Mr Mingin
Page 2
“WHIT ARE YOUS TWA SCHEMIN AT?” demandit Mither fae the front room.
“Oh, eh, we were jist talkin aboot which o the Queen’s fower bairns we admire the maist,” said Da. “I am pittin forrit Princess Anne as she’s awfie skeelie wi the cuddies. Mind ye, Chloe is makkin a strang case for Prince Chairlie and his ootstaundin reenge o organic biscuits.”
“Guid topic. Cairry on!” soonded the voice fae nixt door.
Da gied Chloe a gallus wee smile.
3
The Stravaiger
Mr Mingin ate the sassidges in an unexpectedly fantoosh wey. First he taen oot a wee linen clootie and tucked it unner his chin. Nixt he taen an antique siller knife and fork oot o his breist pooch. Finally he brocht oot a clatty gowdrimmed cheena plate, which he gied tae the Duchess tae lick clean afore he pit the sassidges neatly doon on it.
Chloe gawped at his cutlery and plate. This looked like anither clue tae his past. Had he mibbe been a gentleman thief that creepit intae country hooses at midnicht and made aff wi the faimlie siller?
“Ye got ony mair sassidges?” spiered Mr Mingin, his mooth aye stappit fu o sassidge.
“Naw, I ainly had eicht and ye’ve had them aw,” replied Chloe.
She stood at a safe distance fae the tink, sae her een widnae stert greetin fae the guff. The Duchess keeked up at Mr Mingin as he ate the sassidges wi a hert-brekkin look that seemed tae say that aw love and aw that wis bonnie existit inside thae tubes o meat.
“There ye go, Duchess,” said Mr Mingin, flingin hauf a sassidge intae his dug’s mooth. The Duchess wis that stervin she didnae even chaw; insteid she swallaed it in hauf a milli-saicont afore returnin tae her expression that said ‘Gie’s anither sassidge!’ Did ony man or beastie ever eat a sassidge as fast as that dug? Chloe wis hauf-expectin a mannie in a smairt blazer and breeks wi a clipboard and a stapwatch tae appear and annoonce that the wee bleck dug had set a new sassidge-scrannin international warld record!
“Sae, young Chloe, is awthin awricht at hame?” spiered Mr Mingin, as he let the Duchess sook the slavers o sassidge juice aff his fingers.
“Whit?” replied a dumfoonert Chloe.
“I spiered if awthin wis awricht at hame. If things were tickety-boo, I am no sure ye wid be spendin yer Sunday bletherin tae an auld gaberlunzie like me.”
“Gaberlunzie?”
“I dinnae like the word ‘tink’. It aye maks me think o somebody that reeks.”
Chloe tried no tae shaw her surprise. Even the Duchess looked bumbazed and she didnae speak Scots, jist Dug.
“I prefer gaberlunzie, or stravaiger,” Mr Mingin cairried on.
The wey he pit it, thocht Chloe, it soonded awmaist poetic. Especially ‘stravaiger’. She wid love tae be a stravaiger. She wid stravaig aw roond the warld if she could. No stey in this borin wee toun whaur nothin happent that hadna awready happent the day afore.
“There’s nothin wrang at hame. Awthin’s braw,” said Chloe thrawnly.
“Are ye sure?” enquired Mr Mingin, wi the wiceness some folk hae that cuts richt through ye like a hoat knife through butter.
But things at hame for Chloe werenae braw at aw. She wis aften ignored. Her mither speyled Annabelle – probably because her youngest dochter wis jist a wee version o hersel. Ilka inch o ilka waw in the hoose wis comin doon wi celebrations o Annabelle’s uncoontable achievements Photies o her staundin, fu o hersel, on winner’s podiums, certificates wi her name embleezoned in italic gowd, trophies and stookie statues and medals enscrievit wi ‘winner’, ‘first place’ or ‘wee bampot’. (I made that last yin up.)
The mair Annabelle achieved, the mair Chloe felt like she wis nae use. Her parents spent maist o their lives chauffeurin Annabelle aboot tae her efter-schuil activities. Her schedule wid tire ye oot jist lookin at it.
Monday
5am Sweemin lesson
6am Bagpipe lesson
7am Daunce lesson, tap and contemporary jazz
8am Daunce lesson, ballet
9am tae 4pm Schuil
4pm Drama warkshoap, improvisation and movement
5pm Piana lesson
6pm Broonies
7pm Girls’ Brigade
8pm Jaivelin practice
Tuesday
4am Fiddle lesson
5am Stilt-walkin practice
6am Chess Society
7am Learnin Japanese
8am Flooer-arrangin cless
9am tae 4pm Schuil
4pm Creative scrievin warkshoap
5pm Wallie puddock paintin cless
6pm Hairp practice
7pm Wattercolour paintin cless
8pm Daunce cless, bawroom
Wednesday
3am Choir practice
4am Lang-lowp trainin
5am Hie-lowp trainin
6am Mair lang-lowp trainin
7am Trombone lesson
8am Scuba-divin
9am tae 4pm Schuil
4pm Chef trainin
5pm Moontain climbin
6pm Tennis
7pm Drama warkshoap, Shakespeare and his contemporaries
8pm Show lowpin
Thursday
2am Learnin Arabic
3am Daunce lesson, brek-daunce, hip-hop, krumpin
4am Oboe lesson
5am Tour de France cycle trainin
6am Bible studies
7am Gymnastics trainin
8am Calligraphy cless
9am tae 4pm Schuil
4pm Wark experience shadowin a brain surgeon
5pm Opera chantin lesson
6pm NASA space-nebbin warkshoap
7pm Cake baikin cless, level 5
8pm Attend lecture on ‘A History o Victorian Moustaches’
Friday
1am Triangle lesson, grade 5
2am Badminton
3am Airchery
4am Flee tae Switzerland for ski-lowpin practice.
Learn aboot eggs fae a expert on eggs (TBC) on ootboond flicht.
6am Dae quick ski-lowp, and then lowp aboard inboond flicht. Tak pottery cless on flicht.
8am Thai kick-boaxin (mind tae tak skis aff afore cless).
9am tae 4pm Schuil
4pm Channel sweemin trainin
5pm Motorbike maintenance warkshoap
6pm Caunnle makkin
7pm Otter rearin cless
8pm Television viewin. A choice atween either a documentary aboot cairpet manufacturin in Belgium or a Polish cartoon fae the 1920s aboot a doon-in-the-dumps hoolet.
And that wis jist through the week. The weekends wis when things got gey busy for Annabelle. Nae wunner Chloe felt ignored.
“Weel, I suppose things at hame are … are …” Chloe stootered. She wantit tae talk tae him aboot it aw, but she wisnae sure hoo.
Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!
Naw, I’m no gaun gyte, readers. Yon wis meant tae be the kirk nock chappin fower o’clock.
Chloe gowped and keeked at her watch. Fower o’clock! Mither made her dae her hamework fae fower until sax ilka day, even in the schuil holidays when she didnae hae ony.
“Sorry Mr Mingin, I hae tae go,” she said. Secretly Chloe wis gled. Naebody had ever spiered her hoo she felt afore, and she wis stertin tae panic …
“Dae ye really hae tae go, lass?” said the auld man, lookin doonhertit.
“Aye, aye, I hae tae get hame. Mither will be bealin if I dinnae get at least a C in Maths nixt term. She gies me extra tests durin the holidays.”
“That doesnae soond like a holiday tae me,” said Mr Mingin.
Chloe shrugged her shooders. “Mither doesnae believe in holidays.” She stood up. “I hope ye liked the sassidges,” she said.
“They were magic,” said Mr Mingin. “Thank you. Undeemous kindness!”
Chloe noddit and turnt tae run aff towards her hoose. If she taen a short-cut through the backies, she’d be hame afore Mither.
“Fareweel!” Mr Mingin cawed efter her saftly.
4
Mince
Chloe stapped hurryin, though, when she realised she wis aboot tae gang past Raj’s shoap. Jist the yin chocolate bar, she thocht.
Chloe’s love o chocolate made her yin o Raj’s best customers. Raj ran the local newsagent’s shoap. He wis a muckle big joco jeelie o a man, as sweet and colourfu as his slichtly ower-priced sweeties. The day, though, whit Chloe really needit wis advice.
And mibbe some chocolate. Jist yin bar, mind. Mibbe twa.
“Haw, Miss Chloe!” said Raj, as she cam in the shoap. “Whit can I tempt ye wi the day?”
“Hullo, Raj,” said Chloe smilin. She aye smiled when she saw Raj. It wis pairtly because he wis sic a braw mannie, and pairtly because he selt sweeties.
“I hae some Rolos on special offer!” annoonced Raj. “They’re oot o date and haurd as stane. Ye micht loss some o yer wallies when ye chaw intae them, but at 10p aff ye cannae whack it!”
“Mmm, let me think aboot it,” said Chloe scoorin the raws and raws o confectionery.
“I had hauf a Lion bar earlier on, whit’ll ye gie me for the ither hauf? I’ll tak onythin upwards o 15p.”
“I think I’ll jist tak a Crunchie, thanks Raj.”
“Buy seeven Crunchie bars and I’ll gie an eichth Crunchie bar for free!”
“Nae thanks, Raj. I jist want yin.” She pit the siller doon on the coonter. 35p. Siller weel spent considerin the braw feelin the chocolate wid gie her as it slippit doon her thrapple and intae her belly.
“But Chloe, dae ye no unnerstaun? This is a yince-in-yer-puff opportunity tae enjoy the popular chocolate-smooried hinniecomb bar at an eediotic price!”
“I dinnae need eicht Crunchies, Raj,” said Chloe. “Can ye gie me some advice insteid?”
“Ye’re jokin. I’m no responsible enough tae gie oot advice,” replied Raj wioot a hint o irony. “But I’ll gie it a go.”
Chloe loved gabbin tae Raj. He wisnae a parent or a dominie, and whitever ye said tae him, he widnae ever judge ye. Hooever, Chloe still gowped, because she wis aboot tae try tae tell anither wee lee. “Weel, there’s this lassie I ken at the schuil …” she began.
“Aye? A lassie at the schuil. No you?”
“Naw, no me. Some ither lassie.”
“Richt,” said Raj.
Chloe gowped again and keeked doon, no able tae look him in the ee. “Weel, this freend o mine, she’s sterted talkin tae a tink, and she really likes talkin tae him, but her mither wid dae her nut if she foond oot, sae I – I mean, ma freend – doesnae ken whit tae dae.”
Raj keeked at Chloe expectantly. “Aye?” he said. “And whit’s yer question, hen?”
“Weel, Raj,” said Chloe. “Dae ye think it’s wrang tae talk tae tinks?”
“Weel, it’s nae guid tae talk tae streengers,” said Raj. “And ye should never let onybody gie ye a lift in a caur!”
“Richt,” said Chloe, dooncast.
“But a tink is jist somebody wioot a hame,” Raj cairried on. “Ower mony folk walk by them and pretend they arenae there.”
“Aye!” said Chloe. “Yon’s whit I think as weel.”
Raj smiled. “Ony o us could become hameless yin day. I can see nothin wrang wi talkin tae a tink, jist like ye wid tae onybody else.”
“Thanks Raj, I will … I mean, I’ll tell her. This lassie at the schuil, I mean.”
“Whit’s this lassie cawed?”
“Ummm … Stephen! I mean Susan … naw, Sarah. She’s cawed Sarah, definately Sarah.”
“Is it no you, Chloe?” said Raj smilin.
“Aye, it’s me,” Chloe awned up efter a millisaicont.
“You are an awfie guid lassie, Chloe. It’s braw ye wid tak the time tae talk tae a tink. There but for the grace o Gode gang you and I.”
“Thanks, Raj.” Chloe turnt reid, embarrassed by his compliment.
“Noo whit can ye buy yer hameless freend for Christmas?” said Raj as he scoored aroond his midden o a shoap. “I hae a boax fu o Teenage Mutant Ninja Torties stationery sets I cannae seem tae shift. Aw yours for ainly £3.99. In fact, buy yin set, get ten free.”
“I’m no sure a tink wid be needin a Teenage Mutant Ninja Torties stationery set, thanks onywey Raj.”
“We aw need a Teenage Mutant Ninja Torties stationery set, Chloe. Ye hae yer Teenage Mutant Ninja Torties pincil, yer Teenage Mutant Ninja Torties rubber, yer Teenage Mutant Ninja Torties ruler, yer Teenage Mutant Ninja Torties pincil case, yer Teenage Mutant—”
“I get the idea, thanks, Raj, but I’m sorry, I’m no gonnae buy yin. I hae tae go,” said Chloe, edgin oot o the shoap as she slippit the wrapper aff her Crunchie.
“I’ve no feenished, Chloe. Please, I’ve no selt even wan! Ye hae yer Teenage Mutant Ninja Torties pincil shairpener, yer Teenage Mutant Ninja Torties jotter, yer Teenage Mutant … och, she’s awa.”
“And whit’s this, young lady?” demandit Mither. She wis staundin waitin in Chloe’s room. Atween her thoom and index fingir wis yin o Chloe’s jotters fae the schuil. Mither held it up for aw tae see as if it wis an exhibit in a coort case.
“It’s jist ma maths jotter, Mither,” said Chloe, gowpin as she edged intae the room.
Ye micht think Chloe wis worrit because her maths wark wisnae verra guid. But that wisnae it. The problem wis, Chloe’s maths jotter didnae hae ony maths in it at aw! The jotter wis meant tae be fu o borin nummers and equations, but insteid it wis totally hoatchin wi colourfu words and picturs.
Spendin aw that time alane had turnt Chloe’s imagination intae a deep daurk widd. It wis a magic place tae escape tae, and faur mair excitin than real life. Chloe had used the jotter tae scrieve a story aboot a lassie wha is sent tae a schuil (based mair or less on her ain schuil) whaur aw the dominies are secretly vampires. She thocht it wis much mair excitin than foostie equations, but Mither clearly didnae agree.
“If this is yer mathematics jotter, why’s it got this daft ugsome horror story in it?” said Mither. This wis yin o thae questions when ye’re no supposed tae answer it. “Nae wunner ye did sae badly in yer mathematics exam. Nae doot ye’ve been spendin yer time in cless scrievin this … this mince. I am sae disappointit in you, Chloe.”
Chloe felt her cheeks bleezin wi shame and hung her heid. She didnae think her story wis mince. But she couldnae imagine tellin her Mither that.
“Dae ye no hae onythin tae say for yirsel?” shoutit Mither.
Chloe shook her heid. For the saicont time in yin day she jist wantit tae disappear.
“Weel, this is whit I think o yer story,” said Mither, as she sterted tryin tae rive the jotter in twae.
“P-p-please … dinnae …” stootered Chloe.
“Naw, naw, naw! I’m no peyin yer schuil fees for ye tae waste yer time on this haivers! It’s gaun in the bin!”
The jotter wis obviously made o sterker stuff than Mither had thocht, and it taen her a guid few rugs tae mak the first teer. Hooever, soon the jotter wis nae mair than a haunfu o confetti. Chloe boued her heid, tears nippin her een, as her mither drapped aw the wee bitties in the bin.
“Dae you want tae end up like yer faither? Warkin in the caur factory? If ye concentrate on yer maths and dinnae bother wi glaikit stories, ye hae a chaunce o makkin somethin o yersel! Itherwise ye’ll end up wastin yer life, like yer faither. Is that whit ye want?”
“Weel, I—”
“Dinnae you daur interrupt me!” shoutit Mither. Chloe hadnae realised yon wis anither yin o thae questions when ye’ve tae jist wheesht and no even think aboot giein an answer. “Ye’d better smairten up yer ideas, young lady!”
Chloe wisnae awfie sure whit that meant, but it didnae seem like the best time tae spier. Mither left the room,
graundly doofin the door ahint her shut. Chloe sat doon on the edge o her bed. As she beeried her fizzog in her hauns, she thocht o Mr Mingin, settin on his bench wi ainly the Duchess tae keep him company. She wisnae hameless like him, but she felt hameless in her hert.
5
Time tae Shoot the Craw!
Monday mornin. The first proper day o the Christmas holidays. A day Chloe had been dreidin. She didnae hae ony freends she could text or email or SMS or Facebook or Twitter or whitever, but there wis yin person she wantit tae see …
By the time Chloe got tae the bench it wis poorin rain, and she wished she’d at least stapped tae tak her umberellae.
“The Duchess and I werenae expectin tae see ye again, Chloe,” said Mr Mingin. His een skinkled at the surprise, in spite o the rain.
“I’m awfie sorry I ran awa like that,” said Chloe.
“Dinnae fash, I forgie ye,” he keckled.
Chloe sat doon nixt tae him. She gied the Duchess a clap, and then noticed that the loof o her haun wis bleck. She gied it a sleekit dicht on her breeks. Then she chittered as a raindrap ran doon the back o her craigie.
“Och naw, ye’re cauld!” said Mr Mingin. “Let’s get oot o the rain and gan intae yin o thae coffee shoap placies.”
“Eh … aye, guid idea,” said Chloe, no sure if takkin somebody as mingin as him intae an enclosed space really wis a guid idea. As they walked intae the toun centre, the rain felt icy-cauld, jist aboot turnin tae rattlestanes.
When they got tae the coffee shoap, Chloe keeked through the steamed-up gless windae. “I doot there’s nae seats left,” she said. Unfortunately, the coffee shoap wis hoatchin wi Christmas shoappers, aw tryin tae stey oot o the snell Scottish weather.
“We’ll jist hae tae try,” said Mr Mingin, pickin up the Duchess and tryin tae pose her unner his tweed jaiket.
The tink opened the door for Chloe and she squeezed hersel ben. As Mr Mingin gaed in, the bonnie aroma o fresh-brewed coffee boltit. His ain special reek replaced it. There wis silence for a meenit. Then it wis jist pure murder polis.