The World of David Walliams: 7 Book Collection. David Walliams
wasn’t sure exactly what a ‘make over’ was. She knew there were lots of shows on TV that did make overs, but Mother didn’t allow her to watch them. Feeling like the ugly duckling of the family she didn’t own any make-up either, so tentatively she knocked on her little sister’s door to see if she could borrow some. Annabelle had drawers full of make-up. She always asked for it for her birthday and Christmas, as she liked nothing better than painting it all on and performing her own little beauty pageants in front of her bedroom mirror.
“Has he gone yet?” asked Annabelle.
“No, he hasn’t. Maybe if you bothered to talk to him you would see how nice he is.”
“He smells.”
“So do you,” said Chloe. “Now, I need to borrow some of your make-up.”
“Why? You don’t wear make-up. You’re not pretty, so there’s no point.”
For a moment Chloe entertained a number of fantasies where her little sister met horrific ends. Plunged into a pool of piranhas perhaps? Abandoned in the Arctic wastes in her underwear? Force-fed marshmallows until she exploded?
“It’s for Mr Stink,” she said, filing away all those fantasies in her brain for a later date.
“No way.”
“I’ll tell Mother you’re the one who’s been secretly scoffing her Bendicks chocolate mints.”
“What do you need?” replied Annabelle in a heartbeat.
Later, Mr Stink sat on an upturned plant pot in the shed as the two girls fussed around him.
“It’s not too much, is it?” he enquired.
Unexpectedly enjoying herself, Annabelle had gone a little over the top. Did Mr Stink really need pink glittery blusher, electric-blue eyeliner, purple eye shadow and orange nail varnish to go and meet the Prime Minister?
“Erm…” said Chloe.
“No, you look great, Mr Stink!” said Annabelle, as she attached a butterfly hair-clip to his head. “This is so much fun! It’s the best Christmas Eve ever!”
“Aren’t you supposed to be singing carols in church or something?” asked Chloe knowingly.
“Yes, but I hate it. It’s so boring. This is way more cool.” Annabelle looked thoughtful. “You know, it’s so tedious sometimes doing all those stupid hobbies and sports and stuff.”
“Why do them then?” enquired Chloe.
“Yes, why do them, dear?” chimed in Mr Stink.
Annabelle looked confused. “I don’t know really. I suppose to make Mother happy,” she said.
“Your Mother won’t be truly happy if you aren’t. You need to find the things that make you happy,” said Mr Stink with authority. It was hard to take him seriously though, what with his multi-coloured eye make-up.
“Well…this afternoon has made me happy,” said Annabelle. She smiled at Chloe for the first time in years. “Hanging out with you has made me happy.”
Chloe smiled back, and they nervously held each other’s gaze for a moment.
“What about me?” demanded Mr Stink.
“You too of course!” laughed Annabelle. “You actually get used to the smell after a while,” she whispered to Chloe, who shushed her and smiled.
All of a sudden the shed shook violently. Chloe rushed to the door and opened it to see a helicopter hovering overhead. Engine whirring, it slowly came down to land in their garden.
“Ah, yes. The Prime Minister said he would be sending that to pick us up,” announced Mr Stink.
“Us?” said Chloe.
“You don’t think I was going to go without you, do you?”
“Why don’t you come too?” shouted Chloe to Annabelle over the thunderous noise of the blades.
“No, this is your day, Chloe,” her little sister hollered back. “This is all because of you. And besides, that helicopter’s tiny. It’ll absolutely whiff in there…”
Chloe grinned and waved goodbye as the helicopter slowly ascended, flattening most of the plants and flowers in the garden as it did so. Mother’s bouffant danced around her head like candyfloss on a windy day at the seafront as she attempted to hold it down. Elizabeth the cat got blown across the lawn. She tried desperately to cling on to the grass with her claws. But despite meowing for mercy the wind from the blades was just too strong and she shot across the garden like a furry cannonball and into the pond.
Plop!
The Duchess looked down from the helicopter window, smirking.
As they glided up and up and up Chloe saw her house, and her street, and her town get smaller and smaller. Soon the postal districts were packed below her like squares on a chessboard. It was unutterably thrilling. For the first time in her life, Chloe felt like she was at the centre of the world. She looked over at Mr Stink. He was getting re-acquainted with a toffee bon-bon that, from the looks of it, had been in his trouser pocket since the late 1950s. Apart from his jaw working desperately to chew the ancient confectionery he looked perfectly relaxed, as if taking a helicopter ride to see the Prime Minister was something he did most days.
Chloe smiled over at him, and he smiled back with that special twinkle in his eye that almost made you forget how bad he smelled.
Mr Stink tapped on the pilot’s shoulder. “Are you going to be coming round with a trolley service at any point?” he asked.
“It’s just a short flight, sir.”
“Any chance of a cup of tea and a bun then?”
“I am very sorry, sir,” replied the pilot with a firmness that suggested this conversation was about to be over.
“Very disappointing,” said Mr Stink.
Chloe recognised the door of Number Ten Downing Street, because it was always on those boring political shows she was allowed to watch on Sunday mornings. It was big and black and always had a policeman standing outside. She thought, If I joined the police I would want to be chasing baddies all day, not standing outside a door thinking about whether or not I should have spaghetti hoops for my tea. However, she wisely kept that thought to herself as the policeman opened the door for them with a smile.
“Please take a seat,” said an immaculately dressed butler haughtily. The staff were used to playing host to royalty and world leaders at 10 Downing Street, not a little girl, a transvestite tramp and his dog. “The Prime Minister will be with you shortly.”
They were standing in a big oak-panelled room with dozens of gold-framed oil paintings of serious-looking old men staring out at you from the walls. The tinsel round the frames did little to counter their severe looks. Suddenly, the double doors flew open and a herd of men in suits approached them.
“Good afternoon, Mr Stinky!” said the Prime Minister. You could tell he was in charge as he was walking at the front of the herd.
“It’s just Stink, Prime Minister,” corrected one of his advisors.
“How are you doing, mate?” said the Prime Minister, trying to downplay his poshness. He offered out his perfectly manicured and moisturized little hand for Mr Stink to shake. The tramp offered his own big dirty gnarled hand and, looking at it, the Prime Minister quickly withdrew his, preferring to give his new best friend a mock punch on the shoulder. He then examined his knuckles and noticed they had some grime on them.