It’s a large L-shaped bungalow, with three acres of garden, which until fairly recently was a farmer’s field. A gardener works two days a week knocking it into shape. They call it a bungalow, but it does have one upstairs room. They call it a room, but it is, in fact, 32 feet long, stretching the length of the house. They use it for parties or cinema shows.
The house cost George £10,000. With all the additions and improvements, such as a new open-plan staircase and a sun room, it’s easily worth £20,000. The same house, in Bournemouth, near Mimi, would probably fetch £40,000.
Inside it is full of brand new modern furniture, deep-pile carpets and bright knick-knacks from all over the world. Most of these presents from around the world have been sent not from their son, as in the other parents’ homes, but personally to the Harrisons from fans. And unlike the other homes, you aren’t too dazzled by the number of gold and silver discs inscribed to the Beatles. Their walls are hung instead with presentations inscribed to Harold and Louise Harrison.
On one wall is an enormous gold plaque with the inscription: ‘Presented to Harold and Louise Harrison for the time and effort they have shown towards Beatle people everywhere. United Beatles Fans. Pomona, California, 1965.’
The other Beatle parents think that Mrs Harrison must be a little bit daft, at least they can’t understand why she spends so much of her time being so kind to fans when she doesn’t have to. Mrs Harrison just happens to be fanatical about fans. She’s a fans’ fan.
Every spare minute of the day she’s answering fan letters. Most evenings she sits up till two o’clock, writing away. She personally writes 200 letters a week. Not notes, but proper letters of about two pages each. This is apart from signing and sending photographs. Their stamp bill is enormous.
‘I’ve always personally answered all letters, except from obvious cranks. If it’s in a foreign language, like Spanish, say, I read through it carefully and pick out words like “admiro”. I can then roughly tell what it’s about, so I send them a signed photograph.’ Mr Harrison travels to the Fan Club HQ in Liverpool each month to pick up a new load of photographs. They get through 2,000 a month.
‘From the beginning I used to get such lovely letters from fans, or more often the fan’s mum. “Dear Mrs Harrison, you’ll never realize what your letter has meant. After years of writing to phoney fan club addresses and never hearing anything back, a personal letter from George’s mum! My daughter went through the roof.” So you see, I just have to go on.
‘Of course, at one time it was just physically impossible to answer all letters. In 1963 and ’64, we were getting 450 a day from all over the world. On George’s 21st birthday we had 30,000 cards and scores of screaming fans. They had to put a policeman on duty outside. He couldn’t get over the kids kissing the door knob. “Have you got to put up with this all the time?” the policeman said. “I’d go mad.” For years the post office always sent a special van with our mail, but things have settled down a lot now. I find 200 letters a week enough to cope with, if I don’t slack.’
Fans she has corresponded with have a habit of suddenly turning up. She’d just had a family of Americans, who had come specially to see her. ‘They were doing Europe and the Holy City in a fortnight. They were missing out Britain, but they decided to fly from Paris to Manchester, then get a taxi from Manchester, just to see us. It’s a good job we were in.’
Mrs Harrison has always been a keen letter writer, long before George became a Beatle. She’s got two pen pals she’s corresponded with for 30 years. She got their names through the Woman’s Companion. One lives in Barnsley, the other lives in Australia. With both these pen pals, she’s swapped all family gossip since 1936. When the Beatles went to Australia, pictures of George as a little boy started appearing in the Australian press. Nobody could work out where they had come from. George himself had never seen them before. It was Mrs Harrison’s pen pal, who had dug out the snaps she’d been sent many years ago.
‘People always think we must be different now, because of George. We went to a fan’s wedding the other day, and people said “How can you enjoy yourselves with the likes of us?” They expect us to wear mink all the time.
‘They want you to be different, I don’t know why. When Harry was still working, people used to say to him, don’t tell me you’re still working. Now that he’s not, they’re sure we must be different. You can’t win.’
Mr Harrison gave up working in 1965, after 31 years on the buses. ‘I was driving the big 500. That’s the limited stop bus that goes right across Liverpool, very quick, you can’t afford to be caught in any traffic. “How much are you getting for driving that 500?” George said to me one day. “Ten pounds two shillings,” I said. He said was that a day. I said no, a week. He said what a bloody liberty. I’ll give you three times that to do nothing. It’ll put another ten years on your life.’
Every summer they both open garden fêtes up and down the country, usually Roman Catholic Church ones. Mrs Harrison doesn’t go to church, but as she was born a Catholic she thinks she should help them if she can.
‘We’ve been as far south as Salisbury. What was that place north of London, Harry? Oh flippin’ heck. I’ve forgotten. Harpenden, that was it. They advertised us in the local paper that we were going to open their fête. They usually do that.
‘We judge beauty contests as well. We’ve done it for spastics, blind people, as well as churches. I don’t care what it’s for really.
‘I usually say when I’m making my little opening speech that I’m quite pleased to be here to help them. I say how George and the boys wish to be remembered to them and send their best wishes. Then we get besieged when we go round the stalls. We enjoy it. Well, anything to help.’
Ringo’s real father, who is also called Ritchie Starkey, has seen very little of Ringo since he separated from his mother when Ringo was five years old.
As far as Ringo can recall, after his early childhood he has only seen his father once. This was in 1962, before he was with the Beatles and still with Rory Storm’s group.
‘He happened to be at the Starkey’s one day when I called,’ says Ringo. ‘I wasn’t so childish by that time and didn’t feel anything against him. He said to me, “I see you’ve got a car.” I’d just got the Zodiac. I said, “Do you want to come outside and have a look at it?” He said yes. So we went out and had a look at my car. And that was all. I haven’t seen him since or had any contact.’
His father later moved away from Liverpool. He now lives in Crewe, where he works as a confectioner in a bakery. He also has a part-time job as a window cleaner. He has remarried but has no children. Ringo is his only son, and Ringo’s children his only grandchildren. He collects their photographs, tearing them out of newspapers every time they appear. He doesn’t feel any envy at what his son has done, although he wishes his father had been alive as he was always so fond of Little Ritchie. He is referred to in his family as Big Ritchie and Ringo as Little Ritchie.
Since Ringo’s earliest days of fame he has remained hidden from any publicity and from Ringo, which is highly commendable. On the occasions when people have noticed his name and asked if he was any connection, he has said he was an uncle. But he does admit he would like to set his eyes on his son again. ‘But I’m slow. I want kicking to do anything.’ He gets annoyed when, now and again, Harry Graves, Ringo’s stepfather, through no fault of his own, appears in the papers simply as ‘Ringo’s father’. He would like to correct it, but on the other hand he doesn’t want the press to find out who he is and where he lives. He has no wish to get involved in Ringo’s fame.