Mr Mingin
Authors: David Walliams
For ma Maw Kathleen, the kindest buddie
I hae ever met.
1
Scart âN' Wheech
Mr Mingin minged. He monged tae. And if it is guid Scots tae say he mingit, then he mingit as weel. He wis the mingiest mingin minger that ever lived.
Mingin is the warst kind o smell. Mingin is warse than honkin. Honkin is warse than bowfin. Bowfin is warse than a guff. And a guff can sometimes be enough tae mak yer neb curl up and dee.
It wisnae Mr Mingin's faut he wis mingin. Efter aw, he wis a tink. He didnae hae a hame sae he never had the chaunce tae hae a richt guid waash like you and me. Efter a while, the guff jist got warse and warse. Here is a pictur o Mr Mingin.
As ye can see, he's buskit up in braw claes wi his bow-tie and tweed jaiket. No bad, eh? Dinnae be glaikit. The illustration doesnae gie ye ony idea o the smell. This could easy be a scart ân' wheech buik â ken, ye gie the page a scart and wheech, whit a guff! â but the smell wid be that honkin ye'd hae tae pit it in the bin. And then beery the bin in the groond. Deep doon unner the groond.
Yon's his wee bleck dug wi him, the Duchess. The Duchess wis nae particular breed o dug, she wis jist a dug. She wis mingin tae, but no as bad as Mr Mingin. Nothin in the warld bowfed as bad as him. Forby his baird. His baird wis hoatchin wi auld dauds o egg and sassidge and cheese that had fawn oot o his mooth in the days o auld lang syne. It had never, ever been waashed sae it had its ain special honk, even warse than his usual yin.
Yin mornin, Mr Mingin jist daunered intae the toun and taen up residence on an auld widden bench. Naebody kent whaur he'd come frae or whaur he micht be gaun. The folk in the toun were maistly guid tae him. They whiles drapped a few bawbees at his fit, afore nashin awa wi their een watterin. But naebody wis aw that
freendly
tae him. Naebody stapped for a blether.
At least, no until yon day a wee lassie finally foond the courage in her hert tae speak tae him â and yon's whaur oor story sterts.
“Hullo,” said the lassie, her voice tremmlin a bittie wi nerves. The lassie wis cawed Chloe. She wis ainly twal year auld and she hadnae ever spoken tae a tink afore. Her mither had said she wisnae tae speak tae âheidbangers'. Her mither didnae even like her dochter talkin tae the weans fae the local scheme. But Chloe didnae think Mr Mingin
wis
a heidbanger. She thocht he wis a man that looked like he had an awfie interestin story tae tell â and if there wis yin thing Chloe loved, it wis stories.
Ilka day she wid birl past him and his dug in her parents' caur on the wey tae her poash private schuil. Sun or snaw, he wis aye sittin on the same bench wi his dug at his fit. As she rested her bahookie on the saft comfy back seat aside her bizzum o a wee sister Annabelle, Chloe wid keek oot the windae at Mr Mingin and wunner aboot his life.
Millions o thochts and questions wid sweem through her heid. Wha wis he? Why did he bide on the streets? Had he ever had a hame? Whit did his dug eat? Did he hae ony freends or faimlie? If he did, did they no ken he wis hameless?
Whaur did he go at Christmas? If ye wantit tae scrieve a letter tae him, whit address wid ye pit on the envelope? âThe bench, ye ken the yin I'm on aboot â that yin roond the coarner fae the bus stoap'? When wis the last time he'd taen a bath? And wis his name
really
Mr Mingin?
Chloe wis the kind o lassie that loved tae be alane wi her thochts. She wid aften sit on her bed and mak up stories aboot Mr Mingin. Sittin on her ain in her room, she wid come up wi aw sorts o tales and whigmaleeries. Mibbe Mr Mingin wis a heroic auld tarry breeks wha had won dizzens o medals for bravery on the seeven seas, but jist couldnae haunnle life on dry land? Or mibbe he wis a warld-famous opera sangster wha yin nicht hit the tap note in an aria at the Royal Opera Hoose in London, tint his voice awthegither and couldnae ever chant again? Or mibbe he wis really a tap secret Russian agent wha had got guised up as a tink tae sleekitly spy on the folk o the toun?
Chloe didnae ken onythin aboot Mr Mingin. But whit she did ken, yon day she stapped tae talk tae him for the first time, wis that he looked like he needit the five-poond note she wis haudin
faur
mair than she did.
He seemed lanely tae, no jist alane, but lanely in his sowel. This made Chloe feel dowie. She kent fine weel whit it wis like tae be lanely. Chloe didnae muckle like her schuil. Mither had insistit on sendin her tae a pan-loafey aw-lassies secondary schuil, and she hadnae made ony freends there. Chloe didnae like bein at hame aw that muckle either. Whaurever she wis, she had the feelin she jist didnae fit in.
Whit's mair, it wis Christmas, the time o year Chloe hatit the maist. Christmas. Awbody is meant tae love Christmas, especially the bairns. But Chloe didnae. She hatit the tinsel, she hatit the crackers, she hatit the carols, she hatit haein tae watch the Queen haiverin on the telly, she hatit the mince pies, she hatit the wey it never really snawed like it wis meant tae, she hatit sittin doon wi her faimlie tae a lang, lang denner, and maist o aw, she hatit hoo she had tae pretend she wis happy jist because it wis December 25th.
“Whit can I dae for you, young lassie?” said Mr Mingin. She didnae expect his voice tae be sae poash. As naebody had ever stapped tae talk tae him afore, he glowered suspeecious-like at this pudgie wee lassie. Chloe wis suddently a bit feart. Mibbe talkin tae the auld tink wisnae sic a braw idea efter aw. She had been warkin up tae this moment for weeks, months even. This wisnae hoo it had played oot in her heid at aw.
Tae mak maitters warse, Chloe had tae stap breathin through her neb. The reek wis stertin tae puggle her. It wis like a livin craitur, crowlin its wey up her neb-holes and burnin the back o her thrapple.
“Eh, weel, sorry tae bother ye ⦔
“Aye?” said Mr Mingin, a wee bit impatient. Chloe wis taen aback. Why wis he in sic a hurry? He
ayewis
sat on his bench. It wisnae as if he suddently needit tae gang somewhaur else.
Jist then the Duchess sterted bowfin at her. Chloe felt even mair frichtened. Seein this, Mr Mingin poued the Duchess's lead, that wis really jist a bit o auld rope, tae get her tae wheesht.
“Weel,” Chloe cairried on nervously, “ma auntie gied me five poond tae buy masel a Christmas present. But I dinnae really need onythin sae I thocht I wid gie it tae you.”
Mr Mingin smiled. Chloe smiled tae. For a moment it looked like he wis gonnae tak Chloe's siller, then he keeked doon at the groond.
“Thank ye,” he said. “Undeemous kindness, but I cannae tak it. Sorry.”
Chloe didnae ken whit tae think. “Why no?” she spiered.
“You're jist a bairn. Five poond? It's ower, ower generous.”
“I jist thochtâ”
“It's awfie kind o ye, but I cannae tak it. Tell me, hoo auld are you, young lady? Ten?”
“TWAL!” said Chloe loodly. She wis wee for her age, but liked tae think she wis grown-up in ither weys. “I'm twal. Thirteen on Januar the ninth.”
“Sorry, ye're twal. Gaun on thirteen. Awa and buy yirsel yin o thae new musical stereo disco thingwies. Dinnae you fash yersel aboot an auld gaberlunzie like me.” He smiled. There wis a real skinkle in his ee when he smiled.
“I dinnae mean tae be rude,” said Chloe, “but can I spier ye a question?”
“Aye, coorse ye can.”
“Weel, I wid love tae ken: why dae ye bide on a bench and no in a hoose like me?”
Mr Mingin shauchled his feet and looked a wee bit unsure o himsel. “It's a lang story, ma dear,” he said. “Mibbe I will tell ye it anither day.”
Chloe wis disappointit. Whit if there
wisnae
anither day? If her mither foond oot she'd been talkin tae this mannie, never mind tryin tae gie him siller, she wid go aff her heid.
“Weel, sorry tae bother ye,” said Chloe. “Hope ye hae a braw day.” As the words come oot she immediately wished she could pit them back in her mooth. Whit a glaikit thing tae say! Hoo could he possibly hae a braw day? He wis a mingin auld tink, and the sky wis gaun dreich wi muckle daurk cloods. She taen a wheen steps up the street, her cheeks bleezin reid wi embarrassment.
