but for tonight we just planned to heat something up on our own. How’s your mum doing?”

“Not too badly. She was up for a while this afternoon. I think she’s going to be all right in a few days. Is John behaving himself?”

“We were just working out some music. George and Ringo are watching the telly just now. Everyone is fine, though. Ringo went to the grocery yesterday, so we’re all stocked up for the moment. John’s doing just fine. Want to talk to him? He’s sitting right here.”

Paul handed the phone to John, who took it and said into the mouthpiece, “Hello, Eppie. How’s everythin’? Hope yer mum’s doin’ better.”

“She is, John, thank you for asking. I’ll be back in a few days, well before your press conference on Thursday.”

“Yeah, that’s good, then. Tell ‘er we said we hope she feels better. Anything else?”

“I think not. You fellows have a good holiday, and I’ll see you soon. Goodbye, John, and behave yourself.”

“Yerokay. Why does everyone keep sayin’ that to me, anyroad? You have a good day tomorrow too, Eppie. ‘Bye, now.”

“Why does everyone keep telling you what, John?” asked Paul, gathering up the papers from the table so that it would be clear for dinner.

“To behave meself. I can’t reckon it out. Ye’d think I was a kid, or summat.”

Paul looked at his friend sideways and tried to suppress a smile. “I’m sure it’s just an expression, John,” he replied. “What do you fancy for supper? We’ve got--”

He stopped short; someone was ringing the doorbell. Paul peeked out into the living room. George and Ringo appeared to be asleep. John stepped past Paul and went to answer the door.

“Aren’t you boys ready yet?” the portly old fellow at the door asked him when John opened it. John smiled back at him, looking bemused.

“What’re yer talkin’ about, umm--Santa?” he asked, for that was who the old gentleman was dressed as.

“I spoke to Richard yesterday, and he assured me that he and his friends--that would include you, John--would be willing to help me make my deliveries tonight. Didn’t he mention it to you?”

“No,” replied John. “Look, old fellow--”

“Santa; call me Santa,” replied the old gentleman.

“Santa,” said John. “I don’t know what you’re talking about--”

“I don’t have time to find anyone else to help me at this hour,” said ‘Santa.’ “You boys are going to have to come along and give me a hand. A deal is a deal. How long will it take you to get yourselves ready? You’ll have to dress warmly, mind!”

“Yeah...um, why don’t you just step inside here a minute--Santa--and I’ll go get Ritchie. It’s kinda cold out there.”

The old gentleman in the Santa suit came in and stood in the hall. “All right,” he replied, “But don’t be long. We have to cover a lot of ground tonight.”

John went over to the big chair in which Ringo was peacefully sleeping and gave the drummer a shake.

“What--is it supper?” asked Ringo sleepily. “What’s the matter, John?”

“A friend o’ yours--apparently--is here, an’ he says we’re to go with him and help him make his deliveries. It’s an old gentleman, and he’s dressed as Father Christmas.”

“What?”

“Father Christmas. Santa Claus. Jolly old Saint fuckin’ Nick!” hissed John, trying not to let the old gentleman hear. He didn’t know who the old man was, but he truly seemed to believe he was who he said he was, and John thought that it might not be the best idea in the world to upset him. “Any o’ those names ring a bell? He says he had an arrangement with you, an’ we’re all to go with him right away! D’ye have any idea what he’s talkin’ about, or should I call a hospital or summat?”

“I’ll go talk to him,” Ringo replied, getting to his feet. “He’s harmless, I’m sure. I met him yesterday in front of the grocery. I thought he was just makin’ a joke, like.”

“He seems dead serious to me,” said John. “Try an’ send him on his way, willya? Me’n Paulie’re gettin’ summat t’ eat ready. Your friend is in the hall.”

***

“Who was that at the door, John?” asked Paul when John went back into the kitchen. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him around here before. Was he collecting for charity or something?”

“He’s Ringo’s friend, apparently,” replied John. “Seems to think he’s actually Father Christmas. He says Ringo promised him we’d help him make his deliveries tonight, whaddaya think about that?”

“That’s a good one,” replied Paul. “Was he drivin’ a sleigh, then, John?”

“Dint notice,” replied John. “What’s on the menu, then?”

***

Ringo was standing in the hall with “Santa.”

“How did you find me?” asked Ringo. “We’re not listed as livin’ here; it’s someone else’s flat.”

“I know where everyone lives. How else do you think I manage to deliver the right presents to everyone each year? My memory is not my problem. The trouble is just that I’m not as spry as I once was, and it’s a tough job getting into all the houses carrying my big bag of presents, and I think it’s time I enlisted some younger helpers. I thought you boys would be all ready to go by now. Better get the lads together and get into warm clothing. My magic will keep you warm while we’re actually in the sleigh, but it’s pretty cold up on most of those housetops!”

“Magic?” repeated Ringo. “Sleigh?”

“Yes, yes. It’s on the roof just now. You go and get ready to go, and we’ll be off!”

“Oh-kay,” said Ringo slowly, “Just let me go tell the lads. Be right with you.”

***

Ringo went into the kitchen, and John looked up from the frozen dinner he was perusing for heating instructions.

“Yer friend gone off yet?” he wanted to know.

“No, he’s still out in the hall. Listen, John, I dunno what to do. This old bloke really thinks he’s Santa Claus, and he wants us to get dressed and go with him in his sleigh.”

“I didn’t see any sleigh,” replied John. “I looked out into the street. What is it, invisible, or summat?”

“No, he says it’s on the roof just now.”

Paul laughed. “Okay, I’ll tell you what we do,” he told Ringo. “We get our coats and go outside with the old gent. Once he sees we’re willing to play, he’ll admit it’s all a joke, then he goes home and we come back in and have our supper.”

“Shall I wake George then?” asked Ringo.

“Oh, by all means,” replied Paul, “If he’s expected to go, then go get him up and ready.”

***

Ten minutes later, four Beatles and one old man in a Santa suit were standing out on the sidewalk in front of the house. George was rubbing his eyes sleepily, not quite sure what was going on.

“Alright, Santa,” said John, “How do we get up on the roof to yer sleigh, then?”

“Just do this, all of you,” replied the old gentleman, pressing the index finger of his right hand against the side of his nose, which was so red that John was sure that the old fellow must have been quite the boozer. All four Beatles did as they were told, and suddenly Paul was alone on the sidewalk.

“Hey!” he shouted, “Where did everybody go?”

“We’re up here, Paulie! This is bloody amazin’!” cried John.

Paul looked up and saw the other three Beatles peering over the edge of the roof at him.

“But how did you--”

“I think it’s gotta be yer RIGHT hand, Paulie, yer left won’t do the job,” called John.

Paul touched his nose with the designated finger, and immediately found himself on the roof with the other Beatles and the old gentleman.

“How--oh, I must be having a dream,” said Paul, looking over the edge of the roof. He rubbed his hands together and blew on them. “Cold dream, though,” he added. “Hope I wake up soon. The heat must’ve failed in the flat.”

George and Ringo were presently engaged in examining the sleigh parked in the middle of the roof. John was checking out the sack of gifts.

“This hardly seems enough for everyone in the world,” said John, picking out the top gift and examining it. “A lot of folks been bad this year, then?”

“No, the sack is magic,” replied the old man. “It never gets empty, you see, but it never changes size, either. I just keep taking things out of it at each stop, and it replenishes itself.”

George looked at the bag with interest. “Be handy to have an icebox to do that,” he said thoughtfully.

“Yeah, well, with you and John around, we could use one,” replied Ringo.

“All right, boys, time is wasting--climb aboard,” said Santa, and John looked at the sleigh doubtfully.

“There’s not enough room for all of us,” he said at last.

“Just get on,” Santa told him with a wink, “There’ll be room enough, not to worry.”

John shrugged and climbed up into the seat, followed by George and Ringo. Santa got on behind the reins, and all four of them looked at Paul, who stood shivering on the roof.

“C’mon, Paulie,” called John eagerly, “Climb on, son!”

“But it’s cold enough here--what’s it going to be like when we’re hurtling through the air? I think I need another coat, or to wake up before I freeze to death, better still.” Paul replied, and he stomped his feet for emphasis as well as to stimulate the circulation in them.

“Warm as toast up here, mate,” said George, his voice filled with wonder.

Paul climbed aboard, muttering that he had heard that people generally thought themselves warm before succumbing to death by freezing.

Once they were all safely in, the old gentleman flicked the reins, and they were off.

***

Once they were aloft, John, George, and Ringo began to chatter like excited children, pointing here and there towards the things they were passing. Paul turned to the old gentleman and said, “I don’t suppose I’m dreaming, am I? This is starting to seem pretty real to me.”

“Oh, it’s real, all right, young Mr. McCartney,” replied Santa. “ I know you stopped believing in me a long time ago, but that didn’t make me any less real. You see, what people fail to realize is that, even when they cease to believe in me, I don’t become any the less real, because there are always new children being born, and THEIR belief keeps me alive. As long as there is a child on earth who does believe, I will still exist.”

“Strangely enough, that makes sense to me,” said Paul, “But tell me one thing. I’m supposed to be somewhere tomorrow and if we have to fly all the way around the entire world at the speed we are going now, we’ll be lucky to cover that distance in a fortnight. What’s everybody gonna think when I don’t show up? Besides, if we disappear, people are gonna notice. We’re kinda well known, you know.”

“Don’t worry,” Santa said reassuringly, “I’ll have you home in no time. When we return, it will be as though no time at all has passed.”

“All right, if you say so, but may I ask how that’s possible?”

John, George, and Ringo, who had stopped chattering and were listening to the conversation, leaned forward and all shouted, “MAGIC!”

“Christmas magic,” added Ringo. “I always knew that there was really magic in the air at Christmastime. People act different then, for a while. Too bad it wears off.”

“Every year, I hope that won’t happen,” replied Santa, “But so far, no luck. Maybe this year...oops, here’s a place we have to visit. Hang on, boys!”

***

Once they had safely landed, the boys clambered off the sleigh. It was cold on the roof, and John, for one, was eager to get back into the warmth.

“Okay, Santa,” John said, “Whattawe do now?”

Santa loaded the arms of each man with packages and said, “Just nod your heads and count to three, and you’ll be okay.”

They all did so, and immediately they found themselves in someone’s deserted living room.

Paul and Ringo began placing the gifts beneath the tree, and John and George filled their pockets with the cookies that had been set out for Santa.

“Those are for Santa, you know,” Ringo told them reproachfully.

“We were gonna share with him, and with you, too, “replied George.

“Yeah, he doesn’t need to eat all these,” added John, “Or haven’t yer noticed--he’s got a bit of a weight problem, like.”

“All done,” said Paul. “I guess if we do that nose-touch thingy again, we’ll be back up on the roof again.”

“WOW!” came a voice from behind them, “You’re The Beatles! You’re just what I wanted for Christmas!”

They all turned to see a girl of thirteen standing in the doorway. Her eyes were huge, and she was hopping from one foot to the other with the excitement of seeing The Beatles in her very own living room.”

“Oh, hello, Sharon,” said Paul, and John looked at him in amazement.

“How d’ye know her name?” he asked in a stage whisper.

Paul leaned close to John’s ear. “Gift tags,” he muttered, “That was the only girl’s name.”

“Hello, Sharon,” said George and Ringo in unison.

“What are you doing here?” asked the girl, her eyes shining.

“Helpin’ Santa,” replied John, “And sayin’ hello to you, of course.”

“Well, I know I must be dreaming,” said Sharon, smiling happily, “But it’s the nicest dream I ever had. Can I give you a hug?”

“We’re all yours,” replied John, stepping forward, and the girl hugged them each in turn.

“Thanks for the nice dream,” she said at last, and with a final wave, each man touched his nose and disappeared.

***

On the roof, John turned to Ringo and said, “With a nose like that one you’ve got, it’s a wonder yer don’t hafta use yer whole fist.”

“Very funny; yours isn’t so small, ya know,” replied Ringo, but when he saw John’s smile, he had to smile as well.

“Now, now, lads,” said Santa, “Up you go--we have a lot of work to do yet.”

As they climbed in, voices could be heard from under their feet, inside the house.

“I AM awake, Mom! It really WAS the Beatles, honest!”

“For heaven’s sake, Sharon, go back to bed,” said a man’s voice, a bit impatiently. “Your obsession with that music group is beginning to worry me.”

Then the voices stopped and the boys and Santa were on their way once more.

***

All through the night, the stops continued, and more than a few lucky young girls got a look at and a hug from the Beatles. True to Santa’s word, the sack of presents never dwindled, and the night, it seemed, flew by as though mere seconds had passed. When at last they were back on top of their own roof, the boys were sleepy and George and John were very full of cookies.

“Thank you very much for your help, gentlemen,” said Santa, smiling at them as he took the reins back into his hands. “I couldn’t have done it without you. Can I count on you again for next year?”

“I don’t know where we’ll be staying then,” Ringo replied, “But if you can find us--”

“Oh, don’t you worry. I’ll find you,” replied the old gentleman, “I know where everybody is, and I keep watch on all of you. Well, goodbye, Richard; George, and Paul--take care, all of you. Oh, and John--” John looked at the old man expectantly.

“What is it, Santa?” he asked.

“You’ll behave yourself, won’t you?”

“Of course. Goodbye, Santa.”

“Goodbye!” called the others as the sleigh lifted off the roof.

Once the sleigh was out of sight, John turned to his friends and asked, “Now how do we get back into the house--that nod and count thingy?”

“Worked everywhere else,” said Paul, “So I guess it stands to reason.”

“Okay, let’s go, then.”

“One, two, THREE!” they all shouted in unison, and when they opened their eyes they were in their own living room again.

“Something smells good,” said Ringo. “What is that?”

“Oh, bloody hell--I think we left the cooker on,” said Paul, and he hurried to the kitchen to see how much damage had been done to the food he’d left in the oven.

The others trooped into the kitchen behind him just in time to see him extracting their supper from the oven.

“It’s not been burned,” said Paul. “ Must’ve run out of gas, like.”

“Nah, it’s pipe fed, it can’t run out,” John told him. “It doesn’t stop unless yer don’t pay yer bill, y’know.”

“Well, but, look at the clock,” said Ringo, “We’ve only been gone half an hour.”

“What’s everybody gonna think when we tell ‘em about this,” said George, shaking his head.

“Nothin’, son, cos we’re not gonna say a thing,” replied John. “People’d think we were daft.”

“I guess you’re right about that,” Paul said. “Well, who’s ready to eat?”

“I’m still full,” said John.

“Too many cookies,” added George.

“I could use a bite,” said Ringo. “What is it, anyhow?”

“Chicken,” replied Paul, “And mashed potatoes, carrots-- you the only one joining me, Ritchie?”

“It does smell pretty good,” said John. “Maybe I’ll have just a little.”

“It’d be rude not to,” added George. “You went to the trouble, after all.”

“All right then, get the plates, I’ll get the silver. I’m dead tired, and I have to be off to Jane’s parents’ house early.”

“Bed sounds good to me,” John agreed. “We’ve had a pretty busy night. I wonder if we’re gonna be doin’ this every year, now.”

“ I wouldn’t mind it,” said George. “It’s nice, makin’ people happy.”

“And Santa seemed to enjoy havin’ our company,” added Ringo.

“Besides,” Paul remarked, “Every year, those birds are gonna keep getting older and older, like.”

“Why, Paulie,” said John, sounding shocked, “An’ here you are, practically a married man! The shame of it!”

“Well, you ARE married, and I’m sure the same thought crossed your mind, John. What time are Cyn and Julian gonna be here tomorrow, anyhow?”

“S’posed to be about two, I think,” replied John. “I was thinkin’ of tellin’ Cyn about tonight’s little--endeavor, but the more I think on it, it’s probably a bad idea. They might wanna start comin’ along, and as you mentioned, the gels ARE gonna be gettin’ older...”

The phone rang then, and John, being closest to it, answered. “Hello?” he said. His eyes widened, he muttered, “Yeright, okay, sorry,” and hung the receiver up again, a sheepish look on his face.

“Who was it?” Paul wanted to know.

“It was Santa,” sighed John. “He said for me to behave meself. I guess I’m gonna hafta start doin’ that.” He sat quietly for a moment, then looked about at his friends and smiled. “Well, I guess he can’t be watchin’ me all the time,” he said at last. “Look how many other people he has t’watch. I’ll just hafta trust that if I get outta line, he’s lookin’ in another direction, like.”

Laughing happily, they all sat down to dinner, hoping that everyone everywhere would have a very merry Christmas, a blessed Hanukah, and a very happy new year.

Hope you all do, too!

A Very Beatle Christmas