On a brisk November afternoon, the twelfth of 1963, the Beatles stood outside in a hallway behind the door of a room for the Southern Television program 'Day By Day', where they would be interviewed about their upcoming concert by Mr. Jeremy James. George was smoking a cigarette as John and Ringo were listening in on what was going on behind the doors that they were anxiously awaiting to walk through; ears glued to the crack in the door, when they heard an announcer shout, "...An' coming up shortly aftah this commercial break-an interview with: you guessed it, folks-the Beatles!"
"Foin'lly," Ringo groaned, "Thought they'd fugotten abou' t'us."
John and Ringo removed their heads from the door and formed a small square-like huddle with George and Paul. John and Ringo stood up, as George was sitting next to Paul, strumming his guitar with his fingers. Paul sat next to him quietly-more quietly than usual. John noticed that his naturally-droopy eyes were a lot droopier than usual, and that, though the hall was a bit chilled from the autumn air brushing in every now and again, Paul was in a bit of a sweat. Ignoring it, John clapped his hands together and said rather excitedly, "Alroi', lads-Ah say we base this 'ere intehview on the Royal Variety Show, an'...ouhr new songs comin' up. Whaddya say?"
"Gear," Ringo replied.
"Let's have a go a' it, then," George chimed in, strumming some of the strings on his guitar.
"Alroi'," John piped up, "Whaddya think, Paul?....Ehm-Paul?"
John had noticed that Paul had closed his eyes and was laying his head on George's shoulder. He wasn't asleep, but he just took a light rest with his eyes closed.
"Oh, fah Christ's sake," John yelled rubbing his eyes with his palm, "WAKE UP, MCCARTNEY!"
George pushed Paul's head off of his boney shoulder, which jolted Paul to snap out of his dreary state.
"Hmm," He yelped excitedly, "Wha's tha'?"
"Foh the intehview," Ringo spoke up, "We jus' gonna tolk abou' the Show las' week an' ouh songs."
"An' Ah was wond'rin' if tha' was alroi' by YOU," John intruded.
"Oh, yeah," Paul replied hoarsely, "Sounds fab," he croaked before clearing his throat. He then got into a short fit of croupy coughing and sniffled.
"Well, you don't sound too fab," George said, looking up from his guitar and over to a weary-looking Paul, "Y' alright, Paul?"
"Yeah, lad," Ringo added, "Tha' didn't sound too hot."
"W-w-well," Paul replied, wrapping his arms around his shaky body, "N-now thatcha m-m-mention it, I ain't s'actly f-f-feelin' t-too hot, meself..."
George reached over and placed a hand on Paul's forehead.
"Awh, I'd beg ta differ," George cautioned, "He's runnin' a temp'rature!"
"M-maybe i-it's j-j-just the heatin'," Paul added as his teeth chattered, "T-the b-b-buildin's overheatin' o' s-s-somethin'..."
"Yeh look awef'lly cold feh someone in an 'overheatin' buildin'," Ringo replied.
"Christ, Mac," John pointed out concernedly, "Yeh shakin' loi' an earthquake!"
"Well, ain'tchu lads even the sloightes' bit cold'," Paul shivered, "Ah mean- it ain't exac'ly a-ah--HAya-HAIIIISHOO!"
"Gesunheidt," John replied quietly, turning to Ringo and George, whom all three seemed to be sharing the same concern. Now, the boys heard an average, normal Paul McCartney-sneeze before: quite normal, really. However, THAT sneeze- that high-pitched, furoscious one, was not an 'average, normal' one.
"Ugh-thanks," Paul mumbled with a sniff and a cough.
"Tha' was quoite a sneeze, lad," Ringo said worriedly, "Ah think yeh moight be comin' down with something."
"Nonsense!" Paul cried in a congested voice, "Ndow, loi' Ah was sayin'-it ain' exactly abnormal for a-ha-HAIIIRSHOOO!"
"Bless ya!" George jumped suprisedly from the force of Paul's sneeze. John handed him a handkerchief, and Paul blew his nose rather loudly and resembled the blaze of a trumpet.
"You sure yeh not catchin' nuthin'?" Ringo repeated, more concernedly this time.
"POSITIVE," Paul replied angrily, as his voice cracked, "NOW-LOI' AH WAS SAYIN' -it ain't exactly abnormal for a lad ta be a bit chilly in Novembah!"
"Then, 'ow come yah runnin' a temp'rature if yeh so cold, son," Ringo asked softly, knealing down to Paul's level placing his hand on Paul's warm forehead. He stepped back, arms crossed with a worry in his blue eyes. Paul was about to reply, "Well--I," but was stopped by an unexpected cough that led into a whole shpeal of coughing. He turned his head away, sort of trying to hide his face from his friends, and after he finished coughing, he sneezed and sighed with discomfort and frustration as he shivered. John then walked up to him, knelt down in front of him, turned back to John and George who were standing behind him, and again that same feeling of concern swept over the three of them like a tidle-wave.
Just then, an executive poked her head out of the door, and called cheerfully, "Mr. James is ready for you, Beatles."
"Thank you," George cried with a little wave, as he looked down at Ringo.
Ringo looked up at him, then at John. John notioned with his head for him and George to go on inside. Ringo turned to George, shrugged and walked in as George followed behind him suit, looking back quickly at John and Paul. Paul stood up, a bit uneasily, and headed towards the door-when all of a sudden, it was shut quick just before he could take hold of the handle. Paul looked confusedly at the door, then heard an 'ahem' to the right of him, and found John looking at him with a cocky smile, and a hand pressed against the door. However, his smile quickly faded as he got a closer look at Paul-noticing for the first time today how sick he actually was.
Paul's face was terribley pale, and his cheeks were flushed with a shade of bright pink. He was rubbing his red-tinted nose, and noticed his eyes had small, subtle bags underneath them. His droopier-than-normal eyes were a little puffy, and he noticed his breathing was unsteady and congested. He looked down further, and saw that McCartney had an arm wrapped around his stomach, and his hand was as white, if not whiter, than his face. He stood there shakily, hunched over slightly, looking up at John, his nose running a little, with big, puppy-dog eyes tearing up a bit. He groaned a little as if he were in some sort of a great deal of pain, and held his stomach with both arms. John saw a few more little beads of sweat forming on his friends forehead, and placed the back of his hand against it while the other rested on Paul's shaky shoulder. The ends of his mop-top, dark hair-along with his brow- were damp from Paul's sweat, and his forehead burned with fever.
"Oi, lad," John cried, pulling his hand away from Paul's forhead quickly so not to burn it, "Y' could fry an egg on tha' thing."
Paul wiped the sweat from his forehead and sighed. He straightened his body, put on a brave face, and cleared his throat.
"Alroi'," Paul muttered, reaching for the door-knob, "C'mon then."
"An' where in blazes d' yeh think youh goin'?" John said suprisedly slamming the door as Paul opened it.
"Well," Paul said with a little cough, "We've an interview t' do, 'aven't we?"
"Paul- there ain't no chance in 'ell tha' yeh goin' in there."
"An' woi the hell not?!"
" 'Cos, Paul, look atcha! Ya can barely friggin' stand!... Y' jus' don't seem up ta-"
"Now, dontchu worry 'bout me- Ah'm foine!"
"But Pa-"
"Look, 's just a li'l cold, is oll," Paul placed a firm hand on his worried friend's shoulder, and said sincerely, "Ah'll be fine."
"Ah yeh sure yer up t' this, McCartney?"
John looked into Paul's tired eyes that seemed to beg him for trust.
John ran his fingers through his hair and sighed, as he finally said, "Oh--alroi'. BUT- if yeh start t' feel ill, PROMISE yeh'll tell me."
"Alroi'." Paul replied blatantly. John raised an eye-brow and then stuck out his pinky.
"PINKY-promise?"
"Pinky-promise," Paul replied, wrapping his finger around John's.
"We've GOT ta figure out somethin' less queer t' swear on, alroi'?" John added as he walked through the door, Paul followed behind, laughing a little as they walked through the backstage doors.