Hey Everyone! Here's a sample from one of the stories taken out of "Eight arms to Hold You: The Beatles as they might have been." It's my upcoming new book, available soon on LULU home publishing! I hope you dig it!
Young Dr McCartney
Paul McCartney’s mother was a nurse, and she had encouraged young Paul to pursue a career in medicine, which he did. When his mother died of cancer, it turned him off the med’s and onto the guitar and into the band of John Lennon. But if his mother had survived, I believe his career path might have been very different.
“Paul is dead.”
“What?”
“Your dear Doctor Paul is dead on his feet. You’d better go rescue him.”
“Cor. Stone the crows.”, said the second nurse in a panicked tone.
The two nurses split apart, and walked in different directions down the hall. One went to her proper destination down in maternity. The other scooted along to the break room, where an open door revealed a soft snore and a sleeping doctor, still in lab coat and stethoscope.
The doctor’s face, already boyish, was positively cherubic as he slept on the lovely leather sofa, finer than anything the nurse could afford on her salary. The nurse stopped for a couple of seconds and just stared at him.
“Blimey. You couldn’t be any prettier if you tried, could you?”, she said in a soft voice full of self rebuke. She sighed and then kicked the sleeping doctor’s stomach. The somnambulant seraphim stayed sleeping, moving only to turn away from the nurse.
“Oh yeah? Well, this calls for harsher measures.” She said through gritted teeth.
She went to the sink by the refrigerator and filled a Styrofoam cup with water, walked back to the couch and dumped the wet contents on the dry doctor. The angelic face twisted instantly as the body under the face sprang out of the couch, sputtering and wiping the liquid away.
“Bloody hell! What the bleedin’. . .”, said the doctor in a thick Liverpudlian accent.
“Careful doctor. Talk like that and everyone here might find out that you’re a Scouse from Liverpool and send you back.”
“That would make you happy, wouldn’t it?”, snapped Dr. Paul McCartney in clear and precise Oxford accent.
There was an instant’s pause of a painful memory before she said, “You know what would make me happy.”
“That I do.” There was a few seconds between them. “But. . . .”, said Dr, McCartney, his face open and eyebrows arched. “. . . there it is.”, he said with a casual finality that had pissed off every girl who had ever heard it. They had been lovers recently, until Nurse Johnson had demanded a more serious commitment. He ended the relationship immediately, without even break-up sex. It was a common pattern in the lovelife of Dr. Paul McCartney, General Practitioner.
“Now, why the bath? Or was it for pre-existing reasons already mentioned?”
“You’re ten minutes late for your meeting with the hospital administrator.”
“Well then!” Paul flashed a tight grin and sprinted from the room. While hustling down the hall, he straightened his tie and coat and adjusted his damp hair. While running past the nurses’ station at the intensive care unit, a blonde head caught his eye and he almost skidded to a stop.
“Hello Nurse Pattock.”
“Why ‘ello Dr. McCartney.” Said the nurse, her voice heavy with expectation.
“Things quiet today in the intensive?”
“As quiet as can be expected, Dr. McCartney.”
“So you’re getting along all right here, then?”
“Oh yes, all the nurses have been very helpful.”
“Yes, we do have a must accommodating nurse’s staff here at St. George’s.”
An older nurse passing by interjected,” Accommodating? Is that what they call it these days?” The older Nurse then laughed like MacBeth’s Witches. Nurse Pattock’s face flushed deeply.
“Oh don’t mind her. She’s still trying to get over Prince Charles’ wedding. A quite jarring
experience for the poor girl.”
Nurse Pattock laughed appreciatively.
“Now, there’s that lovely smile. A grin like that could brighten up even the darkest hole in Calcutta, now couldn’t it?”
“McCartney!!!!” Came a bellow down the hall.
“Oh cricke!” said the named Doctor, as he ran toward the sound of the shout. Before he had gone
ten feet, he sprinted back to the desk just as quickly, and came to a completely still stop directly in front of Nurse Pattock.
“See you again soon, I hope?”
“You know where I work.”
“That I do.” The with a cartoon gathering of himself, he sped off to the Bellow. He didn’t have far to go, for Mr. Smythington, the hospital administrator was a mere twenty feet away.
“Having fun Doctor?”
“I was Just maintaining communications with the nursing staff in order to improve interdisciplinary relations.”
“Oh, so you do read the memos I send out? I’m not impressed. Let’s go. You’re late enough and unlike some people, I actually have no time to waste.”
Like a caught schoolboy and the catching teacher, the two proceeded along until arriving at the admin’s office. After the door was closed and both were seated, the admin let out with a long sigh.
“Doctor, doctor, doctor. . . what am I going to do with you?”
“Feed me, wine me, promote me.”
Mr. Smythington blinked, unamused.
“Sorry. I thought you were asking for suggestions.”
“I think you’re far too suggestive for this hospital already, Dr. McCartney.”
“Really? I haven’t heard any complaints.”
“And my job is to make sure there aren’t any complaints or scandals or other hullabaloos.”
“Hullabaloos? In our hospital, sir? Shocking!” said the Doctor in false alarm.
“That attitude is not helping your case.”
“What case? I have a case?”
“Dr. McCartney, we are one of the leading hospitals in London, and thereby in the world. And we have a reputation to uphold. Your performance leaves something to be desired.”
“That’s a lie.” This time there was no humor in Dr. McCartney’s words. But neither was there any anger.
“I am not in the habit of. . .”
“Can it Smythington. My record as a physician is the finest in this entire bloody place. My success rates are top notch, my patients are as healthy as the British Taxpayer can make them. I’m sorry I stick in your craw (whatever a craw is), but as long as I am tops in the field, you will simply have to make the necessary adjustments in your life to adapt to my sticky craw.”
“Dr. McCartney, this is not a television hospital with hijinks and jokes.”
“No, it’s decidedly not and I find it disgraceful.”
“And despite your record, your amorous behavior will not be tolerated for much longer.”
“That’s enough.” Dr. McCartney stood up. “I am an adult, as are all the people I associate with. We are free to make all decisions concerning romance as we are consenting adults without your approval or knowledge, ta very much.”
“You can’t continue to walk around with your willie in your hand. The times are changing. That type of behavior is not going to be tolerated in the future.”
“Well, Mr. Smythington, I give you full license, if you ever see me with my member in grasp, to give me the sack with all due haste.” Dr. McCartney made to leave the room.
“Well, then please do continue in your habits. I’ll appreciate the rope you’ll be giving me. Good day.”
“Good day sir. Thank you sir.”, said the Doctor impersonating a schoolboy.
As Dr. McCartney’s hand touched the doorknob, Administrator Smythington stopped him with an extremely perky sounding, “Oh! One moment, Dr. McCartney.”
“What no? Have I violated the innocence of your doorknob?”
“Clinic time.”
McCartney paled.
“Ah. Yes.”
“You’ve passed it off or avoided it too long. You leave in a day.”
“But I have several. . .”
“Your patients will be cared for.”
“I don’t. . .
“No? Good, then consider yourself dismissed the instant upon you refusal to perform your clinic duty. Her Majesty’s government requires you to do charity work on a regular schedule. Please Doctor. Please, refuse again. I hear Portugal is a lovely work environment for Doctors.”
McCartney was expressionless.
“When?”
“This weekend.”
“Where?”
A large eat-my-warm-stinking-shit-smile stretched across the lips of Administrator Smythington as he said:
“The last place left to serve is . . . Liverpool.”
“Bastard.”
“To those who deserve it? Absolutely. Enjoy the homecoming.”
The very next day, Dr. McCartney was standing in the middle of a city. A city that was not London. Oh, so not London.
“How could it all still be so bloody grey?”
It was late Friday night, and Dr. McCartney was standing on the street he was raised on, brow furrowed, eyes annoyed and heart full of strange emotions. He was a child here, raised by loving Parents in a harsh culture. There were poorer neighborhoods in Liverpool, but not many and not by much. Row after row of identical council flats and homes, grey streets, grey walls, grey people shuffling about brought Dr. McCartney to the days of young Paul bouncing about, going to school, avoiding the gangs of toughs that wandered about looking for the more fortunate ones to oppress. There weren’t a lot of escapes for the residents here, and few ever even tried. But the McCartney family were movers, and planned to keep on moving. Young Paul excelled in his studies, and was strongly pushed by his nurse Mother to become a doctor. Her illness when Paul was a teenager sparked his curiosity and after his mother was released the hook was set. Paul watched the doctors cure his Mum, and wanted their abilities, their power and their respect.
So, Paul buckled down and got busy. His grades got even better, he got rid of his thick Liverpudlian accent, and made it to Cambridge, and thence to Medical school. As soon as possible, he moved his family to London. In the fifteen years he’d been doctoring, he’d moved them three times, each time to a larger and swankier home. He’d also helped his extended family move out of Liverpool, and tried to never think of the place that he’d tried so hard to escape. Particularly after finding his associates in college and in professional life would often casually insult the North and it’s denizens.
And now here he was. Back again.
He turned his back and got in the cab. The cabbie didn’t bother to turn around to ask, “So, Where to next guv’nor?”
“London.”
The cabbie didn’t bother to comment on the impossibility. The doctor sighed.
“The Hotel Cinthareon, please.”
“Be needing any companions tonight? You know, of the female variety sir? I can lead you to the cleanest prettiest young ladies in all Merseyside.”
“Thank you driver, but no.”
The cabbie shut up after that without another word, not wasting any politeness on the unprofitable. A silence Dr. McCartney could respect
Young Dr McCartney
Paul McCartney’s mother was a nurse, and she had encouraged young Paul to pursue a career in medicine, which he did. When his mother died of cancer, it turned him off the med’s and onto the guitar and into the band of John Lennon. But if his mother had survived, I believe his career path might have been very different.
“Paul is dead.”
“What?”
“Your dear Doctor Paul is dead on his feet. You’d better go rescue him.”
“Cor. Stone the crows.”, said the second nurse in a panicked tone.
The two nurses split apart, and walked in different directions down the hall. One went to her proper destination down in maternity. The other scooted along to the break room, where an open door revealed a soft snore and a sleeping doctor, still in lab coat and stethoscope.
The doctor’s face, already boyish, was positively cherubic as he slept on the lovely leather sofa, finer than anything the nurse could afford on her salary. The nurse stopped for a couple of seconds and just stared at him.
“Blimey. You couldn’t be any prettier if you tried, could you?”, she said in a soft voice full of self rebuke. She sighed and then kicked the sleeping doctor’s stomach. The somnambulant seraphim stayed sleeping, moving only to turn away from the nurse.
“Oh yeah? Well, this calls for harsher measures.” She said through gritted teeth.
She went to the sink by the refrigerator and filled a Styrofoam cup with water, walked back to the couch and dumped the wet contents on the dry doctor. The angelic face twisted instantly as the body under the face sprang out of the couch, sputtering and wiping the liquid away.
“Bloody hell! What the bleedin’. . .”, said the doctor in a thick Liverpudlian accent.
“Careful doctor. Talk like that and everyone here might find out that you’re a Scouse from Liverpool and send you back.”
“That would make you happy, wouldn’t it?”, snapped Dr. Paul McCartney in clear and precise Oxford accent.
There was an instant’s pause of a painful memory before she said, “You know what would make me happy.”
“That I do.” There was a few seconds between them. “But. . . .”, said Dr, McCartney, his face open and eyebrows arched. “. . . there it is.”, he said with a casual finality that had pissed off every girl who had ever heard it. They had been lovers recently, until Nurse Johnson had demanded a more serious commitment. He ended the relationship immediately, without even break-up sex. It was a common pattern in the lovelife of Dr. Paul McCartney, General Practitioner.
“Now, why the bath? Or was it for pre-existing reasons already mentioned?”
“You’re ten minutes late for your meeting with the hospital administrator.”
“Well then!” Paul flashed a tight grin and sprinted from the room. While hustling down the hall, he straightened his tie and coat and adjusted his damp hair. While running past the nurses’ station at the intensive care unit, a blonde head caught his eye and he almost skidded to a stop.
“Hello Nurse Pattock.”
“Why ‘ello Dr. McCartney.” Said the nurse, her voice heavy with expectation.
“Things quiet today in the intensive?”
“As quiet as can be expected, Dr. McCartney.”
“So you’re getting along all right here, then?”
“Oh yes, all the nurses have been very helpful.”
“Yes, we do have a must accommodating nurse’s staff here at St. George’s.”
An older nurse passing by interjected,” Accommodating? Is that what they call it these days?” The older Nurse then laughed like MacBeth’s Witches. Nurse Pattock’s face flushed deeply.
“Oh don’t mind her. She’s still trying to get over Prince Charles’ wedding. A quite jarring
experience for the poor girl.”
Nurse Pattock laughed appreciatively.
“Now, there’s that lovely smile. A grin like that could brighten up even the darkest hole in Calcutta, now couldn’t it?”
“McCartney!!!!” Came a bellow down the hall.
“Oh cricke!” said the named Doctor, as he ran toward the sound of the shout. Before he had gone
ten feet, he sprinted back to the desk just as quickly, and came to a completely still stop directly in front of Nurse Pattock.
“See you again soon, I hope?”
“You know where I work.”
“That I do.” The with a cartoon gathering of himself, he sped off to the Bellow. He didn’t have far to go, for Mr. Smythington, the hospital administrator was a mere twenty feet away.
“Having fun Doctor?”
“I was Just maintaining communications with the nursing staff in order to improve interdisciplinary relations.”
“Oh, so you do read the memos I send out? I’m not impressed. Let’s go. You’re late enough and unlike some people, I actually have no time to waste.”
Like a caught schoolboy and the catching teacher, the two proceeded along until arriving at the admin’s office. After the door was closed and both were seated, the admin let out with a long sigh.
“Doctor, doctor, doctor. . . what am I going to do with you?”
“Feed me, wine me, promote me.”
Mr. Smythington blinked, unamused.
“Sorry. I thought you were asking for suggestions.”
“I think you’re far too suggestive for this hospital already, Dr. McCartney.”
“Really? I haven’t heard any complaints.”
“And my job is to make sure there aren’t any complaints or scandals or other hullabaloos.”
“Hullabaloos? In our hospital, sir? Shocking!” said the Doctor in false alarm.
“That attitude is not helping your case.”
“What case? I have a case?”
“Dr. McCartney, we are one of the leading hospitals in London, and thereby in the world. And we have a reputation to uphold. Your performance leaves something to be desired.”
“That’s a lie.” This time there was no humor in Dr. McCartney’s words. But neither was there any anger.
“I am not in the habit of. . .”
“Can it Smythington. My record as a physician is the finest in this entire bloody place. My success rates are top notch, my patients are as healthy as the British Taxpayer can make them. I’m sorry I stick in your craw (whatever a craw is), but as long as I am tops in the field, you will simply have to make the necessary adjustments in your life to adapt to my sticky craw.”
“Dr. McCartney, this is not a television hospital with hijinks and jokes.”
“No, it’s decidedly not and I find it disgraceful.”
“And despite your record, your amorous behavior will not be tolerated for much longer.”
“That’s enough.” Dr. McCartney stood up. “I am an adult, as are all the people I associate with. We are free to make all decisions concerning romance as we are consenting adults without your approval or knowledge, ta very much.”
“You can’t continue to walk around with your willie in your hand. The times are changing. That type of behavior is not going to be tolerated in the future.”
“Well, Mr. Smythington, I give you full license, if you ever see me with my member in grasp, to give me the sack with all due haste.” Dr. McCartney made to leave the room.
“Well, then please do continue in your habits. I’ll appreciate the rope you’ll be giving me. Good day.”
“Good day sir. Thank you sir.”, said the Doctor impersonating a schoolboy.
As Dr. McCartney’s hand touched the doorknob, Administrator Smythington stopped him with an extremely perky sounding, “Oh! One moment, Dr. McCartney.”
“What no? Have I violated the innocence of your doorknob?”
“Clinic time.”
McCartney paled.
“Ah. Yes.”
“You’ve passed it off or avoided it too long. You leave in a day.”
“But I have several. . .”
“Your patients will be cared for.”
“I don’t. . .
“No? Good, then consider yourself dismissed the instant upon you refusal to perform your clinic duty. Her Majesty’s government requires you to do charity work on a regular schedule. Please Doctor. Please, refuse again. I hear Portugal is a lovely work environment for Doctors.”
McCartney was expressionless.
“When?”
“This weekend.”
“Where?”
A large eat-my-warm-stinking-shit-smile stretched across the lips of Administrator Smythington as he said:
“The last place left to serve is . . . Liverpool.”
“Bastard.”
“To those who deserve it? Absolutely. Enjoy the homecoming.”
The very next day, Dr. McCartney was standing in the middle of a city. A city that was not London. Oh, so not London.
“How could it all still be so bloody grey?”
It was late Friday night, and Dr. McCartney was standing on the street he was raised on, brow furrowed, eyes annoyed and heart full of strange emotions. He was a child here, raised by loving Parents in a harsh culture. There were poorer neighborhoods in Liverpool, but not many and not by much. Row after row of identical council flats and homes, grey streets, grey walls, grey people shuffling about brought Dr. McCartney to the days of young Paul bouncing about, going to school, avoiding the gangs of toughs that wandered about looking for the more fortunate ones to oppress. There weren’t a lot of escapes for the residents here, and few ever even tried. But the McCartney family were movers, and planned to keep on moving. Young Paul excelled in his studies, and was strongly pushed by his nurse Mother to become a doctor. Her illness when Paul was a teenager sparked his curiosity and after his mother was released the hook was set. Paul watched the doctors cure his Mum, and wanted their abilities, their power and their respect.
So, Paul buckled down and got busy. His grades got even better, he got rid of his thick Liverpudlian accent, and made it to Cambridge, and thence to Medical school. As soon as possible, he moved his family to London. In the fifteen years he’d been doctoring, he’d moved them three times, each time to a larger and swankier home. He’d also helped his extended family move out of Liverpool, and tried to never think of the place that he’d tried so hard to escape. Particularly after finding his associates in college and in professional life would often casually insult the North and it’s denizens.
And now here he was. Back again.
He turned his back and got in the cab. The cabbie didn’t bother to turn around to ask, “So, Where to next guv’nor?”
“London.”
The cabbie didn’t bother to comment on the impossibility. The doctor sighed.
“The Hotel Cinthareon, please.”
“Be needing any companions tonight? You know, of the female variety sir? I can lead you to the cleanest prettiest young ladies in all Merseyside.”
“Thank you driver, but no.”
The cabbie shut up after that without another word, not wasting any politeness on the unprofitable. A silence Dr. McCartney could respect
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