Mr Mingin

by David Walliams

  “Weel, ye’re comin whither ye like it or no,” said Mither. “And pit on that frilly yellae gounie I bocht ye for yer birthday. Ye jist aboot look bonnie in that.”

  Chloe didnae look onywhaur near bonnie in it. She looked like a sweetie oot o a boax o Quality Street. If yon wisnae bad enough, she looked like yin o thae unpopular flavours that get left in the boax until weel efter the New Year. The ainly colour she really liked wearin wis bleck. She thocht bleck wis braw, and even better it made her look less pudgie. Chloe desperately wantit tae be a Goath, but she didnae ken whaur tae stert. Ye couldnae buy Goath claes in Marks & Spencer’s. And onywey, ye needit the white mak-up and the bleck hair-dye, and maist importantly the ability tae look doon at yer shuin at aw times.

  Whit wid she hae tae dae tae become a Goath? Wis there an application foarm tae fill oot? A committee o super-Goaths that wid check ye oot for Goathness, or wis it Goathnicity? Chloe had yince seen a real-life Goath hingin aroond aside a bin in the high street and got aw excitit. She really wantit tae gang ower and spier her hoo tae get sterted in the Goath warld, but she wis ower blate. Which wis ironic, because blateness is somethin ye need if ye want tae become a successful Goath.

  In the unlikely event o Elizabeth the bawdrins becomin a Goath, this is whit she wid look like.

  Haw, let’s get back tae the story …

  “It’s cauld ootside, Chloe,” said Mither, when Chloe cam doon the stair in the boaksome Quality Street gounie. “Ye’ll need a jaiket. Whit aboot that tangerine-coloured jaiket yer grandmither made ye last Christmas?”

  Chloe raxed intae the room ablow the stairs. This wis whaur awbody in the faimlie kept their jaikets and wellie bitts. She heard a reeshle in the daurkness. Had Elizabeth the bawdrins got shut in there by accident? Or had Mr Mingin flitted intae the hoose? She switched on the licht. Keekin oot fae ahint the bottom o an auld fur coat wis a frichtened fizzog.

  “Da?”

  “Wheesht!”

  “Whit are ye hidin in there for?” Chloe whuspered. “Ye’re meant tae be at yer wark.”

  “Naw, I’m no. I loast ma joab at the factory,” said Da dowiely.

  “Whit?”

  “A haill loat o us got made redundant twa weeks ago. Naebody’s buyin new caurs richt noo. It’s nae doot because o the recession.”

  “Aye, but why are ye hidin?”

  “I’m ower feart tae tell yer mither. She’ll divorce me if she finds oot. Please, I’m beggin ye, dinnae tell her.”

  “I’m no sure if she’d div—”

  “Please, Chloe. I’ll sort aw this oot soon. It’s no gonnae be easy, but I’ll get anither joab if I can.”

  He leaned forrit sae that the hem o the fur coat wis draped ower his heid, the thick fur lookin like a rammy o curly hair.

  “Sae that’s whit ye look like wi hair!” Chloe whuspered.

  “Whit?”

  It wis definately Da on yon CD cover. Wi the fur on his heid, he looked jist like he did in the photie, wi that stotter o a perm!

  “If ye need a joab, ye could aye go back tae playin guitar wi The Serpents o Deeth,” said Chloe.

  Da looked shoacked. “What telt ye I wis in a band?”

  “I saw yer CD and I spiered Mither, but she—”

  “Wheesht!” said Da. “Keep it doon. Wait … whaur did ye see this CD?

  “Eh … I wis … um … lookin for ma auld hamster cage in the shed and it wis in a boax wi a load o auld junk. There wis a brunt guitar wi it.”

  Da opened his mooth tae say somethin, but jist at that moment, a door slammed up the stair.

  “C’moan, Chloe!” raired Mither.

  “Promise me ye’ll no say onythin aboot me lossin ma joab,” whuspered Da.

  “I promise.”

  Chloe shut the door, leain her da on aw fowers in the daurk. Noo she had twa fu-grown men hidin aroond the hoose. Whit’s nixt? she thocht. Am I gonnae find ma Granda in the tummle dryer?!

  10

  Hauf Chawed

  Bein on the poleetical campaign trail meant Chloe chappin on whit seemed like awbody’s front door in the toun and Mither spierin folk if she could “rely on their vote”. The folk that said they were gonnae vote for Mither were instantly rewardit wi a muckle smile and an even mair muckle sticker tae pit in their windae proclaimin ‘Vote Ploom’. The folk that said they werenae votin for her were gonnae miss an awfie loat o daytime telly. Mither wis the kind o buddie that widnae gie up wioot a fecht.

  They passed the newsagent’s shoap. “I wunner if Raj wid pit yin o ma posters up in his windae,” said Mither, as she stramped towards the shoappie. Chloe hirpled ahint her in her uncomfortable Sunday shuin, strauchlin tae keep up. Her mind had been elsewhaur aw day. Noo she wis cairryin aroond twa hoat-air balloon-sized secrets in her heid – Mr Mingin hidin in the gairden shed and her da in the cupboard unner the stairs!

  “Ah, ma twa favourite customers!” Raj cried oot as they entered the shoap. “The perjink Mrs Ploom and her delichtfu dochter, Chloe.”

  “It’s Plum!” correctit Mither. “Sae, Raj, can I rely on yer vote?”

  “Are ye on The X-Factor?!” said Raj aw excitit. “Aye, aye, coorse I’ll vote for ye. Whit are ye singin on Setterday?”

  “Naw, she’s no daein The X-Factor, Raj,” interjectit Chloe, tryin no tae lauch at the thocht.

  “Britain’s Goat Talent then? Ye’re mibbe daein a ventriloquist act wi a bawheid otter puppet cawed Jeremy? That wid be maist amusin!”

  “Naw, she’s no daein Britain’s Goat Talent either.” Chloe smirkled.

  “Hoo dae ye solve ony dream will dae I’d dae onythin or whitver it’s cawed wi Graham thingwy?”

  “It’s the election, Raj,” interruptit Mither. “Ye ken, the local election? I’m staundin tae be oor local MP.”

  “And when is this election thingwy happenin then?”

  “Nixt Friday. I cannae believe ye’ve missed it! It’s aw ower these newspapers, Raj!” Mither wagged a haun at the muckle piles o newspapers in the shoap.

  “Och, I ainly read Nuts and Zoo,” said Raj. “I get aw the news I need fae them.”

  Mither gied him a snottery look, even though Chloe suspectit she wisnae sure whit either Nuts or Zoo wis. Chloe had yince seen a copy o Nuts that yin o the aulder laddies had brocht tae the schuil, and kent it wis awfie coorse.

  “Whit dae you think are the maist important issues Britain faces the day?” spiered Mither, delichted wi the clivverocity and smairtiness o her ain question.

  Raj thocht for a meenit, then shouted ower at some laddies that were hingin aboot the pick ‘n’ mix. “Dinnae pit the liquorice in yer mooth unless ye’re gonnae buy it, young man! Och naw, I’m gonnae hae tae pit that liquorice on special offer noo!”

  Raj grabbed a pen and a piece o caird. He scrievit ‘hauf chawed’, and pit it on the liquorice boax. “Sorry, whit wis the question again?”

  Note tae self, thocht Chloe. Dinnae ever buy ony liquorice fae this shoap again.

  “Eh … Noo whaur wis I?” said Mither tae Raj. “Oh aye, whit dae you think are the maist—?”

  “… important issues Britain faces the day, Raj?” said Raj brichtly. “Och, I didnae need tae say ‘Raj’. I am Raj. Weel, I think it wid be a muckle advance if Cadbury’s Creme Eggs were available no jist at Easter but aw year roond. They are yin o ma maist popular items. And I strangly believe that Quavers should diversifee fae cheese flavours tae incorporate Asian Chucken and Lamb Rogan Josh as weel. And maist importantly, and I ken this micht be a bittie controversial, but I think that coffee Revels maun be banned as they speyl an itherwise perfectly wunnerfu sweetie. There, it’s oot. I’ve said hit.”

  “Richt,” said Mither.

  “And if ye promise tae chynge the government policy on thae issues ye can rely on ma vote, Mrs Ploom!”

  Mither had had a mixed response tae her campaignin sae faur, and wis keen tae secure this potentially crucial vote.

  “Aye, I will certainly try, Raj!” she said.

  “Tha
nk you awfie muckle,” said Raj. “Please help yersel tae somethin fae the shoap.”

  “Naw, I couldnae dae that, Raj!”

  “Gaun, Mrs Ploom. Tak a boax o Terry’s Aw Gowd, I’ve ainly taen oot the caramel squares. Mmm, they are braw. And mibbe Chloe wid like this Fingir o Fudge? It’s a bittie flet because ma wife sat on it, but it’s perfectly guid tae eat.”

  “We couldnae possibly tak these kind gifties, Raj,” said Mither.

  “Weel, why no buy them then? Yin boax o Terry’s Aw Gowd, £4.29, and a Fingir o Fudge, 20p. Yon’s £4.49. Let’s caw it £4.50. Easier if I jist tak five poond. Thank you awfie muckle.”

  Chloe and Mither come oot the shoap haudin their sweeties. Mither held her hauf eaten boax o chocolates wi a look o haurdly disguised scunner on her fizzog.

  “Noo, dinnae forget, Raj. The election is nixt Friday!” said Mither at the door.

  “Och, I cannae mak it nixt Friday, Mrs Ploom. I hae tae stey here as I’m expectin a muckle delivery o Smairties! But guid luck tae ye!”

  “Ah … Thank you,” replied Mither, lookin doonhertit.

  “Mrs Ploom,” said Raj. “Wid ye be interestit in somethin awfie special that is boond tae become somethin o a faimlie heirloom tae be haundit doon through the generations? Some o yer grandweans will yin day be prood tae hae it valued on The Antiques Roadshow.”

  “Aye?” said Mither expectantly.

  “It’s a Teenage Mutant Ninja Torties stationery set …”

  11

  Pouin Hair

  “Whit are ye hidin in the shed?” said Annabelle wi accusatory pleisure.

  It wis midnicht and Chloe wis yince again tiptaein past her sister’s room, this time tae tell Mr Mingin aboot Lily’s newest adventure wi her flesh-scrannin zombie dominies. Annabelle stood in her doorwey in her pink pownie jammies. Her hair wis aw in bunches. And in case o fire she sleepit in lip-gloass. She looked sae bonnie it wid seekin ye.

  “Nothin,” said Chloe, gowpin.

  “I ken when you’re leein, Chloe.”

  “Hoo dae ye ken?”

  “Ye gowp when ye’re tellin a lee.”

  “Naw I dinnae!” said Chloe, tryin awfie haurd no tae gowp. She gowped.

  “Ye jist did it! Whit’s in there onywey? Dae you hae a boyfreend hidin in there or somethin?”

  “Naw, I hivnae got a boyfreend, Annabelle.”

  “Naw, coorse ye hivnae. Ye wid need tae loss some o that wecht first.”

  “Jist go tae back yer bed,” said Chloe.

  “I amnae gaun tae ma bed until ye tell me whit ye’ve got in the shed,” annoonced Annabelle.

  “Keep yer voice doon. Ye’re gonnae wauk awbody up!”

  “Naw I winnae keep ma voice doon! In fact it is gonnae get looder and looder. La la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la!”

  “Wheesht!” hished Chloe.

  “La la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la …!”

  Chloe poued her wee sister’s hair shairply. There wis a pause for a meenit, as Annabelle gowked at Chloe in shoack. Then she opened her mooth.

  “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

  AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

  AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

  AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH

  HHHHHHHHHHH!” yowled Annabelle.

  “Whit on earth is aw this noise aboot?” said Mither as she flochtered oot o her bedroom in her silk nichtgoun.

  Annabelle tried tae speak, but jist hyper-haivered through her tears.

  “Ugh … eh … ah … ah … ughhh … ah … eh … ugh …”

  “Whit on earth did ye dae tae her, Chloe?” demandit Mither.

  “She’s pittin it on! I didnae pou her stupit hair that haurd!” Chloe protestit.

  “You poued her hair? Annabelle is doon tae the last thoosand for a model castin the morra for Geordie at Asda and she has tae look perjink!”

  “Ugh … ah … eh … ah. She’s ah eh got ugh ugh ugh hidin ugh ugh somethin eh ah ugh in the ugh ugh ughu shed,” said Annabelle as she gret oot some mair tears.

  “Faither,” ordered Mither. “Come oot here richt noo!”

  “I’m sleepin!” cam the muffled cry fae their bedroom.

  “RICHT NOO!”

  Chloe looked doon at the cairpet sae Mither couldnae read her face. There wis a pause. The three ladies o the hoose listened as Da got oot o his bed. Nixt they heard the soond o somebody trinklin watter intae the cludgie. Mither’s face turnt reid wi fury.

  “I SAID RICHT NOO!”

  The soond stapped abruptly and Da shauchled oot o the bedroom in his Arsenal Fitba Club jammies.

  “Annabelle said Chloe is hidin somethin in the shed. Chocolate, nae doot. I need ye tae gang doon there and tak a keek.”

  “Me?” protestit Da.

  “Aye, you!”

  “Can I no dae it in the mornin?”

  “Naw, ye cannae.”

  “There’s nothin doon there,” wheedled Chloe.

  “WHEESHT!”

  “I’ll jist get a torch,” seched Da.

  He made his wey slowly doon the stair, and Mither, Chloe and Annabelle wheeched ower tae the windae o the maister bedroom tae watch him walk tae the end o the gairden. The muin wis fu, and it waashed the gairden in an eerie lowe. The torchlicht daunced aroond the trees and busses as he walked. They looked on braithless as Da slowly opened the shed door. It craiked open.

  Chloe could hear her hert chappin. Wis this the moment that wid seal her doom forever? Wid she be made tae eat ainly kail at ilka meal fae noo on? Or get sent tae her bed even afore she got up? Or be groondit for the lave o her life? Chloe gowped looder than she had ever gowped afore. Mither heard this and flung her a look o daurk, bleezin suspeecion.

  The silence wis like thunner. A wheen saiconts passed, or wis it oors or wis it years? Then Da come slowly oot o the shed. He looked up at the windae and shouted, “There’s nothin here!”

  12

  Mingin Ming

  Did I dream the haill thing up? thocht Chloe as she lay in her bed. She wis in that placie atween asleep and awake. That placie whaur ye can still mind dreamin. It wis 4:48am, and noo she wis stertin tae doot if Mr Mingin even really existit.

  At daw o day her curiosity got the better o her. Chloe creepit doon the stair, and tiptaed ower the cauld weet gress tae the shed door. She hung aboot ootside for a meenit, afore openin it.

  “Acht, there ye are!” said Mr Mingin. “I am gey hungert this mornin. Poached eggs please, if that’s awricht wi you. Runny in the middle. Sassidges. Mushrooms. Grilled tomataes. Sassidges. Baked beans. Sassidges. Breid and butter. Broon sauce on the side. Dinnae forget the sassidges. English breakfast tea. And a gless o orange juice. Thank you awfie muckle.”

  Chloe kent noo she hadnae dreamed the haill thing up, but she wis stertin tae wish she had. It wis aw hert-stappinly, frichteninly real.

  “Wid freshly squeezed orange juice suit ye, sir?” she spiered sarcastically.

  “Ken whit? I’d raither hae some that’s jist a wee bit aff. I prefer it. Mibbe some that wis squeezed aboot a month ago?”

  Jist then, Chloe spottit an auld dug-lugged bleck-and-white photie that Mr Mingin had pit on a shelf. It shawed a bonnie young couple staundin proodly nixt tae a big braw and perfectly roonded Rolls Royce, parkit in the drive o a muckle stately hame.

  “Wha’s that?” she spiered, pointin at the photie.

  “Och, naebody, n-n-n-nothin …” he stootered. “Jist a sentimental auld photie, Miss Chloe.”

  “Can I get tae see it?”

  “Naw, naw, naw, it’s jist a glaikit pictur. Please, dinnae fash yersel aboot it.” Mr Mingin wis gettin awfie floostered. He wheeched the photie aff the shelf, and pit it in the poacket o his jammies. Chloe wis disappointit. The photie had seemed like anither clue tae Mr Mingin’s past, like his wee siller spuin, or the wey he’d booled yon bittie o pa
per intae the bin. This yin had seemed like the best clue yet. But noo Mr Mingin wis chasin her oot o the shed. “Dinnae forget the sassidges!” he said.

  Hoo in the name o the wee man did Da no see him? thocht Chloe, as she gaed back tae the hoose. Even if he hadnae seen Mr Mingin in the shed, he wid surely hae smelled the guff.

  Chloe tiptaed intae the kitchen and opened the fridge door as quietly as possible. She gawked intae the fridge, and stertit gey carefu tae move the jaurs o mustard and pickle sae they widnae clink. She hoped tae find some oot o date orange juice that micht appeal tae Mr Mingin’s aff-colour tastes.

  “Whit are ye daein?” said a voice.

  Chloe got a fricht. It wis ainly her Da, but she wisnae expectin tae see him up this early. She gaithered hersel for a moment.

  “Nothin, Da. I’m jist hungert, that’s aw.”

  “I ken wha’s in the shed, Chloe,” he said.

  Chloe keeked at him, aw panicky. She couldnae think, never mind speak.

  “I opened the door last nicht tae see an auld tink snorin awa nixt tae ma lawnmower,” Da cairried on. “The ming wis … weel … mingin. It wis an awfie mingin ming …”

  “I wantit tae tell ye, honest I did,” said Chloe. “He needs a hame, Da. Mither wants aw the hameless folk aff the streets!”

  “I ken, I ken, but I’m sorry Chloe, he cannae stey. Yer mither will go aff her heid if she finds oot.”

  “Da, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s OK, darlin. I’m no gonnae say onythin tae yer mither. Hiv ye kept yer promise aboot no tellin onybody aboot me lossin ma joab?”

  “Aye.”

  “Guid lass,” said Da.

  “Sae,” said Chloe, gled tae hae Da aw tae hersel for a chynge. “Hoo come yer guitar got aw brunt?”

  “Yer mither pit it on the bonfire.”

  “Naw! She didnae!”

  “Aye, she did,” said Da, a dowie look spreidin ower his face. “She wantit me tae move on wi ma life. She wis daein me a favour, I suppose.”

  “A favour?”

  “Weel, The Serpents o Deeth were never gonnae mak it. I taen the joab at the caur factory and that wis that.”