Christmas Spirit
“…When a bored man came inside, gathering window fool.”
John Lennon glanced around to see if his wordplay had cheered up his mates, but he was disappointed at their reaction. George and Ringo were oblivious to it, and Paul actually glared at him as he held the last notes of the carol. “Thanks a lot, John,” he whispered once the song ended. “Now Martin will make us do it again, even if things worked this time. We’ll never get out of here!”
John hoped that wasn’t true. Studio Two was always drab and dull, but tonight it seemed especially depressing, nothing but bare walls, the cold metal of the recording equipment, and the glass pane that separated George Martin’s snug booth from the studio. Even Paul’s red tie did nothing to brighten things up. How were they supposed to record a Christmas disc for the fan club members when it was a dismal, rainy October night? It didn’t feel at all like Christmas. John just wanted to finish up here and go clubbing. A few drinks and admiring birds would warm him up inside and out.
The recording light went off as Martin rewound the tape. “How’d that one go?” Paul asked.
“I’m sorry, boys; I’m still not picking up anything –"
“Try turning it on next time!” George called up at him.
“It was on.” Martin sounded slightly annoyed. “Here, listen to the playback.”
He flipped a switch. John strained to hear, but he heard nothing. Absolutely nothing, not even the hiss of blank tape. It was as if something was leaching all the sound out of the recordings.
“Any idea yet what’s happening, Geoff?”
“Not a bloody clue.” The recording engineer came out to inspect their equipment, but John knew everything was properly plugged in. “I’ve never seen anything like it, and I’ve gone over everything three times now.”
“We should take a break, or leave off for the night.” John looked hopefully towards the door. “Maybe tomorrow you’ll figure out what it is.”
“We don’t have time for delays like these; we’re cutting it fine with the Christmas disc already.” Martin rose. “But maybe a short break would do us all good. Anyone want tea?”
“I do,” Ringo said, laying his drumsticks down.
Before John could add his acceptance, Paul said, “Do you mind bringing some back, then? We three need to work on the harmonies some more.”
Typical perfectionist Paulie, driving them till they dropped. Martin nodded approvingly, though, so John waited until it was just him, Paul, and George before rounding in on Paul. “What the hell was that about? We’ve done the harmonies twenty million times, we could do them another twenty million, and it still wouldn’t matter because the fucking equipment’s broken! It’s not our fault –"
“But then I’ll never get Christmas!”
As one, John and Paul looked at George. The voice really hadn’t sounded like his; it was thinner and higher, like a child’s. Maybe George was playing a joke of his own? But he seemed as baffled as John felt. “It wasn’t me,” he said, shrugging.
“Then who was it?”
Silence. Finally the voice spoke again: “Me.” It seemed to be coming directly from their microphone.
John exchanged puzzled glances with Paul and George, then examined the mike, even going so far as to don his hated thick-rimmed spectacles momentarily. Nothing. Meanwhile, the other two headed up to Martin’s booth for a quick look-see. They flipped a few switches, but they couldn’t reproduce the voice.
“That settles it,” John said. “We definitely need a break if all three of us are hearing the same thing. Let’s just leave a note for Ringo and Martin and sag off for the night.”
“No! Please don’t go!” the voice said. “If you leave, there won’t be anybody to sing me a Christmas song.”
The three of them drew closer to the mike. “Who are you, and why do you want a Christmas song?” George asked gently.
“My name…my name is Rodney Whitton,” the voice replied. “I’m ten.”
“You’re a bit small for ten if you can fit inside our mike.” John figured if he cracked enough jokes, the other two wouldn’t realize just how strange this was. At least the strangeness was interesting, though.
“I’ve been in hospital. Seems like I’ve been there forever. It’s been months since I’ve been outside.”
Too bad Ringo wasn’t here, John thought. He knew from experience what this boy was enduring.
“So, are you talking to us on a radio somehow?” Paul asked.
“A radio?” Now Rodney was scornful. “I’m right here. Can’t you see me?”
They gave each other questioning looks. There was no one else here but themselves.
George hesitated, then finally asked, “How did you get here?”
“I…I don’t know.” Rodney faltered. “I was very tired today, so I took a nap. When I woke up, I felt much better, but Mum and Da were crying so much they didn’t see me. Then I saw this white light coming from a door. I thought maybe it would lead me outside, but I found myself here.”
“Hang on a moment, son.” John beckoned his mates over to a far corner of the studio. He wasn’t sure if Rodney could overhear or follow them, but he didn’t want the lad listening in if he could help it. His words might scare Rodney as much as they would his mates.
“The boy’s a ghost,” he said quietly.
“A ghost?” Paul sneered. “Go on, John! Pull the other one!”
“No, I think he’s right,” George had a thoughtful expression on his face. “But why would a ghost come to our studio?”
“Maybe he’s a fan,” Paul said in a tone that suggested he still didn’t believe in the ghost.
John figured it had something to do with the blasted carol they were supposed to sing. The boy had first spoken to them about the carol, after all. But before he could voice his theory, Rodney said, “This is a gloomy place to spend the holiday. Why aren’t you at home with your families?”
“It’s not Christmas yet,” John told him. “It’s still nearly two months away.”
“I have to wait that long? They told me I’d be home for Christmas!”
John frowned. He couldn’t imagine lying to a child, no matter how well-intentioned his parents and the doctor had been. He was half tempted to track down Rodney’s parents and tell them off. But that wouldn’t help the boy now. There was only one thing he could think of that might cheer the unwitting ghost up.
“You want Christmas, Rodney?” he asked. “All right, we’ll give you Christmas.”
Paul’s perfectly arced eyebrows rose. “How are we supposed to do that?”
“By making it Christmas, of course. Take off your tie, Macca. We can use it as decoration.”
George must have caught on to what he had in mind, for he said eagerly, “And lights, we’ll want lights. Let me see what I can find.”
The three of them scrounged for any festive thingies they could use to make the studio more Christmas-like. Paul tied his tie into a bow for the microphone, then hung up all the red and green things he could find – record covers, flyers, even old seat covers. George couldn’t find a string of lights to put up, but he did find a few candle stubs that he lit and placed on the amps. John found a piece of chalk in Martin’s desk, so he quickly sketched a few Christmas scenes on the walls: Santa stuck in a chimney, elves putting bombs into presents, and a lumberjack chopping down a Christmas tree. Not your standard Christmas card paintings, but he figured they would get a laugh out of Rodney.
Rodney wasn’t satisfied, though. “It’s still not Christmasey enough,” he complained.
“Well, what do you want us to do?” Paul asked. “It’s too early to find a real Christmas tree.”
“And the stores are all closed, so there’s nowhere to get pressies,” George said.
“No tree, no presents.” The poor boy sounded as if he was drooping. “No holiday dinner, no family over—"
John looked at Paul and George. He couldn’t do anything about a tree or presents or food, but maybe he could do something about family.
“Hold on,” he said to his mates and their uninvited guest. “I know what we’re missing.”
Leaving them to wonder what he was about, he sprinted down to the canteen. He ignored Martin and Geoff and went straight over to Ringo, smoking a fag as he read Lord of the Rings. An empty mug and three full ones stood on the table.
“Come on, Ring,” he said, laying a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “We need you in the studio.”
“What for? Did you find out what was wrong with the equipment?”
“I think so. Come on; you’ll have to see it to believe it.”
John refused to say anything else until they were back in the studio with the tea. He grinned as he looked at the room with fresh eyes. Sure, the impromptu decorations were a bit madcap, but they did make the place seem more cheerful.
“What’s all this for?” Ringo asked.
Rodney countered with, “Who’s this?”
Ringo’s blue eyes opened wide, growing even bigger as George softly explained who Rodney was and why they’d gotten a jump start on the holidays.
John nodded as he looked at each of his mates: kind-hearted, always-friendly Ringo; loyal, slyly witty George; and Paul, John’s own perfect counterpart. Together, they created more than just fab rock and roll; they created an inexplicable magic that made it Christmas every day.
“These are my brothers,” he told Rodney. “You have to have family if you’re going to have Christmas, don’t you? And music; we have to have music. Come on, mates.” He set his mug down and herded them towards the mike. “Let’s wish Rodney a Merry Crimble by singing him his very own carol.”
As they gathered, John draped his arms over Ringo and George’s shoulders. The other three imitated him. With the perfect timing born of working together for so long, they sang, “Good King Wenceslas looked out….”
This time, the harmonies sounded complete.
“Thank you, thank all of you,” Rodney whispered in John’s ear. “Now I can go home.”
For a moment, John thought he felt a rush of wind sweep over him, along with a bright light. Then he realized Martin and Geoff had returned and were moving about in the studio. He squinted at them, trying to figure out how they’d reacted to the Christmas decorations. He couldn’t make out their facial expressions very well, but he could see that the recording light was on now, as if Rodney had taken their equipment problems with him.
The Beatles sang on, providing Christmas cheer for their fans everywhere.
Copyright 2003 Sandra M. Ulbrich