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

26

Kathy wasn’t wrong. When we pulled up in the car park of the Taliesin Arts Centre it looked like a refugee camp for lookylikies. Amongst the sequinned flotsam and jetsam I spotted a teenaged Sia, a pair of pint-sized twin Mariahs, a middle-aged Britney and a guy who may or may not have been the real Rick Astley coming around for another shot. I definitely couldn’t see any other nervy-looking twelve-year-old boys in purple velvet jackets masquerading as comedians, so at least Norman had the element of surprise on his side.

Leonard, Norman and I sat silently in the car for a good few minutes, taking in the scene. My mental powers were useless yet again and my telepathic motherly advice just kept bouncing off the windows and reverberating back into my head. Norman heard nothing. He was pressed up against the back door of the car, eyes closed and a fist full of Post-it notes, mouth moving silently and furiously.

Leonard sat forward and very upright in the driver’s seat, staring intently into the crowd. He might have been checking out the competition, but he could just as easily have been scanning for snipers. Who would know? I could see Kathy and Tony looking kindly and eager, waving from the steps like a pair of benevolent Jesuses giving blessings to a car park full of impostery superstars and I knew I needed to pull myself well and truly together if I was going to be any help at all to Norman.

I felt a bit like I was having an out-of-body experience and the Macarena in my stomach that had been steadily getting worse since we left Barnstaple was hitting a chorus. I was about to deliver my highly under-prepared son up to a packed hall of Welsh vultures who were probably ready to eat him for their supper and not even spit out the bones, and Tony still had no idea he could be a father. Could things get any worse?

We’ve all been around long enough to know that the answer to that question is always yes.

Just inside the doors, Leonard found the desk to register and I handed over five pounds to a large woman sitting behind a flimsy table that looked like it was about to collapse from the weight of her roast-beefy elbows. She gave Norman a yellow sticker printed with ‘contestant’ and a handwritten number fourteen on it to stick on the lapel of his jacket.

‘Hello, love, it’s good to have you here, and all the best of luck. Make sure you show your number to Elvis, the stage manager, and let him know you’re there so he can slot you in correctly. Hurry along now, there’s a good boy. Quick sticks. No dallying around.’

As we stepped away from the desk I turned around to Norman, hoping I might come up with something brilliant and encouraging to say, but the words jammed in my throat. I realized there had to be at least two hundred people milling around in the foyer waiting for the show to start. Even though most of them looked like the families or support crew of the entrants, judging by the amount of hairspray, water bottles and snack supplies they were carrying, it was still at least 196 more people than Norman had ever performed to on his own.

As we stood in a silent huddle off to the side, Leonard put a hand on Norman’s shoulder to give it a reassuring squeeze and I saw my boy wince. I knew even a gentle touch like that would be hurting because, that morning, through a flash of fluffy Eden Rock embossed towel, I’d caught a glimpse of the monster that took over his body at will. Its latest path of destruction had taken it around his torso and off on a jaunty day trip to circumnavigate his neck, but I knew Norman would rather suffer ten times as much than say anything to hurt Leonard’s feelings. That kid. My heart ached with love for him, but my gut continued to ache with something else entirely, and for just a moment I wondered if there might be something else brewing that I should be worrying about. I closed my eyes briefly against the thought and took a slow, deep breath in. Get in line, buddy.

Unlike the Noble Goat, not only was there a real stage at the Taliesin Arts Centre, it was in a proper auditorium with dozens of rows of seating, high ceilings and massive curtains disappearing up into the roof. When the tinny electronic bell signalled ten minutes to lift-off, Leonard said he would accompany Norman backstage to go over some last-minute practice, and I certainly wasn’t going to argue, because judging by Norman’s porridge-coloured face as they disappeared behind the performers’ door, he was going to need all the help he could get.

Tony and Kathy had managed to snaffle us four seats in the very front row, and in the awkward shuffley dance of ‘You first, No, after you, But I insist, Oh well, then, OK . . .’ somehow it ended with me sitting down smack bang between the two lovebirds. When Leonard returned to join us I saw a barely there twitch of his eyebrows at the final arrangement, but he said nothing and sidled in beside Tony at the end of the row.

The house lights went down and the woman from the registration desk, who I’d rather unkindly begun thinking of as the Fat Controller as a distraction, waddled on to the stage to introduce ‘the fifth annual and no doubt the best yet Swansea’s Got Talent’. The crowd didn’t quite go wild, but the level of applause was enough to buy my heart a one-way ticket to my boots. There were just so many of them.

Kathy leaned closer into me and gave my arm a squeeze. Before I could get over the shock of the contact, I