“Well, well. I see it’s a full house tonight, eh? Ha ha ha.”

When Big Al laughed, I’d lay odds the buildings in Glasgow shook. I bounced two inches out of my seat and Leonard’s head shot up like a meerkat and he let out a muttered “Hell’s bells.” Norman slid down even farther into my father’s jacket. Only Lou was unmoved, and she was already back to her paper. It felt like my moment and, for once, I took it.

“Hell—hello, yes. We’re here for the, um...the open mic night. Well, I mean, Norman, my son...he is. But we are, too. To help.” Brilliant, Sadie.

“The open...oh, right. The open mic. Excellent! New blood, eh, Lou, well how about that!”

As Big Al spoke the tiny bubbles of froth from pint number one trembled in his beard and prepared to make a dive for it into pint number two. It was slightly mesmerizing, as was the sight of his expansive biceps, which were doing a poor job of hiding under his shirt. Thankfully, Leonard chose that moment to weigh in.

“You, too, Mr....er, Al? Are you...?” Leonard gestured vaguely around the empty pub.

Surely not. I couldn’t imagine what this guy could possibly have to offer as a stand-up act, apart from wood-chopping maybe. The place hardly looked big enough, though, and I for one didn’t want to stick around with a seven-foot giant wielding an ax in an enclosed space to confirm it. I saw Big Al send a wink in Lou’s direction.

“Well, yes, yes I am, as a matter of fact. Why not? Me and Mr. John Keats. Muddiford’s favorite double act. Ha ha ha.” This time we all held on tight. “To be honest, I’m the only poet in the village, so to speak.”

Big Al’s attempt at a Welsh lilt was less than ideal and I was quite glad we weren’t going to have to endure him regaling us with a comedy routine. Then I remembered Norman’s practice runs that afternoon and I was reminded of glass houses and stones and what happened when they made contact. But Leonard had already sprung into action, playing his managerial duties to perfection.

“Ah. Okay, right. Mr. Big Al the poet. Excellent! Our Norman here is a comedian.” I couldn’t miss the overtone of pride in his voice, and it made me want to cry that Norman had someone else in his corner apart from me.

Without waiting for an invitation, Big Al came over and maneuvered himself into the tiny bit of space left on the bench seat beside Norman, casually stretching a beefcake arm around his shoulder and giving it a squeeze. Norman looked like he was about to liquefy right there and then and disappear into the rancid carpet of the Noble Goat. I remembered there was a huge lump of weeping scab on his shoulder and that squeeze would have hurt like hell, but he didn’t look like he was in any hurry to move away. Which was interesting, to say the least.