by Jennifer Game
My friend and I collected our tickets for the show we were going to see one evening in London, then as we had a good bit of time to spare, we decided to go and take a look at Paul's house in St. John's Wood. Although my friend had seen his house before, I hadn't and felt very excited as we stepped on to the tube at Victoria.
We arrived at St. John's Wood station twenty five minutes later and by this time a thousand thoughts had stirred up inside our heads as to what we would say to him if we met him. But, secretly, we knew it was very unlikely. My friend, not remembering exactly how to get there decided we should ask someone. After following a kind lady's directions we came to our destination, and there standing bold and proud against the dark sky stood Paul's house.
I rang the doorbell, which was fixed to the letterbox on the big black gate, examining the eight milk bottles which stood in a blue crate by our sides, at the same time. A voice spoke to us through a tiny microphone which was also sitting in the letterbox, and might I add it wasn't a very inviting voice and sounded something like this:--"Who are you, what do you want? Do you always go around ringing people's doorbells? Do you mind going, I am on the telephone?" We knew it couldn't possibly be Paul's voice after reading how friendly and welcoming he is at the worst of times. But we were not discouraged, for we knew there was someone in as there were three lights on in the front of the house.
A policeman came up to us and as we walked down the road listening to his stories of Paul with him, we didn't notice the events taking place up the road behind us. The policeman decided he had talked to us long enough and departed to carry on his beat.
We turned around to walk back and noticed a white mini had driven up and parked itself outside Paul's house. My heart, I am sure, missed a beat, for the dark shadow that emerged from the car had to be Paul's. Another figure appeared from the car, but we couldn't see the face. We raced up to the car and then it was clear who the shadow was. Not Paul, but his brother Mike.
After receiving their autographs we talked to them for a while and I noticed that Mike had the same sense of humour as his brother . . . It was obvious that they hadn't much time. Mike took a key from his pocket and unlocked the big black gate, and taking his word that Paul wasn't in, we said goodbye and turned to begin our journey back to Victoria.
They had been thoroughly nice and perhaps if we hadn't met Mike we would have been disappointed in not meeting Paul. But we had met his brother and that was good enough for both of us. Now we can walk with our heads that much higher.
Many fans have met Paul, perhaps all of the boys, but for us this joy, I feel, is sure to come. When we are sixty we can look back on October 26, 1967 and remember that unforgettable meeting with Mike McCartney.
Jennifer Game (18),
208 Western Road,