Mr. Hackett cycled silently through the wet night. The rain splashed back from the front wheel and made a wet arc over his head. It was a terrible night for sure. He could see the next corner through the rain and mist. A hot bath awaited.

The bus’s horn seemed to shatter the wet night. The tired driver was heading for the terminus. He too was thinking of a hot bath. Both men would be disappointed, one temporally and the other, permanently.

The driver drove carefully but fast. It had been a long day. The cyclist appeared suddenly at the end of the headlight beam. He ignored the horn blast and then seemed to float on air and land with a loud dull thump, a tangled bloody mass on the windscreen, still deaf to the sounds of danger.

The world had lost its muse.

James Alaphonsus Hackett waved his certificate to his mother from the steps of University College Dublin. The graduation ceremony was over and time to celebrate had arrived. “A nice cup of tea and maybe a little cake is in order,” she said as they walked through Stephens Green. His fellow students passed, girls and boys waving cheerfully. It was a time of youthful celebration. James looked after them.

“It’s not everyday you get a degree in music" she said as she peeled off her gloves and eyed the room for young ladies. Somewhere a three-piece band played “Some Enchanted Evening” in slow tempo.

It was great having Mammy when he got home at night. There would always be a nice hot dinner in the oven. He’d later read to her the newspaper or together they’d listen to the wireless. “These are good times,” she used to say.

He had always loved music and teaching it was like being a Master, passing on the good news. He sometime thought the students made fun of him at the school. Why he didn’t know, nor did he care. He was happy.

Some students showed great promise. He loved the way their faces shone when they finally found the correct technique and soared, musically alive. Once, and he kept remembering it, one asked “ Mr. Hackett why don’t you compose a new score yourself, it would be a cinch for you”.

It all changed so suddenly with that welcoming party at the ffrenches. He dreaded the weekly lesson with that tone-deaf boy, but the money was good and in cash. He accepted the invitation through a spirit of resignation.

That decision affected the world.

He had only a vague recollection of the party. His violin case never had the same shape again and he wondered why. His happy hazy recollection was of big beautiful Ringo.

Ring’s last smile and handshake were different than any he had ever experienced. The hand gripped so strongly and lasted so long. He was thrilled. Later finding the note in his violin case was like a confirmed lover’s promise.

He met the four again in Davey Byrnes after their lukewarm show. Ringo eyes shone with love and admiration. They sat together listening to John’s views of all and everything. Music was their life and James Alaphonus Hackett was about to expand it beyond their wildest dreams.

“Just a few notes and words I’ve put together, I’m no George Girshwin” he said as he handed them Shilling Lane, Raspberry Fields and All the Lovely People. John Lennon wasn’t keen but finally said he’d have a look and, maybe, if they showed promise, try them out.

He might change a few things here and there if that was all right? Alaphonus Hackett smiled. For once in his life people were seeing him and his work.

He told Mammy almost all the things that happened to him leaving out only the drinking, Davey Byrnes and, Ringo’s eyes.

And so it continued for another five or six years. Hearing his compositions on the radio gave him a big thrill and the regular cheque for fifty or sixty pounds each month helped. Mammy’s health was a constant worry.

His last meeting with Ringo was on a wet October night. He passed across the table his latest composition Yellow Submarine Blues. He wasn’t happy with it, and hesitated in handing it over. At the time the four were short of  material. They needed a new simple sound and so they would give it a try.

Also Ring’s charm was at an all time high so he couldn’t refuse.

Both walked to the bicycle stand, hugged and parted.

Mr. Hackett cycled silently through the wet night. The rain splashed back from the front bicycle wheel and made a wet arc over his head. It was a terrible night for sure. He could just see through the rain and mist the next corner and his house. A promised hot bath waited.

The Beatles split up within twelve months. Some blame Yoko Okono, others blame the various dynamics within the group but maybe they had run out of a supply of new brilliant material.

The number 14 Bus had killed their Muse and Music.