Mr Mingin

by David Walliams

  “Haw-hum … Mr Mingin?” she sterted.

  “Aye, Mrs Ploom?” replied Mr Mingin wioot keekin up, poorin ower the papers.

  “I wid like tae say … sorry.”

  “Whit for?” he spiered.

  “For whit I said aboot ye on Question Time last nicht. Aboot you reekin o aw thae things. It wis impoleet.”

  “Thank you awfie muckle, Mrs …”

  “Caw me Janet.”

  “Thank you awfie muckle, Janet. It wis raither hurtfu as I dae tak great pride in ma personal hygiene. Indeed I had a bath jist afore the programme.”

  “Weel, ye didnae really hae a bath, did ye? Ye had a pond.”

  “Aye, I suppose ye’re richt. I did hae a pond. And if it’s awricht wi you, I’ll hae anither ‘pond’ nixt year, sae I can stey bonnie and clean.”

  “But ye’re no clean, you are ming—” began Mither.

  “Caw canny!” interruptit Da loodly.

  “You dinnae ken this,” said Mither tae Mr Mingin. “But efter whit I said on Question Time last nicht I hae been telt by the Prime Meenister tae pou oot o the election.”

  “Aye, I ken. I heard you and yer husband argle-barglin in the front room jist a meenit ago.”

  “Oh,” said Mither, loast for words which wisnae like her.

  “The sassidges are ready!” said Chloe, tryin tae save her Mither fae mair humiliation.

  “I’d better get aff tae ma wark noo, love,” said Da. “I dinnae want tae be late.”

  “Aye, aye,” said Mither wavin him awa wioot lookin at him. He sleekitly picked up a couple o bits o breid and slippit them intae his poacket on the wey oot. Chloe heard the front door loodly open and shut, and then the door tae the room unner the stairs awfie quietly open and shut tae.

  “Jist seeven sassidges the day please, Miss Chloe,” said Mr Mingin. “I dinnae want tae be pittin on the beef. I hae tae think o ma fan base.”

  “Fan base?!” said Mither in a barely guised jealous rage.

  The telephone, which had been hunkerin on a table daein heehaw, suddently sang its wee sang. Chloe picked it up. “Pluuuum residence. Wha’s speakin please …? It’s the Prime Meenister!”

  Mither’s fizzog lit up wi hope, and even her bouffant seemed tae staund up a wee bittie. “Och aye! I kent ma darlin Dave wid chynge his mind!”

  “He’s actually wantin tae speak tae Mr Mingin,” continued Chloe. Mither’s smile turnt upside doon.

  Mr Mingin picked up the receiver wi a gallusness that suggestit he wis used tae gettin caws fae warld leaders. “Mingin here. Aye? Aye? Och aye …?”

  Maw and Chloe studied his fizzog like a map, tryin tae read fae his reactions whit the Prime Meenister wis sayin.

  “Aye, aye, aye. Weel, aye, thank you, Prime Meenister.”

  Mr Mingin pit doon the receiver and sat back at the table tae cairry on his noo daily darg o readin aboot himsel in the papers.

  “Weel?” spiered Chloe.

  “Aye, weel?” said Mither loodly.

  “The Prime Meenister has invitit me for ma tea tae Nummer Ten Doonin Street the day,” said Mr Mingin, aw maitter-o-fact. “He wants me tae tak ower fae you, Mrs Ploom, as the local candidate. Can I get thae sassidges noo please, Chloe?”

  20

  Clatty Cludgie Roll

  “Hooooorrrraaaaayyyyyy!” There wis a muckle cheer as Mr Mingin appeart at the windae up the stair. Aw he had tae dae wis staund and wave and the crood raired their approval. The cameras aw zoomed in and the microphones leant forrit. Yin wife even held up her bairnie sae the wean could catch sicht o this new star. Chloe stood a wheen paces ahint Mr Mingin, watchin like a prood parent. She hadnae enjoyed bein on the television aw that muckle and preferred tae let Mr Mingin tak centre stage. He held up his haun for awbody tae wheesht. And awbody wheeshtit.

  “I hae scrievit a short speech,” he annoonced, afore unrollin an awfie lang clatty roll o cludgie paper and readin fae it.

  “First o aw, can I say hoo awfie honoured I am that you hae aw turnt oot the day tae see me?”

  The crood cheered again.

  “I am but a hummle stravaiger. A tinker mibbe, definately a gaberlunzie, a street dreamer if ye like …”

  “Och, get on wi it!” snashed Mither fae ahint Chloe.

  “Wheeeesht!” wheeshed Chloe.

  “But ken, I had nae idea that jist appearin on the electric televisual apparatus wid hae sic an astonishin effect. Aw I can say at this time is that I am meetin wi the Prime Meenister the day at Nummer Ten tae discuss ma poleetical future.”

  The crood gaed dementit.

  “Thank you aw for yer undeemous kindness,” he concludit, afore rollin his cludgie roll back up and disappearin fae view.

  “Miss Chloe?” he said.

  “Aye?” she answered.

  “If I am meetin the Prime Meenister I think I need a mak ower.”

  Chloe wisnae exactly sure whit a ‘mak ower’ wis. She kent there were hunners o programmes on TV that did mak owers, but Mither didnae let her watch them. Feelin like the hackit deukie o the faimlie she didnae hae ony mak-up o her ain either, sae, no sure she’d say ‘aye, nae problem’ or ‘nut, git loast’, she chapped on her wee sister’s door tae see if she could get a len o some. Annabelle had drawers fu o the stuff. She ayewis wantit and got it for her birthday and her Christmas, as she liked nothin mair than paintin it aw on and performin her ain wee beauty pageants in front o her bedroom mirror.

  “Is he no awa yet?” spiered Annabelle.

  “Naw, he’s no. Mibbe if ye bothered tae talk tae him ye wid find oot whit a braw person he is.”

  “He reeks.”

  “Sae dae you,” said Chloe. “Noo, I need a len o some o yer mak-up.”

  “Hoo? Ye dinnae wear mak-up. Ye’re no bonnie, sae there’s nae point.”

  For a moment Chloe entertained a nummer o fantasies whaur her wee sister met ugsome ends. Dooked intae a pool fu o piranhas mibbe? Abandoned in the Arctic wastes in her unnerwear? Stappit fu o marshmallows until she explodit?

  “It’s for Mr Mingin,” she said, filin awa aw thae fantasies for a later date.

  “Nut! Git loast!”

  “I’m gonnae tell Mither wha’s been secretly scoffin her Bendicks chocolate mints.”

  “OK, whit dae ye need?” replied Annabelle in a hertbeat.

  Efter, Mr Mingin sat on a upturnt plant poat in the shed as the twa lassies flitted roond him.

  “Dae ye think I look awricht?” he spiered.

  Unexpectedly enjoyin hersel, Annabelle had gane a wee bit daft. Did Mr Mingin really need pink glistery, electric-blue ee liner, purpie ee shadda and orange nail varnish tae gang and meet the Prime Meenister?

  “Eh …” said Chloe.

  “Aye, ye look braw, Mr Mingin!” said Annabelle, as she papped a butterflee hair-clip intae his hair. “This is hunners o fun! It’s the best Christmas Eve ever!”

  “Are you no meant tae be chantin carols in the kirk noo or somethin?” spiered Chloe.

  “Aye, but I hate it. It’s sae borin. This is hunners mair fun.” Annabelle looked thochtfu. “Ken, it’s pure mince sometimes daein aw thae glaikit hobbies and sports and guff.”

  “Sae why dae ye dae them then?” spiered Chloe.

  “Aye, why dae ye dae them, dear?” chipped in Mr Mingin.

  Annabelle looked bumbazed. “I dinnae really ken. I suppose it’s tae mak Mither happy,” she said.

  “Yer Mither will no be truly happy if you arenae. Ye need tae find the things that mak you happy,” said Mr Mingin wi authority. It wis haurd tae tak him seriously though, wi aw that slaisterins o blue and orange and purpie mak-up ower his face.

  “Weel … this efternoon made me happy,” said Annabelle. She smiled at Chloe for the first time in years. “Hingin oot wi you has made me happy.”

  Chloe smiled back, and they nervously held each ither’s gaze for a moment.

  “Whit aboot me?” demandit Mr Mingin.

  “You as weel!” lauched Annabelle. “Ye actually get
used tae the honk efter a while,” she whuspered tae Chloe, wha wheeshed her and smiled.

  Aw o a sudden the shed shoogled violently. Chloe rushed tae the door and opened it tae see a helicopter hoverin owerheid. Engine whirrin, it cam slowly doon tae land in their gairden.

  “Och, aye. The Prime Meenister said he wid be sendin yon tae pick us up,” annoonced Mr Mingin.

  “Us?” said Chloe.

  “Ye didnae think I wis gonnae go wioot ye, did ye?”

  21

  Weet Wipe

  “Why dae you no come as weel?” shouted Chloe tae Annabelle ower the thunnerin noise o the blades.

  “Naw, this is your day, Chloe,” her wee sister yelloched back. “This is aw because o you. And onywey, that helicopter’s tottie. It’ll totally guff in there …”

  Chloe grinned and waved guidbye as the helicopter slowly ascendit, flettenin maist o the plants and flooers in the gairden as it did sae. Mither’s bouffant daunced aroond her heid like candyfloass on a gurlie day at the seafront as she tried tae haud it doon. The bawdrins Elizabeth got blawn across the lawn. She tried desperately tae cling on tae the gress wi her clooks. But in spite o meowin for mercy the wund fae the blades wis jist ower strang and she shoat across the gairden like a furry cannonbaw and landit in the pond.

  Plowp!

  The Duchess looked doon fae the helicopter windae, smirklin.

  As they gaed up and up and up Chloe saw her hoose, and her street, and her toun get smawer and smawer. Soon the postal districts were laid oot ablow her like squares on a chessboard. Whit a byordinar thrill it wis. For the first time in her life, Chloe felt like she wis at the centre o the warld. She keeked ower at Mr Mingin. He wis gettin re-acquaintit wi a toffee dainty that, fae the looks o it, had been in his trooser poacket since the late 1950s. Apairt fae his jaw warkin desperately tae chaw the auncient sweetie he looked perfectly relaxed, as if takkin a helicopter ride tae see the Prime Meenister wis somethin he did aw the time.

  Chloe smiled ower at him, and he smiled back wi that special glister in his ee that awmaist made ye forget hoo bad he smelled.

  Mr Mingin chapped the pilot on the shooder. “Are ye gaun tae be comin roond wi a trolley service at ony point?” he spiered.

  “It’s jist a short flicht, sir.”

  “Ony chaunce o a cup o tea and a bun then?”

  “I’m awfie sorry, sir,” replied the pilot wi a firmness that suggestit this conversation wis feenished.

  “Awfie disappointin,” said Mr Mingin.

  Chloe recognised the door o Nummer Ten Doonin Street, because it wis aye on thae borin poleetical programmes she wis allooed tae watch on Sunday mornins. It wis muckle and bleck and ayewis had a polisman staundin ootside. She thocht, If I jined the polis I wid want tae be aff huntin bad yins, no staundin ootside a door aw day thinkin aboot whether or no I wis gonnae hae spaghetti hoops for ma tea. But she wicely kept that thocht tae hersel as the polisman opened the door for them wi a smile.

  “Please tak a seat,” said a perjinkly dressed butler snootily. The staff at Ten Doonin Street were used tae playin host tae royalty and warld leaders, no a wee lassie, a transvestite tink and his dug. “The Prime Meenister will be wi ye in the now.”

  They were staundin in a muckle aik-panelled room wi dizzens o gowd-framed ile pentins o soor-faced auld men glowerin doon at them fae the waws. The tinsel roond the frames didnae dae muckle tae cheer up their crabbit auld coupons. Aw o a sudden, the double doors flew open and a herd o men in suits chairged towards them.

  “Guid efternoon, Mr Minger!” said the Prime Meenister. Ye could tell he wis the boass as he wis walkin at the heid o the herd.

  “It’s jist Mingin, Prime Meenister,” correctit yin o his advisors.

  “Hoo it’s gaun, pal?” said the Prime Meenister, tryin tae tone doon his poashness. He offered oot his perjinkly manicured and moisturised wee haun for Mr Mingin tae shak. The tink offered his ain roch muckle clarty haun and, lookin at it, the Prime Meenister wheeched his back, and gied his new best freend a freendly punch in the shooder insteid. He then keeked at his knuckles and noticed they had some clart on them.

  “Weet wipe” he demandit. “Noo!”

  A man at the back o the herd hurriedly come up wi a weet wipe and it was passed forrit tae the Prime Meenister. He quickly dichted his haun wi it afore flingin it ower his shooder for the man at the back tae catch.

  “Pleased tae meet ye tae, Mr Prime Meenister,” said Mr Mingin, no verra pleased at aw.

  “Caw me Dave,” said the Prime Meenister. “Jings, he reeks like a cludgie,” he whuspered tae yin o his advisors.

  Mr Mingin looked at Chloe, hurt, but the Prime Meenister didnae notice. “Sae, ye were a muckle big hit on Question Time, ma hameless freend,” he continued. “Whit a lauch it wis. Ha ha ha!” He dichted awa a non-existent tear o lauchter fae his ee. “I think we could use ye.”

  “Use him?” spiered Chloe suspeeciously.

  “Aye, aye. It’s nae secret it’s no lookin braw for me in the election. Ma approval ratin wi the public richt noo is …”

  Yin o the herd hastily opened a folder and there wis a lang pause as he wheeched through pages and pages o information.

  “No verra guid.”

  “No verra guid. Richt. Thanks, Perkins,” said the Prime Meenister sarcastically.

  “It’s Broonlaw.”

  “Whitever.” The Prime Meenister turnt back tae Mr Mingin. “I think if we got you, a real life tink, tae tak ower fae Mrs Ploom as candidate it could be brilliant. It’s faur ower late tae bring in onybody else noo, and you wid be the ideal lastmeenit replacement. Ye’re jist sae funny. I mean, tae lauch at, no really wi.”

  “Excuse me?” said Chloe, feelin gey protective o her freend noo.

  The Prime Meenister jist dinghied her. “It’s genius! It really is. If you jined the pairty it wid trick the public intae thinkin we cared aboot the hameless! Mibbe yin day I could even mak you Meenister for Soap-Joukers.”

  “Soap-Joukers?” said Mr Mingin.

  “Aye, ye ken, the hameless.”

  “Richt,” said Mr Mingin. “And as Meenister for the Hameless, I wid be able tae help ither hameless folk?”

  “Weel, naw,” said the Prime Meenister. “It widnae mean onythin, jist mak me look like a freendly gadgie that loves tinks. Weel, whit dae ye say, Mr Manky Ming?”

  Mr Mingin looked awfie ill at ease. “I dinnae … I mean … I’m no sure—”

  “Are ye kiddin me on?” lauched the Prime Meenister. “Ye’re a tink! Ye cannae hae onythin better tae dae!”

  The suitit herd lauched tae. Suddently Chloe had a flashback tae the schuil. The Prime Meenister and his aides were cairryin on exactly like the gang o mean lassies in her year. Aye faikin aboot for words, Mr Mingin looked ower tae her for help.

  “Prime Meenister …?” said Chloe.

  “Aye?” he answered wi an expectant smile.

  “Ye can stick it up yer big fat bahookie!”

  “Ye taen the words richt oot o ma mooth, lass!” keckled Mr Mingin. “Guidbye, Prime Meenister, and Merry Christmas tae ye aw!”

  22

  Lang Lion Days

  Chloe and Mr Mingin didnae get a hurl hame on the helicopter. They werenae invitit. They had tae tak the bus insteid.

  As it wis Christmas Eve, the bus wis stappit fu wi folk and ye couldnae see maist o them unner the moontains o pokes fu o shoappin. As Chloe and Mr Mingin sat aside each ither on the tap deck, the bare brainches o trees scarted against the clatty windaes.

  “Did ye see the look on his fizzog when ye telt him tae stick it up his …?” exclaimed Mr Mingin.

  “I cannae believe I did that!” said Chloe.

  “I’m sae gled ye did,” said Mr Mingin. “Thank you sae muckle for stickin up for me.”

  “Weel, you stuck up for me wi that awfie Rosamund!”

  “ ‘Stick it up yer bahookie!’ Whit a beezer! Though I micht hae said somethin faur mair coorse! Ha ha!”

  They lauched thegither
. Mr Mingin raxed intae his trooser poacket tae pou oot a clarty auld hankie tae dry his tears o joy. As he pit the hankie tae his face, Chloe spottit that a label had been sewn ontae it. Keekin closer, she saw that the label wis made o silk, and a name wis embroidert on it …

  “Lord … Darlington?” she read.

  There wis silence for a meenit.

  “Is that you?” said Chloe. “Are ye a lord?”

  “Naw … naw …” said Mr Mingin. “I’m jist a hummle tink. I got this hankie … fae a jummle sale.”

  “Can I see yer siller spuin then?” said Chloe saftly.

  Mr Mingin gied a resigned smile. He raxed intae his jaiket poacket and slowly taen oot the spuin, then haundit it tae her. Chloe turnt it ower in her hauns. Lookin at it up close, she realised she’d been wrang. It wisnae three letters engravit on it. It wis a singil letter on a crest, held on ilk side by a lion.

  A singil capital letter D.

  “Ye are Lord Darlington,” said Chloe. “Let me see that auld photie again.”

  Mr Mingin cannily poued oot his auld bleck and white photie.

  Chloe studied it for a wheen saiconts. It wis jist as she minded. The braw young couple, the Rolls Royce, the stately hame. Ainly noo, when she keeked at it, she could see the resemblance atween the young man in the photie and the auld man aside her. “And that’s you in the pictur.”

  Chloe held the photie delicately, kennin she wis haunnlin somethin precious. Mr Mingin looked faur younger, especially wioot his baird and aw the clart. But his een were spairklin. There wis nae doot aboot it. It wis him.

  “The gemme’s a bogey,” said Mr Mingin. “That is me, Chloe. A lifetime langsyne.”

  “And wha’s this lady wi ye?”

  “Ma wife.”

  “Yer wife? I didnae ken ye were mairried.”

  “Ye didnae ken I wis a lord, either, did ye?” said Mr Mingin.