Mr Mingin (6 page)

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.”

“
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 nock. 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.)