Mr. Stink

by David Walliams

  But the bench was empty. Mr. Stink wasn’t there. Chloe sniffed the air. There was a faint whiff of him, but she couldn’t really tell if this was a recent one or a lingering odor from a week or so ago.

  Dad drove around the town for another hour. Chloe checked all the places she thought her tramp friend might be—under bridges, in the park, in the coffee shop, even behind garbage bins. But it seemed as though he really had disappeared. Chloe felt like crying. Maybe he had left the town—he was a wanderer, after all.

  “We’d better head home now, darling,” said Dad softly.

  “Yep,” said Chloe, trying to be brave.

  “I’ll put the kettle on,” said Dad as they walked indoors.

  In Britain, a cup of tea is the answer to every problem.

  Fallen off your bicycle? Nice cup of tea.

  Your house has been destroyed by a meteorite? Nice cup of tea and a biscuit.

  Your entire family has been eaten by a Tyrannosaurus rex that has traveled through a space-time portal? Nice cup of tea and a piece of cake. Possibly a savory option would be welcome here too, for example a Scotch egg or a sausage roll.

  Chloe picked up the kettle and went to the sink to fill it. She looked out of the window.

  Just then, Mr. Stink’s head popped up from the pond. He gave her a little wave. Chloe screamed.

  When they’d got over their shock, Chloe and Dad walked slowly toward the pond. Mr. Stink was humming the song “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” to himself. As he sang, he rubbed algae into himself with a water lily. A number of goldfish floated upside down on the water’s surface.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Chloe, good afternoon, Mr. Crumb,” said Mr. Stink brightly. “I won’t be too long. I don’t want to get too wrinkled in here!”

  “What . . . what . . . what are you doing?” asked Dad.

  “The Duchess and I are having a bath of course, as young Chloe suggested.”

  At that moment the Duchess appeared out of the murky depths, covered in weeds. As if it wasn’t enough that he was having a bath in a pond, Mr. Stink had to share it with his dog too. After a few moments the Duchess clambered out of the pond, leaving behind a large black scum layer floating on the water. She shook herself dry and Chloe stared at her in surprise. It turned out she wasn’t a little black dog after all, but a little white one.

  “Mr. Crumb, sir?” said Mr. Stink. “Would you mind passing me a towel? Thank you so much. Ah! I am as clean as a whistle now!”

  16

  Rule Britannia

  Mother sniffed. And sniffed again. Her nose wrinkled with disgust.

  “Are you sure you had a bath, Mr. Stink?” she inquired, as Dad drove all the family and Mr. Stink to the television studio.

  “Yes, I did, madam.”

  “Well, there is a funny smell of pond in this car. And dog,” pronounced Mother from the front seat.

  “I think I’m going to puke,” pronounced Annabelle from the backseat.

  “I’ve told you before, darling. We don’t say ‘puke’ in this family,” corrected Mother. “We say we are feeling very slightly nauseous.”

  Chloe opened the window discreetly, so as not to hurt Mr. Stink’s feelings.

  “Do you mind if we keep the window closed?” asked Mr. Stink. “I am a little chilly.”

  The window went up again.

  “Thank you so much,” said Mr. Stink. “Such unimaginable kindness.”

  They stopped at some traffic lights and Dad reached for one of his hard rock CDs. Mother slapped his hand, and he put it back on the steering wheel. She then put her favorite CD on the car stereo, and the old couple in the next car looked at the Crumb family strangely as “Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves” came blaring out of their car.

  “Mmm, no no no, that won’t do at all . . .” said the TV producer as he studied Mr. Stink. “Can we put some dirt on him? He doesn’t look trampy enough. Makeup? Where’s makeup?”

  A lady with far too much makeup on appeared from around a corridor, scoffing a croissant and holding a powder puff.

  “Darling, have you got any grime?” asked the producer.

  “Come this way, Mr. . . . ?” said the makeup lady.

  “Stink,” said Mr. Stink proudly. “Mr. Stink. And I am going to star on the television tonight.”

  Mother scowled.

  Chloe, Annabelle, and Dad were led to a little room with a television, half a bottle of warm white wine, and some stale chips, to watch the show being broadcast live.

  The thunderous title music started, there was polite applause from the audience, and the pompous-looking presenter, Sir David Squirt, addressed the camera. “Tonight on Question Time it’s an election special. We have representatives from all the major political parties, and also a tramp who goes by the name of Mr. Stink. Welcome to the program, everyone.”

  Everyone around the table nodded, apart from Mr. Stink, who proclaimed loudly, “May I say what a delight it is for me to be on your show tonight?”

  “Thank you,” said the presenter uncertainly.

  “Being homeless I have never seen it,” said Mr. Stink. “In fact, I have absolutely no idea who you are. But I am sure you are wildly famous. Please continue, Sir Donald.”

  The audience laughed uncertainly. Mother looked displeased. The presenter coughed nervously and tried to continue.

  “So the first question tonight . . .”

  “Are you wearing makeup, Sir Declan?” inquired Mr. Stink innocently.

  “A little, yes. For the lights of course.”

  “Of course,” agreed Mr. Stink. “Foundation?”

  “Yes.”

  “Eyeliner?”

  “A little.”

  “Lip gloss?”

  “A smidge.”

  “Looks nice. I wish I’d had some now. Blush?”

  The audience chuckled throughout this exchange. Sir David moved on rapidly. “I should explain that Mr. Stink is here tonight as he has been invited to live with Mrs. Crumb . . . .”

  “Crooommmbe,” corrected Mother.

  “Oh,” said Sir David. “I do apologize. We checked the pronunciation with your husband, and he said it was Crumb.”

  Mother went red with embarrassment. Sir David turned his attention back to his notes. “Later on in the program,” he said, “we will be discussing the difficult topic of homelessness.”

  Mr. Stink put his hand up.

  “Yes, Mr. Stink?” asked the presenter.

  “May I just pop to the lavatory, Sir Duncan?”

  The audience laughed louder this time.

  “I should have gone before we started, but I asked the makeup lady to do my hair and it took forever. Don’t get me wrong, I am thrilled with the results; she gave me a wash and blow-dry. They even put something called gel in it, but I didn’t get a chance to go to the little boys’ room.”

  “Of course, if you need to go, go . . . .”

  “Thank you so, so much,” said Mr. Stink. He rose to his feet and started to mosey off the set. “I shouldn’t be too long, I think it’s just a number one.”

  The audience howled again with laughter. In the little room with the stale chips and the television Chloe and Dad were laughing too. Chloe looked at Annabelle. She was trying not to laugh, but a smile was definitely creeping up her face.

  “My apologies!” exclaimed Mr. Stink as he crossed the stage again in the opposite direction. “I am told the lavatory is this way . . . !”

  17

  Collapsed Bouffant

  “And that’s why I feel that there should be a curfew on all people under thirty.” Mother was in full flow now, and she smiled as she received a smattering of applause for this comment from the people over thirty in the audience. “They should all be in bed by eight o’clock at the latest. . . .”

  “Sorry I was a while,” said Mr. Stink as he ambled back onto the set. “I thought it was just a number one, but while I was standing there, I suddenly got the urge to have a number two.” The audience erupted int
o laughter, some even applauding in delight as this serious show descended into a discussion of an old tramp’s toilet habits. “I mean, I usually do my number twos in the mornings, between 9:07 and 9:08, but I had an egg sandwich backstage before I came on the show tonight. I don’t know if you made the sandwiches, Sir Derek?”

  “No, I don’t make the sandwiches, Mr. Stink. Now please can we get back to the question of curfews for young—”

  “Well, it was a delicious sandwich, don’t get me wrong,” said Mr. Stink. “But egg can sometimes make me want to go. And I don’t always get that much of a warning, especially at my age. Do you ever have that problem, Sir Doris? Or do you have the bum of a much younger man?”

  Another massive wave of laughter crashed onto the stage. In the stale chips room even Annabelle was laughing now.

  “We are here to discuss the serious topics of the day, Mr. Stink,” continued Sir David. His face was redder than red with anger as his serious political program, a program he had presented for forty tedious years, was rapidly turning into a comedy show starring an old tramp. The audience was enjoying it immensely, though, and booed Sir David a little as he tried to steer the show back to politics. He shot them a steely stare before turning to the new star of the show. “And my name is Sir David. Not Sir Derek, or Sir Doris. Sir David. Now, let’s move on to the question of homelessness, Mr. Stink. I have a statistic here that says that there are over 100,000 homeless people in the UK today. Why do you think so many people are living on the streets?”

  Mr. Stink cleared his throat a little. “Well, if I may be so bold, I would venture that part of the problem stems from the fact that we are seen as statistics rather than people.” The audience applauded and Sir David leaned forward with interest. Perhaps Mr. Stink wasn’t the clown he had taken him for.

  “We all have different reasons for being homeless,” continued Mr. Stink. “Each homeless person has a different story to tell. Perhaps if people in the audience tonight, or out there watching at home, stopped to talk to the homeless people in their town, they would realize that.”

  The audience was applauding even louder now, but Mrs. Crumb leaped in. “That’s what I did!” she exclaimed. “I just stopped to talk to this tramp one day and then asked him to come and live with my family. I’ve always put others before myself. I suppose that’s always been my downfall,” she said, tilting her head to the side and smiling at the audience as if she were an angel sent down from heaven.

  “Well, that’s not really true, is it, Mrs. Crumb?” said Mr. Stink.

  There was silence. Mother stared at Mr. Stink in horror. The audience shifted excitedly in their seats. Dad, Annabelle, and Chloe all leaned forward closer to the television. Even Sir David’s mustache twitched in anticipation.

  “I don’t know what you mean, my very close friend. . . .” squirmed Mrs. Crumb.

  “I think you do,” said Mr. Stink. “The fact is, it wasn’t you who invited me in, was it?”

  Sir David’s eyes gleamed. “Then who did invite you to stay with the Crumb family, Mr. Stink?” he inquired, back in his stride now.

  “Mrs. Crumb’s daughter, Chloe. She’s only twelve, but she’s an absolutely fantastic girl. One of the sweetest, kindest people I have ever met.”

  These words fell on Chloe like an enormous YES. Then everyone in the stale chips room looked toward her and she was overcome by embarrassment. She hid her face in her hands. Dad stroked her back proudly. Annabelle pretended not to be interested, and helped herself to another stale chip.

  “She should really come out here and take a bow,” announced Mr. Stink.

  “No, no, no,” snapped Mother.

  “No, Mrs. Crumb,” said Sir David. “I think we’d all like to meet this extraordinary little girl.”

  The audience applauded his suggestion. But Chloe felt glued to her seat. She couldn’t even speak out loud in front of the class. She didn’t want to be on television in front of millions of people!

  What would she say? What would she do? She didn’t know any tricks. This was going to be the most embarrassing moment of her life, even worse than when she threw up her macaroni cheese all over Miss Spratt in the language lab. But the applause was getting louder and louder, and eventually Dad took her hand and gently pulled her to her feet.

  “You’re feeling shy, aren’t you?” whispered Dad.

  Chloe nodded.

  “Well, you shouldn’t. You’re a fantastic girl. You should be proud of what you’ve done. Now come on. Enjoy your moment in the limelight!”

  Hand in hand, they raced down the corridor toward the set. Just out of sight of the cameras Dad let her hand go, and smiled supportively as she stepped out into the light. The audience applauded wildly. Mr. Stink beamed over at her, and she tried to beam back. Mother was the only person not applauding, so Chloe’s eyes were drawn toward her. Chloe tried to meet her gaze, but Mother turned her head sharply to look the other way. This made Chloe even more uncomfortable, and she tried to do a curtsy but didn’t really know how to, and then ran off the stage, back into the safety of the stale chips room.

  “What a charming child,” said Sir David. He turned to Mother. “Now I have to ask you, Mrs. Crumb. Why did you lie? Was it purely to further your own political ambitions?”

  The other guests from rival political parties looked at Mrs. Crumb and tutted. As if they would ever dream of doing anything so immoral! Mother started to perspire. Her hair lacquer began to melt and her makeup ran slowly down her face. Dad, Chloe, and Annabelle sat and watched her squirm, unable to help.

  “Well, as if anyone would want that old tramp in their house,” she shouted finally. “Look at him! You lot watching this at home can’t smell him, but take it from me, he stinks! He stinks of dirt and sweat and poo and pond and dog. I wish that great stinky stinker would just stink off out of my home forever!”

  There was shocked silence for a moment. Then the boos started, getting louder and louder. Mother looked at the audience in panic. At that moment her bouffant collapsed.

  18

  Rabbit Droppings

  “WE WANT STINK! WE WANT STINK!”

  Chloe peeked through a gap in the curtains. There was a huge crowd of people outside their house. News reporters, camera crews, and hundreds and hundreds of local people waving large pieces of cardboard emblazoned with slogans.

  Mr. Stink’s appearance on television the previous night had obviously had an enormous effect on people. Overnight he had gone from being an unknown smelly tramp to a hugely famous smelly tramp.

  Chloe put on her dressing gown and raced down to the shed.

  “Is it time for Lily to meet the flesh-eating zombie teachers?” inquired Mr. Stink as she entered.

  “No, no, no, Mr. Stink! Can’t you hear the crowds outside?!”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t hear you properly,” he said. “I found these rabbit droppings in the garden. They make excellent earplugs.” He popped out the two little brown pellets as Chloe looked on with a curious mixture of disgust and admiration at his ingenuity. For those of you who may find yourself out in the wild and in need of earplugs, just follow this easy step-by-step guide.

  First find a friendly rabbit.

  Wait patiently for it to deposit some droppings for you.

  Insert one in each ear . Larger ears will require bigger droppings and possibly even a bigger rabbit.

  Enjoy a great night’s sleep only slightly marred by the smell of rabbit poo.

  The Duchess sniffed at the droppings in the vain hope that they might be a couple of rogue Maltesers or at the very worst some of Raj’s despised coffee Revels, but quickly turned up her nose when she realized they were poo, and went back to her makeshift basket.

  “That’s better,” said Mr. Stink. “You know, I had the strangest dream last night, Miss Chloe. I was on television discussing all the important issues of the day! Your mother was there too! It was hilarious!”

  “That was no dream, Mr. Stink. That really happened.”

/>   “Oh, dear,” said the tramp. “Maybe it wasn’t so funny after all.”

  “It was hilarious, Mr. Stink. You were the star of the show. And now there’s hundreds of people camped outside the house.”

  “What on earth do they want, child?”

  “You!” said Chloe. “They want to interview you I think. And some people want you to be the Prime Minister!”

  The crowd was getting louder and louder now. “WE WANT STINK! WE WANT STINK! WE WANT STINK!”

  “Oh my word, yes, I can hear them. They want me as Prime Minister, you say? Ha ha! I must remember to appear on television more often! Maybe I can be king next too!”

  “You’d better get up, Mr. Stink. Now!”

  “Yes, of course, Miss Chloe. Right, I want to look smart for my fans.”

  He bumbled around the shed sniffing his clothes and grimacing. If even he thinks they’re smelly, thought Chloe, they must be really bad.

  “I could put some clothes on a quick wash and dry for you,” she offered hopefully.

  “No, thank you, my dear. I don’t think washing machines are hygienic. I’ll just get the Duchess to chew some of the particularly nasty stains out.”

  He dug through a pile of his clothes and pulled out a pair of spectacularly dirt-encrusted brown trousers. Whether they had been brown when they started their life was now anybody’s guess. He passed them to the Duchess, who began her task of a reluctant dry cleaner and started munching on the stains.

  Chloe cleared her throat. “Um . . . Mr. Stink. You said on the TV show how every homeless person has a different story to tell. Well, can you tell me your story? I mean, why did you end up on the streets?”

  “Why do you think, my dear?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve got millions of theories. Maybe you were abandoned in a forest as a baby and raised by a pack of wolves?”

  “No!” he chuckled.

  “Or I reckon you were a world-famous rock star who faked your own death as you couldn’t handle all the adulation.”