The Love You Make

by Peter Brown

  When they arrived at the Hilton, the Beatles were immediately shown to the front row of the ballroom, where there were over 1,000 people in attendance. The Maharishi turned out to be a tiny, brown-skinned man with a squeaky, sing-song voice, who wore flowing white cotton robes that further dwarfed his small frame. His dramatic gray and black mane of hair flowed into a long beard with a white fringe below his bottom lip, which made him look like a beatific nanny-goat. He spoke to the Beatles of Jesus, of Buddha, of God; of eternal happiness and peace; of the inner self and of sublime consciousness; about reaching a state of nirvana—all without the use of messy and illegal drugs. His sales pitch, in short, was that Transcendental Meditation, when practiced twice a day, would make you a better, happier person at whatever it is you do.

  The Maharishi was only scratching the surface of this complicated and subtle ancient Hindu practice, but he couldn’t have been more on target for the Beatles. He offered them a brand of instant relief and salvation, like a psychic Band-Aid. To demonstrate this method, the Maharishi went into a deep, trancelike state for ten minutes right there in front of them. The Beatles were overwhelmed. A holy man who could give you a magic word to chant; a mystical trance that sent you into a psychic dreamland. John in particular was swept away by his emotion. He had found it! He had found the key, the answer, what he had been looking for! The Next Big Thing.

  The Maharishi may have seemed like a deeply spiritual, unworldly little guru from the Himalayas to the Beatles, but he was far from being a country bumpkin. He was a college graduate with a degree in physics. After college he learned Sanskrit and studied the scriptures with Guru Dev, the most famed of the Indian sages. The tide Maharishi, meaning saint, was reportedly self-adopted. In 1959 the Maharishi moved to various Western countries, where for eight years he had been selling his potent brand of mystic salvation when not on international lecture tours.

  After the lecture the Maharishi—not unaware of the Beatles’ publicity value should they become disciples—invited them up to his hotel suite for a private audience. He told the Beatles, “You have created a magic air through your names. You have got to use that magic influence. Yours is a tremendous responsibility.” When John left the Waharishi’s suite that night, all he could say to reporters was that “I’m still in a daze.” The following day the press was informed by the Maharishi’s representatives that the Beatles and their friends had been invited to enroll in a ten-day meditation course the Maharishi was giving in Bangor, North Wales, at Normal College, and the Beatles had accepted. They would leave, along with 300 others who had signed up for the course, not by limo with an entourage and bodyguards but alone, for the first time in memory, on a public train from Euston Station.

  The Friday afternoon of their departure was also the beginning of the long weekend bank holiday that marked the end of the summer, and the normally crowded Euston Station was almost impassable with dense throngs of holiday travelers, including many families with suitcases and screaming children. Added to the crush was the appearance of film crews and reporters who were giving up the holiday weekend to trek after the Beatles to Bangor. Fleet Street knew a delicious story when they saw it, and they didn’t intend to let the Beatles get out of their sight. The story seemed to get even better when the Beatles were joined by Mick Jagger and Marianne Faithfull.

  Although the Beatles had arranged to get to Euston Station by themselves, I thought that as a precaution Neil and I should show up there anyhow and make sure the boys got on the train without any trouble. John and Cynthia were driven to the station in his Rolls-Royce, which was instantly recognizable to the crowds. As the chauffeur let them out of the car, John pushed his way determinedly into the crowds, pretending to be just another citizen off on vacation. A wave of flashbulbs went off in Cynthia’s face, temporarily blinding her. By the time she could see again, she had lost John. First she went to platform 8, then she realized it was number 12 and began to fight her way through the thick crowds. The “Mystical Express,” as the reporters had dubbed it, waited on the platform with the Maharishi himself sitting cross-legged on a white sheet in the parlor car of the first-class compartment. Conductors up and down the platform were shouting, “All aboard!” as John swung up on the train. Suddenly, the train lurched forward with a jerk. John looked around him and realized that Cynthia was missing.

  “Where is she?” he shouted, sticking his head out of the window of the slow-moving train. The other pop stars on the train followed suit, much to the delight of the photographers. There on the station, being held back by policemen and fans, was Cynthia. “Tell him to let you on,” John shouted. “Tell him you’re with us!” But Cynthia could only burst into tears as she finally broke free and raced after the train. “Run, Cynthia! Run!” John shouted, but it was no use. Cynthia broke her stride and came to a defeated halt as the train pulled out of the station. I caught up with her just at that moment. The next day the newspapers all featured a front-page photograph of the young pop stars departing for spiritual heaven on a parlor car, while Cynthia sobbed on my shoulder. I promised her that Neil would drive her up to Bangor, and she would probably get there before the train.

  But Cynthia wasn’t crying anymore about getting to Bangor. “I knew in my heart,” she wrote in her memoirs, “as I watched all the people that I loved fading into the hazy distance, that that was to be my future. The loneliness I felt on that station platform would become a permanent loneliness before very long, and I shivered at the thought.”

  Bangor, North Wales, was a seaside town with rolling green hills that met the water. The Maharishi’s meditation course was being held during the summer recess at a spartan teaching college, and the 300 enrollees, including the Beatles, slept in college dormitories. For the Beatles this only increased the sense of adventure, and a warm wave of camaraderie from the old times washed over them. The first night, after dinner at a local Chinese restaurant, they discovered that none of them had any cash to pay the bill; like the Royal Family, they never carried any. George Harrison saved them from having to wash dishes when he confessed to keeping a ten-pound note hidden between the layers of one of his sandals. He pried open the false heel with a table knife and managed to cover the check.

  The following morning, at a press conference encouraged by the Maharishi, the Beatles made a startling announcement: They were giving up drugs. John, George, and Paul explained that it was impossible to achieve spiritual harmony with foreign substances in one’s system, and since they wanted to give the Maharishi a fair shake, they were giving it all up. John seemed as sincere as the rest. And for a few days, at least, he kept his resolve.

  10

  Brian had not given up drugs. John and Paul had halfheartedly invited him to join them on the trip to Bangor, because they thought the rest and meditation would do him some good, but they knew he wouldn’t come. That bank-holiday weekend, Brian intended to spend a quiet three days at Kingsley Hill with me and Geoffrey Ellis. Brian had been on his best behavior while Queenie was at Chapel Street, and now he was looking for a little divertissement. Some new acquaintances were promised as weekend houseguests, and while I put the Beatles on the train to Bangor, Brian set out for the country in a mood of happy anticipation.

  By the time Geoffrey and I arrived at Kingsley Hill, in time for dinner, Brian was in a dark mood; the other houseguests had called to cancel, and Brian faced the prospect of spending the holiday with two old chums. After a quiet meal of roast loin of pork and many bottles of wine, Brian went to the phone and began calling around London to find some amusing company to come to Kingsley Hill. But everyone was already busy or gone for the holiday weekend. It was ten o’clock on Friday night when Brian announced that he was going to take a drive around the countryside. This hardly surprised Geoffrey and me; we were by then inured to Brian’s moods and disappearances. I did say I thought it was a foolish idea for Brian to drive after drinking so much, but once Brian made up his mind there was no way to discourage him, and in another moment he walked o
ut the door, started up his silver Bentley, and drove off into the night.

  I assumed that Brian would just drive around the countryside and come back, but when he didn’t return by midnight, I phoned Brian’s private number at Chapel Street. After many rings it was answered by Antonio, the Spanish butler, who said that Brian had come in a while ago and gone directly to bed. The Bentley was parked in the street in front of the house. Antonio tried to rouse Brian on the house intercom for me, but Brian was obviously fast asleep. Since it was best for him to get his rest, I told Antonio to leave him alone. We let him sleep all the next day.

  It was five o’clock in the afternoon when the phone rang at Kingsley Hill. It was Brian. He had just woken up and was feeling very groggy. He was going to have some breakfast, read the mail, and watch “Juke Box Jury” on TV before driving back to Kingsley Hill. I suggested that instead of driving back he should take the train since he was still groggy from Tuinals. Brian agreed this was a more sensible idea and said he would call back later to say on what train he would be arriving. He never called.

  Sunday at noon, when Brian’s car was still in the same place in front of the house, Antonio and his wife Maria tried to rouse him on the house intercom. When he didn’t answer they called me at Kingsley Hill, but Geoffrey and I had gone to lunch at a local pub. Antonio then called Brian’s secretary, Joanne Newfield, who called Alistair Taylor and asked him to meet her at Chapel Street. By the time they arrived at Chapel Street I was back at Kingsley Hill, and they summoned me to the phone. I told them not to call Brian’s doctor, Norman Cowan, who lived far away, but to get my own personal physician, Dr. John Gallway, who lived only two blocks away in Belgravia. By the time Gallway arrived—fifteen minutes later—Joanne, Alistair Taylor, and Brian Barrett, the chauffeur, were all waiting outside the still-locked, double oak doors to Brian’s bedroom. Dr. Gallway called me and asked me what to do. I said to break down the doors. I remained on the line in Sussex, listening to the grunts of Antonio and Brian Barrett as the double oak doors splintered and caved in under their combined weight.

  The drapes were drawn and the room was dark. In the light from the hallway they could all see him, lying on his right side, his legs curled up in a fetal position. Saturday’s mail was open on the bed next to him. Everyone in the room knew instantly that he was dead, but nevertheless Joanne said, “It’s all right. He’s just asleep. He’s fine.”

  A moment later, I could hear Maria screaming, “Why? Why?”

  Clive Epstein’s phone rang in Liverpool. It was Geoffrey Ellis with the news. “It’s a lie! You’re lying!” Clive screamed into the phone hysterically. Sobbing, he raced to his mother’s house. Queenie collapsed when he told her and had to be put under sedation. Then she pulled herself together and flew to London to be with her son.

  Simultaneously in Bangor, North Wales, the Beatles had just finished a late lunch and were strolling around the green campus grounds, enjoying the last weekend of summer and toying with their new mantras. Inside the dormitory a pay phone on the wall in the hallway began to ring incessantly. The phone was the only access to the Beatles from the outside world. I had made Pattie Harrison swear that the moment they arrived in Bangor she would call me with the number of the nearest phone in case of an emergency. It turned out to be the pay phone of the dorm. The Beatles could hear the phone ringing from the campus, and finally Jane Asher answered. “Call Paul to the phone,” I told her.

  “I’ve got bad news,” I told Paul. “Brian is dead. They found him at Chapel Street just a little while ago. The press is on to it, so you’d all better get back to London.”

  Paul was shocked and saddened but strangely sedate, as were the rest of the Beatles. More than anything, they seemed confused. Like little children whose parents have suddenly disappeared, they turned to the logical authority figure of the moment for comfort and leadership, the Maharishi. The Maharishi had a lot to say to them about Brian’s death. He said, in effect, that Brian’s passing was a good thing and not to be mourned. He gave them a thumbnail description of the material world versus the spiritual world and had each of them hold a beautiful flower in the palms of their hands and crush it to see that the beauty was only an illusion of a few cells and water. He told them to laugh, because laughter would clear the bad karma and help Brian’s spirit on its journey. He sent them giggling and smirking out to meet a swarm of reporters in Bangor who had learned about Brian’s death.

  “Our meditation has given us the confidence to withstand such a shock,” John told reporters coolly, although he had only been meditating two days. Cynthia stood nearby, weeping into a handkerchief.

  Paul was wooden. “It was a great shock and I am very upset,” he said as he and Jane climbed into the backseat of a chauffeur-driven car.

  “There is no such thing as death, only in the physical sense,” George told the group of reporters. “We know he is okay now. He will return because he was striving for happiness and desired bliss so much.”

  That was the extent of the eulogy Brian was to receive from the Beatles. Within a few days, when the shock had worn off, they made foolish jokes about him.

  Another phone call went out to David Jacobs, Brian’s attorney, who was spending the weekend at his country house in Brighton. Jacobs got on the next train for London. By the time David Jacobs, Geoffrey, and I converged on the house at Chapel Street, the press had assembled on the front doorstep. Jacobs most likely had called them himself, as it was he who took over making statements to reporters. Jacobs’ legal officiations at Brian’s death were some of his last duties as NEMS chief solicitor. Two autumns later Jacobs would die under mysterious circumstances. He was found hanging only a few feet off the ground from a satin drapery sash tied to a low beam in his garage.

  In Monte Carlo, Robert Stigwood was on a yacht he had rented for the Bee Gees, who were celebrating the end of the work on their first album. Stigwood sent his assistant to the phone box on the pier to check his answering service in London. He was sitting on the aft deck of the yacht, having lunch with the Bee Gees and their girlfriends, when his assistant came running down the pier screaming, “Brian’s dead! Brian’s dead!” David Shaw arrived in Monte Carlo a few hours later for a meeting with Stigwood. It turned out that they wouldn’t have to make the £500,000 option in just a few days after all. The Beatles and NEMS could be all theirs.

  North of London, at a private cricket club, a man came running out of the clubhouse and across the field to Vic Lewis. He was out of breath and ashen. “Mr. Lewis, I’m sorry to tell you that Brian Epstein is dead.”

  “There wasn’t much I could do,” Lewis said, “so I finished the game.”

  In New York City, Allen Klein was driving across the George Washington Bridge to his home in New Jersey. Behind him, Manhattan was glittering like a diamond diorama. Just then there was a news flash on the radio: Brian Epstein was dead.

  Klein snapped his fingers. “I’ve got ’em!” he said.

  11

  Strictly from the point of view of selling a newspaper, the story of Brian’s death was a gold mine. It was the best media free-for-all in England since the Profumo-Christine Keeler scandal. Brian’s life had all the elements of a great story: money, glamour, pathos, and tragedy. It was a pitiful story in the end, but nonetheless it left the public strangely satisfied and reassured. Many people even gloated. Here was a man who had power and fame and success, and none of it was enough; he was still unhappy. For the really pious, it was another good example of how God punishes homosexuals. The public verdict was that Brian died a suicide, even though at the lurid inquest that followed, the coroner ruled that he had died of an accidental overdose of carbitol, a component in his sleeping tablets that had built up in his system for many weeks. The suicide assumption by the press was compounded by the rumor that a suicide note had been found. In truth, a note was found, but it was from his previous attempt, and only discovered later among his possessions.

  Brian was given a quiet and dignified funeral in L
iverpool. The Beatles were asked to stay away so it wouldn’t turn into a media circus. He was buried at the Longlane Jewish Cemetery, not far from his father’s fresh grave. Queenie never fully recovered from the shock and spent many years in psychiatric treatment, blaming herself for his death. She still lives in Liverpool in a small house adorned by too many pictures of Brian. In her bedroom closet is a carton filled with mementos that she hopes she can bring herself to look at one day. She calls it her “memory box,” and in it are the pictures taken the night she and Brian left the Saville Theater together.

  Nat Weiss, who flew in from New York, tossed a sunflower given to him by George Harrison into Brian’s open grave. Rabbi Samuel Wolfson, the minister of the Greenbank Drive Synagogue in Liverpool, who hardly knew Brian, spoke at the service. “Brian Epstein was a symbol of the malaise of our generation,” he told the mourners.

  Nat Weiss sat in the chapel and wept bitterly. The most tragic part of Brian’s death was just beginning to dawn on him. Here was a man whose passions had sparked an entertainment phenomenon, who had influenced the course of history, but the world would only remember his unhappiness and not the dreams that filled stadiums.

  chapter Fourteen

  You know, where they turn over the last page of one section to show

  you they’ve come to the end of it before going on to the next.

  That was what Brian’s death was like. The end of a chapter.

  —George Harrison in The Beatles by Hunter Davies