Mr Mingin

by David Walliams

  Chloe had picked a guid time tae settle Mr Mingin in. She kent Mither wis oot campaignin for the election, and Dad wis pickin up Annabelle efter her sumo-warslin cless.

  “Weel I wid love tae meet them baith,” said Mr Mingin, “and see whit folk turnt oot sic a wunnerfu generous and thochtfu dochter. This will be faur warmer than ma bench.”

  Chloe smiled blately at the compliment. “Sorry aboot aw these auld cairdboard boaxes in here,” she said. She sterted tae move them oot the road, tae gie him space tae lee doon. Mr Mingin gied her a haun, humpfin some o the boaxes on tap o the ithers. When she got tae the bottom boax, Chloe stapped. Stickin oot o the tap wis a hauf-brunt electric guitar. She examined it for a meenit, puggled by whit she’d jist foond, then raiked through the boax and howked oot a pile o auld CDs. They were aw the same, hunners and hunners o an album cawed Hell for Leather by The Serpents o Deeth.

  “Hiv ye ever heard o this band?” she spiered.

  “I dinnae ken ony music past 1958.”

  Chloe studied the pictur on the cover for a meenit. Super-imposit in front o a drawin o a muckle snake stood fower lang-haired leatherjaiketed types. Chloe’s een gaed strecht tae the guitar player, wha looked awfie like her faither, ainly wi a tousie heid o curly bleck hair.

  “I dinnae believe it!” said Chloe. “That’s ma da.”

  She hadnae had ony idea her Da had ever had a perm, never mind been in a rock band! She didnae ken which wis mair shoackin – the idea o him no bein bald, or the idea o him playin electric guitar.

  “Are ye sure aboot that?” Mr Mingin said.

  “I think sae,” said Chloe. “It looks awfie like him onywey.” She wis aye studyin the album cover wi a curious mixter-maxter o pride and embarrassment.

  “Weel, we aw hae oor secrets, Miss Chloe. Noo whit should I dae if I need a poat o tea or a piece and sassidge on white breid please wi HP sauce on the side? Is there a bell I hae tae ring?”

  Chloe keeked at him, a bittie dumfoonert. She hadnae realised she wis gonnae hae tae feed him as weel as gie him a place tae stey.

  “Naw, there’s nae bell,” she said. “Eh, ye see that windae up there? Yon’s ma bedroom.”

  “Oh aye?”

  “Weel if ye need somethin, gonnae flash this auld bicycle licht up at ma windae? Then I can come doon and … eh … tak yer order.”

  “Perfection!” exclaimed Mr Mingin.

  Bein in the smaw space o the shed wi Mr Mingin wis stertin tae mak it difficult for Chloe tae breathe. The reek wis especially awfie the day. It wis mingy even by Mr Mingin’s mingy standards. “Wid ye like tae hae a bath afore ma faimlie get hame?” Chloe said, fu o hope. The Duchess keeked up at her maister wi a look o desperate hope in her blenkin een. She wis blenkin because o the reek.

  “Let me think …”

  Chloe smiled at him hopin he wid say ‘Aye, ye’re richt. I’m howlin. Dook ma auld mingin dowper in a bath pronto!’

  “Actually, I’ll gie it a miss this month, thank you.”

  “Oh,” said Chloe, disappointit. “Is there onythin I can get ye richt noo?”

  “Is there ony efternoon tea on the go?” spiered Mr Mingin. “A choice o scones, cakes and French pastries?”

  “Eh … naw,” said Chloe. “But I could bring ye oot a cup o tea and biscuits. And we should hae some cat food I could bring for the Duchess.”

  “I am fairly sure the Duchess is a dug and no a bawdrins,” pronoonced Mr Mingin.

  “I ken but we’ve ainly got a bawdrins, sae we’ve ainly got cat food.”

  “Weel, mibbe ye could nip intae Raj’s shoap the morra and buy the Duchess some tins o dug food. Raj kens whit she likes.” Mr Mingin howked through his poackets. “Here’s ten pence. Ye can keep the chynge.”

  Chloe looked at her haun. Mr Mingin hadnae pit ony siller there at aw, jist an auld bress button.

  “Thank you awfie muckle, young lady,” he cairried on. “And please dinnae forget tae chap the door when ye come back in case I am gettin chynged intae ma jammies.”

  Whit hiv I done? thocht Chloe, as she made her wey across the gress back tae the hoose. Her heid wis bizzin wi mair imaginary life-stories for her new freend, but nane o them seemed jist richt. Wis he an astronaut that had fawn tae earth and, in the shoack, tint his memory? Or mibbe he wis a convict that had lowped ower the prison waw efter servin thirty year for a crime he didnae commit? Or even better, a modern-day pirate wha had been telt tae walk the plank by his ain crew intae a sea hoatchin wi sherks, but against aw the odds had swum tae safety?

  Yin thing she kent for sure wis that he really did honk. Indeed she could aye smell him as she raxed the back door. The plants and flooers in the gairden had aw wiltit wi the reek. They were noo leanin awa fae the shed as if tryin tae bield their stamens fae the guff. At least he’s safe, thocht Chloe. And warm and dry, even if it’s jist for the nicht.

  When she got up tae her room and looked oot the windae, the licht wis flashin awready.

  “Aw-butter hieland shortbreid biscuits if ye hae them, please!” cawed up Mr Mingin. “Thank you awfie muckle.”

  8

  Mibbe It’s the Cundies

  “Whit’s that guff?” demandit Mither when she come ben the kitchen. She had been oot aw day campaignin and looked as poashly perjink as ever in a royal blue twin-set – forby her neb, which wis furiously snowkin the air.

  “Whit guff?” said Chloe, wi a short delay as she gowped.

  “Can ye no smell it, Chloe? That reek o … weel, I’m no gonnae say whit it minds me o, yon wid be impoleet and no suitable for a wummin o ma staundin in society, but it’s a bad guff.” She breathed in and the guff seemed tae tak her by surprise aw ower again. “Jings, it’s an awfie bad guff.”

  Like an ill-trickit clood o daurkest broon, the reek had seepit through the widd o the shed, nae doot peelin aff the creosote as it traivelled. Then it had creepit its wey across the gress, afore openin the cat flap and stertin its ramstougar occupation o the kitchen. Hiv ye ever wunnered whit a bad guff looks like? Weel, get a guid swatch at this …

  Och, yon’s a hummer. If ye pit yer neb richt up against the page ye can jist aboot smell it.

  “Mibbe it’s the cundies?” suggestit Chloe.

  “Aye, it’ll be thae cundies leakin again. Even mair reason why I need tae be electit as an MP. Noo, I hae a journalist fae The Times comin tae interview me at breakfast the day efter the morra. Sae you hae tae be on yer best behaviour. I want him tae see whit a braw normal faimlie we are.

  We’re a normal faimlie?! thocht Chloe.

  “Voters like tae see a happy hame life. I jist pray that this horrible honk will be awa afore then.”

  “Aye …” said Chloe. “I’m sure it will. Mither … wis Da – I mean, Faither – ever in a rock band?”

  Mither glowered at her. “Whit on earth are ye talkin aboot, young lady? Whaur did ye get yon glaikit idea fae?”

  Chloe swallaed. “It’s jist I saw this photie of this band cawed The Serpents o Deeth and yin o them looked awfie like—”

  Mither turnt a wee bit peeliwallie. “Haivers!” she said. “I dinnae ken whit’s got intae ye!” She footered wi her bouffant, awmaist like she wis nervous. “Yer Faither, in a rock band o aw things! First it’s yon jotter fu o ootrageous stories, and noo this!”

  “But—”

  “Nae buts, young lady. Honestly, I dinnae ken whit tae dae wi ye ony mair.”

  Mither looked like she wis really bealin noo. Chloe couldnae unnerstaun whit she’d done wrang. “Weel, dinnae get yer bouffant in a fankle,” she dorted.

  “That’s hit!” shouted Mither. “Awa tae yer bed, richt noo.”

  “It’s twinty past six!” Chloe protestit.

  “I dinnae care! Bed! Noo!”

  Chloe foond it gey haurd tae get tae sleep. No ainly because she had been sent tae bed at sic a glaikitly early time, but mair importantly she had flitted a tink intae the gairden shed. She noticed the licht o a torch booncin aff her bedroom windae and keeked at her alairm n
ock. It wis 2:11am. Whit on earth could he want at this time o the nicht?

  Mr Mingin had made himsel at hame in the shed. He had pit thegither a bed oot o some piles o auld newspapers. An auld hap wis his duvet, wi a grow bag for a pillae. It looked jist aboot comfy. An auld hosepipe had been redd up in the shape o dug-basket for Duchess. A plant poat fu o watter aside her for a bool. In chalk he’d expertly drawn some auld-farrant portraits on the daurk widden creosoted waws, like yins ye see in museums or auld country hooses, shawin folk fae history. On yin side he’d even drawn a windae, complete wi curtains and a sea view.

  “Ye seem tae be settlin in then,” said Chloe.

  “Oh aye, I cannae thank ye enough, bairn. I love it. I feel like I finally hae a hame again.”

  “I’m sae gled.”

  “Noo,” said Mr Mingin. “Miss Chloe, I cawed ye doon here because I cannae sleep. I wid like ye tae read me a story.”

  “A story? Whit kind o story?”

  “You choose, ma dear. As lang as it’s no a story for lassies …”

  Chloe tiptaed up the stair back tae her room. Whiles she liked tae move aroond the hoose wioot makkin a soond, and sae she could mind whaur aw the craiks were on the stairs. If she pit her fit richt in the middle o this step, or the left side o this yin, she kent she widnae be heard. If she waukened Annabelle, she kent her wee sister wid lap up the chaunce tae get her intae deep deep trouble. And this widnae be normal ilkaday trouble like no eatin yer kail or ‘forgettin’ tae dae yer hamework. This wid be ‘invitin a tink tae bide in yer shed’ trouble. It wid be aff the scale. As this simple graph shaws:

  Tae pit it anither wey, if ye tak a keek at this Venn diagram ye can see that if figure A is ‘trouble’ and figure B is ‘mair trouble’, then this shadit area here, representin ‘invitin a tink tae bide in yer shed’, is a sub-section o figure B.

  I hope this maks things clear.

  Chloe looked on her bookshelf, ahint wee ornamental hoolets she collectit even though she wisnae sure why. (Did she even like hoolets? Some distant auntie buys ye a porcelain hoolet yin day, some ither auntie jalouses that ye’re collectin them, and by the end o yer bairnhood, ye’ve got hunners o the stupit things. Hoolets, ken, no aunties.)

  Chloe keeked at the spines o her buiks. They were maistly for lassies. Loats o pinky-coloured buiks that matched her stupit pinky-coloured room that she hatit. She hadnae chosen the colour o her waws. She hadnae even been consultit. Why could her room no be paintit bleck? Noo that wid be guid. Her mither ainly bocht her buiks aboot pownies, princesses, ballet schuils and glaikit blonde-heidit teenagers in America whase ainly worry wis whit they were gonnae wear tae the prom. Chloe wisnae the tottiest bit interestit in ony o them, and she wis gey sure Mr Mingin widnae be either. The yin story she had scrievit had been rived intae a thoosand wee bitties by her mither. This wisnae gonnae be easy.

  Chloe tiptaed back doon the stair and shut the kitchen door ahint her gey slow, sae it widnae mak a soond, and chapped gently on the shed door.

  “Wha is it?” cam a suspeecious voice.

  “It’s me, Chloe. Wha else did ye think it wis?”

  “I wis soond asleep! Whit dae ye want?”

  “Ye asked me tae read ye a story.”

  “Acht weel, noo ye’ve waukened me up, ye micht as weel come in …”

  Chloe taen yin last deep braith o the fresh nicht air and entered his bothy.

  “Braw!” said Mr Mingin. “I used tae love a bed-time story.”

  “Weel, I’m awfie sorry, but I couldnae really find onythin,” said Chloe. “Aw ma buiks are jist for lassies. In fact, maist o them are pink.”

  “Oh dear,” said Mr Mingin. He looked disappointit for a meenit, then he smiled at a thocht.”But whit aboot yin o your stories?”

  “Ma stories?”

  “Aye. Ye telt me ye liked tae mak them up.”

  “But I couldnae jist … I mean … whit if ye didnae like it?” Chloe’s wame jibbled wi a funny mixter-maxter o excitement and fear. Naebody had ever spiered her for yin o her stories afore.”

  “I’m sure I’ll love it,” said Mr Mingin. “And onywey, ye’ll never ken until ye try.”

  “Yon’s true,” said Chloe, noddin. She stapped for a meenit, then taen in a deep braith. “Dae ye like vampires?” she spiered.

  “Weel, I dinnae ken ony socially.”

  “Naw, I mean, wid ye like tae hear a story aboot vampires? These are vampires that are dominies in a schuil. They sook the bluid oot o their puir unsuspectin pupils …”

  “Is this the story yer mither rived intae a thoosand wee bitties?”

  “Aye, it wis,” replied Chloe wi a dowie look. “But I think I can mind maist o it.”

  “Weel, I wid love tae hear it!”

  “Wid ye?”

  “Coorse I wid.”

  “Awricht,” said Chloe. “Please can ye gie me the torch?”

  Mr Mingin haundit it tae her and she turnt it on and pit it ablow her chin tae mak her fizzog aw eerie.

  “Yince upon time …” she sterted, afore lossin her nerve.

  “Aye?”

  “Yince upon a time … naw, I cannae dae it! Sorry.”

  Chloe hatit readin oot lood in cless. She wis sae feart tae speak in public she wid even try tae hide unner the desk tae get oot o daein it. This wis even mair frichtenin. These were her ain words. It wis much mair private, mair personal, and she suddently felt like she wisnae ready tae share it wi onybody.

  “Please, Miss Chloe,” said Mr Mingin, encouragin her. “I wid really like tae hear yer story. It soonds braw bananaes! Noo ye were sayin, yince upon a time …”

  She taen a deep braith. “Yince upon a time, there wis a wee lassie cawed Lily that hatit gaun tae the schuil. It wisnae because the lessons were haurd, it wis because aw her dominies were vampires …”

  “Guid stert!”

  Chloe smiled, and cairried on. Soon she wis really gettin intae it, and pittin on voices for her heroine, Lily, Lily’s best freend Justin wha got bitten by the music teacher in a piana lesson and became a bluidsooker tae, and Mrs Murk, the ill-trickit heidmaistress, wha wis in fact heidbummer o aw vampires.

  The tale unraivelled aw nicht. Chloe feenished the story jist afore daw o day as Lily finally stoved her hockey stick richt through the heidmaistress’s hert.

  “… Mrs Murk’s bluid skooshed oot o her like newly struck ile, redecoratin the gym haw a daurk shade o crammassie. The end.”

  Chloe turnt aff the torch, her voice sair and her een hauf shut wi wabbitness.

  “Whit a stottin guid story,” annoonced Mr Mingin. “I cannae wait tae find oot whit happens in Buik Twa.”

  “Buik Twa?”

  “Aye,” said Mr Mingin. “Nae doot efter bumpin aff the heidmaistress, Lily has tae move tae anither schuil. And aw the dominies there could be flesh-scrannin zombies!”

  That, thocht Chloe, is an awfie guid idea.

  9

  A Wee Slaver

  Chloe keeked at her alairm-nock radio when she finally drapped intae bed. 6:44am. She had never been tae bed that late, ever. Adults didnae even gang tae their bed that late. Mibbe really dementit rock-star yins, but no mony. She shut her een for a saicont.

  “Chloe? Chloeee? Git up! Chloeeee?” shoutit Mither fae ootside the door. She chapped on the door three times. Then paused and chapped yin mair time which wis especially annoyin, as Chloe hadnae expectit her tae. She keeked at the alairm-nock radio thingwy again. 6:45am. She had either been asleep for a haill day or a haill meenit. Since she couldnae open her een, Chloe jaloused it must hae been a meenit.

  “Whiiiit … ?” she said, and wis shoacked by hoo deep and roch she soonded. Tellin stories aw nicht had turnt Chloe’s voice intae that o a sixty-year-auld ex-coal miner that smoked a hunner cigarettes a day.

  “Dinnae ‘whit’ me, young lady! It’s time you stapped loongin aboot in yer bed. Yer sister’s awready feenished a triathlon this mornin. Noo get up. I need yer help the day on the campaign trail.”

&nb
sp; Chloe wis sae wabbit she felt like she had grown intae her bed. In fact, she wisnae sure whaur her body endit and the bed sterted. She slippit oot fae unner her duvet and crowled tae the cludgie. Blenkin in the mirror, Chloe thocht for a meenit that she wis lookin at her ain grannie. Then, sechin, she made her wey doon the stair tae the kitchen table.

  “We are gaun oot campaignin the day,” said Mither as she sooked her grapefruit juice and swallaed the motorwey tailback o vitamin peels and scran-supplements she had aw lined up neatly on the table.

  “It soonds boooorrrrrin,” said Chloe. She made the word ‘borin’ soond even mair borin by makkin it langer than it really needit tae be. On Sunday mornins, Mither wid alloo the television tae be switched on sae she could watch programmes aboot politics. Chloe liked watchin television. In a hoose whaur viewin wis rationed, even an advert for a Stannah stair lift wis a treat. Hooever, the poleetical discussion programmes – which for nae apparent reason were broadcast on Sunday mornins – were heid-numbinly borin. They made Chloe think that she wantit tae be a wean forever if this wis whit the grown-up warld wis like.

  Chloe aye suspectit her mither o haein anither motive for watchin: she had a crush on the Prime Meenister. Chloe couldnae see it hersel, but hunners o weemen her mither’s age seemed tae think he wis a bit o a stotter. Tae Da’s amusement, Mither wid aye stap whitever she wis daein tae watch the PM if he cam on the news. Yince, Chloe had spottit a wee slaver dreeblin oot o her mither’s mooth when there wis some footage o the Prime Meenister in a pair o dookers flingin a Frisbee aboot on a beach.

  Coorse, even the sicht o her mither slaverin didnae mak thae poleetical programmes ony less borin. But Chloe wid hae watched a hunner o them if it meant no haein tae spend the day campaignin wi her Mither. Yon wis how borin this wis gaun tae be.