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

down the streets of Leith, we saw plenty of little old men limping along with their poodles, or papers or pints of milk under their arm, but none of them was our little old man.

I was relieved when, after the agreed half-hour we’d allotted ourselves, it was time to retrace our steps back to the Soft Fudge, with the help of Norman’s Boy Scout map, which he’d been scribbling along the way. Left at Chapel, right at Water, left at the Spar then left again. It’s a good thing one of us was sensible. We stopped at a little grocery shop to buy teabags, a carton of milk, some apples and a deadweight of crisps and chocolate, so at least that was one problem solved. I couldn’t do much right, but I could make tea and feed my son junk food.

We rounded the last corner on Norman’s notes and we were back on Kensington Street. Not that I ever had any doubt. But even though I’d known it was a long shot that we’d just come across Leonard a few streets away, sitting on a park bench waiting for us to find him, my heart felt like it was slipping down my chest with every step. We trudged back up the stairs to the Caramel Suite and I looked at the digital clock by the bed, realizing it was probably at least five hours since he’d left. The old bugger could be anywhere by now.

Norman walked over to the window seat and curled up on it, alternating glances between Leonard’s laptop and overnight bag and checking out the window every few seconds. He looked like he was about to cry. Aeons passed as I struggled to think of something reassuring to say, then I saw his gaze fix on a point somewhere outside the window. His jaw slowly dropped, as if he was about to say something, then he closed his mouth again without making a sound. He swallowed deeply before opening it to have another go.

‘Mum. He’s . . . I just realized something. The car . . . the Austin’s gone.’

What with the potential bombshell we’d discovered on Leonard’s phone, we’d been too distracted to even think about the car, but Norman was right. I climbed on to the window seat and cricked my neck to get a good look up the road to the spot we’d parked the night before, but unless a cheeky teal 1971 Austin Maxi had morphed into a regular, garden-variety grey Ford Focus overnight, it was definitely and irrefutably gone.

Despite the fact that the neighbourhood looked like it was pretty conducive to grand theft auto, when we looked in the side pocket of Leonard’s bag where he usually put the keys, the jury filed in quietly with a unanimous vote. Not only was Leonard missing and possibly demented, he also had wheels. For all we knew, he was doing burnouts down Princes Street that very minute, or was halfway to John o’ Groats with the wind in his hair.

‘Norman, I don’t know about this. I . . . I have to say it isn’t great. I mean, if he’s out there driving around and he doesn’t even . . . well, if he gets lost . . .’

‘It’s OK, Mum. He’ll be all right if he’s in the car, I reckon.’ Norman suddenly looked a bit brighter. ‘He did a refresher defensive city driving course last summer in Truro. And anyhow, he was the British off-road rally champion in 1969. Leonard can drive a car blindfolded, I reckon, even . . . well, even if . . .’

His voice trailed off and I could tell he was considering just what limitations Leonard might be facing if he really was MIA from the Wheeler Centre.

I’m not sure what shocked me more, though, to be honest. The fact that Leonard might really and truly be a former national champion rally driver, or that Norman knew about it. What else had they been talking about while I thought they were shuffling Post-it notes? My bad parenting skills? Why Norman wanted to find his father? Something inside my gut twanged and I sucked in my breath and held it until the pain passed. But even when it did, I prepared for another, because it was pretty clear that the car was a game-changer. How the hell could we expect to find him now? I looked from Norman out to the Ford Focus under the tree and back again.

‘Norman, look . . . I’ve been thinking. We . . . we might have to call someone if he doesn’t show up soon. The Wheeler Centre, or Iris or . . . or the police, I mean.’

‘Mum, no!’ Norman looked stricken, and he grabbed my arm. ‘What if he gets into trouble? What if Iris gets mad at him? What if there’s . . . like a . . . a car chase with the police and everything? Mum, what if it’s like Thelma & Louise?’

The kid was good bringing that up, because there weren’t a lot of movies that got to me more than that one and we watched it every year on my birthday. Me, Norman and Jax. My scar gave itself another sharp jab as I got a flashback to last year, the three of us sitting scrunched up on the sofa together under a duvet eating Quavers and shouting at the telly screen.

‘Don’t do it, don’t do it! Just surrender and you’ll be OK! Surrenderrrrrrrrrr!’

Hoping against hope that, this time, those wild, crazy, wonderful women would turn around and let the nice policeman help them out so they could all live happily ever after.

‘Please, Mum, don’t call anyone. Not until we . . . please. Not . . . not yet anyhow.’ Norman’s face was right up in mine. Red, pleading and lovely.

‘What then, Norman?’ I asked, as gently as I could. ‘What are we going to do? Just sit here and hope he comes back?’

Never snitch. Nobody likes a snitch, Normie, I once heard Jax saying.

I wasn’t convinced of that, though, because I think some people actually do like a snitch. The