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

a big box of teabags the next day, knowing full well it would do no good, but wanting so much for Leonard to feel like he was helping. Keep calm and drink tea.

Naturally, Leonard had Google-Mapped our route and after a makeshift dinner of Pot Noodles and Ritz crackers in the room, at 6.15 p.m. sharp we left Toad Hall and headed off to Norman’s solo comedy debut.

The Noble Goat Freehouse was literally the only sign of life in the middle of quite a lot of nowhere, and even then the signs were not particularly evident. We had our pick of the car park, simply because there wasn’t a single other vehicle there, unless you count an ancient milk float jacked up on blocks. At the sound of the Austin’s engine, a dozy-looking black-and-white dog poked its head out of the driver’s side of the float, gave a half-hearted yip then flopped back on to the seat with the look of someone who needed to sleep off a few too many whiskies.

Out of nowhere, I had a flashback to that same feeling. You know, like when you wake up and realize you can’t remember anything since dancing to Take That in the student bar at midnight with a lager top in one hand and an honours law student in the other? This time, the twang in my gut was definitely not my imagination and I reached under my shirt to rearrange the waistband of my jeans into a more comfortable position.

The North Devon gig guide had said registration for the open mic closed at seven fifteen for a seven thirty start, so Leonard had timed for us to get there by six forty-five, allowing for getting lost and there being a queue. Hooray for Google, we were early, and unless a few dozen open mic-ers had arrived cross-country on foot, it didn’t look like there was going to be any problems with a queue.

Walking into the pub beside Leonard, Norman looked even smaller than usual, and it wasn’t the first time I’d wondered if the effort his body had to constantly put into growing all that psoriasis was stunting the rest of his growth. Reversing it, even. The shoulders of the too-big suit jacket fell away at either side, and even though the sleeves swung along against his body as he walked, the jacket was always slightly late. Robert Foreman’s comedy shoes were never going to be big ones to fill, despite what I’d somehow led Norman to believe, but his jacket was another story.

When we got to the door of the Noble Goat, Leonard stepped in front of our little procession and pushed it open with a flourish to allow Norman a grand entrance. I walked in behind him in time to see Barbara Windsor’s doppelgänger raise her head listlessly from a newspaper spread across the bar. I can only imagine the grand entrance lacked some of its effect due to the fact that there wasn’t another soul in the pub. Leonard was taking his role as Norman’s self-appointed manager seriously and he made his way across the empty room to Barbara’s bar.

‘Good evening, madam. Delighted to meet you. Is the sign-up for the open mic with you?’ Barbara fixed him with a cast-ironeyelashed gaze, and a couple of decades ticked by as she tried to work out whether Leonard was taking the piss or quite serious about signing up for a stand-up performance in a pub that had no punters and, for all we knew, no open mic night. Because it was pretty clear there was also no stage, no lights and not even a rusty microphone in sight, open or otherwise.

‘Well, sure, my love. Name?’ The rafters sighed with relief, but Barbara didn’t even have a pen in her hand so it was Leonard’s turn to try and work out if she was taking the piss.

‘Ahh. Not . . . not me, no. It’s for the boy here,’ he said. ‘Norman Foreman. Little Big Man.’ He raised his voice a little louder when he said the last bit and, although Norman ducked his head shyly, I saw the smudge of a smile pass his lips. I reached forward and grabbed his hand to give it a squeeze, and I felt him trembling. Oh, you beautiful, beautiful kid.

Barbara, who was actually Lou, according to a silver name tag pinned to her blouse, scanned us slowly, probably trying to decide who was the least insane. When she got to Norman her face seemed to soften a little. Good choice.

‘Please yourselves. But the open mic’s only open to paying customers. What’ll it be?’

A round of drinks looked like it was in lieu of a registration fee so we ordered lemonades and a neat whisky for Leonard. I quickly added two packets of crisps when I saw Lou’s face. To be honest, I could have done with something stronger, which would no doubt have made both Lou and I a lot happier, but while my liver was willing, my stomach was definitely not.

Despite the lack of an audience, Norman was too nervous to drink his lemonade and instead divided the time between making multiple trips to the toilet and furiously itching at his arms through the suit jacket. I knew that the heat inside the pub was probably making his psoriasis worse under that heavy fabric, but I also knew he’d never take that damn thing off. The show must go on, Sadie.

By seven twenty-five it looked like Lou had totally forgotten we were there and she was immersed back in the paper. Who knew there was so much hard news to be delivered in Muddiford? Then, out of nowhere, we were swept up in a gust of wind as the door of the pub swung open and somebody turned out all the lights. OK, nobody actually turned out the lights, but the man mountain standing in the doorway had the same effect. The guy was built like Hulk Hogan, although much hairier