Mr Mingin (8 page)

“Ah, ma twa favourite customers!” Raj cried oot as they entered the shoap. “The perjink Mrs Ploom and her delichtfu dochter, Chloe.”

“It’s Plum!” correctit Mither. “Sae, Raj, can I rely on yer vote?”

“Are ye on
The X-Factor
?!” said Raj aw excitit. “Aye, aye, coorse I’ll vote for ye. Whit are ye singin on Setterday?”

“Naw, she’s no daein
The X-Factor
, Raj,” interjectit Chloe, tryin no tae lauch at the thocht.

“
Britain’s Goat Talent
then? Ye’re mibbe daein a ventriloquist act wi a bawheid otter puppet cawed Jeremy? That wid be maist amusin!”

“Naw, she’s no daein
Britain’s Goat Talent
either.” Chloe smirkled.

“
Hoo dae ye solve ony dream will dae I’d dae onythin
or whitver it’s cawed wi Graham thingwy?”

“It’s the election, Raj,” interruptit Mither. “Ye ken, the local election? I’m staundin tae be oor local MP.”

“And when is this election thingwy happenin then?”

“Nixt Friday. I cannae believe ye’ve missed it! It’s aw ower these newspapers, Raj!” Mither wagged a haun at the muckle piles o newspapers in the shoap.

“Och, I ainly read
Nuts
and
Zoo
,” said Raj. “I get aw the news I need fae them.”

Mither gied him a snottery look, even though Chloe suspectit she wisnae sure whit either
Nuts
or
Zoo
wis. Chloe had yince seen a copy o
Nuts
that yin o the aulder laddies had brocht tae the schuil, and kent it wis awfie coorse.

“Whit dae you think are the maist important issues Britain faces the day?” spiered Mither, delichted wi the clivverocity and smairtiness o her ain question.

Raj thocht for a meenit, then shouted ower at some laddies that were hingin aboot the pick ‘n’ mix. “Dinnae pit the liquorice in yer mooth unless ye’re gonnae buy it, young man! Och naw, I’m gonnae hae tae pit that liquorice on special offer noo!”

Raj grabbed a pen and a piece o caird. He scrievit ‘hauf chawed’, and pit it on the liquorice boax. “Sorry, whit wis the question again?”

Note tae self
, thocht Chloe.
Dinnae ever buy ony liquorice fae this shoap again.

“Eh … Noo whaur wis I?” said Mither tae Raj. “Oh aye, whit dae you think are the maist—?”

“… important issues Britain faces the day, Raj?” said Raj brichtly. “Och, I didnae need tae say ‘Raj’. I am Raj. Weel, I think it wid be a muckle advance if Cadbury’s Creme Eggs were available no jist at Easter but aw year roond. They are yin o ma maist popular items. And I strangly believe that Quavers should diversifee fae cheese flavours tae incorporate Asian Chucken and Lamb Rogan Josh as weel. And maist importantly, and I ken this micht be a bittie controversial, but I think that coffee Revels maun be banned as they speyl an itherwise perfectly wunnerfu sweetie. There, it’s oot. I’ve said hit.”

“Richt,” said Mither.

“And if ye promise tae chynge the government policy on thae issues ye can rely on ma vote, Mrs Ploom!”

Mither had had a mixed response tae her campaignin sae faur, and wis keen tae secure this potentially crucial vote.

“Aye, I will certainly try, Raj!” she said.

“Thank you awfie muckle,” said Raj. “Please help yersel tae somethin fae the shoap.”

“Naw, I couldnae dae that, Raj!”

“Gaun, Mrs Ploom. Tak a boax o Terry’s Aw Gowd, I’ve ainly taen oot the caramel squares. Mmm, they are braw. And mibbe Chloe wid like this Fingir o Fudge? It’s a bittie flet because ma wife sat on it, but it’s perfectly guid tae eat.”

“We couldnae possibly tak these kind gifties, Raj,” said Mither.

“Weel, why no buy them then? Yin boax o Terry’s Aw Gowd, £4.29, and a Fingir o Fudge, 20p. Yon’s £4.49. Let’s caw it £4.50. Easier if I jist tak five poond. Thank you awfie muckle.”

Chloe and Mither come oot the shoap haudin their sweeties. Mither held her hauf eaten boax o chocolates wi a look o haurdly disguised scunner on her fizzog.

“Noo, dinnae forget, Raj. The election is nixt Friday!” said Mither at the door.

“Och, I cannae mak it nixt Friday, Mrs Ploom. I hae tae stey here as I’m expectin a muckle delivery o Smairties! But guid luck tae ye!”

“Ah … Thank you,” replied Mither, lookin doonhertit.

“Mrs Ploom,” said Raj. “Wid ye be interestit in somethin awfie special that is boond tae become somethin o a faimlie heirloom tae be haundit doon through the generations? Some o yer grandweans will yin day be prood tae hae it valued on
The Antiques Roadshow
.”

“Aye?” said Mither expectantly.

“It’s a Teenage Mutant Ninja Torties stationery set …”

“
Whit are ye hidin in the shed?” said Annabelle wi accusatory pleisure.

It wis midnicht and Chloe wis yince again tiptaein past her sister’s room, this time tae tell Mr Mingin aboot Lily’s newest adventure wi her flesh-scrannin zombie dominies. Annabelle stood in her doorwey in her pink pownie jammies. Her hair wis aw in bunches. And in case o fire she sleepit in lip-gloass. She looked sae bonnie it wid seekin ye.

“Nothin,” said Chloe, gowpin.

“I ken when you’re leein, Chloe.”

“Hoo dae ye ken?”

“Ye gowp when ye’re tellin a lee.”

“Naw I dinnae!” said Chloe, tryin awfie haurd no tae gowp. She gowped.

“Ye jist did it! Whit’s in there onywey? Dae you hae a boyfreend hidin in there or somethin?”

“Naw, I hivnae got a boyfreend, Annabelle.”

“Naw, coorse ye hivnae. Ye wid need tae loss some o that wecht first.”

“Jist go tae back yer bed,” said Chloe.

“I amnae gaun tae ma bed until ye tell me whit ye’ve got in the shed,” annoonced Annabelle.

“Keep yer voice doon. Ye’re gonnae wauk awbody up!”

“Naw I winnae keep ma voice doon! In fact it is gonnae get looder and looder.
La la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la!”

“
Wheesht!
” hished Chloe.

“La la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la …!”

Chloe poued her wee sister’s hair shairply. There wis a pause for a meenit, as Annabelle gowked at Chloe in shoack. Then she opened her mooth.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH
HHHHHHHHHHH!”
yowled Annabelle.

“Whit on earth is aw this noise aboot?” said Mither as she flochtered oot o her bedroom in her silk nichtgoun.

Annabelle tried tae speak, but jist hyper-haivered through her tears.

“Ugh … eh … ah … ah … ughhh … ah … eh … ugh …”

“Whit on earth did ye dae tae her, Chloe?” demandit Mither.

“She’s pittin it on! I didnae pou her stupit hair that haurd!” Chloe protestit.

“You poued her
hair
? Annabelle is doon tae the last thoosand for a model castin the morra for
Geordie at Asda
and she has tae look perjink!”

“Ugh … ah … eh … ah. She’s ah eh got ugh ugh ugh hidin ugh ugh somethin eh ah ugh in the ugh ugh ughu shed,” said Annabelle as she gret oot some mair tears.

“Faither,” ordered Mither. “Come oot here richt noo!”

“I’m sleepin!” cam the muffled cry fae their bedroom.

“RICHT NOO!”

Chloe looked doon at the cairpet sae Mither couldnae read her face. There wis a pause. The three ladies o the hoose listened as Da got oot o his bed. Nixt they heard the soond o somebody trinklin watter intae the cludgie. Mither’s face turnt reid wi fury.

“I SAID RICHT NOO!”

The soond stapped abruptly and Da shauchled oot o the bedroom in his Arsenal Fitba Club jammies.

“Annabelle said Chloe is hidin somethin in the shed. Chocolate, nae doot. I need ye tae gang doon there and tak a keek.”

“Me?” protestit Da.

“Aye, you!”

“Can I no dae it in the mornin?”

“Naw, ye cannae.”

“There’s nothin doon there,” wheedled Chloe.

“WHEESHT!”

“I’ll jist get a torch,” seched Da.

He made his wey slowly doon the stair, and Mither, Chloe and Annabelle wheeched ower tae the windae o the maister bedroom tae watch him walk tae the end o the gairden. The muin wis fu, and it waashed the gairden in an eerie lowe. The torchlicht daunced aroond the trees and busses as he walked. They looked on braithless as Da slowly opened the shed door. It craiked open.

Chloe could hear her hert chappin. Wis this the moment that wid seal her doom forever? Wid she be made tae eat ainly kail at ilka meal fae noo on? Or get sent tae her bed even afore she got up? Or be groondit for the lave o her life? Chloe gowped looder than she had ever gowped afore. Mither heard this and flung her a look o daurk, bleezin suspeecion.

The silence wis like thunner. A wheen saiconts passed, or wis it oors or wis it years? Then Da come slowly oot o the shed. He looked up at the windae and shouted, “There’s nothin here!”

Did I dream the haill thing up?
thocht Chloe as she lay in her bed. She wis in that placie atween asleep and awake. That placie whaur ye can still mind dreamin. It wis 4:48am, and noo she wis stertin tae doot if Mr Mingin even really existit.

At daw o day her curiosity got the better o her. Chloe creepit doon the stair, and tiptaed ower the cauld weet gress tae the shed door. She hung aboot ootside for a meenit, afore openin it.

“Acht, there ye are!” said Mr Mingin. “I am gey hungert this mornin. Poached eggs please, if that’s awricht wi you. Runny in the middle. Sassidges. Mushrooms. Grilled tomataes. Sassidges. Baked beans. Sassidges. Breid and butter. Broon sauce on the side. Dinnae forget the sassidges. English breakfast tea. And a gless o orange juice. Thank you awfie muckle.”

Chloe kent noo she hadnae dreamed the haill thing up, but she wis stertin tae wish she had. It wis aw hert-stappinly, frichteninly real.

“Wid freshly squeezed orange juice suit ye, sir?” she spiered sarcastically.

“Ken whit? I’d raither hae some that’s jist a wee bit aff. I prefer it. Mibbe some that wis squeezed aboot a month ago?”

Jist then, Chloe spottit an auld dug-lugged bleck-and-white photie that Mr Mingin had pit on a shelf. It shawed a bonnie young couple staundin proodly nixt tae a big braw and perfectly roonded Rolls Royce, parkit in the drive o a muckle stately hame.

“Wha’s that?” she spiered, pointin at the photie.

“Och, naebody, n-n-n-nothin …” he stootered. “Jist a sentimental auld photie, Miss Chloe.”

“Can I get tae see it?”

“Naw, naw, naw, it’s jist a glaikit pictur. Please, dinnae fash yersel aboot it.” Mr Mingin wis gettin awfie floostered. He wheeched the photie aff the shelf, and pit it in the poacket o his jammies. Chloe wis disappointit. The photie had seemed like anither clue tae Mr Mingin’s past, like his wee siller spuin, or the wey he’d booled yon bittie o paper intae the bin. This yin had seemed like the best clue yet. But noo Mr Mingin wis chasin her oot o the shed. “Dinnae forget the sassidges!” he said.

Hoo in the name o the wee man did Da no see him?
thocht Chloe, as she gaed back tae the hoose. Even if he hadnae seen Mr Mingin in the shed, he wid surely hae smelled the guff.