The Funny Thing about Norman Foreman by Julietta Henderson (sci fi books to read .TXT) 📗

‘Mum, I don’t, I mean I didn’t . . . that’s not, I mean, it doesn’t . . .’ For one glorious moment I thought I was going to get away with it. The Bluff That Worked. Hurrah! Oh, they’d be talking about it for years.

‘You . . . you mean it, Mum?’ The Bluff That Worked quickly turned into the Bluff That Never Had A Chance. ‘And you mean the Fringe too? This year, Mum? For Jaxy? We’re going to do it? But it’s only four weeks away and . . .’ Yes, that’s right, stupid idea. Forget I spoke. Not likely.

‘We’ve – I mean, I’ve – got loads of material, but you know . . . I dunno how I’ll go without him . . . it’d be pretty hard, but . . . but remember Jax always says that easy is for pussies? That’s right, isn’t it, Mum? It’s true, easy is for pussies! Oh Mum, wouldn’t he just love it!’

I sank deeper into the bed, scrunching the sheet tight in my hand. Savouring the sound of my son. He’s there.

‘Wouldn’t he just laugh so hard to see me at the Fringe after all? And even though he wouldn’t be there for real, he . . . he kind of would be. Because of his jokes. Wouldn’t he? That’d really be something, wouldn’t it?’ Softer now. ‘Wouldn’t it, Mum?’

Oh, that’d be something all right. He’s still there.

10

My boss Dennis has always insisted I get to work by 7.15 a.m. to answer the phones, which in reality never ring before nine o’clock and mostly not before eleven. It used to do my head in, because there was quite literally nothing for me to do that early except sit around and wait for the non-existent phone calls. But things have changed a bit over the last few months.

Before I go any further I should point out that the occasional male workmate putting himself out to pander to my vulnerability certainly doesn’t ever include Dennis Pearl, who I’m pretty sure never spent a minute of his life looking after anyone or anything else, apart from his own gigantic quiff of hair. Although, to be fair, that does look like it needs quite a bit of maintenance.

But that’s fine by me. Because if there’s anything I hate more than my mind-numbing job, it’s the guy who puts the Pearl into Pearl’s Quality Pre-loved Cars. And if I have to hear the joke about pearls before swine as he drives his bouffant hair and rancid mouth through another doorway, knocking over anyone who happens to be heading in the same direction, one more time, I may have to consider using my vulnerability as my defence in a murder trial.

The other person who doesn’t rush to help me is Leonard. Which is probably because he’s finished the cleaning and gone home by the time any high reaching needs to be done, but also maybe because he’s only about an inch taller than me and eighty years old if he’s a day.

At first glance, Leonard Cobcroft looks like he’d be to cleaning what Prince Charles is to dubstep, and it’s not just his age. I’m getting pretty used to seeing trainee OAPs on the checkout or stacking the shelves at Sainsbury’s, and it always makes me a bit sad that after a life probably very decently lived, when they should be kicking back with their pipe and slippers they had to go back to work just to make ends meet. But there was something different about Leonard. He always walked with a straight back and a purpose, and he wielded a duster and a bottle of Domestos like he’d been entrusted with the upkeep of the Rosetta Stone. Like cleaning the back office and toilets of a used-car lot was exactly how he wanted to be spending the twilight years of his life.

Dennis had only taken Leonard on because he was receiving a tidy subsidy for hiring an over-seventy, and he was certainly getting way more than his money’s worth. The place had never been cleaner and he’d never had such an easy or more gracious target for his bullying.

‘Hey, Leonard,’ he’d called out one morning as Leonard passed through the office. ‘Bogs done? Kitchen done? Having a good day, are you?’ Then, without waiting for a response, he’d raised himself half out of his chair and leaned over his desk to yell, ‘Mind you, at your age, any day above ground’s a good one, isn’t it? Ha ha ha.’

A couple of the mechanics who’d just arrived for work ha ha’d along with what they no doubt hoped was the required amount of political incorrectness, even though they’d heard about a dozen variations on the theme already that week. Leonard had been there a couple of months by then and he usually acknowledged Dennis’s supposed jokes with a benign smile and a gentle nod, like he’d just been complimented on his roses. But that day, as he nudged a metal bucket ahead of him with his foot, a mop resting over his shoulder and a two-litre bottle of floor cleaner in one hand, I had a perfect line of vision to see his free hand drop to his side, curl up and flip Dennis an elegant, perfectly camouflaged middle finger. As he trundled past, he tilted his head very slightly in my direction and gave me a slow, wrinkly wink.

I’d been working at that car yard for six torturous years before Leonard came along, and it’s no exaggeration to say I’d been giving Dennis and his sexist, racist, misogynistic jokes the mental middle finger every single day. So when I saw Leonard do it for real, even though it was totally for my benefit and there was no chance of Dennis ever actually gaining its full, glorious effect, it felt like someone had turned a light on in my heart.

After that day I started to look forward to the early mornings at work instead of spending most of the