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

offering some comforting words. But Not Half Bad Frank was past caring. He’d well and truly conceded defeat, his lovely slicked-back forelock of hair now skewed to a dangerous tilt, making him look less Frank Sinatra and more Frank Spencer.

I’m not sure how long it was before I clocked that Norman had finally stopped. I looked past the mess of people fussing around their respective Franks and there he was. Standing still and now silent on the stage, the sleeves of his velvet jacket hanging way too far past his hands. A slip of a boy trying to hold up a weight that was never meant for him. I’ve already hung around too long.

I’ve always run at the first sign of trouble, but not Norman. Everything had gone to shit, chaos reigned around him, but he’d dug in and there it was. Job done. As I looked up at my brave, beautiful, much-cleverer-than-me boy and tried to find some meaningful words, from behind my right shoulder came a quavering, joyful shout.

‘Bravo, Norman! Bravo, bravo, you bloody little beauty!’ I turned around to look at Leonard, and a wink and a smile nearly broke my heart.

I’m fairly sure the grammatically dubious Cosy Tree Café had never had such a good day. Even though the rest of Swansea’s Got Talent was officially cancelled, some kind of show was apparently destined to go on. It looked like nearly the entire audience had migrated across to the Cosy Tree for tea, cake and a reliving of the afternoon’s events. Us included. A few mini pop stars and their mothers were bonding over cupcakes, possibly working on forming a supergroup, but generally there seemed to be one thing on everyone’s minds, and two distinct camps. Bad Frank’s supporters and Not Half Bad Frank’s supporters. Everybody had an opinion and they were all determined to voice it. Who’d have thought Swansea history would be made according to the division of Frank Sinatras? You’d have thought it’d be Tom Joneses, if anything.

Our own little supergroup was squeezed into a booth right by the front door of the café and, somehow, I managed to end up between Tony and Kathy again. I know. But something about the way Tony hesitated and stood back when we went to sit down made it feel like it was a bit more on purpose this time.

The two of them held hands across the back of the booth behind me and it actually felt quite nice to be protected by that little force field when Tony told us that he was really sorry, but he definitely wasn’t Norman’s father. Because he and Kathy had been trying to have a baby for years, and when they finally got tested a few years ago it turned out the problem wasn’t Kathy’s uncooperative eggs, it was Tony’s lazy sperm. More than likely caused by a serious bout of chickenpox when he was eleven. He had virtually zero sperm count, the lowest the specialist had ever seen in someone who wasn’t a woman, apparently. Or something like that. I really didn’t listen to the details too closely because I was too busy watching my son.

Even though Norman’s face was pretty unreadable, when Tony softly dropped his clanger it seemed to me like the empty shoulders of that jacket collapsed just a little more into the space around him. But if I know myself, and I think I’m getting close, it’s a safe bet my own face said it all.

It felt like Tony was breaking up with me thirteen years later and he’d brought his lovely girlfriend along to let me down gently. After the way I’d behaved back then I figured it was only fair, though. Break up with me, Tony, I can take it. But I wish you didn’t have to break up with Norman.

‘Well, now. There you are! I need to see you, young man.’

I was shaken out of my musings by the sight of the Fat Controller, who had suddenly materialized at our booth, looking frazzled, flustered and actually quite a bit less substantial out in the real world.

‘I’ve been looking all over for you!’

Across the table I saw Norman shrink down into his seat and, straight away, Leonard cleared his throat and puffed out a protective chest as if to shield him.

‘Of course, the entire show’s had to be cancelled for this year, as you know. Due to . . . well, due to my husband’s bad behaviour, quite frankly. Pardon the pun, won’t you! I should leave the jokes to you, really, shouldn’t I, Norman? Ha ha!’

It appeared we all did pardon the pun, or in a few cases maybe didn’t get it. And again, while I’m no expert, an organizer being married to one of the contestants definitely seemed like a giant conflict of interest. It seems to me it’s just asking for trouble, really, and I rest my case.

‘But anyhow, I wanted to find you so I could give you this, Norman.’

She pulled a rolled-up piece of cardboard tied with a blue ribbon out of her tote bag and balanced it delicately across Norman’s teacup.

‘It’s a very special award for being a good sport . . . and you know, for trying. You were a real trooper, love. Well done, and I’m so sorry you didn’t get the chance to perform properly. You come back and see us next year, won’t you?’

Over the entire population of Swansea’s dead bodies, I thought. And only then. This time next year, the closest I’m hoping to be to Swansea is nibbling on a bit of cheesy rarebit for my supper and watching Gavin and Stacey reruns. But it looked like Norman might have had other ideas. He’d unrolled the flimsy bit of cardboard on the table and was staring at it, eyes wide. I could see the generic Certificate of Excellence was printed with a sponsor’s logo along the top and Norman’s name hastily scrawled across it in gold pen.

When he spoke, Norman’s voice was soft, but