I was doing a pretty good job of not looking over at the wall the second time around too, even though I did have a permanently cricked neck. But then Mum saw the poster with the new plan and the piggin’ jig, like Jax would say, was up.

9

Sadie

FINDING OUT NORMAN wanted to find his father was almost as much of a shock to me as finding out I was pregnant had been. In fact, it managed to evoke pretty much the same feelings, from what I can remember. Same order, even. Bewilderment, denial, terror, followed by how the hell did this happen, I didn’t feel a thing and how am I going to do this without losing my mind or getting arrested. Throw in that it appeared Norman was aiming to get a solo gig at one of the world’s most famous comedy events, and there was every possibility that both of those things would happen. And probably more.

It’s not that I was scared of how the shock would affect Norman. He’s always known I honestly couldn’t tell him who his father is, even if I’d ever felt inclined. Which, for the record, I definitely never have. He knows the basic concept of how he came to be, but I’m just not sure if he’d ever considered the moral aspect of how his mother could actually not know the identity of the father of her own child. I’m pretty sure Promiscuity for Dummies was not on the curriculum of Alverton Primary. Although, judging by the number of teen mothers that prammed their way down our street to show off their handiwork, they might want to consider it.

So there was that to worry about, although I have to admit that coming across as a bit loose to my son was considerably less worrying than how exactly I was supposed to track down the men-most-likely from a hazy month or two in Edinburgh thirteen years ago. Because from the moment that thin blue line appeared and changed the shape of my family for the third time, it never even crossed my mind that I was going to do it any other way than alone. Ready or not.

But the worst thing by far for me was point number one on Norman’s list. Which I’d been trying very hard not to think about since I’d seen it. The one about looking after his mum. Wouldn’t that break your heart if you were me? Leave me be, Sadie, love. Just let me sleep. And even though you’re not me (but for the grace of a probably nonexistent god), doesn’t it break your heart anyhow?

I probably shouldn’t be surprised, though, because I get that a fair bit. At work, I’m always getting the pat-on-the-head, don’t-you-worry-about-a-thing-little-lady treatment. Although that could be partly because I’m the only little lady in a used-car lot full of big men. But a counselor I saw once not long after my dad died, recommended by a kindly and rather observant lecturer at university, did tell me, almost admiringly I have to say, that I had a “vulnerable quality.” She pronounced each syllable very slowly—vul-ner-ab-le—and it was a few panicky seconds before I realized she hadn’t just told me I had a serious gynecological disease. Which, now that I think about it, in a way was pretty close to the mark. For a couple of months, at least. Anyhow, as handy as coming across as a helpless female can be at my job when it comes to getting things off the high shelves in spare parts or the stationery cupboard, it’s hardly the way you want your only child to see you, is it?