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

I told myself that if Norman could get up there on that stage and do what he was about to do, I could at least have the courtesy to do my lousy part. I leaned slowly sideways towards Tony.

‘Tony. There’s something . . . I . . . I need to tell you something.’ Tony half turned his head and gave me a look as if to say, ‘Why would you want to strike up a conversation just as your son is about to have his big moment?’ Wait for it, fella.

‘H— hell— hello. I . . . good even— I mean, good afternoon, ladies and gent— gentlemen . . .’ Race you to the bottom, Norman.

‘Tony,’ I whispered. ‘Remember when you, when we . . . well, you know, that night after the Brontë sisters in Edinburgh?’ Even from Tony’s profile I could tell that he remembered. I am amaaaaaaazing, we did amaaaaaazing things.

‘Tony, I . . . did you . . . look, do you know . . . well, have you thought about how old Norman is? He’s twelve. Just turned twelve a month ago, actually. The thing is . . .’ I felt like I was trying to suck a duvet through a straw. ‘Look, I’m not saying for sure, I mean . . . I don’t really know . . . but anyhow, there’s a chance, maybe a good one, that . . . that Norman could be yours.’ Then, just in case. ‘Your son.’

‘Umm, la— ladies and gentlemen, I . . . I’d like to tell you a couple of jokes that I think . . . I hope maybe you might . . . umm, like.’ Wild-eyed and pasty-faced, Norman ploughed on. Go get ’em, you gorgeous kid.

Suddenly there was a massive shriek of feedback and everyone in the audience threw their hands over their ears at the same time. For a brief but truly magnificent moment, I thought there was about to be a flash mob and Norman would be saved from his ordeal at the last minute while they filmed a resurrection of the old T-Mobile ads. But all that happened was he started waving the microphone closer and then further away from his face, trying to judge the right distance to stop the feedback.

I could see him mouthing words, trying to get through his first joke, something about meerkats and telescopes, and every couple of seconds he looked desperately left and right into the wings, as if he was hoping against hope to see Leonard with a handful of Post-its.

I felt Tony’s eyes boring into the side of my head and Kathy’s warm body leaning into me on the other side, but I couldn’t bear to look at either of them. Because it was out now. Job done. Tony’s court. His serve. I caught a movement as he turned his head away from me and up to Norman on the stage, and then back to me again. He put his hand on my arm and squeezed gently, just as Kathy had before. What was it with these two? I wasn’t used to being touched by anyone other than Norman, really, and I was finding I didn’t quite hate it.

It was a couple of seconds before I realized that Tony’s hand on my arm felt a lot firmer than Kathy’s had. More like he was pushing down, and quite hard. It didn’t have that reassuring feel, like Kathy’s, it almost felt as if it was to stop me from saying anything else. No problem there. I looked over at him and ‘Don’t say anything else’ was also what his face was telling me. He shook his head very slightly and leaned down like he was about to whisper in my ear. But then, as they say in the classics, all hell broke loose.

Accompanied by a strangled roar and a couple of triumphant boos, in a flash of black, white and red bow tie the artist currently known as Not Half Bad Frank came skidding across the stage on his bum at about ninety miles an hour, propelled by the force of an unseen but definitely not unheard assailant. His trajectory took him right past Norman and directly towards the edge of the stage and the front row of the audience. Us.

Everything went into slow motion and I felt my jaw actually unhinge and drop open as the Frank became airborne. I had a microsecond of pin-sharp focus and got a brilliant view of the broken capillaries in the whites of his eyes before he face-planted squarely into the laps of me, Kathy and Tony, ricocheting a shiny black brogue off Leonard’s cheek on the way through.

There was a lot of yelping and writhing as he desperately tried to regain a shred of dignity and balance, with very little hope of either. But even with all the commotion and at least a third of a full-sized man on my lap, I could still hear Norman’s voice. And although I couldn’t make out the words, and the voice was definitely shaky, I knew he wasn’t finished.

I gave the Frank an almighty shove and felt my hand connect with a spongy body part, maybe a nose, perhaps an eye socket, I’ll never know. He went crashing the rest of the way to the floor and Norman was in my sights again.

He’d abandoned the microphone and was staring out beyond the audience to an invisible focus point, just like I’d heard Big Al tell him in his post-performance pep talk. But he was still going. The knights of Armageddon could have marched in with an arsenal of high-powered flamethrowers and they wouldn’t have broken his stride. It didn’t matter, though, because nobody was listening to my son any more except me.

Bad Frank appeared on the edge of the stage, seemingly intent on finishing the job he’d started, still shouting abuse but hampered considerably by the Fat Controller, who was practically astride him in her determination to hold him back. Tony and Kathy, good in an emergency of course (of course), began helping the other dazed and confused Frank to his feet, brushing him off and