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 is painfully slow…”
‘LADY AND THE TRAMP’ was the headline.
Mr Stern had been true to his word and the story had made the front page of The Times. A large photograph of Mother and Mr Stink accompanied the piece. Mr Stink was smiling broadly, showing his blackened teeth. Mother was trying to smile, but because of the smell she had to keep her mouth firmly closed. As soon as the paperboy put the paper through the letterbox, the Crumbs pounced upon it and devoured it in a frenzy. Mother was famous! She read the article out loud with pride.
Mrs Crumb may not look like a political revolutionary in her smart blue suits and pearls, but she could well change the way we live our lives. She is standing for MP in her local town and, although her policies read as very hard line, she has taken the extraordinary step of inviting a tramp to live with her family.
“It was all my idea,” said Mrs Crumb (pronounced ‘Crooooooooooooome’). “At first my family was dead against it, but I just had to give this poor filthy flea-ridden dirt-encrusted stomach-turningly smelly beggar-man and his abhorrent hound a home. I love them both dearly. They’re part of the family now. I couldn’t imagine life without them. If only other people were as beautifully kind-hearted as me. A modern day saint, some people are saying. If every family in this country was to let a tramp live with them it could solve the problem of homelessness forever. Oh, and don’t forget to vote for me in the forthcoming election.”
It’s a genius idea, and could put Mrs Crumb in line to be the next Prime Minister.
The tramp, known only as ‘Mr Stink’ had this to
