For ma Maw Kathleen, the kindest buddie
I hae ever met.
Contents
Title
Dedication
1 Scart ‘N’ Wheech
2 Staney Silence
3 The Stravaiger
4 Mince
5 Time Tae Shoot the Craw!
6 Soap-Joukers
7 A Bucket in the Coarner
8 Mibbe It’s the Cundies
9 A Wee Slaver
10 Hauf Chawed
11 Pouin Hair
12 Mingin Ming
13 Shut Yer Geggie!
14 The Lady and the Tink
15 Bath Time
16 Rule Britannia
17 Cowped Bouffant
18 Rabbit Droappins
19 Superminger
20 Clatty Cludgie Roll
21 Weet Wipe
22 Lang Lion Days
23 Plastic Snawman
24 Boak Boak Boakity Boak
25 Bleck Leather Mistletae
26 Wee Star
Copyright
1
Scart ‘N’ Wheech
Mr Mingin minged. He monged tae. And if it is guid Scots tae say he mingit, then he mingit as weel. He wis the mingiest mingin minger that ever lived.
Mingin is the warst kind o smell. Mingin is warse than honkin. Honkin is warse than bowfin. Bowfin is warse than a guff. And a guff can sometimes be enough tae mak yer neb curl up and dee.
It wisnae Mr Mingin’s faut he wis mingin. Efter aw, he wis a tink. He didnae hae a hame sae he never had the chaunce tae hae a richt guid waash like you and me. Efter a while, the guff jist got warse and warse. Here is a pictur o Mr Mingin.
As ye can see, he’s buskit up in braw claes wi his bow-tie and tweed jaiket. No bad, eh? Dinnae be glaikit. The illustration doesnae gie ye ony idea o the smell. This could easy be a scart ‘n’ wheech buik – ken, ye gie the page a scart and wheech, whit a guff! – but the smell wid be that honkin ye’d hae tae pit it in the bin. And then beery the bin in the groond. Deep doon unner the groond.
Yon’s his wee bleck dug wi him, the Duchess. The Duchess wis nae particular breed o dug, she wis jist a dug. She wis mingin tae, but no as bad as Mr Mingin. Nothin in the warld bowfed as bad as him. Forby his baird. His baird wis hoatchin wi auld dauds o egg and sassidge and cheese that had fawn oot o his mooth in the days o auld lang syne. It had never, ever been waashed sae it had its ain special honk, even warse than his usual yin.
Yin mornin, Mr Mingin jist daunered intae the toun and taen up residence on an auld widden bench. Naebody kent whaur he’d come frae or whaur he micht be gaun. The folk in the toun were maistly guid tae him. They whiles drapped a few bawbees at his fit, afore nashin awa wi their een watterin. But naebody wis aw that freendly tae him. Naebody stapped for a blether.
At least, no until yon day a wee lassie finally foond the courage in her hert tae speak tae him – and yon’s whaur oor story sterts.
“Hullo,” said the lassie, her voice tremmlin a bittie wi nerves. The lassie wis cawed Chloe. She wis ainly twal year auld and she hadnae ever spoken tae a tink afore. Her mither had said she wisnae tae speak tae ‘heidbangers’. Her mither didnae even like her dochter talkin tae the weans fae the local scheme. But Chloe didnae think Mr Mingin wis a heidbanger. She thocht he wis a man that looked like he had an awfie interestin story tae tell – and if there wis yin thing Chloe loved, it wis stories.
Ilka day she wid birl past him and his dug in her parents’ caur on the wey tae her poash private schuil. Sun or snaw, he wis aye sittin on the same bench wi his dug at his fit. As she rested her bahookie on the saft comfy back seat aside her bizzum o a wee sister Annabelle, Chloe wid keek oot the windae at Mr Mingin and wunner aboot his life.
Millions o thochts and questions wid sweem through her heid. Wha wis he? Why did he bide on the streets? Had he ever had a hame? Whit did his dug eat? Did he hae ony freends or faimlie? If he did, did they no ken he wis hameless?
Whaur did he go at Christmas? If ye wantit tae scrieve a letter tae him, whit address wid ye pit on the envelope? ‘The bench, ye ken the yin I’m on aboot – that yin roond the coarner fae the bus stoap’? When wis the last time he’d taen a bath? And wis his name really Mr Mingin?
Chloe wis the kind o lassie that loved tae be alane wi her thochts. She wid aften sit on her bed and mak up stories aboot Mr Mingin. Sittin on her ain in her room, she wid come up wi aw sorts o tales and whigmaleeries. Mibbe Mr Mingin wis a heroic auld tarry breeks wha had won dizzens o medals for bravery on the seeven seas, but jist couldnae haunnle life on dry land? Or mibbe he wis a warld-famous opera sangster wha yin nicht hit the tap note in an aria at the Royal Opera Hoose in London, tint his voice awthegither and couldnae ever chant again? Or mibbe he wis really a tap secret Russian agent wha had got guised up as a tink tae sleekitly spy on the folk o the toun?
Chloe didnae ken onythin aboot Mr Mingin. But whit she did ken, yon day she stapped tae talk tae him for the first time, wis that he looked like he needit the five-poond note she wis haudin faur mair than she did.
He seemed lanely tae, no jist alane, but lanely in his sowel. This made Chloe feel dowie. She kent fine weel whit it wis like tae be lanely. Chloe didnae muckle like her schuil. Mither had insistit on sendin her tae a pan-loafey aw-lassies secondary schuil, and she hadnae made ony freends there. Chloe didnae like bein at hame aw that muckle either. Whaurever she wis, she had the feelin she jist didnae fit in.
Whit’s mair, it wis Christmas, the time o year Chloe hatit the maist. Christmas. Awbody is meant tae love Christmas, especially the bairns. But Chloe didnae. She hatit the tinsel, she hatit the crackers, she hatit the carols, she hatit haein tae watch the Queen haiverin on the telly, she hatit the mince pies, she hatit the wey it never really snawed like it wis meant tae, she hatit sittin doon wi her faimlie tae a lang, lang denner, and maist o aw, she hatit hoo she had tae pretend she wis happy jist because it wis December 25th.
“Whit can I dae for you, young lassie?” said Mr Mingin. She didnae expect his voice tae be sae poash. As naebody had ever stapped tae talk tae him afore, he glowered suspeecious-like at this pudgie wee lassie. Chloe wis suddently a bit feart. Mibbe talkin tae the auld tink wisnae sic a braw idea efter aw. She had been warkin up tae this moment for weeks, months even. This wisnae hoo it had played oot in her heid at aw.
Tae mak maitters warse, Chloe had tae stap breathin through her neb. The reek wis stertin tae puggle her. It wis like a livin craitur, crowlin its wey up her neb-holes and burnin the back o her thrapple.
“Eh, weel, sorry tae bother ye …”
“Aye?” said Mr Mingin, a wee bit impatient. Chloe wis taen aback. Why wis he in sic a hurry? He ayewis sat on his bench. It wisnae as if he suddently needit tae gang somewhaur else.
Jist then the Duchess sterted bowfin at her. Chloe felt even mair frichtened. Seein this, Mr Mingin poued the Duchess’s lead, that wis really jist a bit o auld rope, tae get her tae wheesht.
“Weel,” Chloe cairried on nervously, “ma auntie gied me five poond tae buy masel a Christmas present. But I dinnae really need onythin sae I thocht I wid gie it tae you.”
Mr Mingin smiled. Chloe smiled tae. For a moment it looked like he wis gonnae tak Chloe’s siller, then he keeked doon at the groond.
“Thank ye,” he said. “Undeemous kindness, but I cannae tak it. Sorry.”
Chloe didnae ken whit tae think. “Why no?” she spiered.
“You’re jist a bairn. Five poond? It’s ower, ower generous.”
“I jist thocht—”
“It’s awfie kind o ye, but I cannae tak it. Tell me, hoo auld are you, young lady? Ten?”
“TWAL!” said Chloe loodly. She wis wee for her age, but liked tae think she wis grown-up in ither weys. “I’m twal. Thirteen o
n Januar the ninth.”
“Sorry, ye’re twal. Gaun on thirteen. Awa and buy yirsel yin o thae new musical stereo disco thingwies. Dinnae you fash yersel aboot an auld gaberlunzie like me.” He smiled. There wis a real skinkle in his ee when he smiled.
“I dinnae mean tae be rude,” said Chloe, “but can I spier ye a question?”
“Aye, coorse ye can.”
“Weel, I wid love tae ken: why dae ye bide on a bench and no in a hoose like me?”
Mr Mingin shauchled his feet and looked a wee bit unsure o himsel. “It’s a lang story, ma dear,” he said. “Mibbe I will tell ye it anither day.”
Chloe wis disappointit. Whit if there wisnae anither day? If her mither foond oot she’d been talkin tae this mannie, never mind tryin tae gie him siller, she wid go aff her heid.
“Weel, sorry tae bother ye,” said Chloe. “Hope ye hae a braw day.” As the words come oot she immediately wished she could pit them back in her mooth. Whit a glaikit thing tae say! Hoo could he possibly hae a braw day? He wis a mingin auld tink, and the sky wis gaun dreich wi muckle daurk cloods. She taen a wheen steps up the street, her cheeks bleezin reid wi embarrassment.
“Whit’s that on yer back, lass?” cawed oot Mr Mingin.
“Whit’s whit on ma back?” spiered Chloe, tryin tae keek ower her shooder. She raxed roond and tore a bit o paper aff her jaiket. She gawped at it.
Scrievit on the bit o paper, in muckle bleck letters, wis a singil word.
Chloe felt her belly go skelly wi shame. Rosamund must hae stuck it ontae her when she left the schuil. Rosamund wis leader o the Prom Quines gang. She wis aye pickin on Chloe, snashin at her for eatin ower mony sweeties, or for bein puirer than the ither lassies, or for bein the lassie nae team ever wantit on their side at hockey. While Chloe wis leavin the schuil the day, Rosamund had clapped her on the back a wheen times, sayin “Merry Christmas”, and aw the ither lassies were lauchin. Noo Chloe kent why. Mr Mingin rose shoogily fae his bench and taen the paper fae Chloe’s hauns.
“I cannae believe I’ve been gaun aboot wi that on ma back aw efternoon,” said Chloe. Embarrassed tae feel tears jaggin her een, she looked awa, blenkin intae the sunlicht.
“Whit’s adae wi ye, bairnie?” spiered Mr Mingin in a couthie voice.
Chloe peenged. “Weel,” she said, “it’s true, is it no? I really am a lavvy-heid.”
Mr Mingin boued doon tae look at her. “Naw,” he said in a strang voice this time. “Ye’re no a lavvy-heid. The ainly lavvy-heid roond here is the person that stuck it ontae ye in the first place.”
Chloe tried tae believe him, but couldnae. For as lang as she could mind she had felt like a lavvy-heid. Mibbe Rosamund and the ither Prom Quines were richt.
“There’s ainly yin place for this,” said Mr Mingin. He screwed up the bit o paper intae a baw and, like a tap class cricketer, expertly booled it intae the bin. Strecht awa, Chloe’s imagination sterted birlin: had he no yince been captain o the England cricket team?
Mr Mingin sclaffed his hauns thegither. “Guid riddance tae bad rubbish.”
“Thanks,” said Chloe.
“Nae bother,” said Mr Mingin. “Ye cannae let the bullies get ye doon.”
“I’ll try,” said Chloe. “It wis guid meetin ye Mr … um …” she sterted tae say. Awbody cawed him Mr Mingin, but she didnae ken if he kent that. It didnae feel richt sayin it tae his fizzog.
“Mingin,” he said. “They caw me Mr Mingin.”
“Oh. Awfie gled tae meet ye, Mr Mingin. I’m cried Chloe.”
“Hullo, Chloe,” said Mr Mingin.
“Ye ken whit, Mr Mingin,” said Chloe, “I micht still go tae the shoaps. Are ye needin onythin? A bar o soap mibbe?”
“Och, thank you muckle, ma dear,” he replied. “But whit wid I dae wi a bar o soap? I had a bath jist last year, ye ken. But I widnae mind some sassidges. I widna mind a muckle braw meaty sassidge …”
2
Staney Silence
“Mither?” said Annabelle.
Mither wis eatin. She gied her last moothfu o scran a thoosandth chaw, then swallaed it, afore replyin at lang last.
“Aye, ma wee darlin doo?”
“Chloe’s jist taen yin o thae sassidges aff her plate and pit it in her poacket.”
It wis Setterday nicht, and the Ploom faimlie sat at the denner table, missin Strictly Come Dauncin and The X-Factor as they ate their tea. Mither said they couldnae watch television and eat at the same time. She had decided it wis ‘awfie tinkie’. Insteid the faimlie had tae sit in staney silence and eat their tea gowkin at the waws. Or Mither wid whiles think up a subject for discussion, usually whit she wid dae if she wis in chairge o the country. Yon wis her absolute tip-tap favourite. Mither had giein up runnin a beauty salon tae staund for Pairliament, and there wis nae doot in her mind that yin day she wid be Prime Meenister.
Mither had named the faimlie’s white Persian bawdrins Elizabeth, efter the Queen. She wis obsessed wi Bein Poash. There wis a doonstairs cludgie that wis aye kept lockit for ‘awfie important guests’, as if yin o the royal faimlie wis gonnae chap the door at ony meenit and say, ‘I’m needin a wee wee.’ There wis a cheena tea set in the press that wis merked ‘for awfie awfie important guests’, and had never yince been used. Mither even skooshed air freshener in the gairden. Mither wid never go oot, and no even answer the door, unless she looked superfantoosh, wi her pearls aroond her thrapple and her hair sterk wi enough hair-skoosh tae pit anither hole in the ozone layer. She wis that used tae turnin her neb up at awbody and awthin, it wis in danger o steyin that wey. Here’s a pictur o her.
Jings, she looks gey poash, does she no?
It wisnae a surprise that Faither, or Da as he liked tae be cawed when Mither wisnae aboot, jist wantit a quiet life and didnae usually speak until spoken tae. He wis a strang muckle-boukit man, but his guidwife made him feel wee inside. Da wis ainly forty, but he wis awready gaun baldy-heidit and stertin tae go aboot like a haufshut knife. He warked lang oors at a caur factory on the edge o the toun.
“Did you pit a sassidge in yer poacket, Chloe?” demandit Mither.
“You’re ayewis tryin tae drap me in it!” Chloe snippit.
This wis true. Annabelle wis twa year younger than Chloe, and yin o thae weans that adults think are jist perfect, but that ither weans dinnae like because they are snochterie wee sweetiemooths. Annabelle loved drappin Chloe richt in it fae a great hicht. She wid lee on her bed in her bricht pink room up the stair and roll aroond greetin, yowlin “CHLOE, GET AFF ME! THAT’S REALLY SAIR!” even though Chloe wis quietly scrievin awa on her ain in the room nixt door. Ye micht caw somebody like Annabelle an evil wee bam. She wis definately an evil wee bam tae her aulder sister.
“Och, sorry Mither, it jist slippit aff ma plate,” said Chloe guiltily. Her plan had been tae pauchle the sassidge for Mr Mingin. She had been thinkin aboot him aw evenin, imaginin him oot there chitterin in the cauld daurk December nicht as they sat scrannin their tea in their braw warm hoose.
“Weel then Chloe, tak it oot o yer poacket and pit it back on your plate,” ordered Mither. “Onywey, I am bleck-affrontified that we are haein sassidges for wir tea. I gied yer faither strict instructions tae tak hissel aff tae the supermercat and purchase fower wild sea-bass fillets. And he comes hame wi a packet o sassidges. If onybody cawed roond and saw us consumin scran like this, it wid gie me a reid face. They’d think we were awfie teuchters!”
“I am sorry, ma darlin guidwife,” protestit Da. “They didnae hae ony wild sea-bass fillets left.” He gied Chloe the tottiest wink as he said this, confirmin her suspeecion that he had deliberately no done whit Mither had telt him. She and her Da baith loved sassidges and hunners o ither scran that Mither didnae approve o, like burgers, fish-fingirs, ginger, and especially Mr Whippy ice-cream (‘the Deevil’s Pokey Hat,’ Mither cawed it). “I hae never eaten onythin fae a van,” she wid say. “I wid raither be deid.”
“Richt noo, aff yer bahookies and clear the table,” said Mither when
they had feenished eatin their tea. “Annabelle, ma wee angel, you cairry the dishes ben the hoose, Chloe, you can waash up and Guidman, ye can dry.” When she said “aff yer bahookies”, whit she really meant wis awbody’s bahookie, forby hers. As the lave o the faimlie set aboot their duties, Mither streetched oot on the sofae and sterted unwrappin a wafer-thin chocolate mint. She allooed hersel yin chocolate mint a day. She nabbled it sae slowly she could mak yin mint last a haill oor.
“Somebody’s chored anither yin o ma Bendicks luxury chocolate mints!” she cawed oot.
Annabelle gied Chloe an accusin look afore gaun back tae the dinin room tae bring oot mair plates. “I bet it wis you, fattygus!” she hished.
“Be guid tae yer sister, Annabelle,” said Da.
Chloe felt guilty, even though it wisnae her that had been chorin her mither’s chocolates. Her Da and her taen up their usual positions at the jaw-boax.
“Chloe, why were ye tryin tae hide yin o yer sassidges?” he spiered. “If ye didnae like it, ye could hae jist telt me.”
“I wisnae tryin tae hide it, Da.”
“Then whit were ye daein wi it?”
Aw o a sudden Annabelle brocht in anither stack o clarty plates and the pair o them wheesht. They waitit a wee meenit until she’d gane.
“Weel, Da, ye ken that tink that aye sits on the same bench ilka—”
“Mr Mingin?”
“Aye. Weel, I thocht his dug looked hungert and I wantit tae bring her a sassidge or twa.”
It wis a lee but it wisnae a muckle yin.
“Weel, I suppose there’s nae herm in giein his puir dug a bit o scran,” said Da. “Jist this yince though, ye unnerstaun?”
“But—”
“Jist this yince, Chloe. Or Mr Mingin will expect ye tae feed his dug ilka day. Noo, I posed anither packet o sassidges ahint the crème fraîche, whitever yon is when it’s at hame. I’ll cook them up for ye afore yer mither gets up the morn’s mornin and ye can gie them—”
Mr Mingin Page 1