Mr Mingin (2 page)

“Whit's that on yer back, lass?” cawed oot Mr Mingin.

“Whit's whit on ma back?” spiered Chloe, tryin tae keek ower her shooder. She raxed roond and tore a bit o paper aff her jaiket. She gawped at it.

Scrievit on the bit o paper, in muckle bleck letters, wis a singil word.

Chloe felt her belly go skelly wi shame. Rosamund must hae stuck it ontae her when she left the schuil. Rosamund wis leader o the Prom Quines gang. She wis aye pickin on Chloe, snashin at her for eatin ower mony sweeties, or for bein puirer than the ither lassies, or for bein the lassie nae team ever wantit on their side at hockey. While Chloe wis leavin the schuil the day, Rosamund had clapped her on the back a wheen times, sayin “Merry Christmas”, and aw the ither lassies were lauchin. Noo Chloe kent why. Mr Mingin rose shoogily fae his bench and taen the paper fae Chloe's hauns.

“I cannae believe I've been gaun aboot wi that on ma back aw efternoon,” said Chloe. Embarrassed tae feel tears jaggin her een, she looked awa, blenkin intae the sunlicht.

“Whit's adae wi ye, bairnie?” spiered Mr Mingin in a couthie voice.

Chloe peenged. “Weel,” she said, “it's true, is it no? I really am a lavvy-heid.”

Mr Mingin boued doon tae look at her. “Naw,” he said in a strang voice this time. “Ye're no a lavvy-heid. The ainly lavvy-heid roond here is the person that stuck it ontae ye in the first place.”

Chloe tried tae believe him, but couldnae. For as lang as she could mind she had felt like a lavvy-heid. Mibbe Rosamund and the ither Prom Quines were richt.

“There's ainly yin place for this,” said Mr Mingin. He screwed up the bit o paper intae a baw and, like a tap class cricketer, expertly booled it intae the bin. Strecht awa, Chloe's imagination sterted birlin: had he no yince been captain o the England cricket team?

Mr Mingin sclaffed his hauns thegither. “Guid riddance tae bad rubbish.”

“Thanks,” said Chloe.

“Nae bother,” said Mr Mingin. “Ye cannae let the bullies get ye doon.”

“I'll try,” said Chloe. “It wis guid meetin ye Mr … um …” she sterted tae say. Awbody cawed him Mr Mingin, but she didnae ken if he kent that. It didnae feel richt sayin it tae his fizzog.

“Mingin,” he said. “They caw me Mr Mingin.”

“Oh. Awfie gled tae meet ye, Mr Mingin. I'm cried Chloe.”

“Hullo, Chloe,” said Mr Mingin.

“Ye ken whit, Mr Mingin,” said Chloe, “I micht still go tae the shoaps. Are ye needin onythin? A bar o soap mibbe?”

“Och, thank you muckle, ma dear,” he replied. “But whit wid I dae wi a bar o soap? I had a bath jist last year, ye ken. But I widnae mind some sassidges. I widna mind a muckle braw meaty sassidge …”

“Mither?” said Annabelle.

Mither wis eatin. She gied her last moothfu o scran a thoosandth chaw, then swallaed it, afore replyin at lang last.

“Aye, ma wee darlin doo?”

“Chloe’s jist taen yin o thae sassidges aff her plate and pit it in her poacket.”

It wis Setterday nicht, and the Ploom faimlie sat at the denner table, missin
Strictly Come Dauncin
and
The X-Factor
as they ate their tea. Mither said they couldnae watch television and eat at the same time. She had decided it wis ‘awfie tinkie’. Insteid the faimlie had tae sit in staney silence and eat their tea gowkin at the waws. Or Mither wid whiles think up a subject for discussion, usually whit she wid dae if she wis in chairge o the country. Yon wis her absolute tip-tap favourite. Mither had giein up runnin a beauty salon tae staund for Pairliament, and there wis nae doot in her mind that yin day she wid be Prime Meenister.

Mither had named the faimlie’s white Persian bawdrins Elizabeth, efter the Queen. She wis obsessed wi Bein Poash. There wis a doonstairs cludgie that wis aye kept lockit for ‘awfie important guests’, as if yin o the royal faimlie wis gonnae chap the door at ony meenit and say, ‘I’m needin a wee wee.’ There wis a cheena tea set in the press that wis merked ‘for awfie awfie important guests’, and had never yince been used. Mither even skooshed air freshener in the gairden. Mither wid never go oot, and no even answer the door, unless she looked superfantoosh, wi her pearls aroond her thrapple and her hair sterk wi enough hair-skoosh tae pit anither hole in the ozone layer. She wis that used tae turnin her neb up at awbody and awthin, it wis in danger o steyin that wey. Here’s a pictur o her.

Jings, she looks gey poash, does she no?

It wisnae a surprise that Faither, or Da as he liked tae be cawed when Mither wisnae aboot, jist wantit a quiet life and didnae usually speak until spoken tae. He wis a strang muckle-boukit man, but his guidwife made him feel wee inside. Da wis ainly forty, but he wis awready gaun baldy-heidit and stertin tae go aboot like a haufshut knife. He warked lang oors at a caur factory on the edge o the toun.

“Did you pit a sassidge in yer poacket, Chloe?” demandit Mither.

“You’re ayewis tryin tae drap me in it!” Chloe snippit.

This wis true. Annabelle wis twa year younger than Chloe, and yin o thae weans that adults think are jist perfect, but that ither weans dinnae like because they are snochterie wee sweetiemooths. Annabelle loved drappin Chloe richt in it fae a great hicht. She wid lee on her bed in her bricht pink room up the stair and roll aroond greetin, yowlin “CHLOE, GET AFF ME! THAT’S REALLY SAIR!” even though Chloe wis quietly scrievin awa on her ain in the room nixt door. Ye
micht
caw somebody like Annabelle an evil wee bam. She wis
definately
an evil wee bam tae her aulder sister.

“Och, sorry Mither, it jist slippit aff ma plate,” said Chloe guiltily. Her plan had been tae pauchle the sassidge for Mr Mingin. She had been thinkin aboot him aw evenin, imaginin him oot there chitterin in the cauld daurk December nicht as they sat scrannin their tea in their braw warm hoose.

“Weel then Chloe, tak it oot o yer poacket and pit it back on your plate,” ordered Mither. “Onywey, I am bleck-affrontified that we are haein sassidges for wir tea. I gied yer faither strict instructions tae tak hissel aff tae the supermercat and purchase fower wild sea-bass fillets. And he comes hame wi a packet o sassidges. If onybody cawed roond and saw us consumin scran like this, it wid gie me a reid face. They’d think we were awfie teuchters!”

“I am sorry, ma darlin guidwife,” protestit Da. “They didnae hae ony wild sea-bass fillets left.” He gied Chloe the tottiest wink as he said this, confirmin her suspeecion that he had deliberately no done whit Mither had telt him. She and her Da baith loved sassidges and hunners o ither scran that Mither didnae approve o, like burgers, fish-fingirs, ginger, and especially Mr Whippy ice-cream (‘the Deevil’s Pokey Hat,’ Mither cawed it). “I hae never eaten onythin fae a van,” she wid say. “I wid raither be deid.”

“Richt noo, aff yer bahookies and clear the table,” said Mither when they had feenished eatin their tea. “Annabelle, ma wee angel, you cairry the dishes ben the hoose, Chloe, you can waash up and Guidman, ye can dry.” When she said “aff yer bahookies”, whit she really meant wis awbody’s bahookie, forby hers. As the lave o the faimlie set aboot their duties, Mither streetched oot on the sofae and sterted unwrappin a wafer-thin chocolate mint. She allooed hersel yin chocolate mint a day. She nabbled it sae slowly she could mak yin mint last a haill oor.

“Somebody’s chored anither yin o ma Bendicks luxury chocolate mints!” she cawed oot.

Annabelle gied Chloe an accusin look afore gaun back tae the dinin room tae bring oot mair plates. “I bet it wis you, fattygus!” she hished.

“Be guid tae yer sister, Annabelle,” said Da.

Chloe felt guilty, even though it wisnae her that had been chorin her mither’s chocolates. Her Da and her taen up their usual positions at the jaw-boax.

“Chloe, why were ye tryin tae hide yin o yer sassidges?” he spiered. “If ye didnae like it, ye could hae jist telt me.”

“I wisnae tryin tae hide it, Da.”

“Then whit were ye daein wi it?”

Aw o a sudden Annabelle brocht in anither stack o clarty plates and the pair o them wheesht. They waitit a wee meenit until she’d gane.

“Weel, Da, ye ken that tink that aye sits on the same bench ilka—”

“Mr Mingin?”

“Aye. Weel, I thocht his dug looked hungert and I wantit tae bring her a sassidge or twa.”

It wis a lee but it wisnae a muckle yin.

“Weel, I suppose there’s nae herm in giein his puir dug a bit o scran,” said Da. “Jist this yince though, ye unnerstaun?”

“But—”

“Jist this yince, Chloe. Or Mr Mingin will expect ye tae feed his dug ilka day. Noo, I posed anither packet o sassidges ahint the crème fraîche, whitever yon is when it’s at hame. I’ll cook them up for ye afore yer mither gets up the morn’s mornin and ye can gie them—”

“WHIT ARE YOUS TWA SCHEMIN AT?” demandit Mither fae the front room.

“Oh, eh, we were jist talkin aboot which o the Queen’s fower bairns we admire the maist,” said Da. “I am pittin forrit Princess Anne as she’s awfie skeelie wi the cuddies. Mind ye, Chloe is makkin a strang case for Prince Chairlie and his ootstaundin reenge o organic biscuits.”

“Guid topic. Cairry on!” soonded the voice fae nixt door.

Da gied Chloe a gallus wee smile.

Mr Mingin ate the sassidges in an unexpectedly fantoosh wey. First he taen oot a wee linen clootie and tucked it unner his chin. Nixt he taen an antique siller knife and fork oot o his breist pooch. Finally he brocht oot a clatty gowdrimmed cheena plate, which he gied tae the Duchess tae lick clean afore he pit the sassidges neatly doon on it.

Chloe gawped at his cutlery and plate. This looked like anither clue tae his past. Had he mibbe been a gentleman thief that creepit intae country hooses at midnicht and made aff wi the faimlie siller?

“Ye got ony mair sassidges?” spiered Mr Mingin, his mooth aye stappit fu o sassidge.

“Naw, I ainly had eicht and ye’ve had them aw,” replied Chloe.

She stood at a safe distance fae the tink, sae her een widnae stert greetin fae the guff. The Duchess keeked up at Mr Mingin as he ate the sassidges wi a hert-brekkin look that seemed tae say that aw love and aw that wis bonnie existit inside thae tubes o meat.