The World of David Walliams: 7 Book Collection. David Walliams
and it was passed forward to the Prime Minister. He quickly wiped his hand with it before passing it back to the man at the back.
“A pleasure to meet you too, Mr Prime Minister,” said Mr Stink without conviction.
“Call me Dave,” said the Prime Minister. “Gosh, he does smell like a toilet,” he whispered to one of his advisors.
Mr Stink looked at Chloe, hurt, but the Prime Minister didn’t notice. “So, you made quite a splash on Question Time, my homeless pal,” he continued. “Ruddy hilarious. Ha ha ha!” He wiped away a non-existent tear of laughter from his eye. “I think we could use you.”
“Use him?” asked Chloe suspiciously.
“Yeah, yeah. It’s no secret it’s not looking good for me in the election. My approval rating with the public right now is…”
One of the herd hastily opened a folder and there was a long pause as he flicked through pages and pages of information.
“Bad.”
“Bad. Right. Thanks, Perkins,” said the Prime Minister, sarcastically.
“It’s Brownlow.”
“Whatever.” The Prime Minister turned back to Mr Stink. “I think if we had you, a real life tramp, take over from Mrs Crumb as candidate it could be brilliant. It’s far too late to rope anyone else in now, and you would be the ideal last—minute replacement. You’re just so funny. I mean, to laugh at, not really with.”
“Excuse me?” said Chloe, feeling very protective of her friend now.
The Prime Minister ignored her. “It’s genius! It really is. If you joined the party it would fool the public into thinking we cared about the homeless! Maybe one day I could even make you Minister for Soap-Dodgers.”
“Soap-Dodgers?” said Mr Stink.
“Yeah, you know, the homeless.”
“Right,” said Mr Stink. “And as Minister for the Homeless, I would be able to help other homeless people?”
“Well, no,” said the Prime Minister. “It wouldn’t mean anything, just make me look like a fantastic tramp-loving guy. Well, wadda you say, Mr Stinky-poo?”
Mr Stink looked very ill at ease. “I don’t…I mean…I’m not sure—”
“Are you kidding me?” laughed the Prime Minister. “You’re a tramp! You can’t have anything better to do!”
The suited herd laughed too. Suddenly Chloe had a flashback to her school. The Prime Minister and his aides were behaving exactly like the gang of mean girls in her year. Still stumbling for words, Mr Stink looked over to her for help.
“Prime Minister…?” said Chloe.
“Yes?” he answered with an expectant smile.
“Why don’t you stick it up your fat bum!”
“You took the words right out of my mouth, child!” chuckled Mr Stink. “Goodbye, Prime Minister, and Merry Christmas to you all!”
Chloe and Mr Stink weren’t invited to take the helicopter home. They had to get the bus.
As it was Christmas Eve, the bus was chock-a-block with people, most of them barely visible under their mountains of shopping bags. As Chloe and Mr Stink sat side by side on the top deck, bare branches dragged against the grimy windows.
“Did you see the look on his face when you told him to stick it up his…?” exclaimed Mr Stink.
“I can’t believe I did it!” said Chloe.
“I’m so glad you did,” said Mr Stink. “Thank you so much for sticking up for me.”
“Well, you stuck for me with that awful Rosamund!”
“’Stick it up your bum!’ So naughty! Though I might have said something far ruder! Ha ha!”
They laughed together. Mr Stink reached into his trouser pocket to pull out a dirty old handkerchief to dry his tears of joy. As he raised the handkerchief to his face, Chloe spotted that a label had been sewn on to it. Peering closer, she saw that the label was made of silk, and a name was embroidered delicately on it…
“Lord…Darlington?” she read.
There was silence for a moment.
“Is that you?” said Chloe. “Are you a lord?”
“No…no…” said Mr Stink. “I’m just a humble vagabond. I got this handkerchief…from a jumble sale.”
“May I see your silver spoon then?” said Chloe, gently.
Mr Stink gave a resigned smile. He reached into his jacket pocket and slowly withdrew the spoon, then handed it to her. Chloe turned it over in her hands. Looking at it close up, she realised she’d been wrong. It wasn’t three letters engraved on it. It was a single letter on a crest, held on each side by a lion.
A single, capital letter D.
“You are Lord Darlington,” said Chloe. “Let me see that old photograph again.”
Mr Stink carefully pulled out his old black and white photograph.
Chloe studied it for a few seconds. It was just as she’d remembered. The beautiful young couple, the Rolls Royce, the stately home. Only now, when she looked at it, she could see the resemblance between the young man in the photo and the old tramp beside her. “And that’s you in the picture.”
Chloe held the photograph delicately, knowing she was handling something very precious. Mr Stink looked much younger, especially without his beard and dirt. But the eyes were sparkling. It was unmistakably him.
“The game’s up,” said Mr Stink. “That is me, Chloe. A lifetime ago.”
“And who’s this lady with you?”
“My wife.”
“Your wife? I didn’t know you were married.”
“You didn’t know I was a lord, either,” said Mr Stink.
“And that must be your house then, Lord Darlington,” said Chloe, indicating the stately home standing behind the couple in the photograph. Mr Stink nodded. “Well then, how come you’re homeless now?”
“It’s a long story, my dear,” said Mr Stink, evasively.
“But I want to hear it,” said Chloe. “Please? I’ve told you so much about my life. And I’ve always wanted to know your story, Mr Stink, ever since I first saw you. I always knew you must have a fascinating tale to tell.”
Mr Stink took a breath. “Well, I had it all, child. More money than I could ever spend, a beautiful house with its own lake. My life was like an endless summer. Croquet, tea on the lawn, long lion days spent playing cricket. And to make things even more perfect I married this beautiful, clever, funny, adorable woman, my childhood sweetheart. Violet.”
“She is beautiful.”
“Yes, yes, she is. She was. Unutterably so. We were deliriously happy, you know.”
It was all so obvious now to Chloe. The way Mr Stink had expertly bowled the screwed up piece of paper into the bin, his silver monogrammed cutlery and his impeccable table manners, his insistence on walking on the outside of the pavement, the way he had decorated the shed. It was all true. He was super-posh.
“Soon after that photograph was taken Violet became