“A comedian, eh? Well, God knows this place could use a laugh or two. Budge up a bit more, young fella, and let a man get to know his competition. First rule of open mic night. Keep your enemies close. Ha ha ha.”

We obediently shuffled over, and Norman threw me a look that was part confusion, part terror and, oh please let it be true, part delight. I knew he was thinking the same thing as me. Damned if bloody Big Al wasn’t just what you’d imagine Jax to be when he was thirty-five. Or possibly fifty-five. It was hard to tell under all that beard.

It turned out there was a local production of Grease on in the next village and, according to Big Al, the entire regular patronage of the Noble Goat was there instead of at the pub for open mic night. As was apparently the microphone itself.

“Never mind all that, though. It’s past the hour and the show must go on! Come on, Lou. Drumroll, please, lass, ha ha ha!” Glasgow was probably razed to the ground but Lou lifted one eyebrow and tapped the bar obligingly with her fingernails.

Notwithstanding the lack of audience, Big Al could obviously see how nervous Norman was, so he declared himself up first. And while I’m no expert on live poetry readings, I don’t think anyone could have argued it wasn’t a pretty impressive performance. All I can say is that if you ever get the chance to witness a giant beard on legs with a voice like a foghorn rolling off a misty ocean reciting “When I Have Fears,” well, you should take it.

The effect of Big Al’s resonant tones colliding into the tenderness of Keats’s sonnet was shockingly beautiful and, when he’d finished, the words still hung in the air around the bar. I wanted to reach up and grab a few to stuff them into my bag for later. Norman and Leonard sat openmouthed, dripping in the aftermath, and even Lou looked like she was wiping a tear away as she pulled him another pint of Guinness. Nobody dared break the silence, except Big Al himself.

“Righto, then, Norman. There’s the old ham out of the way, now for the young blood! Up you come, lad, you’re on!” When he said “up,” it was only a figure of speech, as it was really just a corner of the room, but then out of nowhere Lou appeared with a milk crate, which she handed to Big Al with a flick of her head in Norman’s direction. Big Al turned it over, placed it on the floor and swung Norman onto it in one swift but gentle movement, almost before any of us knew what was happening.

Seeing my beautiful boy wobbling up there on that plastic crate, nervously picking at a huge scab on his hand, was almost more than I could bear. I felt a pinching pain in my gut and the sensation of something stirring deep within. Here’s your chance, Sadie. Say something helpful. But of course you already know I didn’t. That’d take quite a bit more than I had at that moment and I was frozen behind the folds of a heavy velvet curtain in a near-empty pub function room, watching reruns of my father.