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!”
12
Mingin Ming
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.
Chloe tiptaed intae the kitchen and opened the fridge door as quietly as possible. She gawked intae the fridge, and stertit gey carefu tae move the jaurs o mustard and pickle sae they widnae clink. She hoped tae find some oot o date orange juice that micht appeal tae Mr Mingin’s aff-colour tastes.
“Whit are ye daein?” said a voice.
Chloe got a fricht. It wis ainly her Da, but she wisnae expectin tae see him up this early. She gaithered hersel for a moment.
“Nothin,
“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!”
12
Mingin Ming
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.
Chloe tiptaed intae the kitchen and opened the fridge door as quietly as possible. She gawked intae the fridge, and stertit gey carefu tae move the jaurs o mustard and pickle sae they widnae clink. She hoped tae find some oot o date orange juice that micht appeal tae Mr Mingin’s aff-colour tastes.
“Whit are ye daein?” said a voice.
Chloe got a fricht. It wis ainly her Da, but she wisnae expectin tae see him up this early. She gaithered hersel for a moment.
“Nothin,
Similar Books
