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

‘Sadie, I hope you didn’t mind us butting in and coming along like this. It’s just that . . . well, even though it was a bit of a surprise, Tony seemed so happy that you got in touch and . . . well, after you called he told me how much he’d . . . when you . . . well, anyhow, I just think he really wanted me to like you, too. So I thought I’d try, and then, when I met you, well, I didn’t even have to try very hard at all, Sadie. I just think it’s wonderful what you’re doing for Norman. I don’t . . . I mean, you really are amazing, what you’re doing to make his dream come true. And your Norman is a such a lovely boy.’

Her hand still rested on my arm and all I could do was stare at her chipped navy-blue nail polish and think, Hang on, did she just say I was amazing? And then another voice piped up, trying to drown out the sound of my own questions. Tell them.

I imagined myself rising out of my body and hovering over Kathy and Tony like the Cheshire Cat. Clearing a small hairball out of my throat to purr, ‘I’m so glad you think I’m amazing and that my son is so lovely, because, guess what?’ And I imagined Tony’s far bluer than I’d remembered eyes twinkling in delight, and him saying, ‘I knew it! I knew we made magic that night.’ And I could almost see lovely, serene earth mother Kathy clasping her hands together, cheeks bright, eyes shiny, saying, ‘I’m so happy for Norman and Tony that they finally found each other. But I promise I’ll never try to replace you, Sadie. Don’t worry, nobody could ever be as good a mother as you. You are amazing.’

I was enjoying my reverie so much that I was a bit disoriented when I opened my eyes to see a greasy hipster with a tinny guitar shredding Alex Lloyd’s lovely lyrics into a chorus of coleslaw. ‘You were amaaaaaazing, we did amaaaaaazing things.’ Frankly, it was amazing my ears didn’t start bleeding, and it made me doubt whether Kathy had even said what I thought she’d said in the first place. It could just have easily been the hipster warming up.

After sitting through a rendition of ‘I Kissed a Girl’ by a four-year-old in head-to-toe red sequins and a teeny-tiny piano protégée being eaten alive by Beethoven’s Piano Concerto No. 5, by the time a portly, pushing-seventy Frank Sinatra strolled out to entertain us with the off-key strains of ‘Fly Me to the Moon’, I had a glimmer of hope that Norman wasn’t actually going to be anywhere near the worst of Swansea’s best.

Now, I’m willing to admit that I don’t know a lot about talent shows, that being my first and all, but I reckon I know enough to realize that scheduling two Frank Sinatra impersonators in a row is never going to be a good idea. I mean, why wouldn’t you throw in a Baby Britney or a set of Antandecs to mix it up? Surely that would make more sense. Clearly, though, whoever was in charge did think it was a good idea. But less than a minute after the second Frank (who was a couple of decades younger, much svelter and actually not half bad) began his rendition of ‘My Way’, it became clear it most definitely was not.

To be fair, it seemed OK at first, as Not Half Bad Frank resonantly began to state his case of which he was so certain. All was still going smoothly as he travelled each and every highway, but by the time he began reminiscing about his regrets that were apparently too few to mention, it became impossible to ignore the very slow but very loud booing coming out of the speakers on the side of the stage, accompanied by random single claps as Very Bloody Bad Frank, still in possession of his microphone, made his feelings clear.

‘Booooo.’ Clap. ‘Boooo, booooo.’ Clap. ‘Boooooooo.’ Clap, clap.

Not Half Bad Frank went from confident imposter to flustered amateur as he peered into the darkened wings, unable to quite comprehend what was going so wrong with his act, which had been going so well. After a few stutters he fell completely out of time with his backing tape and his crooning degenerated into a stammering word soup. But he carried on, singing louder and louder to try to drown out his nemesis, whose boos got louder and louder at the same rate.

‘And so I faced it all . . . umm, ahhh, and I stood . . . umm, tall . . .’

After a final valiant but excruciating verse, there was no denying Not Half Bad Frank was most certainly doing it his way. In a merciful intervention, the backing music came to an abrupt stop and the poor guy trailed off into silence, miserably twisting his bow tie and melting under a spotlight that nobody thought to move off him. He was broken. I recognized the shape of him from my father’s many near-fatalities on many other stages. Come on, love, let’s go home.

A handful of the kinder audience members began a lacklustre ripple of applause, then someone appeared from the wings to thrust the next poor bugger out on to the stage. And there he was. My boy. Blinking in the light, holding a huge microphone awkwardly between two red-raw, hopeful hands. Lamb. To. The. Slaughter.

The broken Not Half Bad Frank limped off stage and, at the sight of Norman, Tony and Kathy elbowed me excitedly at the same time from either side. I glanced out of the corner of my left eye at Kathy, then out of the corner of my right eye at Tony, and felt an army gathering its forces behind my scar. Now or never, Sadie. And although never was a far more appealing prospect,