About Norman

For some reason, Norman won’t admit to what we’ve both discovered while he’s in the normal part of the house. He just acts like he hasn’t heard me talking.

We went back into the study late on Tuesday night, after he’d swapped the cars over, and we talked again about what it might mean, or who my father was. Norman often wonders out loud about the worth of all the books and bodkins, as he calls them. They’d be worth nothing to sell, but must have cost thousands – even if it’s all just decoration. One of my favourite theories is that the study is a gothic fantasy room. Norman keeps asking me what sort of man my father was.

So on the first of November, Norman woke up to find an empty bed. He went downstairs, where he thought he saw his wife, but before he could ask why she was up so early he realised it was an old woman wearing his wife’s dressing gown. She was sat by the phone crying. She did look a bit like his wife, but too old. Old enough to be her mother but, like Norman, her parents had both passed on before they met. Apparently his wife is stunning: ten years younger than Norman and looking ten years younger still. The old woman in his house turned when she heard him and tried to reach out. The wrinkles in her face became folds, and her hair was growing like loose threads being pulled from her head. She’d broken off six inches of nails to use the phone, but they were curling back out again. When she tried to move towards him, her legs buckled and she fell.

The address book, where he found our address, was open by the phone. He’s not telling me anymore than that.

And that’s all I’m going to talk about today.