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She'd seen pictures of him before, of course. Before he ever entered her classroom with his metal lunch box and small red backpack, eyes wide and freckles prominent on his pale skin. She'd never been one to describe herself as an obsessed fan -- she felt a sense of pride in how calm she followed their music -- but she'd still read the papers, flipped through Rolling Stone or Life for more formal news updates.
That was how she'd learned in the first place, a large headline in The Times: John Lennon a Father, Child's Mother Absent. A surprise, to be sure. None of them had been linked with any women up to that time, all too busy with their whirlwind career and hardly able to find time for a stable companion or home life outside the band. There'd even been an interview once, wherein a pair of them -- she couldn't recall which two -- had explained why they were chronically single.
“It’s not that we’re opposed to it, y’know. It’s just that the way we live our lives is so different from most other people. What we’ve been through, experienced, it’s not a lifestyle we can ask someone else to understand, at least not right now. But it’s alright, I mean, we’ve got each other.”
And yet there was the headline a few years later, followed by an official birth announcement from EMI, albeit one with scant details. “Julian Brian Lennon, born April 8th 1967, son of John Lennon. The mother’s identity will be kept anonymous for the sake of privacy.” The announcement also went on to say that the mother was no longer in contact with her former partner or her son, due to health reasons that prevented her capability in being a parent.
No further details were given, and thus the angle was focused upon heavily in the media. Speculation swirled — depression, drug addiction, a traumatic birth — and soon dozens of women came forward claiming to be the mother, albeit in surprisingly healthy states of being. Flurries of custody right papers were filed, as well as demands to meet with the Beatle personally, but they’d all fallen flat. None of them were valid, naturally.
After that, attention moved to the child, to Julian. No official pictures of him were released until the following year, his first birthday, but every other week it seemed the tabloids had blurry snapshots of who they claimed to be The Beatle Baby. When the band had parted ways and the media surrounding every detail of their lives died down, there were more reliable pictures in the paper. Ones of him and his father in one of the parks at St. George’s Hill, near their home. A few from London and New York, with him held securely in his father’s arms, and a flurry of ones from somewhere on the coast, playing in the sand.
There had been a particularly nice one — sweet, really — a year ago or so now. It had been in Greece, the papers said, and he was dressed in a white shirt, shorts, and socks, paired with simple sandals and hair getting a bit long. The sweetest part about the photo, though, was that he was being held by another Beatle, and both looked to be comfortable in each other’s presence. It was nice, she thought, that even after the band ended, the four of them still spent together, were still very much a family. It was probably nice for Julian, too, to have another parental figure in his life. It couldn’t be easy never having a mother.
Truly, that had been her first concern when she saw his name on her class roster in August, just a few months ago now. She knew he had aunts about her age, but there was still the tremor of a worry on how best to teach and accommodate a child with little to no regular exposure to more authoritative — or as she preferred to think of it, guiding — female figures. She’d toyed with the idea of having a parent-teacher meeting before the first day of class, but despite its intentions, she couldn’t help feeling that such an invitation would be taken as more of a fan-based ploy than professional matter of concern.
And so she had filed the idea away, continued her preparations for the coming year, and then met Julian — and his father — on the first day of school with all her other pupils. It was, in all possible words, a blend of shockingly normal and yet undeniably surreal.
First was the routine of it being the first day of the year: a bit misty in the morning but sun shining by the time the students arrived, all wide eyes and hesitant smiles at first. It was a small class, only ten or so students, in keeping with the relatively low population of the Rye and Peasmarsh communities, and they filed in in varying stages of emotion. Some, clearly experienced from nursery or day care in the past year, parted from their parents sincerely but easily, occupying themselves with their like minded peers and a bin of crayons set out on one of the low tables. A few others, though seemingly comfortable with leaving their parents, were more hesitant to join in. Lastly were the ones still pressed against their mothers’ legs, holding their hands with firm determination. And then there was Julian.
Truthfully, he was nearly identical to the leg lurkers, but the key difference there, of course, was whose hand he was grabbing: his father’s. The two of them had come a few steps into the room but apparently Julian had decided that was far enough. He was looking up at his father with earnest worry, and when she followed his eyes, she felt her heart skip. She’d known he was here, of course, but actually laying eyes on John Lennon, merely a few paces away and in her classroom, was every bit the surreal dream she could only imagine rabid fans had. And maybe that she’d had once or twice in the past week.
She took a breath and smoothed her blouse, stalling in her uncertainty of how best to approach and initiate conversation, but paused as John Lennon carefully began to lower himself to his son’s level, squatting beside him with a gentle smile and tucking a strand of straight brown hair — almost auburn, really — behind his ear. There was such a tenderness to it, and while she supposed she really shouldn’t have been surprised, seeing one of the most famous and private people in the world be a normal and open human was almost too much to comprehend. It was only when he stood up again, still holding Julian’s hand, that she thought it appropriate to walk over.
“Hello, are you here for Kindergarten?” She asked, smiling as she addressed Julian more directly than to his father. Kindergarten was for kids, after all.
Julian ducked his head, stepping closer to his father’s leg, but managed a nod.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she continued, resisting the urge to bend down closer to him. He seemed very intent on keeping his space his own. “I’m Miss Ann, I’ll be your teacher for the year.”
Julian ventured a glance up, eyes wide with everything new around him. “Hello,” he murmured.
“Hello,” she repeated, still smiling. “Can I ask you your name?”
He looked further up this time, all the way to meet his father’s eyes, asking a nervous question.
“It’s alright,” he said, squeezing his hand. His voice was just as scouse as it had been in every interview she’d ever seen on television, and after a skipped heart beat, she realised it was the first time she’d heard him speak , not sing, in person. “Go on, baby.” And he called his child a nickname. Good Lord, he was actually a real human, wasn’t he?
Somewhat encouraged by his father’s gentle words, Julian looked back to her. “Julian,” he nearly whispered.
“It’s so nice to meet you, Julian. Would you like to shake hands?”
He seemed to consider this, weighing the options of removing his hand from his father’s — his other still grasped his metal lunch box — and putting it in someone else’s. The pause continued for a few seconds longer, evidently answering for itself.
“That’s alright,” she assured. “It’s hard on the first day, isn’t it? How about I show you to your cubby? Your, uh, your dad can go with you and you can get all your things sorted.”
Julian nodded almost imperceptibly at that. He clutched his father’s hand tighter.
“What do you say, Jules?” He prompted gently.
“Yes, please, ma’am,” he answered, tone entirely genuine in its politeness despite the worry laced through it, and she had to force down a chuckle at the use of ‘ma’am’.
“Of course, it’s just over here,” she explained, leading them to a set of square-box shelves a few steps further into the room. “It has your name on it, too, in red marker. Do you see it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Red’s your favourite colour, too, isn’t it Jules?” he murmured as they drew closer. “It’s like Miss Ann read your mind!”
Julian’s face broke into a small smile at that, and he looked up at her when they reached the boxed shelf. “Thank you, ma’am.”
Her following smile was both automatic and sincere. “You’re very welcome, Julian. I’ll just leave you two to get settled, then. When you’re ready, you can come over to the table for some colouring. We have red crayons, too.” She then directed her focus to his father, the first time she’d done so all day, and tried to force some normal words out of her mouth. “You’re welcome to stay for as long as he wants. We usually have a couple of parents do that for the first week or longer, and it’s certainly no trouble. Whatever is best for him.”
The easy smile and creased eyes behind his glasses were so unreal that she almost didn’t hear what he said next. “Might end up staying a while just for myself, really,” he chuckled. “I’m not so ready for this either.”
She gave a polite smile, preparing to say something else, before another boy was tugging on her skirt and asking for the loo. The next smile she gave was apologetic, and then she hurried off to prematurely show the child where the nearest toilet was: in her opinion, too far away.
It wasn’t until several more trips to the loo — for several more students — that she finally had a moment or two to breathe and look around again. And quite literally run into John Lennon on his way out the door.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” She backed up immediately, fear at the thought of having touched him rushing into her mind. “I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Don’t give it a worry,” he assured, smile just as easy as before. It seemed genuine, too, and the feeling it gave was one of reassurance. Or at least, it would have been if she could have gotten her nerves under control. But how on earth were you supposed to when John Lennon was talking to you?
She grasped for words. “Is he, uh, Julian, is he alright with you leaving? You truly can stay as long as he needs. Or you need.”
“He’s doing alright now, a bit more settled. Just takes him a bit to get adjusted to new spaces.” His eyes tracked over to the table, where Julian was sat colouring with a girl in a bright green skirt and white jumper. “Thanks for the flexibility, though. I’m sure I’ll end up using it more than once.”
“Of course, whatever is best for him,” she assured. “And for you, as I said before.”
“Very generous of you.”
“We try to be,” she continued, unsure of how long to prolong the conversation. “Kindergarten is an odd time for so many kids and parents, with the mix of those from nursery and the ones entirely new to schooling outside of the home.”
He nodded, still watching Julian colouring carefully within the lines of the printed sheets. “He started at nursery last year, got on pretty well. He’s used to being away from home a few times a week, at any rate.”
“That’s certainly a good start,” she agreed, polite smile still on her face. “Nursery is such an important foundation, I feel. Even if they don’t learn anything in the academic field, it’s the socialisation that really impacts them. He seems to be well adjusted in that aspect.”
“Nursery helped rather a lot with that, really,” he confided with a chuckle. “He used to be even quieter around new people than he is now. Bit of a worry for a while that he wouldn’t talk if anyone but family was about.”
Family . The word of the day, or the past several, really, because even as John Lennon — “Call me John” — left a few moments later, as kind and caring toward his son as she could ask of any parent, the thought about their family dynamic persisted. What was it like, really? Growing up with a single father and no siblings?
There was the fairly public knowledge that John Lennon — “call me John” — had lived with Paul McCartney in London for the past few years, and it could thus be assumed that Mccartney’s two daughters were rather close with Julian, also children of a single parent, God bless them. But now Julian was in Sussex, in a house owned by Len— by John , and McCartney still had ownership of his Cavendish home near the band’s recording studios in London. Christ, maybe she had been reading the fan mags too much.
But regardless, she reasoned, slowly beginning to start class in as casual and yet formal a way as you could do on the first day, there had to be some difficulties in growing up as mostly an only child to a single parent. Uncertainty around other children, perhaps, though that seemed to be unlikely given his year of nursery. Or maybe anxiety and upset about discussion of families and home life, insecure to learn that his situation was rather unusual. She would just have to wait and see, she supposed.
As it happened, there wasn’t much to see at all, at least not in the negative terms she imagined. He was certainly quiet, often hesitant and seeking confirmation in his actions, as John had said he would, but as the days passed, he grew more out of his shell. He got on well with his peers, sharing and playing with both good manners and enthusiasm. His academic ability was already beyond Kindergarten level in reading and writing, and his arithmetic was on par with expected standards. In looking over her notes for the middle of autumn, he was easily one of her better students, at least as good as a kindergartener could do in a class without real grades.
Most notable, though, was his enthusiasm for any form of arts and crafts, whether it be painting or crayons or glitter and paste. He regularly created drawings for John, switching between calling him “Daddy” or “Dada”, and always made official class art projects in pairs, just like his peers did for their mums and dads.
Truly, she was beginning to wonder if somehow there was a secret mother in his life, a person whom no one knew about, until the Friday before Guy Fawkes Day. Class ended early that day, as it always did on Fridays, and there were usually a few children left waiting an extra half hour for one of their parents to get off work on their lunch break and take them home.
The same was true now, crisp and a bit chilly outside the single paned windows, but a fair bit cosier inside with a book and a pillow. That was the best way to keep them occupied until they were picked up: a story of some kind. It entertained them well enough, and for those worried that their parents were late, it was a treat able to distract them from their nerves. A good method and routine, all in all. Really, the only unusual thing about today was that one of the students still waiting after the final bell was Julian. Normally he was picked up right on the dot, always searching the group of adults outside the door until he found his father, and then eagerly rushing out while waving his latest art project in his hand.
But today he was waiting with two of his classmates, sitting cross legged on a pillow and listening carefully to her read them a picture book about leaves changing colour. It had some words that were a bit beyond Kindergarten level, but the idea was timely and the pictures engaging, and the three kids were certainly paying attention well enough. When the two other parents arrived just about halfway through the book, the relevant kids looked rather disappointed at having to leave. Julian expressed the same disappointment when the book ended — notably before he was picked up.
“Did he say he’d be extra late today, Julian?” She asked kindly, tucking the book back in the bin of seasonal reads she’d pulled from the larger classroom shelf.
Julian shook his head. “I don’t think so.” He glanced around the room, as if suddenly noticing how empty it was with only two people, and quickly looked back at her with slightly more anxious eyes. “Maybe he’ll be here soon, though.”
“Do you think we should call him, just to see?”
Julian paused, then nodded firmly. “Yes, please. I have the phone number memorised, too.”
“That’s very good! Here, let’s go to my desk and I’ll do the dial out code for you. Then you can put in the number, alright?”
He responded in the polite and genuine thanks she was so used to from him, and carefully pushed himself to his feet to follow her to the phone. They had just reached the desk, Julian standing on tiptoe to see the numbers on it before she dialled the out code, when a knock came against the partially open door. Both their heads turned.
A man in corduroy trousers and simple cable knit sweater was hovering at the threshold, eyes showing agitation and a fussing baby on his hip with the exact same nearly black hair as him. “Hello, is this Miss Ann’s kindergarten class? I’m so sorry, I—”
“You’re here!” Julian cried out, interrupting the man in mid sentence and rushing toward him with the same enthusiasm he reserved for his father at the end of each day.
She’d never seen him react so positively to a total stranger, and within a second, she was hurrying after Julian, internal alarms blaring at the presence of this mystery man who was certainly not John Lennon. The only positive aspect was that Julian seemed to know him, but even that wasn’t a full relief. Children of celebrities no doubt met all manner of people, and she was willing to wager that not all of them were as trustworthy as they might like to appear.
“Julian, wait a minute, please,” she called gently, rushing to stay him by his shoulders before he reached the man at the door. “It’s good to be polite, but we have to be respectful about other people’s boundaries, especially when we don’t know them—”
Julian turned to look at her, brows furrowed in a way only children can make look adorable. “But I know him, Miss Ann, this is my—”
“I’m so sorry,” the man interrupted, thankfully staying put as he spoke. “I should have phoned ahead. I’m Paul, Julian’s, uhh, well, I’m a friend of the family. John couldn’t make it at the last minute, so I’m the replacement. I’m sorry to be so late and unexpected.”
The moment it took her to realise who the person in front of her was was embarrassingly long. Clothes perfectly suited for the countryside, wellingtons muddy like so many parents who came by after a day in the fields, dark hair left long and a bit mussed, face rather flushed. It could have been anyone, really, if not for the name that suddenly clicked into place. Paul. Paul McCartney. God, she could have fainted.
Instead, she managed a few words that were moderately comprehensible. “Oh, oh of course, please forgive me, I wasn’t paying attention—”
“It’s alright, not a worry.” He smiled as he said it, and the shock at seeing that grin this close and finding it just as charming as it was on television and in the papers nearly debilitated her all over again. “I appreciate you keeping a good look out for him.”
“Oh, well, certainly, just making sure everything’s as it should be.” She swallowed, hoping it was imperceptible, and looked down at Julian again. “Just to be sure, you do know him, right Julian?”
Julian nodded eagerly, bouncing on his heels. “Mmhmm! And this is Mary! She’s 14 months and one week old!”
“Hello there, Mary,” she greeted, relieved Julian had introduced them so she didn’t have to pretend not to know who the child was. The picture of her on that album was impossible to forget. “Very nice to make your acquaintance.” She swallowed again, turning to the man of the hour. “And yours, of course. I apologise once again—”
“Please, it’s more than alright. Better that than letting him run out the door with reckless abandon.” He smiled again, voice sincere, and a bit of ease began to replace her shocked embarrassment. He was kind enough to keep the attention off her, too. “Speaking of going out the door, though, can you get your things together, Jules? Heather’s waiting for us at home with Mister Neil so we’ve got to be quick.”
“Like a bunny?” Julian asked.
“Like a bunny,” Paul affirmed, giving him a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Go on now, let’s not keep her waiting.”
Julian obeyed with an earnest understanding, hurrying to his cubby and beginning to extract his belongings. Both adults watched for a moment, eyes entirely set on the child in both of their charges, before realising that conversation was perhaps called for.
“Is there anything I have to sign? If I’m not the usual person?”
“Normally yes, but I’ll make a note of it in the sheet for today, seeing as you’re in a hurry.”
“You’re sure? I’d rather not be chased down on the way out the door.”
“I can vouch for you, I’m sure,” she promised. “And so can Julian, it seems.”
“Very kind of you. Thanks for looking after him a bit longer today, too. Hopefully it wasn’t too much trouble?”
“Certainly not. He’s a joy to have in class, and I hardly mind spending a few extra minutes with any of my pupils. It’s nice to get one on one time with them, really.”
“Well that’s good to hear. We’ve only had good reports about him so far, but you never know,” he chuckled. “Let’s hurry please, Jules, we’ve got to go.”
“I’m coming!” Julian called back, coat finally on and backpack over one shoulder as he struggled with the other strap. And then his arm was through, his lunch box in hand, and he was running over with the day’s drawing in his hand. That was when he said it. “Look, I made it for you, Dada!”
Paul responded automatically, eyes crinkling with a smile, as he bent down to squeeze Julian in a hug of thanks. “It’s beautiful, baby! You’re turning into quite the artist, you know.”
“As good as Daddy?”
“You will be one day, I’m sure.” He gave a Julian a quick kiss on the forehead and began to straighten up. “Come on now, let’s hurry so your sister doesn’t—” He stopped dead then, and suddenly his eyes were wide, his expression frozen, his body stiff.
It took her a flurry of heartbeats to realise why, exactly, but as the past words exchanged between man and child recycled themselves through her brain, elements stood out. For you, Dada. Baby. As good as Daddy. The past months of alternate titles for John, of two specific gifts to bring home for official class projects, of how good he was with the other children in class, of that picture in the paper from Greece so many years ago, Julian calling this man Dada and rushing to him with such eager joy… all of them fell into place. Julian was hardly an only child to a single parent. Far from it on every account. He had sisters and, in some form of the idea, two parents… two fathers.
The realisation rushed through her, jolting her eyes up to meet Paul and finding them still wide. Hers must have been as well, she knew, and in a dizzyingly finite second of reversed roles, she understood that somehow, despite the person who was stood in front of her, she suddenly held a shocking amount of power. In mere minutes, she could break news that would surge to the height of a scandal, demand money for her silence, or ban Julian from the classroom forever after. Perhaps even more possibilities to her advantage, if she stopped her racing mind to think about it for a moment or two. And yet, there was only one thing to do, really.
A year ago, maybe even a month depending on the context, it would have been unthinkable. A crime against nature and its ensuing social constructs. But now it seemed the most logical decision to make, the one that made sense: act as if it didn’t matter. Because it didn’t, really, did it? However Julian was growing up at home, however many parents he had or didn’t have, whichever siblings were his own or not, it could hardly be argued it was having a negative effect on him. The opposite, really. Here he was, reading and writing above the expected levels, counting at pace, engaging with thoughtful and curious actions, and approaching the world with the kind of careful love a person rarely saw even in matured adults. It was the most any teacher could ask for, and the way he looked at both his parental figures was enough to cement her decision. Act as if it’s normal. Because it should be.
“Will we see you at the bonfire this weekend, then?” She asked, sweeping the moment of pause away with as much grace as she could muster.
“We hope so,” Paul replied carefully, eyes still a bit wary. “You want to go, don’t you Jules?”
“Mmhmm! To see the big fireworks, too!” He enthused. “We’ll have to bring earmuffs for Mary, though, and maybe for Daddy because he can’t seem to hear you too well when you ask him to do things in the kitchen—”
“Alright, that’s enough from the gallery,” Paul chuckled, ruffling Julian’s hair. He met her eyes with a more sure glance this time. “Guess that means we’ll be there. Say goodbye, now Jules.”
Julian did so, adding a large smile and then waving with vigour in one hand when he took Paul’s hand and trotted out of the room. No, not Paul’s hand, she thought as she watched them round the hall corner toward the front office. His father’s hand.