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

‘Now that was an entrance,’ I whispered to Norman as I brushed his windblown fringe out of his eyes. That smudge again.

‘All right, Big Al?’

Lou didn’t even look up, but she’d already started pulling a pint of something black as she spoke, with one eye still on the paper. Big Al crossed the floor in three paces, took the frothing glass from Lou’s hands and downed it in one. She was already pulling a second as he slammed the empty glass down on the bar and let out an almighty burp that reverberated through the rafters. The choreography was precision personified and I could only assume it had taken Lou and Big Al years of practice. With his second pint securely in hand, the mountain turned his attention to us. I could feel Norman’s hot little body shrink closer into me as Big Al’s eyes travelled slowly over each of us in turn.

‘Well, well. I see it’s a full house tonight, eh? Ha ha ha.’

When Big Al laughed, I’d lay odds the buildings shook in John o’ Groats. I bounced two inches out of my seat and Leonard’s head shot up like a meerkat as he let out a muttered ‘Hell’s bells’. Norman slid down even further into my father’s jacket. Only Lou was unmoved, and she was already back to her paper. It felt like my moment and, for once, I took it.

‘Hell— hello, yes. We’re here for the, um . . . the open mic night. Well, I mean, Norman, my son . . . he is. But we are, too. To help.’ Brilliant, Sadie.

‘The open . . . oh, right. The open mic. Excellent! New blood, eh, Lou, well how about that!’

As Big Al spoke the tiny bubbles of froth from pint number one trembled in his beard and prepared to make a dive for it into pint number two. It was slightly mesmerizing, as was the sight of his expansive biceps, which were doing a poor job of hiding under his shirt. Thankfully, Leonard chose that moment to weigh in.

‘You, too, Mr . . . err, Al? Are you . . . ?’ Leonard gestured vaguely around the empty pub.

Surely not. I couldn’t imagine what this guy could possibly have to offer as a stand-up act, apart from wood-chopping maybe. The place hardly looked big enough, though, and I for one didn’t want to stick around with a seven-foot giant wielding an axe in an enclosed space to confirm it. I saw Big Al send a wink in Lou’s direction.

‘Well, yes, yes I am, as a matter of fact. Why not? Me and Mr John Keats. Muddiford’s favourite double act. Ha ha ha.’ This time we all held on tight, with minimal casualties. ‘To be honest, I’m the only poet in the village, so to speak.’

Big Al’s attempt at a Welsh lilt was less than ideal and I was quite glad we weren’t going to have to endure him regaling us with a comedy routine. Then I remembered Norman’s practice runs that afternoon and I was reminded of glass houses and stones and what happened when they made contact. But Leonard had already sprung into action, playing his managerial duties to perfection.

‘Ah. OK, right. Mr Big Al the poet. Excellent! Our Norman here is a comedian.’ I couldn’t miss the overtone of pride in his voice, and it made me want to cry that Norman had someone else in his corner apart from me.

Without waiting for an invitation, Big Al came over and manoeuvred himself into the tiny bit of space left on the bench seat beside Norman, casually stretching a beefcake arm around his shoulder and giving it a squeeze. Norman looked like he was about to liquefy right there and then and disappear into the rancid carpet of the Noble Goat. I remembered there was a huge lump of weeping scab on his shoulder and that squeeze would have hurt like hell, but he didn’t look like he was in any hurry to move away. Which was interesting, to say the least.

‘A comedian, eh? Well, God knows this place could use a laugh or two. Budge up a bit more, young fella, and let a man get to know his competition. First rule of open mic night. Keep your enemies close. Ha ha ha.’

We obediently shuffled over, and Norman threw me a look that was part confusion, part terror and, oh please let it be true, part delight. I knew he was thinking the same thing as me. Damned if bloody Big Al wasn’t just what you’d imagine Jax to be when he was thirty-five. Or possibly fifty-five. It was hard to tell under all that beard.

It turned out there was a local production of Grease on in the next village and, according to Big Al, the entire regular patronage of the Noble Goat was there instead of at the pub for open mic night. As was apparently the microphone itself.

‘Never mind all that, though. It’s past the hour and the show must go on! Come on, Lou. Drumroll, please, lass, ha ha ha!’ John o’ Groats was razed to the ground but Lou lifted one eyebrow and tapped the bar obligingly with her fingernails.

Notwithstanding the lack of audience, Big Al could obviously see how nervous Norman was, so he declared himself up first. And while I’m no expert on live poetry readings, I don’t think anyone could have argued it wasn’t a pretty impressive performance. All I can say is that if you ever get the chance to witness a giant beard on legs with a voice like a foghorn rolling off a misty ocean reciting ‘When I Have Fears’, well, you should take it.

The effect of Big Al’s resonant tones colliding into the tenderness of Keats’ sonnet was shockingly beautiful and, when he’d finished, the words still hung in the air around the bar. I wanted to reach up and grab a few to stuff them into my bag for later. Norman and Leonard sat