Mr Mingin (12 page)

Insert yin in ilka lug. Mair muckle lugs will require mair muckle droappins and possibly even a mair muckle rabbit.

Enjoy a braw nicht’s sleep speyled ainly by the honk o rabbit keech.

The Duchess sniffed at the droappins in the vain hope they micht be a couple o Maltesers or at the verra warst some o Raj’s hatit coffee Revels, but quickly turnt up her neb when she realised they werenae sweeties but keech – and gaed back tae her makshift basket.

“Yon’s better,” said Mr Mingin. “Ye ken, I had an awfie unco dream last nicht, Miss Chloe. I wis on television discussin aw the important issues o the day! Yer mither wis there and aw! It wis a hoot!”

“That wisnae a dream, Mr Mingin. That really happent.”

“Och, naw,” said the tink. “Mibbe it wisnae sae funny efter aw.”

“It
wis
a hoot, Mr Mingin. You were the star o the show. And noo there’s hunners o folk camped ootside the hoose.”

“Whit in the name o the wee man dae they want, bairn?”

“You!” said Chloe. “They want tae interview ye I think. And some folk want you tae be the Prime Meenister!”

The crood wis gettin looder and looder noo. “WE WANT MINGIN! WE WANT MINGIN! WE WANT MINGIN!”

“Och help ma kilt, aye I can hear them. They want me for Prime Meenister, ye say? Ha ha! I’ll hae tae mind tae appear on television mair aften! Mibbe they’ll mak me king nixt tae!”

“Ye’d better get up, Mr Mingin. Noo!”

“Aye, coorse, Miss Chloe. Richt, I want tae look smairt for aw ma fans.”

He footered aroond the shed sniffin at his claes and pouin a scunnered face.
If even he thinks they’re mingin
, thocht Chloe,
they must be howlin.

“I could pit some claes on a quick waash and dry for ye,” she offered hopin he’d agreed tae it.

“Naw, thank you, ma dear. I dinnae think waashin machines are hygienic. I’ll jist get the Duchess tae chaw some o the clattiest stains oot.”

He howked through a bing o his claes and poued oot a pair o spectacularly clart-cakit broon troosers. Whether they had been broon when they sterted their life wis onybody’s guess. He flung them tae the Duchess, wha sterted her joab as a reluctant dry cleaner and stertit chawin awa at the stains.

Chloe cleared her thrapple. “Um … Mr Mingin. Ye said on the TV programme hoo ilka hameless buddie has a different story tae tell. Weel, can ye tell me yer ain story? I mean, hoo did ye end up on the streets?”

“Why dae ye think, ma dear?”

“I dinnae ken. I’ve got millions o theories. Mibbe ye were abandoned in a widd as a bairnie and raised by a pack o wolves?”

“Naw!” he keckled.

“Or I reckon ye were a warld-famous rock star that faked yer ain deeth because ye couldnae haunnle aw the adulation.”

“I wish I wis.”

“Awricht then, ye were a tap scientist that inventit the maist pouerfu bomb in the warld and then, realisin it could herm folk, ye run awa fae the airmy.”

“Weel, those are aw gey imaginative guesses,” he said. “But I am sorry, nane o them are richt. Ye’re no even close, I’m afraid.”

“I didnae think sae.”

“I will tell ye when the time is richt, Chloe.”

“Promise?”

“I promise. Noo please gie me a couple o meenits, ma dear. I hae tae get ready tae meet ma public!”

“
I AM NO APOLOGISIN TAE HIM!”

“YE HUV TAE!”

Mr Mingin sat at the heid o the kitchen table readin aw aboot himsel in the newspapers as Chloe stood at the stove fryin some sassidges for him. Her parents were fechtin in the nixt room. It wisnae a conversation that their guest wis meant tae hear, but they were that angry their voices were becomin looder and looder.

“BUT HE IS HONKIN!”

“I KEN HE’S HONKIN BUT YE DIDNAE NEED TAE SAY IT ON NATIONAL TELEVISION.”

Chloe smiled ower at Mr Mingin. He looked sae engrossed in aw the heidlines, ‘Superminger!’, ‘Clingin Superstar Chores the Show!’, ‘Hameless Man Saves Haunless Election’, that he appeart no tae be listenin. Or mibbe he’d pit his rabbit keech lug-plugs back in.

“OBVIOUSLY NO!” shouted Mither. “LAST NICHT I HAD ANITHER CAW FAE THE PRIME MEENISTER TELLIN ME I HAE GIEIN THE PAIRTY A RICHT SHOWIN UP AND HE WANTS ME TAE WITHDRAW AS A CANDIDATE!”

“GUID!”

“WHIT DAE YE MEAN ‘GUID’?”

“THE HAILL THING HAS TURNT YOU INTAE A MOANSTER!” shouted Da.

“WHIT?! I AM NO A MOANSTER!”

“AYE, YE ARE! MOANSTER! MOANSTER! MOANSTER!”

“HOO DAUR YE?!” skraiked Mither.

“GET OOT AND APOLOGISE TAE HIM!”

“NUT!”

“APOLOGISE!”

For a moment aw ye could hear wis the soond o sassidge fat and lard in the fryin pan. Then, slowly, the door opened and Mither creepit like creesh intae the room. Her bouffant still wisnae itsel. She hesitatit for a moment. Her husband appeart in the doorwey and gied her a crabbit look. She did a wee theatrical coaff.

“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?”

“
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.