I digress.
“But,” said Chloe, “you might like to have a bath, well, just for fun…”
This was no ordinary bath time. Chloe realised this had to be run like a military operation.
Hot water? Check.
Towels? Check.
Bubble bath? Check.
Rubber duck or similar animal-based bath toy? Check.
Soap? Was there enough soap in the house? Or in the town? Or indeed in the whole of Europe, to make Mr Stink clean? He hadn’t had a bath since—well, he claimed last year, but it might as well have been since dinosaurs ruled the earth.
Chloe turned on the taps, running them both together so the temperature would be just right. If it was too hot or too cold it might scare Mr Stink off baths for ever. She poured in some bubble bath, and gave it a swirl. Then she laid out some neatly folded towels, pleasingly warm from the airing cupboard, on a little stool by the bath. In the cabinet she found a multi-pack of soaps. It was all going perfectly according to plan, until…
“He’s escaped!” said Dad, poking his head around the bathroom door.
“What do you mean, ‘escaped’?” said Chloe.
“He’s not in the shed, he’s not in the house, I couldn’t see him in the garden. I don’t know where he is.”
“Start the car!” said Chloe.
They sped off out of their street. This was exciting. Dad was driving faster than usual, although still one mile an hour less than the speed limit, and Chloe sat in the front seat, which she hardly ever did. All they needed were some doughnuts and coffee to go, and they could be two mismatched cops in a Hollywood action movie. Chloe had a hunch that if Mr Stink was anywhere he would be back sat on his bench where she had first talked to him.
“Stop the car!” she said, as they passed the bench.
“But it’s a double yellow line,” pleaded Dad.
“I said, stop the car!”
Dad stamped on the brake. The tyres screeched as the car stopped. They were both propelled forward a little in their seats. They smiled at each other at the excitement of it all—it was as if they had just ridden a rollercoaster. Chloe sprang out of the car and slammed the door shut, something she would never dare do if her mother were around.
But the bench was empty. Mr Stink wasn’t there. Chloe sniffed the air. There was a faint whiff of him, but she couldn’t really tell if this was a recent one or a lingering odour from a week or so ago.
Dad drove around the town for another hour. Chloe checked all the places she thought her tramp friend might be—under bridges, in the park, in the coffee shop, even behind bins. But it seemed as though he really had disappeared. Chloe felt like crying. Maybe he had left the town—he was a wanderer, after all.
“We’d better head home now, darling,” said Dad softly.
“Yep,” said Chloe, trying to be brave.
“I’ll put the kettle on,” said Dad as they walked indoors.
In Britain, a cup of tea is the answer to every problem.
Fallen off your bicycle? Nice cup of tea.
Your house has been destroyed by a meteorite? Nice cup of tea and a biscuit.
Your entire family has been eaten by a Tyrannosaurus Rex that has travelled through a space/time portal? Nice cup of tea and a piece of cake. Possibly a savoury option would be welcome here too, for example a Scotch egg or a sausage roll.
Chloe picked up the kettle and went to the sink to fill it. She looked out of the window.
Just then, Mr Stink’s head popped up from the pond. He gave her a little wave. Chloe screamed.
When they’d got over their shock, Chloe and Dad walked slowly towards the pond. Mr Stink was humming the song ‘Row row row your boat’ to himself. As he sang, he rubbed algae into himself with a water lily. A number of goldfish floated upside down on the water’s surface.
“Good afternoon, Miss Chloe, good afternoon, Mr Crumb,” said Mr Stink brightly. “I won’t be too long. I don’t want to get too wrinkled in here!”
“What…what…what are you doing?” asked Dad.
“The Duchess and I are having a bath of course, as young Chloe suggested.”
At that moment the Duchess appeared out of the murky depths, covered in weeds. As if it wasn’t enough that he was having a bath in a pond, Mr Stink had to share it with his dog too. After a few moments the Duchess clambered out of the pond, leaving behind a large black scum layer floating on the water. She shook herself dry and Chloe stared at her in surprise. It turned out she wasn’t a little black dog after all, but a little white one.
“Mr Crumb, sir?” said Mr Stink. “Would you mind awfully passing me a towel? Thank you so much. Ah! I am as clean as a whistle now!”
Mother sniffed. And sniffed again. Her nose wrinkled with disgust.
“Are you sure you had a bath, Mr Stink?” she enquired, as Dad drove all the family and Mr Stink to the television studio.
“Yes, I did, Madam.”
“Well, there is a funny smell of pond in this car. And dog,” pronounced Mother from the front seat.
“I think I’m going to puke,” pronounced Annabelle from the back seat.
“I’ve told you before, darling. We don’t say ‘puke’ in this family,” corrected Mother. “We say we are feeling very slightly nauseous.”
Chloe opened the window discreetly, so as not to hurt Mr Stink’s feelings.
“Do you mind if we keep the window closed?” asked Mr Stink. “I am a little chilly.”
The window went up again.
“Thank you so much,” said Mr Stink. “Such unimaginable kindness.”
They stopped at some traffic lights and Dad reached for one of his hard rock CDs. Mother slapped his hand, and he put it back on the steering wheel. She then put her favourite CD on the car stereo, and the old couple in the next car looked at the Crumb family strangely as ‘Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves’ came blaring out of their car.
“Mmm, no no no, that won’t do at all…” said the TV producer as he studied Mr Stink. “Can we put some dirt on him? He doesn’t look trampy enough. Make-up? Where’s make-up?”
A lady with far too much make-up on appeared from around a corridor, scoffing a croissant and holding a powder-puff.
“Darling, have you got any grime?” asked the producer.
“Come this way, Mr…?” said the make-up lady.
“Stink,” said Mr Stink proudly. “Mr Stink. And I am going to star on the television tonight.”
Mother scowled.
Chloe, Annabelle and Dad were led to a little room with a television, half a bottle of warm white wine and some stale crisps, to watch the show being broadcast live.
The thunderous title music started, there was polite applause from the audience and the pompous-looking presenter, Sir David Squirt addressed the camera. “Tonight