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

voice trailed off as he saw the look on my face. As if. ‘No, no, of course. I . . . I’m quite sure he’s fine and safe, though, and it . . . it won’t even be dark for hours. I’m sure . . .’

He looked like he’d suddenly realized he’d waded in way too deep without a hand to hold, but I had no time for mercy.

‘Five o’clock! And he doesn’t even know where we are? We’ve got to get back to Edinburgh. I told Norman six at the latest, and it’s going to take us at least . . .’

I struggled to an upright position, trying to fight the overwhelming rush of nausea and dizziness that hit me like a concrete wall. I managed to swing one leg off the bed, but the other got tangled up in the IV drip on its way through.

‘Shit, shit, shit! Leonard . . . help me just . . . I . . . oh SHIT!’

‘Now, now, my dear. You must stop. Just calm yourself for a moment. Steady as you go.’

Even as Leonard was speaking he was gently manoeuvring me back on to the bed, untangling the sheet and the IV. He placed a cool hand on my forehead. Oh, surrender, how I miss you.

‘It’s all right, Sadie. I promise you. Shush now. It’s OK. I have a plan.’

I had a strong urge to shout that I’d had more than enough of plans, thank you very much. Plans are what got us into this bloody trip in the first place. But the struggle to get out of bed had taken its toll and I didn’t quite have it in me. Luckily, though, as plans went, dementia or not, Leonard’s seemed OK.

It turned out Dicky was a bit of a champ in times of crisis, despite his rather dubious driving skills. He’d called up his brother, who was not only the best mechanic in Biggar, he’d also had quite a bit of experience with vintage cars. So Dicky and Mickey (I swear) had very kindly towed the Austin back to Mickey’s garage. The good news was that it had only taken Mickey ten minutes to diagnose an electrical malfunction; the bad news was that he’d had to order a part from Edinburgh that wasn’t going to arrive until the next morning.

Coincidentally, as Leonard had tried telling me earlier, the Austin and I had very similar prognoses. While the immediate emergency was over, thanks to antibiotics and a dangerously enjoyable level of painkillers, the doctor insisted that I stayed in hospital at least overnight for observation while they assessed whether I needed surgery.

Leonard had been waiting for me to come round, and then his plan was to catch the next bus back to Edinburgh, so he’d be back at the Soft Fudge by six, or at least very soon after. Then, in the morning, all things being well with my release, he and Norman would come back on the bus and we’d all drive back to Edinburgh as soon as the car was ready, arriving in plenty of time for Norman’s show.

Like I said, it was a good plan. On the surface. I hated the idea of not being with Norman on the night before his big show, but more than that there was the issue of Leonard’s own mental health and his suitability as a guardian, no matter how temporary. I had to admit that he was showing absolutely no signs of anything amiss and his take-charge attitude was as impressive as ever. But I did notice that he totally fobbed me off when I tried to get any kind of explanation as to why he’d disappeared at dawn from the Soft Fudge.

‘Don’t worry about it now, Sadie, we can talk about all that later. I promise. Right now, it’s just important for me to get back there to Norman, look after him and make sure he’s ready for tomorrow. You’re not to worry about a thing, my dear. This time, you just take care of yourself and I’ll take care of Norman. Trust me.’

Even in my much-reduced state I knew my body was very clearly telling me I needed to stay put in the hospital for the time being. And even if he was going a bit dotty, I had seen the way Leonard had taken Norman under his wing on this trip so I had no doubt he would indeed take the very best of care. And what choice did I have? But as for being ready, I still wasn’t sure Norman was ever going to be ready for what could be coming his way. You just don’t trust your son.

Goth girl’s accusation hung in the air and amused itself by throwing rocks at me. Why didn’t I trust Norman to get up on stage and still be OK, when it appeared everybody else did? Leonard, Kathy, Tony, Big Al, even bloody Adam – none of them seemed in the least bit doubtful about sending my beautiful, heartbroken, unprepared son out there to try his luck in front of an audience. Why was I?

As I drifted in and out on the gentle tides of pethidine I got to thinking about chances and what seemed to happen when you took them. After all the years you didn’t. I washed up on a beach and felt the warmth of two kind hands held tight behind my head and heard the resonant, lingering voice of a beardy poet. With eyes wide open to the sky, I saw the wrinkly wink of a kindhearted old man and the true and beautiful smile of the boy I thought would never smile again. Come on, Sadie! In for a penny, in for a pound!

So maybe Goth girl was right and what mattered wasn’t whether Norman was going to put every pause in its right place and get every joke perfect but that he got up there at all. Because maybe nobody ever got anywhere good without taking a chance, and maybe one never knows.

But as hard as I