“Dad, I’m sorry.”
“It’s OK, love. I am not going to say anything to your mother. You’ve kept your promise not to tell anyone about me losing my job, haven’t you?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Good girl,” said Dad.
“So,” said Chloe, glad to have Dad to herself for a while. “How did your guitar get all burned?”
“Your mother put it on the bonfire.”
“No!”
“Yes,” said Dad sorrowfully. “She wanted me to move on with my life. She was doing me a favour, I suppose.”
“A favour?”
“Well, The Serpents of Doom were never going to make it. I got the job at the car factory and that was that.”
“But you had an album! You must have been dead famous,” chirped Chloe excitedly.
“No, we weren’t at all!” chuckled Dad. “The album only sold twelve copies.”
“Twelve?” said Chloe.
“Yes, and your grandma bought most of those. We were pretty good, though. And one of our singles got into the charts.”
“What, the top forty?”
“No, we peaked at 98.”
“Wow,” said Chloe. “Top 100! That’s pretty good, isn’t it?”
“No, it isn’t,” said Dad. “But you’re very sweet to say so.” He kissed her on the forehead and opened his arms to give her a hug.
“There’s no time for cuddles!” said Mother as she strode into the kitchen. “The man from The Times will be here soon. Father, you make the scrambled eggs. Chloe, you can lay the table.”
“Yes, of course, Mother,” said Chloe, with at least half her brain worrying about when Mr Stink was going to get his breakfast.
“So how important is your family to you, Mrs Crumb?” asked the serious-looking journalist. He wore thick glasses and was old. In fact he had probably been born an old man. Plopped out of his mother, wearing glasses and a three-piece suit. He was called Mr Stern, which Chloe thought was pretty fitting. He didn’t look like he smiled a lot. Or indeed ever.
“Actually, it’s pronounced Croombe,” corrected Mother.
“No, it’s not,” said Dad before his wife shot him a look of utter fury. The Crumb family was sitting around the dining table and not enjoying their posh breakfast. It was all such a lie. They didn’t normally sit round the dining room table eating smoked salmon and scrambled eggs. They would be round the kitchen table eating Rice Krispies or Marmite on toast.
“Very important, Mr Stern,” said Mother. “The most important thing in my life. I don’t know what I’d do without my husband, Mr Crooome, my darling daughter, Annabelle and the other one…whatshername? Chloe.”
“Well, then I ask you this Mrs…Croooooome. Is your family more important to you than the future of this country?”
That was a toughie. There was a pause during which a civilization could rise and fall.
“Well, Mr. Stern…” Mother said.
“Yes, Mrs Croooooooooome…?”
“Well, Mr Stern…”
“Yes, Mrs Crooooooooooooooooooooooooo ooome…?”
At that moment there was a little rat-tat-tat on the window. “Excuse me for interrupting,” said Mr Stink with a smile, “but please could I have my breakfast now?”
“Who on earth is he?” enquired Mr Stern as Mr Stink trudged around in his filthy striped pyjamas to the backdoor.
There was silence for a moment. Mother’s eyes bulged out of their sockets and Annabelle looked like she was about to shriek or vomit or both.
“Oh, he’s the tramp who lives in our shed,” said Chloe.
“The tramp who lives in our shed?” repeated Mother incredulously. She looked at her husband with black fire in her eyes.
He gulped.
“I told you she was hiding something in there, Mother!” exclaimed Annabelle.
“He wasn’t there when I looked!” protested Dad. “He must have concealed himself behind a trowel!”
“What a wonderful woman you are, Mrs Croooooooooooome,” said Mr Stern. “I read about your policies on the homeless. About driving them off the streets. I had no idea you meant we should drive them into our homes and let them come and live with us.”
“Well I…” spluttered Mother, lost for words.
“I can assure you I am going to write an absolutely glowing piece about you now. This will make the front page. You could be the next Prime Minister of the country!”
“My sausages?” said Mr Stink, as he entered the dining room.
“Excuse me?” said Mother, before putting her hand over her mouth in horror at the smell.
“Forgive me,” said Mr Stink. “It’s just that I asked your daughter Chloe for some sausages two hours ago, and my sincerest apologies, but I am getting rather peckish!”
“You say I could be the next Prime Minister of the country, Mr Stern?” said Mother, thoughtfully.
“Yes. It’s so kind of you. Allowing a dirty old smelly tramp like this—I mean, no offence—”
“None taken,” replied Mr Stink without hesitation.
“—to come and live with you. How you could you not be elected as an MP now?”
Mother smiled. “In that case,” she said, turning to Mr Stink, “how many sausages would you like my very good friend who lives in my shed and hardly stinks at all?”
“No more than nine, please,” replied Mr Stink.
“Nine sausages coming right up!”
“With poached eggs, bacon, mushrooms, grilled tomatoes, bread and butter and brown sauce on the side, please.”
“Certainly, my extremely close and beloved friend!” came the voice from the kitchen.
“You smell so rank I think I’m going to die,” said Annabelle.
“That’s not nice, Annabelle,” said Mother breezily from the kitchen. “Now come and help me in here, darling, there’s a good girl!”
Annabelle ran to the sanctuary of the kitchen. “It stinks in here now as well!” she screamed.
“Shut your face!” snapped Mother.
“So, tell me…tramp,” said Mr Stern, leaning in towards Mr Stink before the smell got to him and he leaned back. “Is it just you living in the shed?”
“Yes, just me. And of course my dog, the Duchess…”
“HE’S GOT A DOG?” cried Mother anxiously from next door.
“And how do you find living here?” continued Mr Stern.
“Nice,” said Mr Stink. “But I warn you, the service