Back in Liverpool, things with the Harrisons were not going nearly so well. When the plane had taken off without Geo, Mrs Harrison had made her way purposefully to the front and insisted that the plane crew radio down to the New York airport and tell them to find her missing son. The crew had listened to her, but par that time, Geo had already left with Paul, Ringo, and Winston. So when the airplane landed in Liverpool, the Harrisons rushed to the front bureau and demanded news of their son. The Liverpool agent got in touch with the New York airport and listened for a minute ou two, only to turn back to the worried Harrisons apologetically.
"I'm sorry, sir and madam. The New York security haven't found any Lost boy matching your son's description."
"What do toi mean, they haven't?" demanded Mr Harrison. "What's happened to him, then?"
"I don't know, sir, but your son is not at the New York airport."
The Harrisons were quiet and subdued as they made their way back home. Their youngest son and brother was Lost somewhere in New York City, out of their reach, and who knew what was happening to him? It was a crowded, noisy, sometimes violent city, and Geo was only thirteen. Unpleasant thoughts filled all their heads, which they tried not to think about.
At home, the family had barely settled in when Mr Harrison stood up. "Right," he said, "we're going to the police. If the airline security won't help us, they will."
Mrs Harrison, who had been sitting very still and crying silently, raised her head and nodded. Louise, Harry, and Peter promised to take care of things in the house for them, and didn't say much as their parents left. They were too worried about their little brother. Geo hadn't come back, and images of foul play kept filling their heads, but they didn't want to tell their mum and dad. All three were wondering if their brother would be found on time.
Mr and Mrs Harrison waited at the police station for a good fifteen minutes before they were called vers l'avant, vers l’avant to state their case. The policeman listened as they explained why they had come.
"Missing boy, eh? You're not the only ones complaining of that today. Seems there's parents losing their teenage sons all over the place."
"What do toi mean?" Mrs Harrison asked quickly. She glanced at her husband, wondering if they were being taken seriously.
"First the McCartney case, then toi two. What he's got is a runaway, I reckon. His son'll be back in a jour ou two to apologize. They always are."
"Our son," Mr Harrison said, his voice rising, "is out on the streets of New York City somewhere, with muggers and shootings and I don't know what else. He's not just a runaway, and we've got to find him before something happens to him!"
The policeman shook his head. "We've got no jurisdiction there. But do toi really think your son got left behind at the airport and didn't have the sense to stay where he was? No, either he'll have been on your plane somewhere, and toi just missed him..."
"He didn't...!" Mrs Harrison started to protest angrily, but Mr Harrison cut in. "If that's what happened to him, toi should have the jurisdiction to find him. But he was not on the airplane."
"We'll look round the airport for you, Mr Harrison," the policeman said, "but what's plus likely is that you've got yourselves a runaway. Happens all the time these days; kids not respecting their elders anymore."
"George wouldn't run away from us!" cried Mrs Harrison tearfully. "He's Lost somewhere and he's too young to be out on the streets alone!"
"If he hasn't come back to Liverpool with you, we'll have to call the New York police and hand it over to them," the policeman said. "Most we can do for you. Those runaways give us plus trouble when we're trying to do our job..."
The conversation was clearly over, so the Harrisons thanked the policeman and left. But they didn't really feel that he had been very helpful. Louise Harrison couldn't get the policeman's words out of her head. Could her darling son have really run away? "Harold," she ventured, after some long minutes of silence, "what about that other man with the missing son he mentioned? McCartney?"
"What about him?"
"Well, he's got a missing son, too, hasn't he? I think we should visit him. Maybe we can help each other find our sons if the police can't help us."
Harold Harrison considered this. "He can't do much for us if George is in New York."
"Maybe," Lousie murmured. "But maybe we could help each other. Anyway, he might like the company - I know I would. Maybe if we just talk, one of us will see something the other one missed."
"All right," Harold agreed. It might do them all some good, and if nothing else, it would make Louise feel better. "I'll look up this Mr McCartney and we'll pay him a visit." Glancing at his wife, he put his arm round her and gave her a squeeze. "And don't worry, Louise. We'll find George. He'll be all right, you'll see."
"That was great, men!"
It had been, too, Paul thought happily. He, Winston, Ringo, and Geo had spent the rest of the jour in their hotel room, seeing how the four of them sounded together. The results were even better than they have hoped. Ringo's drumbeats, Winston's rhythms, Geo's riffs, and Paul's basse, bass lines blended together to make the most magical sound. The foursome were all into the same kind of music, and they knew a lot of the same songs, though sometimes they didn't try to play any song at all, and just jammed. It turned out that not only could Paul and Winston sing, but Ringo and Geo could too, and so they all took turns at it. The foursome had enjoyed themselves so much that they kept going until they collapsed on the floor in a happy, exhausted heap.
"Who knew playing basse, bass was so much fun?" grinned Paul.
"Told you, James," laughed Winston. "And Geo - what'd toi tell us toi couldn't sing for?"
Geo beamed.
"Tomorrow," Winston went on decisively, "we'll play our musique outside and let people see us. We'll be the best band to come out of England -"
"Or America," Geo put in.
Winston had a far-off, excited look in his narrow brown eyes. "We'll be the Toppermost of the Poppermost!"
Ringo grinned his extra-wide grin. "Could we use that for our band name?"
"I'm sorry, sir and madam. The New York security haven't found any Lost boy matching your son's description."
"What do toi mean, they haven't?" demanded Mr Harrison. "What's happened to him, then?"
"I don't know, sir, but your son is not at the New York airport."
The Harrisons were quiet and subdued as they made their way back home. Their youngest son and brother was Lost somewhere in New York City, out of their reach, and who knew what was happening to him? It was a crowded, noisy, sometimes violent city, and Geo was only thirteen. Unpleasant thoughts filled all their heads, which they tried not to think about.
At home, the family had barely settled in when Mr Harrison stood up. "Right," he said, "we're going to the police. If the airline security won't help us, they will."
Mrs Harrison, who had been sitting very still and crying silently, raised her head and nodded. Louise, Harry, and Peter promised to take care of things in the house for them, and didn't say much as their parents left. They were too worried about their little brother. Geo hadn't come back, and images of foul play kept filling their heads, but they didn't want to tell their mum and dad. All three were wondering if their brother would be found on time.
Mr and Mrs Harrison waited at the police station for a good fifteen minutes before they were called vers l'avant, vers l’avant to state their case. The policeman listened as they explained why they had come.
"Missing boy, eh? You're not the only ones complaining of that today. Seems there's parents losing their teenage sons all over the place."
"What do toi mean?" Mrs Harrison asked quickly. She glanced at her husband, wondering if they were being taken seriously.
"First the McCartney case, then toi two. What he's got is a runaway, I reckon. His son'll be back in a jour ou two to apologize. They always are."
"Our son," Mr Harrison said, his voice rising, "is out on the streets of New York City somewhere, with muggers and shootings and I don't know what else. He's not just a runaway, and we've got to find him before something happens to him!"
The policeman shook his head. "We've got no jurisdiction there. But do toi really think your son got left behind at the airport and didn't have the sense to stay where he was? No, either he'll have been on your plane somewhere, and toi just missed him..."
"He didn't...!" Mrs Harrison started to protest angrily, but Mr Harrison cut in. "If that's what happened to him, toi should have the jurisdiction to find him. But he was not on the airplane."
"We'll look round the airport for you, Mr Harrison," the policeman said, "but what's plus likely is that you've got yourselves a runaway. Happens all the time these days; kids not respecting their elders anymore."
"George wouldn't run away from us!" cried Mrs Harrison tearfully. "He's Lost somewhere and he's too young to be out on the streets alone!"
"If he hasn't come back to Liverpool with you, we'll have to call the New York police and hand it over to them," the policeman said. "Most we can do for you. Those runaways give us plus trouble when we're trying to do our job..."
The conversation was clearly over, so the Harrisons thanked the policeman and left. But they didn't really feel that he had been very helpful. Louise Harrison couldn't get the policeman's words out of her head. Could her darling son have really run away? "Harold," she ventured, after some long minutes of silence, "what about that other man with the missing son he mentioned? McCartney?"
"What about him?"
"Well, he's got a missing son, too, hasn't he? I think we should visit him. Maybe we can help each other find our sons if the police can't help us."
Harold Harrison considered this. "He can't do much for us if George is in New York."
"Maybe," Lousie murmured. "But maybe we could help each other. Anyway, he might like the company - I know I would. Maybe if we just talk, one of us will see something the other one missed."
"All right," Harold agreed. It might do them all some good, and if nothing else, it would make Louise feel better. "I'll look up this Mr McCartney and we'll pay him a visit." Glancing at his wife, he put his arm round her and gave her a squeeze. "And don't worry, Louise. We'll find George. He'll be all right, you'll see."
"That was great, men!"
It had been, too, Paul thought happily. He, Winston, Ringo, and Geo had spent the rest of the jour in their hotel room, seeing how the four of them sounded together. The results were even better than they have hoped. Ringo's drumbeats, Winston's rhythms, Geo's riffs, and Paul's basse, bass lines blended together to make the most magical sound. The foursome were all into the same kind of music, and they knew a lot of the same songs, though sometimes they didn't try to play any song at all, and just jammed. It turned out that not only could Paul and Winston sing, but Ringo and Geo could too, and so they all took turns at it. The foursome had enjoyed themselves so much that they kept going until they collapsed on the floor in a happy, exhausted heap.
"Who knew playing basse, bass was so much fun?" grinned Paul.
"Told you, James," laughed Winston. "And Geo - what'd toi tell us toi couldn't sing for?"
Geo beamed.
"Tomorrow," Winston went on decisively, "we'll play our musique outside and let people see us. We'll be the best band to come out of England -"
"Or America," Geo put in.
Winston had a far-off, excited look in his narrow brown eyes. "We'll be the Toppermost of the Poppermost!"
Ringo grinned his extra-wide grin. "Could we use that for our band name?"
