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

bet that the probability of him being in jail now was a lot higher than that he was playing centre forward for Manchester United.

James Knox. Played double bass in a three-piece jazz band called Soft Knox. Corny, yes, but a very handy clue when it came to remembering the last name of a genuine stranger, charming though he had been. I slept with him after his band played a one-night gig at a pub where I worked in Edinburgh, for one night. The reasons for the second point are definitely related to the first, but I can’t for the life of me remember how.

So there you had it. My conscience was cleared. Razed to the ground, in fact. Those four names or close tries, and in the correct chronological order, as it goes, were the definitive possibilities of Norman’s parentage. Leonard made a few final keystrokes and turned the laptop to face me. The names on the spreadsheet came into sharp focus and I suddenly got the weirdest feeling.

Because I wasn’t exaggerating when I said I never thought about who Norman’s father might be. I mean, I really and truly never thought about it. Which I think you’ll agree is a pretty impressive feat. On the other hand, it meant that seeing those names lined up neatly in their little columns, no jostling, all polite-like, was a bit of a shock, to be honest.

I was struck by the thought that now, for the first time in his life, I was going to have to face up to the fact that I had to share the credit for the miracle that is Norman. And I have to say, it wasn’t a painless realization. I could feel the tentacles that had staked their claim in my stomach around the time of Jaxy’s funeral begin to gather themselves in tighter. Because who the hell am I, if not Norman’s entire family?

With unusually perfect timing, I heard the front door open and close softly and, seconds later, there he was. My entire family. Standing in the kitchen doorway with his school bag over one shoulder and tie askew over the other. Norman would probably be able to count on one hand the number of times he’d come home from school to find anything other than me and a hastily put-together snack waiting for him in the kitchen. Now he looked from me to Leonard and back again and, just for a nano second, a shadow of something other than sadness hovered nervously over his face. It’s just me now, Mum, isn’t it? I could sense them both waiting for me to say something and, somewhere deep inside, there was an almost imperceptible shift in my organs.

‘Norman, this is Leonard . . . from work. Leonard, this is my Norman. Leonard’s going to . . . I told him about the plan and . . . well, he wants to help you . . . I mean . . . us . . .’

Norman stepped forward and offered his hand shyly to Leonard, who stood up from the table and took it gently in his. A couple of biscuit crumbs quivered on the old guy’s chin, planning their next big move, and I felt an unexpected rush of affection.

‘Well, I’m so very pleased to meet you at last, young man.’ If he was shocked at the red-raw state of Norman’s long-suffering little paw, he hid it well.

‘Hello. I . . . you . . . I . . . I mean . . . really? You’re going to help us . . . me . . . get to the Fringe? Honest? And is . . . is that your car out the front? Because that’s the coolest car I’ve ever seen, Len . . . Leonard.’ The shadow of the something else threw itself across my son’s face and hung on for dear life as his tongue tried out the unfamiliar name.

I followed them out to the street and watched as Leonard gestured Norman into the driver’s seat of the coolest of all cool cars. He sat there with his hands on the Austin’s steering wheel and a rapt expression on his face as Leonard pointed out the polished wooden panelling and the dials on the dashboard. I looked at the top of the old man’s head gently rising and ducking as he spoke, and it felt like the moment you hear the air hostess tell you to fasten your seatbelt and stow your tray table. And you know you’ve missed your last chance to get off the flight.

What did I think I was doing? What if this all goes completely and catastrophically wrong? What if all those guys on the spreadsheet have just disappeared off the face of the earth, or died, or moved to Australia? Or then again, what if we actually do find Norman’s father and he turns out to be a heartless bastard who doesn’t want anything to do with him? Could I take that kind of a risk with my already broken boy?

I felt the world slipping and I leaned into the doorway for support and felt my lids droop. As the turbulence inside me subsided, I opened my eyes. Leonard was holding the door open for Norman to step out of the Austin and, just for a split second, our eyes met over my son’s head. I felt my nostrils tingle with the memory of sweet hibiscus tea and something else. Hold on tight, Sadie. I’ve got you.

16NORMAN

First rule of comedy: Be you and nobody else but you.

It’s probably for the best that I’m going to find out that Michael McIntyre and Frank Lampard aren’t my dad. I mean, I never really and truly thought they were, they’re just a couple of the suggestions Jax has come up with. P. Diddy is another, but I think he knew that one wasn’t ever going to be true. Because Mum’s never even been to America.

Jax reckons it’s actually pretty cool not to know who your dad is because, when you think about it, that means it could be absolutely anyone. Like I