The Funny Thing about Norman Foreman by Julietta Henderson (e book reader online txt) 📕

21Sadie

From what I could remember about Dan McLachlan, Barnstaple didn’t seem like the kind of place I would have expected him to end up. But then again, I think we’ve established I really didn’t have much to base any real theories on. As we screeched into town on two wheels, or at least way too fast for my liking, I got out the printed and laminated itinerary that was exactly where it should have been in the green plastic document folder Leonard had prepared. I ran my finger down the accommodation column and cross-matched it with Barnstaple in the destination column. What a system.

‘Toad Hall Bed and Breakfast, 108 Albert Walk,’ I read out. ‘Right, everyone, keep your eyes peeled.’

But of course, there was no way Leonard was going to leave any part of the plan to chance or human error. He fumbled around in his inside jacket pocket and pulled out his iPhone, which he passed over the back of his seat to Norman, without taking his eyes off the road.

‘Norman, I’ve got the Google Map already prepared for Albert Walk, if you’d be so kind as to set it off and direct me.’ I was slightly offended he hadn’t asked me, but had to agree Norman was probably more suited to the job of navigating with an iPhone than me.

Away from the freedom of the open road, Leonard did at least seem willing to comply with the concept of traffic lights, which gave us some relief in between rally sprints. Compliments of Norman and Google, we found 108 Albert Walk with very little trouble at all and I immediately wished we hadn’t.

‘Is this definitely it, Norman? Are you sure? A hundred and eight?’

The place looked like it was going to live down to its name, and I was a bit worried I’d booked us into an actual residence for retired toads.

‘Yes, definitely, Mum. I don’t think Google’s allowed to lie. And look, there’s even a sign. Ta-da!’

The almost chirpy ‘ta-da’ made my tummy do a little jump for joy, and he was right. The ramshackle maisonette we’d pulled up in front of sported an equally depressed sign.

Toad Hall: Bed, Breakfast and Good Devon Hospitality Your hosts, Bill and Gloria.

Attached to the bottom of the sign by a couple of rusty chains was a weather-beaten timber frame with a faded image of presumably Bill and Gloria, arm in arm and looking very Devonian and hospitable. If the sign had said, Abandon hope all ye who enter, it would have been far more appropriate, if you ask me.

The front garden, if you’d be so bold, looked as though nobody had inflicted a lawnmower or a pair of secateurs on it in the last decade. There was a large, unkempt bush curiously positioned right in the middle of the pathway, with an air of someone who’d showed up one day to try their luck and had hit the jackpot. The path had been worn into a deviation around it on both sides and up to the front door. It looked like bush one, path nil.

On the booking website where I’d found Toad Hall, it had been described variously as ‘charming’ and ‘shabby chic’, but at first, second and third glances, post-apocalyptic early Tuscan ruin might have been a more fitting description.

‘OK, then, everybody out. If this is it, we’re here!’

While my mouth was desperately having a crack at cheery, my spirits were trying to save themselves from crashing to the post-apocalyptic Tuscan tiled doorstep. This trip was already stressful enough without the prospect of having to endure our first two nights at the mercy of Bill and Gloria. Especially if, and chances were, their presentation and housekeeping were a reflection of their hospitality. I tried to remember if we’d passed any nice Best Westerns on our way into Barnstaple, but Leonard had already swung our cases out of the boot and was gently motioning Norman ahead of him up the pathway.

‘Come on, Norman, the early bird gets the worm. The sooner we check in, the more time you’ll have to practise for tonight. The show must go on!’ Not quite yet, matey, I thought, and thank non-existent god for small mercies about that.

After I’d got back to the car in Bude, bearing ham-and-pickle toasties and apple juice, I’d sat in the front seat with the door open and listened to Norman go over some of his jokes with Leonard. My heart had sunk lower and lower with every bite and off-kilter delivery. I’d occasionally snuck a glance in the wing mirror at Norman, who was right in my line of sight, looking for all the world like he was hanging on Leonard’s every word of advice. But there was no getting around it that, without Jax, there was no banter, no timing and every joke sounded lonely, stilted and way out of its depth. Put it all back in the shoebox, Norman, and let’s go home. I shook my head a couple of times to silence the voice and, alternating on every second bite, I chimed in with what I hoped was some encouraging laughter.

Leonard had also been very enthusiastic, with a load of ‘bravo’s and ‘hardy ha ha, young fellow’s thrown in with abandon, but with his first real public airing just hours away, I couldn’t help feeling Norman was far from ready.

As I listened to him fumbling through his jokes one after another, I tried telling myself that it didn’t matter if he wasn’t perfect, because he was just a kid, right? Even if his timing wasn’t quite there, he was wonderful and brave and hopeful, and didn’t he have all that astounding gravitas? Surely that would count for something. People would understand. And what did it matter if a few jokes fell flat, as long as Norman got to have a go at that plan of his for Jax? For him.

I wanted so hard to hope for the best, but the thing was, after