The Funny Thing about Norman Foreman Julietta Henderson (short books for teens .TXT) 📖

about. Because that wasn’t the first time I’d heard him at the end of an answering machine. Oh no it wasn’t.

My rusted-up brain was on furious rewind and it ground to a halt at the Tuesday after the weekend I’d slept with Dan, when he hadn’t showed up where we said we’d meet. The same day I’d had a call from the solicitor to tell me that, as we’d suspected, once the bank had recouped all the money my father owed after the sale of the house, I was still almost two thousand pounds short to pay the funeral director and legal bills. And please call her back.

So it hadn’t been the best of days and I remembered that, when it became clear Dan had no intention of showing up or even calling me, I’d been angry as hell. So I called him. Numerous times. More than that, actually, because numerous sounds like around six, doesn’t it? I think it was more like sixty. And I hadn’t spared the answering machine’s sensibilities, if I remembered correctly. Unfortunately, with wonderful high-definition clarity, suddenly, I did.

The better my memory became, the more I realized Dan McLachlan was probably less likely to call me back than call the police. Again. But to start remembering the details of that particular early-morning haul over the coals was going to be all kinds of embarrassing, so I swerved out of there and back into the present. Which wasn’t much better.

The three of us stood in a silent semicircle, staring down at my phone on the faded floral duvet. The angles of our feet reminded me of another unbreakable three that we used to be and I felt the tepid threat of tears behind my eyes. Gotcha, suckers!

‘Don’t worry, Mum, it’ll be OK. That . . . that was really great for the first time. It . . . it doesn’t matter that you didn’t remember not to say . . . it’s OK, Mum. It’ll be OK, honest. You’ll see.’

Norman touched my arm gently and slid his hand down into mine. His fingers curled into the shape of a well-worn spot and I held on as long as I dared.

Some time later, as Norman and Leonard settled in for some practice, I lay down on the bed, curled my knees up to my chest and got to thinking about handsome Dan McLachlan, my father and a house full of memories that sold for a song. I let my lids droop as my breath fell into step with the rise and fall of their voices, and I must have dropped off, because when I jerked awake I was suddenly and acutely aware of silence. Leonard was hunched over in the armchair, squinting at a handful of notes, glasses absently abandoned on his head. Pen in hand, Norman was sitting on the floor, using Leonard’s knee as a support to cross something off a Post-it before handing it to him. I moved my arm to brush some hair out of my eyes and, when I looked back, my son was staring straight at me. And smiling.

22

The two people since 2007 that had bothered to write a TripAdvisor review on the Noble Goat pub in Muddiford both agreed on one thing. They wouldn’t be back.

‘Well, that sounds perfect,’ I said when I saw Norman’s face as Leonard read out the comments from his laptop. ‘Because neither will we.’

We were relying on the word of the online monthly North Devon gig guide Leonard had found during his research that the so-called open mic nights at the Noble Goat were even a going concern. But, as Leonard said, if you can’t trust the Internet, who can you trust?

Show us what you’ve got! Muddiford’s Best Open Mic Night, last Tuesday of the month. Sign up on the night. Registration £5.

While I was busy wondering what the possibility was of there being more than one open mic night in a place the size of a postage stamp, a couple of other thoughts were also jostling for my attention. Firstly, maybe the lack of reviews on TripAdvisor meant that Muddiford’s Best Open Mic Night wasn’t all that popular, which could only be a good thing for Norman’s first try. But then, secondly, what if it was the social event of the month and the entire town showed up every last Tuesday night to see what anyone crazy and brave enough to get up had ‘got’.

As Norman heaved my father’s old suit jacket over his narrow shoulders and I watched him gather up his pile of paper scraps and Post-it notes I sent out one of my silent telepathic messages. You’ve got this, Norman. I’ll do the crazy, you do the brave. But I knew I was no substitute for what was missing from Norman’s show and, as I searched his face, there was no sign he’d got the message.

Way down deep in my gut, I felt a sharp, sudden tug, which came and went so quickly I wasn’t even sure I hadn’t imagined it. But when I rested my hand on a certain place, there was no mistaking the warmth of the scar through my jeans.

While I’d spent the rest of the afternoon lying back on a pillow being asphyxiated by the smell of mould and worrying about the police showing up on the doorstep, courtesy of Dan McLachlan, I’d listened to Leonard and Norman adding to their wad of Post-it notes and chatting about Norman’s psoriasis. After a handful of kindly, well-meaning questions and a curious inspection of a few scabs, Leonard leaned back in his chair with a thoughtful expression.

‘You know, I know it sounds odd, Norman old chap, but my Iris always swears black and blue that a dose of cold tea can fix everything that ails a person,’ I’d heard him say. ‘Bites, burns, constipation, cold sores – you name it. Cold tea for everything, that woman, inside and out.’

A little later Norman asked me quietly if we could buy