Mr Mingin (10 page)

Chloe chapped on the shed door. “Hiya?”

“Is that you, Duchess?” cam Mr Mingin’s voice fae inside.

“Naw, it’s Chloe,” said Chloe.
He’s gyte!
she thocht.

“Och, bonnie Chloe! Come awa ben, sweethert.”

Mr Mingin cowped a bucket ower. “Please, tak a seat. Sae did yer Mither and I get intae the newspaper?”

“Ye’re on the front page. Look it!”

She held up the paper and he let oot a wee lauch. “Fame at last!”

“And that’s no aw. We jist had a caw fae the Prime Meenister.”

“Winston Churchill?”

“Naw, we’ve got a new yin noo, and he wants you and Mither tae go on this programme cawed
Question Time
the nicht.”

“On the televisual boax?

“The TV? Aye. And I wis thinkin, afore ye go on …” Chloe looked at Mr Mingin wi hope in her een. “It micht be a guid idea if ye had a …”

“Aye, bairn?”

“Weel a …”

“Aye …?”

“A …” She finally howked up enough courage tae say it, “… bath?”

Mr Mingin glowered at her suspeeciously for twa-three saiconts.

“Chloe?” he spiered at last.

“Aye, Mr Mingin?”

“I dinnae reek, dae I?”

Hoo could she answer this? She didnae want tae hurt Mr Mingin’s feelins, but then again it wid be faur easier tae be aroond him if he got tae ken Mr Soap and his sonsie guidwife, Mrs Watter …”

“Naw, naw, naw, coorse ye dinnae reek,” said Chloe, gowpin the biggest gowp that had even been gowped in the history of gowps.

“Thank you, ma dear,” said Mr Mingin, seemin awmaist convinced. “Then hoo come people caw me Mr Mingin?”

In her heid, Chloe heard the lood dramatic music fae
Wha Wants tae be a Millionaire
? This could hae been the million poond question. But Chloe had nae ‘50/50’, nae ‘spier the audience’ and no even a ‘phone a freend’ at her disposal. Efter a lang pause, in which ye could hae watched aw three
Laird o the Rings
films in the special extendit director’s cuts, words sterted tae form in Chloe’s mooth.

“It’s a joke,” she heard hersel sayin.

“A joke?” spiered Mr Mingin.

“Aye, because ye actually smell awfie nice sae awbody caws ye Mr Mingin for a joke.”

“Really?” His suspeecion seemed tae be dwynin a wee bit.

“Aye, like cawin a gey wee man ‘Mr Muckle’ or a skinnymalink ‘Fattygus’.”

“Oh aye, I unnerstaun, maist joco!” keckled Mr Mingin.

The Duchess keeked at Chloe wi a look that said,
Ye had the chaunce tae tell him, but ye didnae. Ye chose tae cairry on leein tae him.

Hoo dae I ken that the Duchess’s look said aw that? Because there is a braw buik in ma local library cawed
Yin Thoosand Duggie Expressions Explained
by Professor L. Stane.

Noo back tae the story.

“But,” said Chloe, “ye micht like tae hae a bath, weel, jist for fun …”

This wis nae ordinar bath time. Chloe realised this had tae be run like a military operation.

Hoat watter? Check.

Touels? Check.

Bubble bath? Check?

Rubber deuk or similar bath time toy beastie? Check.

Soap? Wis there enough soap in the hoose? Or in the toun? Or in the haill o Europe, tae mak Mr Mingin clean? He hadnae had a bath since – weel, he said last year, but it micht as weel hae been since dinosaurs daunered aboot the earth.

Chloe turnt on the taps, rinnin them baith thegither sae the temperature wid be jist richt. If it wis ower hoat or ower cauld it micht frichten Mr Mingin aff baths forever. She poored in some bubble bath, and gied it a swirl. Then she laid oot some neatly fauldit touels, brawly warm fae the airin cupboard, on a cutty stool by the bath. In the cabinet she fund a multi-pack o soaps. It wis aw gaun perfectly accordin tae plan, until …

“He’s awa!” said Da, pokin his heid aroond the bathroom door.

“Whit dae ye mean, ‘he’s awa’?” said Chloe.

“He’s no in the shed, he’s no in the hoose, I cannae see him in the gairden. I dinnae ken whaur he is.”

“Stert the caur!” said Chloe.

They sped aff oot o their street. This wis excitin. Da wis drivin faster than usual, although still yin mile an oor less than the speed limit, and Chloe sat in the front seat, which she haurdly ever did. Aw they needit wis some tak-awa doughnuts and coffee, and they could be twa misfit polis in a Hollywidd action movie. Chloe jaloused that if Mr Mingin wis onywhaur he would be back sittin on his bench whaur she first talked tae him.

“Stap the caur!” she said, as they passed the bench.

“But it’s a double yellae line,” pleadit Da.

“I said, stap the caur!”

Da pit his fit haurd on the brake. The tyres skraiked. They were baith flung forrit a wee bit in their seats. They smiled at each anither at the excitement o it aw – it wis like they’d jist come hurlin doon a rollercoaster. Chloe lowped oot o the caur and slammed the door shut wi a muckle whud, somethin she wid never daur dae if her mither wis aroond.

But the bench wis toom. Mr Mingin wisnae there. Chloe taen a sniff at the air. There wis a peerie whiff o him, but she couldnae tell if the guff wis recent or yin that had been hingin aboot in the atmosphere for a week or twa.

Da drove aroond the toun for anither oor. Chloe checked aw the places she thocht her tink freend micht be – unner brigs, in the park, in the coffee shoap, even ahint the bins. But it seemed as though he really had disappeart. Chloe felt like greetin. Mibbe he had left toun awthegither – efter aw, he wis a stravaiger.

“We’d better heid hame noo, darlin,” said Da saftly.

“Aye,” said Chloe, tryin tae be brave.

“I’ll pit the kettle on,” said Da as they walked ben the hoose.

In Britain, a cup o tea is the answer tae ilka problem.

Fawn aff yer bike? Hae a cup o tea.

Yer hoose has been malkied by a meteorite? Here’s a cup o tea tae ye.

Yer haill faimlie has been scranned by a Tyrannosaurus Rex that has traivelled through a yett in time and space? Tak a cup o tea and a daud o cake. Mibbe a bite o somethin savoury wid be help calm ye doon and aw, for example a Scotch egg or a sassidge roll.

Chloe picked up the kettle and gaed tae the sink tae fill it. She keeked oot the windae.

Jist then, Mr Mingin’s heid popped oot o the pond. He gied her a wee wave. Chloe skraiked.

When they’d got ower their shoack, Chloe and Da walked slowly doon tae the pond. Mr Mingin wis hummin the sang ‘Speed bonnie boat’ tae himsel. As he chanted, he rubbed algae intae himsel wi a watter lily. A nummer o gowdfish floatit upside doon on the watter’s surface.

“Guid efternoon, Miss Chloe, guid efternoon, Mr Ploom,” said Mr Mingin brichtly. “I’ll no be lang. I dinnae want tae get aw runklie sittin in here!”

“Whit … whit … whit are ye daein?” spiered Da.

“The Duchess and I are haein a bath, jist as young Chloe suggestit.”

At that moment the Duchess appeart oot o the clatty depths, happit in weeds. As if it wisnae enough that he wis haein a bath in a pond, Mr Mingin had tae share it wi his dug as weel. Efter twa-three moments the Duchess sclimmed oot o the pond, leain a muckle bleck layer o scum floatin on the watter. She shook hersel dry and Chloe gawked at her in surprise. It turnt oot she wisnae a wee bleck dug efter aw, but a wee white yin.

“Mr Ploom, sir?” said Mr Mingin. “Wid ye be sae awfie kind and gie me that touel? Thank you awfie muckle. Ah! I’m as clean as a whustle noo!”

Mither snowked the air. And snowked it again. Her neb runkled wi pure scunner.

“Are ye sure ye had a bath, Mr Mingin?” she spiered, as Da drove aw the faimlie and Mr Mingin tae the television studio.

“Aye, I did, Madam.”

“Weel, there is an unco reek o pond in this caur. And dug,” pronoonced Mither fae the front seat.

“I think I’m gonnae cowk,” pronoonced Annabelle fae the back seat.

“I’ve telt ye afore, darlin. We dinnae say ‘cowk’ in this faimlie,” correctit Mither. “We say we are feelin nauseous.”

Chloe sleekitly opened the windae, sae she widnae hurt Mr Mingin’s feelins.

“Dae you mind if we keep the windae shut?” spiered Mr Mingin. “I’m a wee bit cauld.”

The windae gaed up again.

“Thank you awfie muckle,” said Mr Mingin. “Sic undeemous kindness.”

They stapped at some traffic lichts and Da raxed oot for yin o his haurd rock CDs. Mither skelped his haun, and he pit it back on the steerin wheel. She then pit her favourite CD on the caur stereo, and the auld couple in the nixt caur keekit at the Ploom faimlie wi an unco look on the fizzogs as ‘Rule Britannia’ cam beltin oot o the caur.

“Mmm, naw naw naw, that winnae dae at aw …” said the TV producer as he studied Mr Mingin. “Can we pit some clart on him? He doesnae look tinkie enough. Mak-up? Whaur’s the mak-up?”

A wummin wi faur ower muckle mak-up on appeart fae aroond a corridor, chawin a croissant and haudin a pouder-puff.

“Darlin, hiv ye got ony clart?” spiered the producer.

“Come this wey, Mr …?” said the mak-up wummin.

“Mingin,” said Mr Mingin proodly. “Mr Mingin. And I’m gaun tae be on the television the nicht.”

Mither glowered.

Chloe, Annabelle and Da were led tae a wee room wi a television, hauf a bottle o warm white wine and some foostie crisps, tae watch the programme bein broadcast live.

The thunnerous title music sterted, there wis poleet applause fae the audience and the bigheidit pompous-lookin presenter, Sir David Skoosh addressed the camera. “The nicht on
Question Time
it’s an election special. We hae representatives fae aw the major poleetical pairties, and as weel as that we hae a tink that caws himsel Mr Mingin. Weelcome tae the programme, awbody.”

Awbody aroond the table noddit, apairt fae Mr Mingin wha proclaimed loodly, “May I say whit a delicht it is for me tae be on yer programme the nicht?”

“Thank you,” said the presenter, a bit taen aback.

“Bein hameless I hae never seen it,” said Mr Mingin. “In fact, I hae absolutely nae idea wha you are. But I’m sure you are unbelievably kenspeckle. Please cairry on, Sir Donald.”

The audience lauched uncertainly. Mither looked bealin. The presenter hoasted nervously and tried tae continue.

“Sae the first question the nicht …”

“Are ye wearin mak-up, Sir Declan?” spiered Mr Mingin aw innocent.

“A wee bit, aye. For the lichts.”

“Ah, for the lichts,” said Mr Mingin. “Foondation?”

“Aye.”

“Ee liner?”

“A bittie.”

“Lip-gloass?”

“A daud.”

“Looks guid. I wish I had some on the noo. Blusher?”

The audience snichered throughoot this exchynge. Sir David flitted on rapidly. “I should explain that Mr Mingin is here the nicht as he has been invitit tae bide wi Mrs Ploom …”

“Pluuuuuummmm,” correctit Mither.

“Och,” said Sir David. “I dae apologise. We checked the pronoonciation wi yer husband, and he said it wis Ploom.”

Mither turnt reid wi embarrassment. Sir David keekit back at his notes. “Later in the programme,” he said, “we will be discussin the difficult topic o hamelessness.”

Mr Mingin pit his haun up.

“Aye, Mr Mingin?” spiered the presenter.

“Can I jist nip oot tae the cludgie, Sir Duncan?”