Mr. Stink Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1 - Scratch ’n’ Sniff

  Chapter 2 - Icy Silence

  Chapter 3 - The Wanderer

  Chapter 4 - Drivel

  Chapter 5 - Abandon Starbucks!

  Chapter 6 - Soap Dodgers

  Chapter 7 - A Bucket in the Corner

  Chapter 8 - Maybe It’s the Drains

  Chapter 9 - A Little Bit of Drool

  Chapter 10 - Slightly Chewed

  Chapter 11 - Hair Pulling

  Chapter 12 - Pongy Pong

  Chapter 13 - Shut Your Face!

  Chapter 14 - Lady and the Tramp

  Chapter 15 - Bath time

  Chapter 16 - Rule Britannia

  Chapter 17 - Collapsed Bouffant

  Chapter 18 - Rabbit Droppings

  Chapter 19 - Supertramp

  Chapter 20 - Grubby Toilet Roll

  Chapter 21 - Wet Wipe

  Chapter 22 - Long Lion Days

  Chapter 23 - Plastic Snowman

  Chapter 24 - Yuckety Yuck Yuck

  Chapter 25 - Black Leather Mistletoe

  Chapter 26 - Little Star

  Acknowledgements

  Mr. Stink

  RAZORBILL

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Young Readers Group

  345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

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  Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Copyright © 2010 David Walliams

  Illustrations © Quentin Blake 2010

  eISBN : 978-1-101-47786-1

  All rights reserved

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available

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  For my mum Kathleen, the kindest person

  I have ever met.

  1

  Scratch ’n’ Sniff

  Mr. Stink stank. He also stunk. And if it is correct English to say he stinked, then he stinked as well. He was the stinkiest stinky stinker who ever lived.

  A stink is the worst type of smell. A stink is worse than a stench. And a stench is worse than a pong. And a pong is worse than a whiff. And a whiff can be enough to make your nose wrinkle.

  It wasn’t Mr. Stink’s fault that he stank. He was a tramp, after all. He didn’t have a home and so he never had the opportunity to have a proper wash like you and me. After a while the smell just got worse and worse. Here is a picture of Mr. Stink.

  He is quite a snappy dresser in his bow tie and tweed jacket, isn’t he? But don’t be fooled. The illustration doesn’t do justice to the smell. This could be a scratch ’ n’ sniff book, but the smell would be so bad you would have to put it in the bin. And then bury the bin. Very deep underground.

  That’s his little black dog with him, the Duchess. The Duchess wasn’t any particular breed of dog, she was just a dog. She smelled too, but not as bad as Mr. Stink. Nothing in the world really smelled as bad as him. Except his beard. His beard was full of old bits of egg and sausage and cheese that had fallen out of his mouth years before. It had never, ever been shampooed so it had its own special stink, even worse than his main one.

  One morning, Mr. Stink simply appeared in the town and took up residence on an old wooden bench. No one knew where he had come from, or where he might be going. The town folk were mostly nice to him. They sometimes dropped a few coins at his feet, before rushing off with their eyes watering. But no one was really friendly toward him. No one stopped for a chat.

  At least, not till the day that a little girl finally plucked up the courage to speak to him—and that’s where our story begins.

  “Hello,” said the girl, her voice trembling a little with nerves. The girl was named Chloe. She was only twelve and she had never spoken to a tramp before. Her mother had forbidden her to speak to “such creatures.” Mother even disapproved of her daughter talking to kids from the local public housing project. But Chloe didn’t think Mr. Stink was a creature. She thought he was a man who looked like he had a very interesting story to tell—and if there was one thing Chloe loved, it was stories.

  Every day she would pass him and his dog in her parents’ car on the way to her posh private school. Whether in sunshine or snow, he was always sitting on the same bench with his dog by his feet. As she luxuriated on the leather of the backseat with her poisonous little sister Annabelle, Chloe would look out of the window at him and wonder.

  Millions of thoughts and questions would swim through her head. Who was he? Why did he live on the streets? Had he ever had a home? What did his dog eat? Did he have any friends or family? If so, did they know he was homeless?

  Where did he go at Christmas? If you wanted to write him a letter, what address would you put on the envelope? “The bench, you know the one—round the corner from the bus stop”? When was the last time he’d had a bath? And could his name really be Mr. Stink?

  Chloe was the kind of girl who loved being alone with her thoughts. Often she would sit on her bed and make up stories about Mr. Stink. Sitting on her own in her room, she would come up with all kinds of fantastical tales. Maybe Mr. Stink was a heroic old sailor who had won dozens of medals for bravery, but had found it impossible to adapt to life on dry land? Or perhaps he was a world-famous opera singer who one night, upon hitting the top note in an aria at the Royal Opera House in London, lost his voice and could never sing again? Or maybe he was really a Russian secret agent who had put on an elaborate tramp disguise to spy on the people of the town?

  Chloe didn’t know anything about Mr. Stink. But what she did know, on that day when she stopped to talk to him for the first time, was that he looked like he needed the five-pound note she was holding much more than she did.

  He seemed lonely too, not just alone, but lonely in his soul. That made Chloe sad. She knew full well what it was like to feel lonely. Chloe didn’t like school very much. Mother had insisted on sending her to a posh all-girls secondary school, and she hadn’t made any friends there. Chloe didn’t like being at home much either. Wherever she was, she had the feeling that she didn’t quite fit in.

  What’s more, it was Chloe’s least favorite time of year. Christmas. Everyone is supposed to love Christmas, especially children. But Chloe hated it. She hated the tinsel, she hated the cracker
s, she hated the carols, she hated having to watch the Queen’s Speech, she hated the mince pies, she hated that it never really snowed like it’s suppose to, she hated sitting down with her family to a long, long dinner, and most of all, she hated how she had to pretend to be happy just because it was December 25.

  “What can I do for you, young lady?” said Mr. Stink. His voice was unexpectedly posh. As no one had ever stopped to talk to him before, he stared slightly suspiciously at this plump little girl. Chloe was suddenly a bit frightened. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to talk to the old tramp after all. She had been working up to this moment for weeks, months even. This wasn’t how it had all played out in her head.

  To make matters worse, Chloe had to stop breathing through her nose. The smell was starting to get to her. It was like a living thing, creeping its way up her nostrils and burning the back of her throat.

  “Erm, well, sorry to bother you . . .”

  “Yes?” said Mr. Stink, a little impatiently. Chloe was taken aback. Why was he in such a hurry? He always sat on his bench. It wasn’t like he suddenly needed to go somewhere else.

  At that moment the Duchess started barking at her. Chloe felt even more scared. Sensing this, Mr. Stink pulled the Duchess’s leash, which was really just a bit of old rope, to encourage her to be quiet.

  “Well,” Chloe went on nervously, “my auntie sent me five pounds to buy myself a Christmas present. But I don’t really need anything so I thought I would give it to you.”

  Mr. Stink smiled. Chloe smiled too. For a moment it looked as if he was going to accept Chloe’s offer, then he looked down at the pavement.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Unimaginable kindness, but I can’t take it, sorry.”

  Chloe was confused. “Why ever not?” she asked.

  “You are but a child. Five pounds? It’s too, too generous.”

  “I just thought—”

  “It’s really kind of you, but I’m afraid I can’t accept. Tell me, how old are you, young lady? Ten?”

  “TWELVE!” said Chloe loudly. She was a little short for her age, but liked to think she was grown-up in lots of other ways. “I’m twelve. Thirteen on January the ninth!”

  “Sorry, you’re twelve. Nearly thirteen. Go and buy yourself one of those new musical stereo discs. Don’t you worry about an old vagabond like me.” He smiled. There was a real twinkle in his eye when he smiled.

  “If it’s not too rude,” said Chloe, “can I ask you a question?”

  “Yes, of course you can.”

  “Well, I would love to know: Why do you live on a bench and not in a house like me?”

  Mr. Stink shuffled slightly and looked anxious. “It’s a long story, my dear,” he said. “Maybe I will tell you another day.”

  Chloe was disappointed. She wasn’t sure there would be another day. If her mother found out that she was even talking to this man, let alone offering him money, she would go stark raving mad.

  “Well, sorry for bothering you,” said Chloe. “Have a lovely day.” As the words came out, she cringed. What a stupid thing to say! How could he possibly have a lovely day? He was a smelly old tramp, and the sky was growing gloomy with black clouds. She took a few steps up the street, feeling embarrassed.

  “What’s that on your back, child?” called out Mr. Stink.

  “What’s what on my back?” asked Chloe, trying to look over her shoulder. She reached round and tore a piece of paper from her blazer. She peered at it.

  Written on the piece of paper, in thick black letters, was a single word.

  LOSER!

  Chloe felt her stomach twist with humiliation. Rosamund must have Scotch-taped it to her when she left school. Rosamund was the leader of the cool gang. She was always bullying Chloe, picking on her for eating too many sweets, or for being poorer than the other girls at school, or for being the girl neither team ever wanted on their side in hockey matches. As Chloe had left school today, Rosamund patted her on the back several times, saying “Merry Christmas,” while all the other girls laughed. Now Chloe knew why. Mr. Stink rose creakily from his bench and took the paper from Chloe’s hands.

  “I can’t believe I’ve been going round with that on my back all afternoon,” said Chloe. Embarrassed to feel tears welling up, she looked away, blinking into the sunlight.

  “What is it, child?” asked Mr. Stink, kindly.

  Chloe sniffed. “Well,” she said, “it’s true, isn’t it? I really am a loser.”

  Mr. Stink bent down to look at her. “No,” he said, authoritatively. “You’re not a loser. The real loser is the person who stuck it to you in the first place.”

  Chloe tried to believe him, but couldn’t quite. For as long as she could remember she had felt like a loser. Maybe Rosamund and all those other girls in her gang were right.

  “There’s only one place for this,” said Mr. Stink. He screwed up the piece of paper and, like a professional cricketer, expertly tossed it into the bin. Chloe clocked this and her imagination instantly started whirring; had he once been captain of the England cricket team?

  Mr. Stink brushed his hands together. “Good riddance to bad rubbish,” he said.

  “Thanks,” murmured Chloe.

  “Not at all,” said Mr. Stink. “You mustn’t let bullies get you down.”

  “I’ll try,” said Chloe. “Nice to meet you Mr . . . . um . . . ” she began. Everyone called him Mr. Stink, but she didn’t know if he knew that. It felt rude to say it to his face.

  “Stink,” he said. “They call me Mr. Stink.”

  “Oh. Nice to meet you, Mr. Stink. I’m Chloe.”

  “Hello, Chloe,” said Mr. Stink.

  “You know, Mr. Stink,” said Chloe, “I still might go shopping. Do you need anything? Like a bar of soap or something?”

  “Thank you, my dear,” he replied. “But I have no use for soap. You see, I had a bath only last year. But I would love some sausages. I do adore a nice meaty sausage. . . .”

  2

  Icy Silence

  “Mother?” said Annabelle.

  Mother finished chewing her food completely, then swallowed it, before finally replying.

  “Yes, my darling child?”

  “Chloe just took one of her sausages off her plate and hid it in her napkin.”

  It was Saturday evening, and the Crumb family sat at the dining room table, missing Strictly Come Dancing and The X-Factor as they ate their dinner. Mother had banned watching television and eating at the same time. She had decided that it was “awfully common.” Instead the family had to sit in icy silence and eat their dinner staring at the walls. Or sometimes Mother would choose a subject for discussion, normally what she would do if she ran the country. That was her absolute favorite. Mother had given up running a beauty salon to run for office, and had no doubt in her mind that one day she would be Prime Minister.

  Mother had named the white Persian family cat Elizabeth, after the Queen. She was obsessed with Being Posh. There was a downstairs bathroom that was kept locked for “very important guests,” as if a member of the royal family was going to swing by for a whiz. There was a china tea set in the cupboard that was “for company,” and had never once been used. Mother even sprayed air freshener in the garden. Mother would never go out, and not even answer the door, unless immaculately groomed, with her beloved pearls around her neck and her hair made stiff with enough hair spray to create its own hole in the ozone layer. She was so used to turning up her nose at everybody and everything, it was in danger of staying that way. Here’s a picture of her.

  My word, she looks posh, doesn’t she? Unsurprisingly Father, or Dad as he preferred to be called when Mother wasn’t around, opted for a quiet life and usually didn’t speak unless spoken to. He was a big powerful man, but his wife made him feel small inside. Dad was only forty, but he was already going bald and starting to stoop. He worked long hours at a car factory on the edge of the town.

  “Did you hide a sausage in your napkin, Chloe?” demanded Mothe
r.

  “You are always trying to get me into trouble!” snapped Chloe.

  This was true. Annabelle was two years younger than Chloe, and one of those children adults think are perfect, but other children don’t like because they are snotty little goodygoodies. Annabelle loved getting Chloe into trouble. She would lie on her bed in her bright pinkroom upstairs and roll around crying, shouting “CHLOE, GET OFF ME! YOU ARE HURTING ME!” even though Chloe was quietly writing away in her room next door. You could say that Annabelle was evil. She was certainly evil to her older sister.

  “Oh, sorry, Mother, it just slipped into my lap,” said Chloe guiltily. Her plan had been to smuggle the sausage out for Mr. Stink. She had been thinking about him all evening, imagining him shivering out there in the cold dark December night as they sat in the warm dining room, eating away.

  “Well, then, Chloe, unroll it from your napkin and put it back on your plate,” ordered Mother. “I am so ashamed that we are even eating sausages for dinner. I gave your father strict instructions to dispatch himself to the supermarket and purchase four wild sea-bass fillets. And he comes home with a packet of sausages. If anyone called around and saw us eating food like this, it would be hideously embarrassing. They’d think we were savages!”

  “I am sorry, my darling wife,” protested Dad. “They were all out of wild sea-bass fillets.” He gave Chloe the tiniest wink as he said this, confirming her suspicion that he had deliberately disobeyed Mother’s orders. Chloe smiled at him discreetly. She and her dad both loved sausages and lots of other food that Mother didn’t approve of, like burgers, fish sticks, fizzy drinks, and especially Mr. Whippy ice cream (“the devil’s spume,” Mother called it). “I have never eaten anything from a van,” she would say. “I’d rather die.”