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

Amidst the ‘Mum, what, what’s the rush?’ and the ‘But I think maybe I should go to the loo first,’ we hotfooted through the merry-go-round of madness and out to the world on the other side. Bournemouth wasn’t quite Narnia, but it’d have to do.

Fair play to Adam, he didn’t even bat an eye as we emerged at an above-average pace and I stammered out something about needing to make just a little bit of a run for it. In fact, he was the model of efficiency.

‘Righto, then. Bags on, bags on. Come on, come ON, hurry UP!’

He waved his arms wildly, indicating for us to pile our luggage on to the rack at the back of his scooter and not taking no for an answer. It was quicker to comply than to argue, then I grabbed Norman’s hand and set off in the lead at a smart but I hoped not too attention-drawing jog in the direction of where Leonard had parked the car, a couple of blocks away. After a few minutes, a couple of corners and no sign of any hotel staff in pursuit I started to breathe a little easier.

I’d assumed Leonard was right behind us, judging from the ‘Jolly good, keep going, lads, left here, that’s it’ that had been coming from the rear. But when I turned around to check that Adam had not absconded with our belongings, I got what could well go down as one of the biggest shocks of my life. And it was the moment I realized that maybe there was hope for Adam’s redemption after all.

Because there, travelling low in a dangerously deep Adamsized indent on the mobility scooter seat, was Leonard. Arms folded across his chest, imperious expression on his face and the oversized bulk of Adam lumbering along beside him with one hand balanced on the handlebars to steer and the other on Leonard’s back, holding him steady.

‘Old bastard was slowing us down,’ he wheezed.

Amidst Leonard’s protestations, I saw Adam give Norman a slow, sweaty wink and a very cheeky grin and, quick as you like, I was transported back thirteen years. Oh, that guy. Now I remember.

With all the leaving we’d done in the past week, it felt like we were becoming old hands at saying goodbye at the doors of the Austin. As Leonard busied himself checking the boot was packed Tony’s way, Norman made sure his shoebox of Post-it notes was within easy access on the back seat and I hovered around, keeping a vague lookout for random housemaids. Adam was back in the warm embrace of his scooter like the miracle of his recent resurrection had never happened.

‘So, Normie. Or should I say Little Big Man, eh?’ He held out his hand. ‘Well, good luck and all that, kid. I don’t know if you’re funny, but at least you won’t be playing to an empty house now. And, by the way, you’re welcome, ha ha.’

Norman smiled shyly and stepped forward to put his scaly little paw into Adam’s.

‘It . . . it was really nice to meet you, Adam, and thanks very much for your help. And I . . . well, even though you didn’t get to meet him, I reckon my mate Jax would have really liked you.’

I realized he was dead right. Jax would have absolutely loved Adam. He would have given back as good as he’d got and raised the stakes just for fun. And if it turned out Adam was Norman’s father, he’d have loved him even more. Because it’s nice to be nice, among other things.

Adam looked embarrassed and chuffed at the same time, and even more so when Norman leaned over handlebars of the scooter to give him an awkward hug. That kid. My heart felt like it had turned itself inside out to wear itself for another day and I thought I might drop dead from love for him right there on the pavement in Bournemouth. For Norman, I mean, not Adam. Because, despite that faint glimmer of redemption and the realization that I still had a hell of a lot to learn about judgement from the twelve-year-old boys of this world, I wasn’t quite ready to sanctify him yet.

Which turned out to be about right, because the last I saw of him was as he nearly ran over an old lady then let rip with a mouthful like it was her fault and she hadn’t just been coming home from Tesco with her squeaky trolley full of shopping, like she’d done every Tuesday for the past thirty years. So he missed us all waving as we drove away, which was also just as well, because Leonard’s was less wave and more two strategically raised arthritic fingers as he peered into the wing mirror.

‘Young prick,’ I heard him mutter. But when I turned to look at his profile, there was no denying the faint smile that lifted the corners of his wrinkly mouth.

As we turned on to the motorway, leaving Bournemouth in our proverbial dust, I crossed my fingers there’d be no fallout from the towels and my credit card after a good wash, but my guess was it was going to be a long time before the smell completely left that room. Even though I was pretty sure it wasn’t really the bad odour that had kept me awake most of the night, I still genuinely pitied the next guest. Unless it was Lenny Henry. He deserved it, for false advertising. So that one’s for you, Dawn.

37

When we’d plotted our wonky route according to the information in Leonard’s spreadsheet and the opportunities for Norman to get his practice in, the plan was to take a couple of days to get from Bournemouth to Edinburgh, with a night at a B&B in Kendal and an appearance at the bi-monthly Tuesday open mic night at the Jolly Anglers. But now that Norman had landed a spot at the Duke,