Mr Mingin (9 page)

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.”

“But ye had an album! Ye must hae been deid famous,” chirped Chloe aw excitit.

“Naw, we werenae. No at aw!” lauched Da. “Oor album ainly selt twal copies.”

“
Twal
?” said Chloe.

“Aye, and yer grannie bocht maist o them. We werenae bad, though. And yin o oor singils got intae the chairts.”

“Whit, the Tap Forty?”

“Naw, we got tae 98.”

“Wow,” said Chloe. “The Tap Hunner! That’s guid!”

“Naw, it’s no,” said Da. “But ye’re awfie sweet for sayin it.” He kissed her on the foreheid and opened his airms for her tae coorie in tae him.

“This is nae time tae be cooryin in!” said Mither as she stramped intae the kitchen. “The man fae
The Times
will be here in the noo. Faither, you can mak the scrammled eggs. Chloe, I want you tae set the table.”

“Aye, Mither,” said Chloe, wi at least hauf her brain warkin oot hoo Mr Mingin wis gonnae get his breakfast.

“Sae hoo important is yer faimlie tae ye, Mrs Ploom?” spiered the serious-lookin journalist. He wore thick glesses and he wis auld. In fact he’d probably been boarn an auld man. Papped oot o his mither, wearin glesses and a three-piece suit. He wis cawed Mr Dour, which Chloe thocht wis a guid name for him. He didnae look like he smiled a lot. Or indeed ever.

“Actually, it’s pronoonced Plum,” correctit Mither.

“Naw, it’s no,” said Da afore his wife flung him a look o unadulteratit crabbitness. The Ploom faimlie wis sittin aroond the denner table and no enjoyin their poash breakfast. It wis aw sic a lee. They didnae normally sit aroond the denner table eatin smeekit saumon and scrammled eggs. They wid be roond the
kitchen
table scrannin Rice Krispies or Marmite on toast.

“Awfie important, Mr Dour,” said Mither. “The maist important thing in ma life. I dinnae ken whit I wid dae wioot ma husband, Mr Plum, ma darlin dochter, Annabelle, and the other yin … whitsshecawedagain? Chloe.”

“Weel, then I ask ye this Mrs … Pluuuuuum. Is yer faimlie mair important tae ye than the future o this country?”

This wis a sair yin. There wis a pause durin which a haill civilisation could hae risen and cowped.

“Weel, Mr Dour …” Mither said.

“Aye, Mrs Pluuuuuuuuuuum …?”

“Weel, Mr Dour …”

“Aye, Mrs Pluuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu uuum …?”

Jist then there wis a wee chap-chap-chappin on the windae. “Excuse me for interruptin,” said Mr Mingin wi a smile, “but can I please breakfast noo?”

“
Wha in the name o the wee man is
he
?” spiered Mr Dour as Mr Mingin mairched aroond in his clarty strippit jammies tae the back door.

Awbody held their wheesht. Mither’s een jist aboot lowped oot o her heid and Annabelle looked like she wis aboot tae skraik or boak or baith.

“Och, he’s the tink that bides in oor shed,” said Chloe.

“The tink that bides in oor shed?” Mither repeatit, no able tae credit it. She glowered at her husband wi bleck fire in her een.

He gowped.

“I telt ye she wis hidin somethin in there, Mither!” exclaimed Annabelle.

“He wisnae there when I looked!” protestit Da. “He must hae posed himsel ahint a trool!”

“Whit a wunnerfu wummin you are, Mrs Pluuuuuuuuuum,” said Mr Dour. “I read aboot yer policies on the hameless. Aboot drivin them aff the streets. I had nae idea ye meant we should drive them intae oor hames and let them come and
bide
wi us.”

“Weel I …” stootered Mither, loast for words.

“I can assure ye I am gonnae write an absolutely stottin piece aboot ye noo. This will mak the front page. You could weel be the nixt Prime Meenister o the country!”

“Ma sassidges?” said Mr Mingin, as he come ben intae the dinin room.

“Excuse me?” said Mither, afore pittin her haun ower her mooth in horror at the guff.

“Forgie me,” said Mr Mingin. “It’s jist that I spiered yer dochter for some sassidges twa oors ago, and I’m awfie sorry, but I’m stervin!”

“Ye say I could be the nixt Prime Meenister o the country, Mr Dour?” said Mither, her brain warkin awa.

“Aye. It’s sae kind o ye. Allooin a clarty mingin auld tink like this – nae offence, like—”

“Nane taken,” replied Mr Mingin wioot hesitation.

“—tae come and bide wi ye. Hoo could ye
no
be electit as an MP noo?”

Mither smiled. “In that case,” she said, turnin tae Mr Mingin, “hoo mony sassidges wid ye like ma verra guid freend that bides in ma shed and haurdly honks at aw?”

“Nae mair than nine, please,” replied Mr Mingin.

“Nine sassidges comin richt up!”

“Wi poached eggs, bacon, mushrooms, grilled tomataes, breid and butter and broon sauce on the side, please.”

“Nae bother, ma awfie guid and maist loved freend!” cam the voice fae the kitchen.

“You honk sae bad I think I’m gonnae dee,” said Annabelle.

“That’s no verra nice, Annabelle,” said Mither cantily fae the kitchen. “Noo cam in here and help us, darlin, there’s a guid lass!”

Annabelle ran ben tae whit she thocht wid be the guff-free zone o the kitchen. “It reeks jist as bad in here!” she skraiked.

“Shut yer geggie!” gnipped Mither.

“Sae, tell me … tink,” said Mr Dour, leanin in towards Mr Mingin afore the guff got tae him and boonced him back the wey. “Is it jist you that steys in the shed?”

“Aye, jist me. And ma dug, the Duchess …”

“HE’S GOT A DUG?” Mither cried oot in an anxious voice fae nixt door.

“And hoo dae ye find it bidin here?” Mr Dour cairried on.

“Braw,” said Mr Mingin. “But I hae tae say, the service is deid slow and stoap …”

‘
THE LADY AND THE TINK’ wis the heidline.

Mr Dour had been true tae his word and the story had made it ontae the front page o
The Times
, alang wi a muckle photie o Mither and Mr Mingin staundin thegither. Mr Mingin wis smilin, shawin aff aw his bleck teeth. Mither wis tryin tae smile, but because o the guff she had tae keep her mooth ticht shut. As soon as the paper laddie pit the paper through the letter boax, the Plooms lowped on it and read the haill thing in a wanner. Mither wis famous! Proodly she read the airticle oot lood.

Mrs Ploom micht no look like a poleetical revolutionary wi her smairt blue suits and pearlies, but she could weel chynge the wey we live oor lives. She is staundin for MP in her local toun and, although her policies seem awfie haurd line, she has taen the revolutionary step o invitin a tink tae bide wi her faimlie.

“It wis aw ma idea,” said Mrs Ploom (pronoonced ‘Pluuuuuuuuuuuum’). “At first ma faimlie wantit nothin tae dae wi it, but I jist had tae gie this puir manky flech-hoatchin clartencrustit wame-whummlin mingin gaberlunzie mannie and his bowfin dug a hame. I love them baith dearly. They’re noo pairt o the faimlie. I couldnae imagine life wioot them. If ainly ither folk were as kind and guid-hertit as me. A modern day saunt, some folk are sayin. If ilka faimlie in this country wis tae let a tink bide wi them it could solve the problem o hamelessness yince and for aw. Och, and dinnae forget tae vote for me in the election.”

It’s sic a guid idea, it’s genius, and could weel pit Mrs Ploom in line tae be the nixt Prime Meenister.

The tink, kent ainly as ‘Mr Mingin’ had this tae say: “Gonnae gie us anither sassidge, please?”

“It wisnae yer idea, Mither,” gnipped Chloe, ower bealin tae jist go in the huff.

“No strictly speakin it wisnae, darlin, naw …”

Chloe glowered at her, but jist then the telephone rang.

“Gonnae somebody get that? It’s boond tae be for me,” said Mither, graundly.

Annabelle doucely picked up the phone. “Pluuuum residence. Wha’s speakin, please?” she spiered, jist as her mither had instructit her. Mither even had a special telephone voice, a bittie poasher than her usual yin.

“Wha is it, dear?” said Mither.

“It’s the Prime Meenister,” replied Annabelle, pittin her haun ower the moothpiece.

“The
Prime Meenister
?” skirled Mither.

She flung hersel at the telephone.

“Mrs Pluuuuum spikkin!” said Mither in a totally eediotic voice, even poasher than her usual poash telephone voice. “Aye, thenk ye, Preem Meenister. It wis an awfu braaaaww piece in the newspipper, Preem Meenister.”

Mither wis slaverin again. Da shook his heid.

“I wid be delichted tae be a guest on
Question Time
the nicht, Preem Meenister,” said Mither.

Then she gaed aw quiet. Chloe could hear a murmur fae the ither end o the line, follaed by silence.

Mither’s mooth drapped open.

“
Ye whit
?” she grooled intae the phone, lossin her dignity and her heid for a saicont.

Chloe looked at Da tae see if he unnerstood whit wis happenin but he jist shrugged his shooders.

“Whit dae ye mean, ye want the tink tae go on as weel?” said Mither, no able tae credit whit she wis hearin.

Da grinned.
Question Time
wis a serious poleetical discussion programme hostit by a Sir. It wis Mither’s big chaunce tae sheen, and she obviously didnae want it tae be speyled by a foostie auld tink.

“Weel, aye,” Mither cairried on, “I ken it maks a guid story, but does he really hae tae be on as weel? He reeks!”

There wis anither pause while the Prime Meenister spoke, the murmur gettin a bittie looder. Chloe wis impressed by the man. Onybody that could mak her Mither haud her wheesht even for a moment
deserved
tae run the country.

“Aye, aye, weel, if that’s whit ye want Preem Meenister, then aye, coorse I will bring Mr Mingin alang. Thank you awfie muckle for cawin. By the wey I mak a guid Clootie Dumplin. If ye’re ever passin on yer Battle Bus I wid be delichted tae offer ye a daud or twa. Naw? Weel, guidbye … guidbye … guidbye …” She checked yin last time that he wis definately gane. “Cheerio.”

Chloe rushed intae the gairden tae tell Mr Mingin the news. She heard a “Grrrrrr” and thocht it must be the Duchess. But it wisnae. It wis actually Elizabeth the bawdrins that wis daein the gurrin. She wis lookin up at the tap o the shed, whaur a tremmlin Duchess wis hidin. The wee bleck dug wis yowpin saftly. Chloe chased Elizabeth awa and brocht the Duchess doon. She clapped her.

“There, there,” she said. “That ill-trickit bawdrins is awa noo.”

Elizabeth flew oot o the busses and through the air like a kung-fu kittlin. A frichtit Duchess rocketit up the aipple tree tae safety. Elizabeth stramped aroond the tree trunk, hissin carnaptiously.