London, March 1987
It started with a postcard. Not a letter, not a phone call. A postcard.
On it was a photo of Strawberry Field, the real one, from back in Liverpool—overgrown, damp, vaguely melancholic. On the back, John had scrawled:
“Still here. Fancy a cuppa? – J.”
Paul McCartney stared at it in his hands like it was a message from another dimension. Maybe it was.
It had been nearly two decades since they’d sat down as four. John had cheated death in 1980, yes, but the Beatles? That part of them had stayed buried. Too many lawyers. Too many memories. Too many songs no one wanted to sing anymore.
But now, John was alive and something in the air—something like history catching its breath—was nudging them back toward each other.
The First Tea – A Strange Reintroduction
They met in George Harrison’s Sussex estate—neutral ground. A place where the sky hung low and the trees whispered old melodies. The press didn’t know, not yet. Yoko did. Olivia did. Linda did. They weren’t the Beatles’ wives anymore—they were diplomats, therapists, referees.
When Paul arrived, John was already there. He stood by the fireplace, holding a cup of chamomile tea and wearing round glasses that didn’t quite sit straight on his nose. His hair was silvering now, and his face had lines that smiled too easily.
“Didn’t think you’d actually show,” John said.
Paul stood in the doorway a moment longer than necessary. He smiled, but it wasn’t real yet.
“Well, you did send me a bloody postcard.”
John laughed. That was all it took. For the tension to break like glass underfoot.
Then George walked in.
“You two better not start singing ‘Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da’ without me.”
The Fourth Beatle Arrives
They hadn’t seen Ringo in over a year. He was filming something in L.A.—a strange sci-fi comedy no one would ever watch—but he flew back in a heartbeat when George rang him.
Ringo walked into the sitting room wearing sunglasses indoors. Paul rolled his eyes. John clapped. George just handed him a cup of tea.
It was absurd. Four middle-aged men in sweaters, drinking tea like nothing had ever happened. Like no one had stormed out of a studio in 1969. Like lawsuits and solo albums hadn’t carved rivers between them. Like one of them hadn’t nearly died.
The First Song
They didn’t start with music.
They talked.
About Julian and Sean, about Linda’s photography exhibit, about Ravi Shankar’s arthritis, about how weird it was to be alive in a world with MTV. George spoke about spirituality. Paul cracked jokes to cover his nerves. Ringo mostly smiled.
John was the only one who brought up the elephant in the room.
“We could do it, you know.”
Paul didn’t say anything. He sipped his tea and stared into the fireplace.
George leaned back. “Why? We’ve got nothing to prove.”
“Maybe it’s not about proving anything,” said John. “Maybe it’s about finishing something.”
The room went still. Even the fire seemed to hold its breath.
The Decision
They took a walk the next day—through the foggy hedgerows of George’s estate. Four silhouettes in wool coats, aging rockstars who had once been gods.
It was Paul who broke the silence.
“If we do this… it’s not a comeback. It’s not a tour. It’s not a brand.”
“Then what is it?” Ringo asked.
“It’s us,” Paul said. “Us, as we are now. Four blokes with less hair and more heart.”
John stopped walking. “I’ve got a song,” he said. “Been sitting on it for years. It’s called ‘Together Again.’ Thought it was a bit sentimental, but maybe it’s just right.”
George chuckled. “If we’re writing new songs, I get veto power over anything with ‘na-na-na’ in it.”
Back to the Studio
The decision wasn’t formal. There was no contract. No press release. Just four men who sat down again, in a studio not far from Abbey Road, weeks later.
And they played.
Not like they were in their twenties. Not like they were trying to conquer the world. They played like men who had lived too long apart, who’d found their way back to something sacred.
The tapes rolled. One mic on each voice. No overdubs. No makeup.
Just Lennon. McCartney. Harrison. Starr.
For the first time since 1969, The Beatles.
What If: The Archive 
Leave a comment