Mr Mingin

by David Walliams

  Folk sterted runnin tae the door, haudin serviettes tae their mooths as makshift gas masks.

  “Time tae shoot the craw!” skraiched yin o the staff, and his neebors stapped makkin coffees and pittin buns in pokes and ran for their lifes.

  “It seems tae be clearin oot a wee bittie,” annoonced Mr Mingin.

  Soon they were the ainly folk left in the haill shoap. Mibbe honkin as bad as this has its advantages, thocht Chloe. If Mr Mingin’s superguff could clear oot a coffee shoap, whit else could it dae? Mibbe he could clear the local ice rink o skaters sae she could hae it aw tae hersel? Or they could gang tae Alton Touers thegither and no hae tae queue for a singil ride? Better yet, she could tak him and his guff intae the schuil yin day, and if he wis particulary howlin the heidmistress wid hae tae send awbody hame and she could hae the day aff!

  “You tak a seat here, lass,” said Mr Mingin. “Noo, whit dae ye want tae drink?”

  “Eh … a cappucino, please,” replied Chloe, tryin tae soond grown-up.

  “I think I’ll hae yin and aw.” Mr Mingin shauchled ahint the coonter and sterted openin tins. “Richt, twa cappucinos comin up.”

  The machines hished and grogged for a few meenits, and then Mr Mingin daunered back ower tae the table wi twa mugs o a daurk liquid as yet unkent tae man or baist. Chloe taen a closer keek. It looked like bleck creesh, but Chloe wis ower weel brocht up tae girn aboot it and pretendit tae sook whitever it wis he had concoctit for her. She even managed a near convincin, “Mmm … braw!”

  Mr Mingin steered his solid liquid wi a dainty wee siller spuin he’d poued oot fae his breist poacket. Chloe keeked at it and noticed it wis monogrammed, wi three wee letters delicately enscrievit on the haunnle. She tried tae get a better look, but he pit it awa afore she could richt see whit the letters were. Whit could they mean? Or wis this jist anither bit o treisure Mr Mingin had chored on the joab as a gentleman thief?

  “Sae, Miss Chloe,” said Mr Mingin, cowpin her train o thocht. “It’s the Christmas holidays, is it no?” He taen a sook o coffee, haudin his mug perjinkly atween his fingirs. “Why are you no at hame pittin decorations on the tree wi yer faimlie or wrappin up gifties?”

  “Weel, I dinnae ken hoo tae explain …” Naebody in Chloe’s faimlie wis guid at expressin their feelins. Tae her Mither, feelins were at best an embarrassment, at warst a sign o weakness.

  “Jist tak yer time, young lady.”

  Chloe taen a deep braith and it aw cam poorin oot. Whit sterted aff as a burn soon turnt intae a rushin river o emotion. She telt him hoo her parents argied maist o the time and hoo yince she wis sittin on the stairs when she heard her Mither shout, “Ye ken I’m ainly steyin wi ye because o the girls!”

  Hoo her wee sister made her life a misery. Hoo nothin she did wis ever guid enough. Hoo if she brocht hame some wee bool she had made in pottery cless her Mither wid pit it tae the back o the cupboard, never tae be seen again. But if her wee sister brocht ony piece o airtwork hame, nae maitter hoo rotten it wis, it aye got pit up abuin the mantelpiece ahint bullit-proof gless as if it wis the Mona Lisa.

  Chloe telt Mr Mingin aboot hoo her mither wis ayewis tryin tae mak her loss wecht. Up until recently, Mither had described her as “roond”. But yince she turnt twal, Mither raither cruelly sterted cawin her a “fattygus” or even warse a “hoose end”, as if she wis some sort o buildin. Mibbe Mither wis tryin tae shame her intae wecht. In truth, it ainly made Chloe mair meeserable, and bein meeserable ainly made her eat mair. Fillin her gub wi chocolate, crisps and cake felt like gettin a much-needit coorie in.

  She telt Mr Mingin hoo she wished whiles her Da wid staund up tae her mither. Hoo she didnae find it easy tae mak freends, as she wis sae blate hersel. Hoo she ainly really liked makkin up stories, but that it made her mither crabbit. And hoo Rosamund did awthin in her pouer tae mak Chloe’s life at the schuil an absolute nichtmare.

  It wis a lang, lang leet, but Mr Mingin listened tae ilka word she said as booncie Christmas sangs played by theirsels in the backgroond. For somebody that spent ilka day wi ainly a wee bleck dug for company, he wis surprisinly fu o wisdom. In fact, he seemed tae lap up the opportunity tae listen and talk and help. Folk didnae really stap tae talk tae Mr Mingin – and he seemed gled tae be haein a real conversation for yince.

  He telt Chloe, “Tell yer Mither hoo ye feel, I am sure she loves ye and wid hate ye tae no be happy.” And, “… try and find somethin fun ye can dae wi yer sister.” And, “… why no talk tae yer da aboot the wey ye feel?”

  Efter aw that, Chloe telt Mr Mingin aboot hoo Mither had rived her vampire story tae bits. She had tae try gey haurd no tae greet.

  “That’s awfie, lassie,” said Mr Mingin. “Ye must hae been hert-broken.”

  “I hate her,” said Chloe. “I hate ma mither.”

  “Och, dinnae say that,” said Mr Mingin.

  “But I dae.”

  “Ye’re awfie angry at her, coorse ye are, but she loves ye, even if she finds it haurd tae shaw it.”

  “Mibbe.” Chloe shrugged her shooders, no convinced. But haein talked aboot awthin she felt a wee bit calmer noo. “Thank you awfie muckle for listenin tae me,” she said.

  “I jist hate tae see a young lassie like you lookin sae dowie,” said Mr Mingin. “I micht be auld, but I can mind whit it wis like tae be young. I jist hope I wis a wee bit o help.”

  “You were a muckle bit o help.”

  Mr Mingin smiled, afore lettin the last moothfu o his volcanic bree slidder doon his thrapple. “Braw! Noo, we’d better lea some siller for oor beverages.” He howked aroond in his poackets for some chynge. “Ach, mince, I cannae read the board wioot ma glesses. I’ll lea six pence. Yon should be enough. And a tuppeny tip. They’ll be gled o that. They can treat theirsels tae yin o thae new-fankelt video cassette thingwies. Richt, I doot ye’d better be heidin hame noo, young lady.”

  The rain had stapped when they come oot the coffee shoap. They daunered doon the road as caurs wheeched past.

  “Let’s chynge places,” said Mr Mingin.

  “Hoo come?”

  “Because a lady should aye walk on the inside o the pavement and a mannie on the ootside.”

  “Really?” said Chloe. “Hoo come?”

  “Weel,” replied Mr Mingin,” the ootside is mair dangerous because yon’s whaur the caurs are. But I believe that it wis originally because in the auld days folk used tae fling the contents o their chanties oot the windae and intae the sheuch. The person on the ootside wis mair likely tae get cakit.”

  “Whit’s a chanty?” said Chloe.

  “Weel I dinnae want tae be vulgar, but it’s a portable cludgie, somethin like a wean’s potty.”

  “Yuch, yon’s bowfin. Did folk dae that when you were a laddie?”

  Mr Mingin keckled. “Naw, yon wis afore ma time, bairn. Hunners o years ago in the sixteenth century. Noo, Miss Chloe, etiquette demands that we chynge places.”

  His auld-warld gallantry wis sae chairmin it made Chloe smile, and they chynged places.

  They daunered side by side, passin high-street shoap efter high-street shoap, aw yowlin that Christmas wis comin looder than the nixt. Efter a few meenits Chloe saw Rosamund walkin towards them wi a smaw flotilla o shoappin pokes.

  “Can we cross the road, please? Quickly,” whuspered Chloe anxious-like.

  “Hoo, bairn? Whit’s wrang?”

  “It’s that lassie fae the schuil I wis tellin ye aboot, Rosamund.”

  “The yin that stuck yon sign on yer back?”

  “Aye, that’s her.”

  “Ye need tae staund up tae her,” pronoonced Mr Mingin. “She should be the yin that crosses the road.”

  “Naw … please dinnae say onythin,” wheedled Chloe.

  “Wha’s this? Yer new boyfreend?” lauched Rosamund. It wisnae a real lauch, like folk dae when they find somethin funny. That’s a bonnie soond. This wis a cruel lauch. A hackit soond.

  Chloe didnae say onythin, jist looked doon.

  “Ma fait
her gied me five hunner poond tae buy masel whitever I want for ma Christmas,” said Rosamund. “I blew the loat at Tapshoap. Shame you’re ower fat tae get intae ony o their claes.”

  Chloe jist seched. She wis used tae bein flyted like this by Rosamund.

  “Why are ye lettin her talk tae ye that wey?” said Mr Mingin.

  “Whit’s it got tae dae wi you, auld yin?” snashed Rosamund. “Hingin aboot wi mingin auld tinks noo, are ye Chloe? You are tragic! Hoo lang did it tak ye tae find that sign on yer back then?”

  “She didnae find it,” said Mr Mingin, canny and deliberate. “I foond it. And I didnae find it amusin.”

  “Did ye no?” said Rosamund. “Aw the ither lassies foond it awfie funny!”

  “Weel, then they’re as glaikit as you,” said Mr Mingin.

  “Whit?” said Rosamund. Naebody ever talked tae her like that.

  “I said ‘then they’re as glaikit as you’,” he repeatit, even looder this time. “You are a hackit glaikit wee bully.” Chloe looked on aw nervous. She hatit confrontation.

  Tae mak maitters warse, Rosamund taen a step forrit and stood neb tae neb wi Mr Mingin. “Say that tae ma face, ye auld minger!”

  For a meenit Mr Mingin wis silent. Then he opened his mooth and let oot the deepest daurkest clartiest boak.

  “BBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBB

  BBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBB

  BBBOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

  OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOA

  AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

  AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

  AAAAAAAAAKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK

  KKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK

  KKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  !!!!!!!”

  Rosamund’s fizzog turnt aw green. It wis as if she wis surroondit by a tornado o pure honk. It wis the reek o coffee and sassidges and foostie vegetables raked oot o bins aw rolled intae yin. Rosamund turnt and ran, birlin doon the high street in sic a panic that she drapped her Tapshoap pokes on the wey.

  “That wis sae funny!” lauched Chloe.

  “I didnae mean tae boak. Maist impoleet. It wis jist that coffee comin back on us. Dearie me! Noo nixt time I want tae see you staund up for yersel, Miss Chloe. A bully can ainly mak ye feel bad aboot yersel if ye let them.”

  “OK … I’ll try,” said Chloe. “Sae … see ye the morra?”

  “If ye really want tae,” he replied.

  “I wid love tae.”

  “And I wid love tae and aw!” he said, his een skinklin and skinklin as the last gowden lowe o sunlicht jagged like a skelf through the sky.

  At that meenit a 4x4 thunnered past. Its giant tyres skelped through a muckle dub aside the bus stap, flingin up a wave that drookit Mr Mingin fae clarty heid tae clarty tae.

  Watter dreepin fae his glesses, he gied Chloe a wee bow. “And that,” he said, “is hoo a mannie ayewis walks on the ootside.”

  “Guid joab it wisnae a chanty!” keckled Chloe.

  6

  Soap-Joukers

  The nixt mornin Chloe poued open her curtains. Whit wey wis there a muckle great ‘O’ and a muckle great ‘V’ stuck tae her windae? She gaed ootside in her dressin goun tae hae a look.

  ‘VOTE PLOOM!’ wis spelled oot in muckle great letters across the windaes o the hoose. Elizabeth the bawdrins cam oot wi a rosette embleezoned wi the words ‘Ploom for MP’ attached tae her jewel-encrustit collar.

  Then Annabelle cam skippin oot the hoose wi an air o self-congratulory joy that wis instantly boakworthy.

  “Whaur are ye gaun?” spiered Chloe.

  “As her favourite dochter, Mither has entrustit me wi the responsibility o pittin these leaflets through ilka door in the street. She’s staundin tae be a Memmer o Parliament, ken?

  “Gie’s a look at that,” said Chloe raxin oot tae tak yin o the leaflets. The twa battlin sisters had lang syne stapped sayin ‘please’ and ‘thank you awfie muckle’.

  Annabelle taen it back. “I’m no wastin yin on you!” she snirled.

  “Gie’s a look!” Chloe poued the leaflet oot o Annabelle’s haun. It wis guid sometimes bein the aulder sister; whiles ye could jist use brute force. Annabelle gaed aff in the huff wi the lave o the leaflets. Chloe walked back intae the hoose studyin it, her baffies aw weet fae the dew. Mither wis aye gaun on and on aboot hoo she should run the country, but Chloe foond the subject sae dreich and doitit that her imagination wid lowp awa intae la-la laund whenever the subject cam up.

  On the front o the leaflet wis a photie o Mither lookin awfie serious, wi her brawest pearlies roond her thrapple, her hair sae waxy wi spray that it wid turn intae a firebaw if ye pit a lit match tae it. Inside wis a lang leet o her policies.

  1) A curfew tae be introduced tae mak sure aw bairns unner 30 are no allooed oot efter 8pm and are preferably in their beds wi the lichts oot by 9pm.

  2) The polis tae be gien new pouers tae arrest folk for talkin ower lood in public.

  3) Middens that drap litter and chuck bruck tae be deportit.

  4) The wearin o leggins tae be ootlawed in public places, as they are ‘awfie tinkie’.

  5) The national anthem tae be played in the toun square ilka oor on the oor. Awbody maun staund up for it. Bein in a wheelchair is nae excuse for no peyin yer respects tae Her Mejesty.

  6) Aw dugs tae be kept on leads at aw times. Even ben the hoose.

  7) Verruca soacks tae be worn by awbody at the local sweemin baths whither they hae a verruca or no. This should cut doon the chaunce o verruca infection tae ablow zero.

  8) The Christmas pantomime is tae be stapped due tae the consistent rochness o the humour (jokes aboot bahookies, for example. There is nothin funny aboot a bahookie. We aw hae a bahookie and we aw ken fine weel whit comes oot o a bahookie and whit soond a bahookie can mak aw by itsel).

  9) Gaun tae the kirk on Sunday mornin tae be compulsory. And when ye dae go ye hae tae chant the hymns richt, no jist open and shut yer mooth when the organ plays.

  10) Mobile telephonic devices tae hae ainly classical music ringtones fae noo on, like Mozart or Beethoven or yin o the ither yins, no the latest pop sangs fae the hit parade.

  11) Unemployed folk no tae be allooed tae claim ony mair benefit. Dole minks ainly hae theirsels tae blame and are jist bane idle. Why should we pey them tae sit at hame watchin or appearin on The Jeremy Kyle Show?

  12) Giant bronze stookies o royals Prince Edward and his bonnie wife Sophie, Coontess o Wessex, tae be pit up in the local park.

  13) Tattoos on onybody (forby veesitin sailors) tae be banned. Tattoos can be drapped aff anonymously at polis stations wioot prosecution.

  14) Fast food burger restaurants tae bring in ashets, cutlery and table service. And stap servin burgers. And chips. And nuggets. And thae aipples pies that are that hoat in the middle they jist aboot burn yer mooth aff.

  15) The local library tae stock ainly the warks o Beatrix Potter. Apairt fae The Tale o Mr Jeremy Fisher, as the bittie when the puddock, Mr Fisher, is swallaed by a troot is faur ower violent even for adults.

  16) Fitba gemmes in the local park cause unnecessary stooshies. Fae noo on ainly imaginary baws tae be used.

  17) Ainly nice films tae be offered for rental in Blockbuster. That is tae say films aboot poash folk fae the aulden days wha are ower blate even tae haud hauns.

  18) Tae combat the growin problem o ‘hoodies’ aw taps wi hoods tae hae the hoods cut aff them.

  19) Video gemmes turn folk’s brains intae cockaleekie soup. Ony video gemmes (or computer gemmes or console gemmes or whitever the stupit things are cawed) tae be played ainly atween 4pm and 4:01pm daily.

  20) Finally, aw hameless people, or ‘soapjoukers’, are tae be banned fae oor streets. They are a menace tae oor society. And, mair importantly, they pure honk.

  Chloe cowped ontae the sofae when she read thae last sentences. There wis a lood squaik as she did sae. Mither had insistit on keepin on the plastic covers the sofae and t
he airmchair had arrived in, in order tae keep them in guid condeetion. They were aye in guid condeetion, but it meant yer bahookie got awfie hoat and switey.

  Whit aboot ma new freend Mr Mingin? Chloe thocht. Whit’s gonnae happen tae him? And whit aboot the Duchess? If he’s banned fae the streets whaur, in the name o the wee man, is he meant tae go?

  And then, a meenit efter, Jings, ma bahookie’s gettin awfie hoat and switey.

  She shauchled her wey dowiely back upstairs tae her room. Sittin on the bed, she gowked oot the windae. Because she wis blate and haunless, Chloe didnae easy mak new freends. Noo her newest freend Mr Mingin wis gonnae hae tae get oot o toun. Mibbe forever. She gawped oot through the gless at the deep blue enless air. Then, jist afore her een loast focus in the infinite sky o nothin, she looked doon. The answer wis at the end o the gairden gawpin back at her.

  The shed.

  7

  A Bucket in the Coarner

  This operation had tae be tip-tap secret. Chloe waitit until it wis daurk, and then led Mr Mingin and the Duchess silently doon her street, afore slippin through the side yett tae her gairden.

  “It’s jist a shed …” said Chloe apologetically as they gaed intae his new hoose. “I’m sorry there’s nae ensuite bathroom, but there is a bucket in the coarner there jist ahint the lawnmower. Ye can use that if ye need tae go in the nicht …”

  “Weel, this is undeemously kind, young Miss Chloe, thank you,” said Mr Mingin, wi a muckle grin. Even the Duchess seemed tae bowf ‘thank you’ or at least ‘cheers’. “Noo,” Mr Mingin cairried on, “are ye sure yer mither and faither dinnae mind me bein here? I wid hate tae be an unweelcome guest.”

  Chloe gowped, nervous aboot the lee that wis aboot tae cam oot o her mooth. “Naw … naw … they dinnae mind at aw. They’re baith jist gey busy folk and they apologise that they werenae able tae be here richt noo tae meet ye in person.”