Mr. Stink

by David Walliams

  How on earth did Dad miss him? thought Chloe, as she went back to the house. Even if he hadn’t seen Mr. Stink in the shed, he surely must have smelled him.

  Chloe tiptoed into the kitchen and opened the fridge door as quietly as possible. She stared into the fridge, and began carefully moving jars of mustard and pickle so they wouldn’t clink. She hoped to find some out-of-date orange juice that might appeal to Mr. Stink’s tainted palate.

  “What are you doing?” said a voice.

  Chloe startled. It was only Dad, but she wasn’t expecting to see him up this early. She gathered herself for a moment.

  “Nothing, Dad. I’m just hungry that’s all.”

  “I know who’s in the shed, Chloe,” he said.

  Chloe looked at him, panicked, unable to think, let alone speak.

  “I opened the shed door last night to see an old tramp snoring next to my lawn mower,” Dad went on. “The pong was . . . well . . . pongy. It was an extremely pongy pong . . .”

  “I wanted to tell you, honestly I did,” said Chloe. “He needs a home, Dad. Mother wants all homeless people driven off the streets!”

  “I know, I know, but I’m sorry, Chloe, he can’t stay. Your mother will go nuts if she finds out.”

  “Dad, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s OK, love. I am not going to say anything to your mother. You’ve kept your promise not to tell anyone about me losing my job, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Good girl,” said Dad.

  “So,” said Chloe, glad to have Dad to herself for a while. “How did your guitar get all burned?”

  “Your mother put it on the bonfire.”

  “No!”

  “Yes,” said Dad sorrowfully. “She wanted me to move on with my life. She was doing me a favor, I suppose.”

  “A favor?”

  “Well, The Serpents of Doom were never going to make it. I got the job at the car factory and that was that.”

  “But you had an album! You must have been dead famous,” chirped Chloe excitedly.

  “No, we weren’t at all!” chuckled Dad. “The album only sold twelve copies.”

  “Twelve?” said Chloe.

  “Yes, and your grandma bought most of those. We were pretty good, though. And one of our singles got into the charts.”

  “What, the top forty?”

  “No, we peaked at ninety-eight.”

  “Wow,” said Chloe. “Top one hundred! That’s pretty good, isn’t it?”

  “No, it isn’t,” said Dad. “But you’re very sweet to say so.” He kissed her on the forehead and opened his arms to give her a hug.

  “There’s no time for cuddles!” said Mother as she strode into the kitchen. “The man from the Times will be here soon. Father, you make the scrambled eggs. Chloe, you can set the table.”

  “Yes, of course, Mother,” said Chloe, with at least half her brain worrying about when Mr. Stink was going to get his breakfast.

  “So how important is your family to you, Mrs. Crumb?” asked the serious-looking journalist. He wore thick glasses and was old. In fact, he had probably been born an old man. Plopped out of his mother, wearing glasses and a three-piece suit. He was called Mr. Stern, which Chloe thought was pretty fitting. He didn’t look like he smiled a lot. Or indeed ever.

  “Actually, it’s pronounced Croombe,” corrected Mother.

  “No, it’s not,” said Dad before his wife shot him a look of utter fury. The Crumb family was sitting around the dining table and not enjoying their posh breakfast. It was all such a lie. They didn’t normally eat their breakfast sitting round the dining room table, eating smoked salmon and scrambled eggs. They would be round the kitchen table eating Rice Krispies or Marmite on toast.

  “Very important, Mr. Stern,” said Mother.

  “The most important thing in my life. I don’t know what I would do without my husband, Mr. Crooome, my darling daughter, Annabelle, and the other one . . . whatshername? Chloe.”

  “Well, then I ask you this Mrs. . . . Croooooome. Is your family more important to you than the future of this country?”

  That was a toughie. There was a pause during which a civilization could rise and fall.

  “Well, Mr. Stern . . .” Mother said.

  “Yes, Mrs. Croooooooooome . . . ?”

  “Well, Mr. Stern . . .”

  “Yes, Mrs. Croooooooooooooooooooooooo oooome . . . ?”

  At that moment there was a little rat-tat-tat on the window. “Excuse me for interrupting,” said Mr. Stink with a smile, “but please could I have my breakfast now?”

  13

  Shut Your Face!

  “Who on earth is he?” inquired Mr. Stern as Mr. Stink trudged around in his filthy striped pajamas to the back door.

  There was silence for a moment. Mother’s eyes bulged out of their sockets and Annabelle looked like she was about to shriek or vomit or both.

  “Oh, he’s the tramp who lives in our shed,” said Chloe.

  “The tramp who lives in our shed?” repeated Mother incredulously. She looked at her husband with black fire in her eyes.

  He gulped.

  “I told you she was hiding something in there, Mother!” exclaimed Annabelle.

  “He wasn’t there when I looked!” protested Dad. “He must have concealed himself behind a shovel!”

  “What a wonderful woman you are, Mrs. Croooooooooooome,” said Mr. Stern. “I read about your policies on the homeless. About driving them off the streets. I had no idea you meant we should drive them into our homes and let them come and live with us.”

  “Well, I . . .” spluttered Mother, lost for words.

  “I can assure you I am going to write an absolutely glowing piece about you now. This will make the front page. You could be the next Prime Minister of the country!”

  “My sausages?” said Mr. Stink, as he entered the dining room.

  “Excuse me?” said Mother, before putting her hand over her mouth in horror at the smell.

  “Forgive me,” said Mr. Stink. “It’s just that I asked your daughter Chloe for some sausages two hours ago, and my sincerest apologies, but I am getting rather peckish!”

  “You say I could be the next Prime Minister of the country, Mr. Stern?” said Mother, thoughtfully.

  “Yes. It’s so kind of you. Allowing a dirty old smelly tramp like this—I mean, no offense—”

  “None taken,” replied Mr. Stink without hesitation.

  “—to come and live with you. How you could you not be elected as a Member of Parliament now?”

  Mother smiled. “In that case,” she said, turning to Mr. Stink, “how many sausages would you like, my very good friend who lives in my shed and hardly stinks at all?”

  “No more than nine, please,” replied Mr. Stink.

  “Nine sausages coming right up!”

  “With poached eggs, bacon, mushrooms, grilled tomatoes, bread and butter, and brown sauce on the side, please.”

  “Certainly, my extremely close and beloved friend!” came the voice from the kitchen.

  “You smell so rank I think I’m going to die,” said Annabelle.

  “That’s not nice, Annabelle,” said Mother breezily from the kitchen. “Now come and help me in here, darling, there’s a good girl!”

  Annabelle ran to the sanctuary of the kitchen. “It stinks in here now as well!” she screamed.

  “Shut your face!” snapped Mother.

  “So, tell me . . . tramp,” said Mr. Stern, leaning in toward Mr. Stink before the smell got to him and he leaned back. “Is it just you living in the shed?”

  “Yes, just me. And of course my dog, the Duchess . . .”

  “HE’S GOT A DOG?” cried Mother anxiously from next door.

  “And how do you find living here?” continued Mr. Stern.

  “Nice,” said Mr. Stink. “But I warn you, the service is painfully slow . . .”

  14

  Lady and the Tramp

  LADY AND THE TRAMP was t
he headline.

  Mr. Stern had been true to his word and the story had made the front page of the Times. A large photograph of Mother and Mr. Stink accompanied the piece. Mr. Stink was smiling broadly, showing his blackened teeth. Mother was trying to smile, but because of the smell she had to keep her mouth firmly closed. As soon as the paperboy put the paper through the letter box, the Crumbs pounced upon it and devoured it in a frenzy. Mother was famous! She read the article out loud with pride.

  Mrs. Crumb may not look like a political revolutionary in her smart blue suits and pearls, but she could well change the way we live our lives. She is running for Member of Parliament in her local town and, although her policies read as very hard line, she has taken the extraordinary step of inviting a tramp to live with her family.

  “It was all my idea,” said Mrs. Crumb (pronounced “Crooooooooooooome”). “At first my family was dead against it, but I just had to give this poor filthy flea-ridden dirt-encrusted stomach-turningly smelly beggar man and his abhorrent hound a home. I love them both dearly. They’re part of the family now. I couldn’t imagine life without them. If only other people were as beautifully kindhearted as me. A modern-day saint, some people are saying. If every family in this country was to let a tramp live with them, it could solve the problem of homelessness forever. Oh, and don’t forget to vote for me in the forthcoming election.”

  It’s a genius idea, and could put Mrs. Crumb in line to be the next Prime Minister.

  The tramp, known only as “Mr. Stink” had this to say. “Please could I trouble you for another sausage?”

  “It wasn’t your idea, Mother,” snapped Chloe, too angry to merely sulk.

  “Not strictly speaking, dearest, no . . .”

  Chloe glared at her, but at that moment the telephone tinkled.

  “Get that will you, someone? It’s probably for me,” said Mother, grandly.

  Annabelle dutifully picked up the phone. “Crooombe residence. Who is speaking please?” she asked, just as her mother had instructed her to. Mother even had a special telephone voice, a note posher than her usual one.

  “Who is it, dear?” said Mother.

  “It’s the Prime Minister,” replied Annabelle, putting her hand over the mouthpiece.

  “The Prime Minister?” squealed Mother.

  She hurled herself toward the telephone.

  “Mrs. Croooombe speaking!” said Mother in a truly ridiculous voice, a good note posher than even her usual telephone one. “Yes, thank you, Prime Minister. It was a super piece in the newspaper, Prime Minister.”

  Mother was drooling again. Dad rolled his eyes.

  “I would be delighted to be a guest on Question Time tonight, Prime Minister,” said Mother.

  Then she went quiet. Chloe could hear a murmur from the other end of the line, followed by silence.

  Mother’s jaw dropped open.

  “What?” she growled into the phone, losing her poise and dignity for an instant.

  Chloe looked at Dad questioningly and he shrugged.

  “What do you mean, you want the tramp to go on as well?” said Mother, incredulous.

  Dad grinned. Question Time was a serious political discussion program hosted by a Sir. It was Mother’s big chance to shine, and she obviously didn’t want it ruined by a malodorous old tramp.

  “Well, yes,” went on Mother, “I know it makes a good story, but does he really have to be on too? He reeks!”

  There was another pause while the Prime Minister spoke, the murmur getting a little bit louder. Chloe was impressed with the man. Anyone who could get Mother to stop talking for a moment deserved to run the country.

  “Yes, yes, well, if that’s what you really want, Prime Minister, then yes, of course I will bring Mr. Stink along. Thank you so much for calling. By the way, I make a very moist lemon drizzle cake. If you are ever passing by on your battle bus, I would be delighted to offer you a slice or two. No? Well, goodbye . . . Goodbye . . . Goodbye . . .” She checked one last time that he had definitely gone. “Goodbye.”

  Chloe rushed into the garden to tell Mr. Stink the news. She heard a “Grrrrrr” and assumed it must be the Duchess. However, it was actually Elizabeth the cat who was growling. She was looking up at the roof of the shed, where a trembling Duchess was hiding. The little black dog was yelping softly. Chloe chased Elizabeth away, and eventually coaxed the Duchess down. She patted her.

  “There, there,” she said. “That nasty puss has gone now.”

  Elizabeth flew out of the bushes and through the air like a kung-fu kitten. A terrified Duchess rocketed up the apple tree to safety. Elizabeth prowled around the trunk, hissing malevolently.

  Chloe knocked on the shed door. “Hello?”

  “Is that you, Duchess?” came Mr. Stink’s voice from inside.

  “No, it’s Chloe,” said Chloe. He’s nuts! she thought.

  “Oh, lovely Chloe! Do come in, dear heart.”

  Mr. Stink upturned a bucket. “Please, please take a seat. So did your mother and I make the newspaper?”

  “You’re on the front page. Look!”

  She held up the paper and he let out a little chuckle. “Fame at last!”

  “And that’s not all. We just had a call from the Prime Minister.”

  “Winston Churchill?”

  “No, we’ve got a new one now, and he wants you and Mother to go on this program called Question Time tonight.”

  “On the televisual box?”

  “The TV? Yes. And I was thinking, before you go on . . .” Chloe looked at Mr. Stink hopefully. “It might be a good idea if you had a . . .”

  “Yes, child?”

  “Well a . . .”

  “Yes . . .?”

  “A . . .” She finally plucked up the courage to say it, “. . . bath?”

  Mr. Stink looked at her suspiciously for a few seconds.

  “Chloe?” he asked at last.

  “Yes, Mr. Stink?”

  “I don’t smell, do I?”

  How could she answer that? She didn’t want to hurt Mr. Stink’s feelings, but then again it would be much easier to be around him if he were introduced to Mr. Soap and his charming wife, Mrs. Water. . . .

  “No, no, no, of course you don’t smell,” said Chloe, gulping the biggest gulp that had ever been gulped.

  “Thank you, my dear,” said Mr. Stink, seeming almost convinced. “Then why do people call me Mr. Stink?”

  In her head, Chloe heard the intensely dramatic music from Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? This could in fact have been the million-pound question. But Chloe had no “fifty-fifty,” no “ask the audience” and not even a “phone a friend” at her disposal. After a long pause, in which you could have watched all three Lord of the Rings films in their specially extended director’s cuts, words started to form in Chloe’s mouth.

  “It’s a joke,” she heard herself saying.

  “A joke?” asked Mr. Stink.

  “Yes, because you actually smell really nice so everyone calls you Mr. Stink as a joke.”

  “Really?” His suspicion seemed to be thawing a little.

  “Yes, like calling a really small man ‘Mr. Big’ or a very thin person ‘Fatso.’”

  “Oh, yes, I understand, most amusing!” chuckled Mr. Stink.

  The Duchess looked at Chloe with a look that said, You had the chance to tell him, but you chose to carry on the lie.

  How do I know that the Duchess’s look said this? Because there is an excellent book in my local library titled One Thousand Doggy Expressions Explained, by Professor L. Stone.

  I digress.

  “But,” said Chloe, “you might like to have a bath, well, just for fun . . .”

  15

  Bath time

  This was no ordinary bath time. Chloe realized this had to be run like a military operation.

  Hot water? Check.

  Towels? Check.

  Bubble bath? Check.

  Rubber duck or similar animal-based bath toy? Check.

&
nbsp; Soap? Was there enough soap in the house? Or in the town? Or indeed in the whole of Europe, to make Mr. Stink clean? He hadn’t had a bath since—well, he claimed last year, but it might as well have been since dinosaurs ruled the earth.

  Chloe turned on the taps, running them both together so the temperature would be just right. If it was too hot or too cold, it might scare Mr. Stink off baths forever. She poured in some bubble bath, and gave it a swirl. Then she laid out some neatly folded towels, pleasingly warm from the airing cupboard, on a little stool by the bath. In the cabinet she found a multi-pack of soaps. It was all going perfectly according to plan, until . . .

  “He’s escaped!” said Dad, poking his head around the bathroom door.

  “What do you mean, ‘escaped’?” said Chloe.

  “He’s not in the shed, he’s not in the house, I couldn’t see him in the garden. I don’t know where he is.”

  “Start the car!” said Chloe.

  They sped off out of their street. This was exciting. Dad was driving faster than usual, although still one mile per hour less than the speed limit, and Chloe sat in the front seat, which she hardly ever did. All they needed were some doughnuts and coffee to go, and they could be two mismatched cops in a Hollywood action movie. Chloe had a hunch that if Mr. Stink was anywhere, he would be back sat on his bench where she had first talked to him.

  “Stop the car!” she said, as they passed the bench.

  “But it’s a double yellow line,” pleaded Dad.

  “I said, stop the car!”

  Dad stamped on the brake. The tires screeched as the car stopped. They were both propelled forward a little in their seats. They smiled at each other at the excitement of it all—it was as if they had just ridden a roller coaster. Chloe sprang out of the car and slammed the door shut, something she would never dare do if her mother were around.