Mr Mingin by David Walliams Page A

As Chloe and Mr Mingin sat aside each ither on the tap deck, the bare brainches o trees scarted against the clatty windaes.
    “Did ye see the look on his fizzog when ye telt him tae stick it up his …?” exclaimed Mr Mingin.
    “I cannae believe I did that!” said Chloe.
    “I’m sae gled ye did,” said Mr Mingin. “Thank you sae muckle for stickin up for me.”
    “Weel, you stuck up for me wi that awfie Rosamund!”
    “ ‘Stick it up yer bahookie!’ Whit a beezer! Though I micht hae said somethin faur mair coorse! Ha ha!”
    They lauched thegither. Mr Mingin raxed intae his trooser poacket tae pou oot a clarty auld hankie tae dry his tears o joy. As he pit the hankie tae his face, Chloe spottit that a label had been sewn ontae it. Keekin closer, she saw that the label wis made o silk, and a name wis embroidert on it …
    “Lord … Darlington?” she read.
    There wis silence for a meenit.
    “Is that you ?” said Chloe. “Are ye a lord?”
    “Naw … naw …” said Mr Mingin. “I’m jist a hummle tink. I got this hankie … fae a jummle sale.”
    “Can I see yer siller spuin then?” said Chloe saftly.

    Mr Mingin gied a resigned smile. He raxed intae his jaiket poacket and slowly taen oot the spuin, then haundit it tae her. Chloe turnt it ower in her hauns. Lookin at it up close, she realised she’d been wrang. It wisnae three letters engravit on it. It wis a singil letter on a crest, held on ilk side by a lion.
    A singil capital letter D.
    “Ye are Lord Darlington,” said Chloe. “Let me see that auld photie again.”
    Mr Mingin cannily poued oot his auld bleck and white photie.
    Chloe studied it for a wheen saiconts. It wis jist as she minded. The braw young couple, the Rolls Royce, the stately hame. Ainly noo, when she keeked at it, she could see the resemblance atween the young man in the photie and the auld man aside her. “And that’s you in the pictur.”
    Chloe held the photie delicately, kennin she wis haunnlin somethin precious. Mr Mingin looked faur younger, especially wioot his baird and aw the clart. But his een were spairklin. There wis nae doot aboot it. It wis him.
    “The gemme’s a bogey,” said Mr Mingin. “That is me, Chloe. A lifetime langsyne.”
    “And wha’s this lady wi ye?”
    “Ma wife.”
    “Yer wife? I didnae ken ye were mairried.”
    “Ye didnae ken I wis a lord, either, did ye?” said Mr Mingin.
    “And that must be yer hoose then, Lord Darlington,” said Chloe, pointin tae the stately hame staundin ahint the couple in the photie. Mr Mingin noddit. “Weel then, hoo come ye’re hameless noo?”
    “It’s a lang story, ma dear,” said Mr Mingin wi a sech.
    “But I want tae hear it,” said Chloe. “Please? I’ve telt ye aw aboot ma life. And I’ve aye wantit tae ken your story, Mr Mingin, ever since I first saw ye. I ayewis kent ye must hae a fascinatin tale tae tell.”
    Mr Mingin taen a braith. “Weel, I had it aw, lass. Mair siller than I could ever spend, a bonnie hoose wi its ain loch. Ma life wis like an enless simmer. Croquet, tea on the lawn, lang lion days spent playin cricket. And tae mak things even mair perfect I mairried this bonnie, smairt, funny, adorable wummin. Ma bairnhood sweethert, Violet.”
    “She is bonnie.”
    “Aye, aye, she is. She wis. Unutterably sae. We were awfie happy, ye ken.”
    It wis aw sae obvious tae Chloe noo. The wey Mr Mingin had been sae skeelie boolin the screwed up bit o paper intae the bin, his siller monogrammed cutlery and his perjink table mainners, his insistence on walkin on the ootside o the pavement, the wey he had decoratit the shed. It wis true. He wis super -poash.
    “Soon efter that photie wis taen Violet became pregnant,” continued Mr Mingin. “I couldnae hae been mair thrilled. But yin nicht, when ma wife wis eicht months pregnant, ma chauffeur drove me tae London tae hae denner wi a group o ma auld freends fae schuil at a gentlemen’s club. It wis jist afore Christmas, actually. I