‘They couldn’t believe I was a virgin,’ says Jane.
They went out many times in the next few weeks, often just walking round Soho together. Nobody yet recognized Paul, in early 1963, though a lot knew Jane. When he came back from a short holiday in Rome, Jane and her mother met him at London Airport. He missed a connection back to Liverpool, but Mrs Asher said he could stay the night with them. Paul didn’t want to. He didn’t like the idea of staying with a girl’s family. It’s not the sort of thing working-class lads do. But he agreed in the end, just to stay the night. The night turned into three nights, then into three weeks, then into three years. Unbeknown to fans, Paul lived all his London life at Jane’s house, until, at the end of 1966, he got his own house in St John’s Wood.
An evening with them, once again, is like an evening with any other young couple. Jane made the dinner. It was all vegetarian; Paul was one at the time, like John and George. The first course was avocado vinaigrette, followed by a casserole of vegetables, nuts and spices.
They shared a half-bottle of white wine, which had been opened for cooking. They were just finishing it up.
Throughout the meal, fans were ringing the doorbell. It was a time when Paul was between staff. Each time Jane answered them, speaking through the intercom. She was very polite. She got up nicely from her meal each time, not at all angry, and asked them if they would mind waiting as they were still eating. Paul, at this stage in the day, after dozens of doorbell fans, wouldn’t have bothered. He would have stopped answering by then, as he had done that time Brian Epstein called and couldn’t get in. In the end, she made Paul go, even before he’d finished his meal. He gave a twisted smile, but went out and signed for all the girls who’d been waiting.
After dinner, they got out some photographs that had been taken on a Scottish holiday they’d just had. Paul has a house in a remote part of Argyllshire, where they usually spend at least one week a year. Then they watched colour TV and went to bed.
It was perhaps a quieter than normal evening. Paul often has some friends dropping in. People do tend to drop in a lot to see Paul, which he encourages. It happened a lot during the five months in 1967 when Jane was acting in America. It rarely happens to the others, partly because they live farther out.
During a new album, people are coming and going all the time. Paul is now so much the leader, as he was even before Brian died, in organizing many of their affairs, that most things happen from his house.
Peter Blake, the artist, came to Paul’s house during the discussions for the Sergeant Pepper cover. John was usually there as well, and so was Terry Doran. Just after Peter Blake left one afternoon, Paul’s man, the one who was working in the house at the time, came into the living room to say that a parson was at the front gate. They all laughed.
Someone said it must be a gag. Paul looked at John. John obviously didn’t want to see any parson. Paul said to his man to get rid of him. Terry said it was probably a TV actor, dressed up. They laughed. Paul said perhaps Terry should be the one to go and tell him politely that Paul was out. As Terry was halfway across the room, Paul said no, we’ll let him in, eh? If he looks all right, he might be interesting. Terry came back from the front gate and said, he’s foony, honest. So the electronic gates were allowed to swing open, allowing the parson to enter.
The parson, middle-aged and well scrubbed, entered the living room, very nervously. Everybody smiled politely at him. Paul told him to sit down. He apologized for coming in on them when he knew they must be so busy, so frightfully busy, he knew that. He was already making their excuses for them. He was obviously so surprised to get in. He knew it couldn’t last long and he’d be straight out. Paul asked what he wanted.
The parson turned to face Paul, having realized he must be Mr McCartney. He’d been peering round, trying hard, but obviously unable to recognize anybody. Holding his hands together, he said it was just that they were having a garden fête and he was wondering if Paul could come along, just pop in for a second. Of course he knew how busy they were. It was marvellous, all they had done. They must be very busy people, he knew that.
‘No, I never do that,’ said Paul. ‘Of course, of course,’ said the parson, hurriedly, ‘I couldn’t expect it. You’re so busy. I knew it. So busy…’
‘No we’re not,’ said Paul. ‘It’s not that at all. It just wouldn’t be right, would it, as I don’t believe. You know?’ Paul was smiling. The parson smiled back, not listening, just nodding in agreement with everything Paul said.
‘Why don’t you make the product better,’ said Paul, still smiling kindly, ‘instead of getting gimmicks like us?’ ‘Oh, you’re quite right, quite right. We are trying. We’re trying hard to get all together. We’ve got an interdenominational service next week.’
‘That’ll be good,’ said Paul, ‘for a start. Of course, if we got going on this, we’d be here all night, wouldn’t we?’
‘You’re quite right,’ said the parson. ‘And you’re so busy. I couldn’t expect you to come, you’re so busy…’
Paul didn’t bother to explain again, that that was not the reason. The parson started to get up, smiling, and so did everyone else in the room. He went round them all, smiling earnestly and thanking them for all their time. He stared hard at everyone, trying to place them, knowing they must be placeable. Paul went with him to the door. As he left the room, he turned round again and said to everyone, ‘I suppose you’re all world famous.’ Then he left.
When he’d gone, everyone said how nice he was. John particularly was pleased at not being recognized. He said it was funny how people always got worried when they didn’t recognize you straight away, as if you would be hurt, not realizing it was the opposite.
It was about five o’clock. Mrs Mills, Paul’s housekeeper at the time, served breakfast all round. Fried eggs, bacon and black pudding. She brought in a big pile of sliced bread, already buttered, and endless tea. George and Ringo, then Neil and Mal arrived, and they all in turn got a cup of tea. Then they went off to the recording studio.
Apart from Beatle people, or people associated in some way with the record they’re working on, Paul often has a lot of his Liverpool relations staying with him. His dad and stepmother Angie and stepsister Ruth, plus his aunts and uncles, often have a week with him. Paul goes up to Liverpool most of all the Beatles. John doesn’t go at all, since Mimi moved to Bournemouth. George goes up to Warrington quite a lot to see his folks, and so does Ringo. But Paul is always going up for the weekend on a sudden whim, if Jane is away and there’s no work on. Jane often goes with him as well.
Michael McCartney, Paul’s brother, is probably the most frequent Liverpool visitor, especially since his own records and work began to have a London success.
The phone never seems to stop ringing. There are two numbers, both ex-directory, but no matter how often the numbers are changed, fans still find out. Paul answers the phone himself, always with a funny voice. It’s easy to tell a fan by the frightened silence, in which case he hangs up without speaking.
‘Oh, yeh, hi,’ he said on the phone, still keeping up his funny voice, but admitting who it was by the way he was speaking. It was a well known disc jockey, inviting him to come down on Sunday and do some horse riding. ‘Yeh, I might at that,’ said Paul, politely, but not definitely promising anything. He made faces down the phone as the other person smarmed on about the excellent riding. ‘Yeh, great, yeh. OK, then. I might see you. Cheerio.’