While the wedding party was inside the building, the teenagers made their presence felt. About 300 of them, nearly half of them from newspapers and television, waited for hours in the cold, driving rain. Mr McCartney and Miss Eastman, with Heather, aged six, arrived at Marylebone’s register office shortly before 10am and entered the office, in the town hall, by a side door, to foil the press and enthusiasts. But, at 7am, the first reporter and photographer had arrived.
Īs a hint to the press, he told us not to arrive at Cavendish Avenue before 9am. Down the town hall steps came the happy couple, throwing the freesias to the crowd as police wrenched open the door of their car. The atmosphere now had something of the air of a Grosvenor Square thump-up, the faintest trace of a prayer meeting, and a tangible suggestion of a communal suicide pact. They also improvised one of their own, beginning, “Oh, Paul, we love you, yes, we do.” The police tried to move them on. They had jammed themselves against the side of the big black Daimler in which the couple were to depart, and were rebelliously singing as many Beatle songs as they could remember, which mercifully wasn’t many. An hour later the couple came to the window of a front room in the town hall to smile into camera lenses, but the most intense of the fans weren’t smiling. So did Heather – Miss Eastman’s daughter by a previous marriage, holding a posey of freesias. Miss Eastman went in with him, wearing a yellow coat over a fawn dress. He had gone in by a back door, wearing a dark suit, a yellow kipper tie, and a floral shirt. Paul, of course, wasn’t there to hear it. No announcement was ever made of the time or date of the wedding.īy the magic hour of ten, a sort of guard of honour had formed up on the steps of the town hall, consisting of rain-soaked journalists, old ladies trying to wield umbrellas and cameras at the same time, younger fans moaning and weeping and hanging on to each other’s arms and making catty comments about the bride, and a middle-aged man who kept shouting, “The Beatles are rubbish,” and then dodging hastily. It began to get sad at seven in the morning. What a sad day for these poor fans it was, not to mention the hundred or so reporters and photographers who stood outside Marylebone town hall for four hours in the rain. He married Miss Linda Eastman, 27 Anyway it rained, and this was appropriate: the pavements outside Marylebone register office would have been wet in any case with the tears of fans thrown by the sudden reality of having failed to become Mrs McCartney. From TheGuardian, March 13, 1969:īeatle Mr John Paul McCartney, 26, and a millionaire, finally waved a wintry farewell to his bachelor freedom yesterday. On this day, Paul McCartney & Linda Eastman were married in a small civil ceremony at Marylebone Town Hall, London.
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