Mr. Stink Read online

  “Right now, all hands on deck as we clear up,” said Mother when they had finished eating. “Annabelle, my precious angel, you clear the table, Chloe, you can wash up, and Husband, you can dry.” When she said “all hands on deck,” what she really meant was everybody’s hands except hers. As the rest of the family all went about their duties, Mother reclined on the sofa and started unwrapping a wafer-thin chocolate mint. She allowed herself one chocolate mint a day. She nibbled so infuriatingly slowly, she made each one last an hour.

  “One of my Bendicks luxury chocolate mints has gone walking again!” she called out.

  Annabelle shot Chloe an accusing look before returning to the dining room to collect some more plates. “I bet it was you, fatty!” she hissed.

  “Be nice, Annabelle,” chided Dad.

  Chloe felt guilty, even though it wasn’t her who had been scoffing her mother’s chocolates. She and Dad assumed their familiar positions at the sink.

  “Chloe, why were you trying to hide one of your sausages?” he asked. “If you didn’t like it, you could have just said.”

  “I wasn’t trying to hide it, Dad.”

  “Then what were you doing with it?”

  Suddenly Annabelle appeared with another stack of dirty plates and the pair fell silent. They waited a moment until she had gone.

  “Well, Dad, you know that tramp who always sits on the same bench every—”

  “Mr. Stink?”

  “Yes. Well, I thought his dog looked hungry and I wanted to bring her a sausage or two.”

  It was a lie, but not a big one.

  “Well, I suppose there isn’t any harm in giving his poor dog a bit of food,” said Dad. “Just this once, though, you understand?”

  “But—”

  “Just this once, Chloe. Or Mr. Stink will expect you to feed his dog every day. Now, I hid another packet of sausages behind the crème fraîche, whatever that is. I’ll cook them up for you before your mother gets up tomorrow morning and you can give them—”

  “WHAT ARE YOU TWO CONSPIRING ABOUT?” demanded Mother from the sitting room.

  “Oh, erm, we were just debating which of the Queen’s four children we most admire,” said Dad. “I am putting forward Anne for her equestrian skills, though Chloe is making a strong case for Prince Charles and his unrivaled range of organic biscuits.”

  “Very good. Carry on!” boomed the voice from next door.

  Dad smiled at Chloe cheekily.

  3

  The Wanderer

  Mr. Stink ate the sausages in an unexpectedly elegant manner. First, he took out a little linen napkin and tucked it under his chin. Next, he took an antique silver knife and fork out of his breast pocket. Finally, he produced a dirty gold-rimmed china plate, which he gave to the Duchess to lick clean before he set down the sausages neatly upon it.

  Chloe stared at his cutlery and plate. This seemed like another clue to his past. Had he perhaps been a gentleman thief who crept into country houses at midnight and made off with the family silver?

  “Do you have any more sausages?” asked Mr. Stink, his mouth still full of sausage.

  “No, just those eight I’m afraid,” replied Chloe.

  She stood at a safe distance from the tramp so that her eyes wouldn’t start weeping at the smell. The Duchess looked up at Mr. Stink as he ate the sausages, with a heartbreaking longing that suggested that all love and all beauty was contained in those tubes of meat.

  “There you go, Duchess,” said Mr. Stink, slowly lowering half a sausage into his dog’s mouth. The Duchess was so hungry she didn’t even chew; instead she swallowed it in half a millisecond before returning to her expression of sausage-longing. Had any man or beast ever eaten a sausage so quickly? Chloe was half-expecting a gentleman in a blazer and slacks with a clipboard and stopwatch to appear and declare that the little black dog had set a new sausage-eating international world record!

  “So, young Chloe, is everything fine at home?” asked Mr. Stink, as he let the Duchess lick his fingers clean of any remnants of sausage juice.

  “I’m sorry?” replied a befuddled Chloe.

  “I asked if everything was fine at home. If things were tickety-boo I am not sure you would be spending your Saturday talking to an old vagabond like me.”

  “Vagabond?”

  “I don’t like the word ‘tramp.’ It makes you think of someone who smells.”

  Chloe tried to conceal her surprise. Even the Duchess looked puzzled and she didn’t speak English, only Dog.

  “I prefer vagabond, or wanderer,” continued Mr. Stink.

  The way he put it, thought Chloe, it sounded almost poetic. Especially “wanderer.” She would love to be a wanderer. She would wander all around the world if she could. Not stay in this boring little town where nothing happened that hadn’t happened the day before.

  “There’s nothing wrong at home. Everything is fine,” said Chloe adamantly.

  “Are you sure?” inquired Mr. Stink, with the wisdom some people have that cuts right through you like a knife through butter.

  Things were, in fact, not at all fine at home for Chloe. She was often ignored. Her mother doted on Annabelle—probably because her youngest daughter was like a miniature version of her. Every inch of every wall in the house was covered with celebrations of Annabelle’s infinite achievements. Photographs of her standing smugly on winner’s podiums, certificates bearing her name emblazoned in italic gold, trophies and statuettes and medals engraved with “winner,” “first place,” or “little creep.” (I made up that last one.)

  The more Annabelle achieved, the more Chloe felt like a failure. Her parents spent most of their lives providing a chauffeur service for Annabelle’s-out-of school activities. Her schedule was exhausting even to look at.

  Monday

  5 a.m. Swimming training

  6 a.m. Clarinet lesson

  7 a.m. Dance lesson: tap and contemporary jazz

  8 a.m. Dance lesson, ballet

  9 a.m. to 4 p.m. School

  4 p.m. Drama lesson: improvisation and movement

  5 p.m. Piano lesson

  6 p.m. Brownies

  7 p.m. Girls’ Brigade

  8 p.m. Javelin practice

  Tuesday

  4 a.m. Violin lesson

  5 a.m. Stilt-walking practice

  6 a.m. Chess Society

  7 a.m. Learning Japanese

  8 a.m. Flower-arranging class

  9 a.m. to 4 p.m. School

  4 p.m. Creative-writing workshop

  5 p.m. Porcelain-frog-painting class

  6 p.m. Harp practice

  7 p.m. Watercolor-painting class

  8 p.m. Dance class, ballroom

  Wednesday

  3 a.m. Choir practice

  4 a.m. Long-jump training

  5 a.m. High-jump training

  6 a.m. Long-jump training again

  7 a.m. Trombone lesson

  8 a.m. Scuba diving

  9 a.m. to 4 p.m. School

  4 p.m. Chef training

  5 p.m. Mountain climbing

  6 p.m. Tennis

  7 p.m. Drama workshop: Shakespeare and his contemporaries

  8 p.m. Show jumping

  Thursday

  2 a.m. Learning Arabic

  3 a.m. Dance lesson: break-dance, hip-hop, and krumping

  4 a.m. Oboe lesson

  5 a.m. Tour de France cycle training

  6 a.m. Bible studies

  7 a.m. Gymnastics training

  8 a.m. Calligraphy class

  9 a.m. to 4 p.m. School

  4 p.m. Work experience shadowing a brain surgeon

  5 p.m. Opera-singing lesson

  6 p.m. NASA space exploration workshop

  7 p.m. Cake-baking class (level 5)

  8 p.m. Attend lecture on “A History of Victorian Mustaches”

  Friday

  1 a.m. Triangle lesson, grade 5

  2 a.m. Badminton

  3 a.m. Archery

  4 a.m. Fly t
o Switzerland for ski-jump practice. Learn about eggs from an expert on eggs on outbound flight.

  6 a.m. Do quick ski jump and then board inbound flight. Take pottery class on flight.

  8 a.m. Thai kickboxing (remember to take skis off before class).

  9 a.m. to 4 p.m. School

  4 p.m. Channel-swimming training

  5 p.m. Motorbike maintenance workshop

  6 p.m. Candle making

  7 p.m. Otter-rearing class

  8 p.m. Television viewing. A choice between either a documentary about carpet manufacturing in Belgium or a Polish cartoon from the 1920s about a depressed owl.

  And that was just the weekdays. The weekends were when things really got busy for Annabelle. No wonder Chloe felt ignored.

  “Well, I suppose things at home are . . . are . . .” stammered Chloe. She wanted to talk to him about it all, but she wasn’t sure how.

  Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong!

  No, I haven’t lost my mind, readers. That was meant to be the church clock striking four.

  Chloe gasped and looked at her watch. Four o’clock! Mother made her do her homework from four until six every day, even in the school holidays when she didn’t have any to do.

  “Sorry, Mr. Stink, I have to go,” she said. Secretly Chloe was relieved. No one had ever asked her how she felt before, and she was beginning to panic. . . .

  “Really, child?” said the old man, looking disappointed.

  “Yes, yes, I need to get home. Mother will be furious if I don’t get at least a C in math next term. She assigns me extra tests during the holidays.”

  “That doesn’t sound much like a holiday to me,” said Mr. Stink.

  Chloe shrugged. “Mother doesn’t believe in holidays.” She stood up. “I hope you liked the sausages,” she said.

  “They were scrumptious,” said Mr. Stink. “Thank you. Unimaginable kindness.”

  Chloe nodded and turned to run off toward home. If she took a shortcut, she’d be back before Mother.

  “Farewell!” Mr. Stink called after her softly.

  4

  Drivel

  Terrified of being late for homework hour, Chloe began to quicken her pace. She didn’t want her mother to ask questions about where she’d been or who she’d been talking to. Mrs. Crumb would be horrified to find out her daughter had been sitting on a bench with someone she would describe as a “soap dodger.” Grown-ups always have a way of ruining everything.

  Chloe stopped hurrying, though, when she saw that she was about to pass Raj’s shop. Just one chocolate bar, she thought.

  Chloe’s love of chocolate made her one of Raj’s best customers. Raj ran the local newsagent shop. He was a bigjolly jelly of a man, as sweet and colorful as his slightly overpriced confectionery. Today, though, what Chloe really needed was some advice.

  And maybe some chocolate. Just one bar, of course. Maybe two.

  “Ah, Miss Chloe!” said Raj, as she entered the shop. “What can I tempt you with today?”

  “Hello, Raj,” said Chloe smiling. She always smiled when she saw Raj. It was partly because he was such a lovely man, and partly because he sold sweets.

  “I have some Rolos on special offer!” announced Raj. “They have gone out of date and hardened. You may lose a tooth as you chew into one, but at ten pence off you can’t really argue!”

  “Mmm, let me think,” said Chloe, scouring the racks and racks of confectionery.

  “I had half a Lion bar earlier, you are welcome to make me an offer on the other half. I’ll take anything upwards of fifteen pence.”

  “I think I’ll just take a Crunchie, thanks, Raj.”

  “Buy seven Crunchie bars, you get an eighth Crunchie bar absolutely free!”

  “No thanks, Raj. I only want one.” She put the money down on the counter: thirty-five pence. Money well spent considering the nice feeling the chocolate would give her as it slipped down her throat and into her tummy.

  “But Chloe, don’t you understand? This is a unique opportunity to enjoy the popular chocolate-covered honeycomb bar at a dramatic saving!”

  “I don’t need eight Crunchie bars, Raj,” said Chloe. “I need some advice.”

  “I don’t think I am really responsible enough to give out advice,” replied Raj without a hint of irony. “But I’ll try.”

  Chloe loved talking to Raj. He wasn’t a parent or a teacher, and whatever you said to him, he would never judge you. However, Chloe still gulped slightly, because she was about to attempt another little lie. “Well, there’s this girl I know at school . . .” she began.

  “Yes? A girl at school. Not you?”

  “No, somebody else.”

  “Right,” said Raj.

  Chloe gulped again and looked down, unable to meet his gaze. “Well, this friend of mine, she’s started to talk to this tramp, and she really likes talking to him, but her mother would blow a fuse if she knew, so I—I mean, my friend—doesn’t know what to do.”

  Raj looked at Chloe expectantly. “Yes?” he said. “And what is your question exactly?”

  “Well, Raj,” said Chloe. “Do you think it’s wrong to talk to tramps?”

  “Well, it’s not good to talk to strangers,” said Raj. “And you should never let anyone give you a lift in a car!”

  “Right,” said Chloe, disappointed.

  “But a tramp is just somebody without a home,” continued Raj. “Too many people walk on by and pretend they’re not there.”

  “Yes!” said Chloe. “That’s what I think too.”

  Raj smiled. “Any of us could become homeless one day. I can see nothing wrong with talking to a tramp, just like you would anyone else.”

  “Thanks, Raj, I will . . . I mean, I’ll tell her. This girl at school, I mean.”

  “What’s this girl’s name?”

  “Umm . . . Stephen! I mean Susan . . . no, Sarah. Her name is Sarah, definitely Sarah.”

  “It’s you, isn’t it?” said Raj smiling.

  “Yes,” admitted Chloe after a millisecond.

  “You are a very sweet girl, Chloe. It’s lovely that you would take the time to talk to a tramp. There but for the grace of God go you and I.”

  “Thanks, Raj.” Chloe went a little red, embarrassed by his compliment.

  “Now what can you buy your homeless friend for Christmas?” said Raj as he scoured around his disorganized shop. “I have a box full of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles stationery sets I can’t seem to shift. Yours for only 3.99 pounds. In fact, buy one set, get ten free.”

  “I’m not sure a tramp really has any need for a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles stationery set, thanks anyway, Raj.”

  “We all have use of a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles stationery set, Chloe. You have your Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles pencil, your Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles eraser, your Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles ruler, your Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles pencil case, your Teenage Mutant—”

  “I get the idea, thanks, Raj, but I’m sorry, I’m not going to buy one. I’ve got to go,” said Chloe, edging out of the shop as she unwrapped her Crunchie.

  “I haven’t finished, Chloe. Please, I haven’t sold one! You also have your Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles pencil sharpener, your Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles notepad, your Teenage Mutant . . . oh, she’s gone.”

  “And what’s this, young lady?” demanded Mother. She was standing waiting in Chloe’s room. Between her thumb and index finger was one of Chloe’s exercise books from school. Mother held it as if it were an exhibit in a court case.

  “It’s just my math book, Mother,” said Chloe, gulping as she edged into the room.

  You might think that Chloe was worried because her math work wasn’t up to scratch. But that wasn’t quite it. The problem was, Chloe’s math book didn’t have any math in it! The book was supposed to be full of boring numbers and equations, but instead it was positively overflowing with colorful words and pictures. Spending so much time alone had turned Chloe’s imagination into a deep dark forest. It was a m
agical place to escape to, and so much more thrilling than real life. Chloe had used the exercise book to write a story about a girl who is sent to a school (loosely based on her own) where all the teachers are secretly vampires. She thought it was much more exciting than boring equations, but Mother clearly didn’t agree.

  “If it is your mathematics book, why does it contain this repulsive horror story?” said Mother. This was one of those questions to which you aren’t supposed to give an answer. “No wonder you did so poorly on your mathematics exam. I imagine you have spent the time in class writing this . . . this drivel. I am so disappointed in you, Chloe.”

  Chloe felt her cheeks smarting with shame and hung her head. She didn’t think her story was drivel. But she couldn’t imagine telling her mother that.

  “Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?” shouted Mother.

  Chloe shook her head. For the second time in one day she wanted to just disappear.

  “Well, this is what I think of your story,” said Mother, as she started trying to rip up the exercise book.

  “P-p-please . . . don’t . . .” stammered Chloe.

  “No, no, no! I’m not paying your school fees for you to waste your time on this rubbish! It’s going in the bin!”

  The book was obviously harder to rip than Mother had expected, and it took a few attempts to make the first tear. However, soon the book was nothing more than confetti. Chloe bowed her head, tears welling up in her eyes, as her mother dropped all the pieces in the bin.

  “Do you want to end up like your father? Working in a car factory? If you concentrate on your math and don’t get distracted by silly stories, you have a chance of making a better life for yourself! Otherwise you’ll end up wasting your life, like your father. Is that what you want?”

  “Well, I—”

  “How dare you interrupt me!” shouted Mother. Chloe hadn’t realized this was another one of those questions you’re not actually meant to answer. “You’d better buck your ideas up, young lady!”