Mr Mingin (4 page)

“It’s jist ma maths jotter, Mither,” said Chloe, gowpin as she edged intae the room.

Ye micht think Chloe wis worrit because her maths wark wisnae verra guid. But that wisnae it. The problem wis, Chloe’s maths jotter didnae hae ony maths in it at aw! The jotter wis meant tae be fu o borin nummers and equations, but insteid it wis totally hoatchin wi colourfu words and picturs.

Spendin aw that time alane had turnt Chloe’s imagination intae a deep daurk widd. It wis a magic place tae escape tae, and faur mair excitin than real life. Chloe had used the jotter tae scrieve a story aboot a lassie wha is sent tae a schuil (based mair or less on her ain schuil) whaur aw the dominies are secretly vampires. She thocht it wis much mair excitin than foostie equations, but Mither clearly didnae agree.

“If this is yer mathematics jotter, why’s it got this daft ugsome horror story in it?” said Mither. This wis yin o thae questions when ye’re no supposed tae answer it. “Nae wunner ye did sae badly in yer mathematics exam. Nae doot ye’ve been spendin yer time in cless scrievin this … this
mince.
I am sae disappointit in you, Chloe.”

Chloe felt her cheeks bleezin wi shame and hung her heid. She didnae think her story wis mince. But she couldnae imagine tellin her Mither that.

“Dae ye no hae onythin tae say for yirsel?” shoutit Mither.

Chloe shook her heid. For the saicont time in yin day she jist wantit tae disappear.

“Weel, this is whit I think o yer story,” said Mither, as she sterted tryin tae rive the jotter in twae.

“P-p-please … dinnae …” stootered Chloe.

“Naw, naw, naw! I’m no peyin yer schuil fees for ye tae waste yer time on this haivers! It’s gaun in the bin!”

The jotter wis obviously made o sterker stuff than Mither had thocht, and it taen her a guid few rugs tae mak the first teer. Hooever, soon the jotter wis nae mair than a haunfu o confetti. Chloe boued her heid, tears nippin her een, as her mither drapped aw the wee bitties in the bin.

“Dae you want tae end up like yer faither? Warkin in the caur factory? If ye concentrate on yer maths and dinnae bother wi glaikit stories, ye hae a chaunce o makkin somethin o yersel! Itherwise ye’ll end up wastin yer life, like yer faither. Is that whit ye want?”

“Weel, I—”

“Dinnae you daur interrupt me!” shoutit Mither. Chloe hadnae realised yon wis anither yin o thae questions when ye’ve tae jist wheesht and no even think aboot giein an answer. “Ye’d better smairten up yer ideas, young lady!”

Chloe wisnae awfie sure whit that meant, but it didnae seem like the best time tae spier. Mither left the room, graundly doofin the door ahint her shut. Chloe sat doon on the edge o her bed. As she beeried her fizzog in her hauns, she thocht o Mr Mingin, settin on his bench wi ainly the Duchess tae keep him company. She wisnae hameless like him, but she
felt
hameless in her hert.

Monday mornin. The first proper day o the Christmas holidays. A day Chloe had been dreidin. She didnae hae ony freends she could text or email or SMS or Facebook or Twitter or whitever, but there wis
yin
person she wantit tae see …

By the time Chloe got tae the bench it wis poorin rain, and she wished she’d at least stapped tae tak her umberellae.

“The Duchess and I werenae expectin tae see ye again, Chloe,” said Mr Mingin. His een skinkled at the surprise, in spite o the rain.

“I’m awfie sorry I ran awa like that,” said Chloe.

“Dinnae fash, I forgie ye,” he keckled.

Chloe sat doon nixt tae him. She gied the Duchess a clap, and then noticed that the loof o her haun wis bleck. She gied it a sleekit dicht on her breeks. Then she chittered as a raindrap ran doon the back o her craigie.

“Och naw, ye’re cauld!” said Mr Mingin. “Let’s get oot o the rain and gan intae yin o thae coffee shoap placies.”

“Eh … aye, guid idea,” said Chloe, no sure if takkin somebody as mingin as him intae an enclosed space really
wis
a guid idea. As they walked intae the toun centre, the rain felt icy-cauld, jist aboot turnin tae rattlestanes.

When they got tae the coffee shoap, Chloe keeked through the steamed-up gless windae. “I doot there’s nae seats left,” she said. Unfortunately, the coffee shoap wis hoatchin wi Christmas shoappers, aw tryin tae stey oot o the snell Scottish weather.

“We’ll jist hae tae try,” said Mr Mingin, pickin up the Duchess and tryin tae pose her unner his tweed jaiket.

The tink opened the door for Chloe and she squeezed hersel ben. As Mr Mingin gaed in, the bonnie aroma o fresh-brewed coffee boltit. His ain special reek replaced it. There wis silence for a meenit. Then it wis jist pure murder polis.

Folk sterted runnin tae the door, haudin serviettes tae their mooths as makshift gas masks.

“Time tae shoot the craw!” skraiched yin o the staff, and his neebors stapped makkin coffees and pittin buns in pokes and ran for their lifes.

“It seems tae be clearin oot a wee bittie,” annoonced Mr Mingin.

Soon they were the ainly folk left in the haill shoap.
Mibbe honkin as bad as this has its advantages
, thocht Chloe. If Mr Mingin’s superguff could clear oot a coffee shoap, whit else could it dae? Mibbe he could clear the local ice rink o skaters sae she could hae it aw tae hersel? Or they could gang tae Alton Touers thegither and no hae tae queue for a singil ride? Better yet, she could tak him and his guff intae the schuil yin day, and if he wis particulary howlin the heidmistress wid hae tae send awbody hame and she could hae the day aff!

“You tak a seat here, lass,” said Mr Mingin. “Noo, whit dae ye want tae drink?”

“Eh … a cappucino, please,” replied Chloe, tryin tae soond grown-up.

“I think I’ll hae yin and aw.” Mr Mingin shauchled ahint the coonter and sterted openin tins. “Richt, twa cappucinos comin up.”

The machines hished and grogged for a few meenits, and then Mr Mingin daunered back ower tae the table wi twa mugs o a daurk liquid as yet unkent tae man or baist. Chloe taen a closer keek. It looked like bleck creesh, but Chloe wis ower weel brocht up tae girn aboot it and pretendit tae sook whitever it wis he had concoctit for her. She even managed a near convincin, “Mmm … braw!”

Mr Mingin steered his solid liquid wi a dainty wee siller spuin he’d poued oot fae his breist poacket. Chloe keeked at it and noticed it wis monogrammed, wi three wee letters delicately enscrievit on the haunnle. She tried tae get a better look, but he pit it awa afore she could richt see whit the letters were. Whit could they mean? Or wis this jist anither bit o treisure Mr Mingin had chored on the joab as a gentleman thief?

“Sae, Miss Chloe,” said Mr Mingin, cowpin her train o thocht. “It’s the Christmas holidays, is it no?” He taen a sook o coffee, haudin his mug perjinkly atween his fingirs. “Why are you no at hame pittin decorations on the tree wi yer faimlie or wrappin up gifties?”

“Weel, I dinnae ken hoo tae explain …” Naebody in Chloe’s faimlie wis guid at expressin their feelins. Tae her Mither, feelins were at best an embarrassment, at warst a sign o weakness.

“Jist tak yer time, young lady.”

Chloe taen a deep braith and it aw cam poorin oot. Whit sterted aff as a burn soon turnt intae a rushin river o emotion. She telt him hoo her parents argied maist o the time and hoo yince she wis sittin on the stairs when she heard her Mither shout, “Ye ken I’m ainly steyin wi ye because o the girls!”

Hoo her wee sister made her life a misery. Hoo nothin she did wis ever guid enough. Hoo if she brocht hame some wee bool she had made in pottery cless her Mither wid pit it tae the back o the cupboard, never tae be seen again. But if her wee sister brocht ony piece o airtwork hame, nae maitter hoo rotten it wis, it aye got pit up abuin the mantelpiece ahint bullit-proof gless as if it wis the
Mona Lisa
.

Chloe telt Mr Mingin aboot hoo her mither wis ayewis tryin tae mak her loss wecht. Up until recently, Mither had described her as “roond”. But yince she turnt twal, Mither raither cruelly sterted cawin her a “fattygus” or even warse a “hoose end”, as if she wis some sort o buildin. Mibbe Mither wis tryin tae shame her intae wecht. In truth, it ainly made Chloe mair meeserable, and bein meeserable ainly made her eat mair. Fillin her gub wi chocolate, crisps and cake felt like gettin a much-needit coorie in.

She telt Mr Mingin hoo she wished whiles her Da wid staund up tae her mither. Hoo she didnae find it easy tae mak freends, as she wis sae blate hersel. Hoo she ainly really liked makkin up stories, but that it made her mither crabbit. And hoo Rosamund did awthin in her pouer tae mak Chloe’s life at the schuil an absolute nichtmare.

It wis a lang, lang leet, but Mr Mingin listened tae ilka word she said as booncie Christmas sangs played by theirsels in the backgroond. For somebody that spent ilka day wi ainly a wee bleck dug for company, he wis surprisinly fu o wisdom. In fact, he seemed tae lap up the opportunity tae listen and talk and help. Folk didnae really stap tae talk tae Mr Mingin – and he seemed gled tae be haein a real conversation for yince.

He telt Chloe, “Tell yer Mither hoo ye feel, I am sure she loves ye and wid hate ye tae no be happy.” And, “… try and find somethin fun ye can dae wi yer sister.” And, “… why no talk tae yer da aboot the wey ye feel?”

Efter aw that, Chloe telt Mr Mingin aboot hoo Mither had rived her vampire story tae bits. She had tae try gey haurd no tae greet.

“That’s awfie, lassie,” said Mr Mingin. “Ye must hae been hert-broken.”

“I hate her,” said Chloe. “I hate ma mither.”

“Och, dinnae say that,” said Mr Mingin.

“But I dae.”

“Ye’re awfie angry at her, coorse ye are, but she loves ye, even if she finds it haurd tae shaw it.”

“Mibbe.” Chloe shrugged her shooders, no convinced. But haein talked aboot awthin she felt a wee bit calmer noo. “Thank you awfie muckle for listenin tae me,” she said.

“I jist hate tae see a young lassie like you lookin sae dowie,” said Mr Mingin. “I micht be auld, but I can mind whit it wis like tae be young. I jist hope I wis a wee bit o help.”

“You were a muckle bit o help.”

Mr Mingin smiled, afore lettin the last moothfu o his volcanic bree slidder doon his thrapple. “Braw! Noo, we’d better lea some siller for oor beverages.” He howked aroond in his poackets for some chynge. “Ach, mince, I cannae read the board wioot ma glesses. I’ll lea six pence. Yon should be enough. And a tuppeny tip. They’ll be gled o that. They can treat theirsels tae yin o thae new-fankelt video cassette thingwies. Richt, I doot ye’d better be heidin hame noo, young lady.”

The rain had stapped when they come oot the coffee shoap. They daunered doon the road as caurs wheeched past.

“Let’s chynge places,” said Mr Mingin.

“Hoo come?”

“Because a lady should aye walk on the inside o the pavement and a mannie on the ootside.”

“Really?” said Chloe. “Hoo come?”

“Weel,” replied Mr Mingin,” the ootside is mair dangerous because yon’s whaur the caurs are. But I believe that it wis originally because in the auld days folk used tae fling the contents o their chanties oot the windae and intae the sheuch. The person on the ootside wis mair likely tae get cakit.”

“Whit’s a chanty?” said Chloe.