Nanny McPhee Returns (16 page)

The Story 23

Lord Gray’s office was the largest room either of the boys had ever seen, even Cyril, who had visited some very grand houses in his time. Far, far away at the other end they could just make out a figure standing behind a desk. From where they were standing, the figure seemed quite small, but as they started to walk towards it, both the figure and the desk became bigger and bigger and bigger until they stood before them both, quite dwarfed by the desk and in mortal fear of the person standing behind it, who was staring at them with a brow of thunder. In fact, Lord Gray was not a big man. He was quite normal-sized, but he had a very big effect on you. He had piercing blue eyes that seemed to bore a hole in you wherever they looked and loads of medals and stripes everywhere and he stood up so straight that his feet seemed to hover slightly above the floor as he walked. But he wasn’t walking now, he was just staring.

‘What on earth is the meaning of this, boy?’

The voice was low and oddly gentle and I don’t think Norman could have explained why it put such a fear into him. There was something underneath the voice that seemed to say, ‘I could eat you very easily at any moment,’ as though the man were a bear in disguise or something. Norman looked at Cyril’s pale face and thought he understood a bit better what it had cost Cyril to bring him here.

‘Sorry to disturb you, sir,’ said Cyril, in a voice at least an octave higher than usual. ‘We need your help – we . . . we’ve come all the way up from the country –’

‘We?’ interrupted Lord Gray, raising a withering eyebrow.

Norman stepped up to stand beside Cyril. ‘He means me, Uncle. I mean, Uncle Your Lordship.’

‘And you are?’ said Lord Gray, skewering Norman with his stare.

‘Norman, sir. Norman Green.’

‘Enlighten me further, Green,’ said Lord Gray.

‘Your nephew, sir,’ said Norman, uncertainly, as though Lord Gray might not know what a nephew was.

‘Aunt Isabel’s son,’ said Cyril, helpfully.

‘Ah, yes,’ said Lord Gray. ‘The girl who made that unfortunate marriage.’

You remember all that, of course. Lord and Lady Gray had always felt rather embarrassed for Isabel, cut off without a penny and living in squalor amongst the peasants. Norman was so infuriated that he completely lost his fear of Lord Gray and said, quite angrily, ‘A happy marriage to my father, sir, who’s fighting for your army, so I’ll thank you to be more civil!’

Both father and son looked at Norman in amazement – Cyril, because he would never have dared to speak to his father in such a tone, and Lord Gray because no one had in fact spoken to him like that since he was about eight years old. It had an unexpected effect on him – instead of losing his famous temper as Cyril fully expected, he seemed to calm down a bit, coming around the desk to get a closer look at Norman.

‘And what is your business here, pray?’ he enquired, even more silkily.

‘Sir, we need you to find out what’s happened to Norman’s father. To Uncle Rory,’ said Cyril, who, emboldened by Norman, had found a stronger voice. Norman took up the cue.

‘He’s been away for months and months and he missed his last leave and he hasn’t written even though we’ve sent so many letters, specially Vinnie, and then yesterday we got a telegram saying – saying that he’d been killed in action – but I know it’s wrong! I know he’s alive!’

Norman stopped and waited. Lord Gray sucked in his top lip, and seemed to consider for a moment what he had heard.

‘I see,’ he said finally. ‘So you are saying, in effect, that the telegram, a telegram from the War Office itself, contained false information?’

‘Exactly!’ said Norman.

‘And you have proof, of course, otherwise you would not have dared to come here,’ said Lord Gray, almost musingly.

Cyril’s heart sank. He could tell by his father’s tone that he was gearing up for the kill. He also knew that Norman had nothing like what his father would consider proof. Lord Gray continued to speak, his voice becoming milder and milder as he moved closer to the boys.

‘Has he contacted you since you received the telegram?’

‘No,’ said Norman, beginning to realise what was coming.

‘Then one of his unit has been in touch, presumably?’

‘No,’ said Norman, in a much smaller voice.

‘Then what proof have you?’ said Lord Gray, in a voice so quiet the boys had to lean in to hear him.

Norman knew he had no proof. He knew that Lord Gray was the sort of adult who would never believe him when he said what he was about to say. But he was a brave boy and he was determined so he said it anyway.

‘I can feel it in my bones.’

Cyril closed his eyes in despair. Why hadn’t they thought of this? Why had he dragged Norman all this way just to be swallowed alive by his father’s wrath? Why hadn’t he thought it through?

Lord Gray’s eyebrows had shot up until they almost joined his hairline.

‘Feel it in your bones?’ he said, in a loud voice.

‘Feel it in your bones?’ he said again, in a much louder voice.

Norman gulped.

‘Yes,’ he whispered, his knees knocking.

Lord Gray’s eyebrows knitted together in an almighty frown as he took in a huge breath. Both the boys quailed. When he spoke it was in a voice so loud that the very walls of the office shook and a small brass figurine of Britannia fell over on the desk.

‘Great heavens, boy, you mean to say you’ve persuaded my weak-willed son to bring you here in the middle of a WAR with some COCK-AND-BULL story about a FEELING you have in your BONES?’

Norman knew then that all was lost. He knew that Lord Gray would never believe him, no matter what he did or said. He was appalled that Lord Gray should describe Cyril in such an awful, untruthful way, and he also knew that he had nothing left to lose. So he just made his voice as big as he could and shouted back:

‘He’s NOT weak-willed! It was him who saved the piglets and him that thought of helping by coming here, which was very brave! And I know I’m right about my father. Can’t you just enquire, PLEASE?’

Once again, the effect was startling. Lord Gray looked so surprised to be shouted at that it was almost comical after his fury. He came very close to Norman, so close that Norman could smell the pipe smoke on his breath.

‘There are thousands of men fighting in my army. Why should I give your father, however worthy he may be, my special attention?’

To this, Norman had no answer. He stammered, ‘I – I don’t know.’

Cyril couldn’t bear it. He took his courage in both hands and looked squarely into his father’s eyes. ‘Because they love him! And so does Auntie Isabel, and they need him! And I know why you sent us away to them too! It had nothing to do with bombs! I know you and Mother are getting a divorce –’

‘ENOUGH!’ cried Lord Gray.

‘NO!’ said Cyril. ‘You will listen! You’ve made your lives and our lives a misery! Isn’t that enough for you?’

Lord Gray was momentarily unable to speak.

‘At least help Uncle Rory and Auntie Isabel to be together,’ finished Cyril.

Norman looked at Cyril in awe. He and his father were just staring at each other and panting slightly, like two dogs who’ve just had a fight.

‘Who told you about the divorce, boy?’ said Lord Gray finally, and in a very different voice, a sort of naked voice.

‘Nobody told me,’ said Cyril miserably. ‘They didn’t have to.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Lord Gray.

Cyril thought for a moment, and then, looking utterly wretched, said quietly, ‘I could feel it in my bones.’

There was a very loud silence. Norman had that wobbly feeling in his throat that you get just before you start crying. Cyril looked small and defeated but calm too. Lord Gray turned and walked towards a small door behind the giant desk. It was over, thought Norman. They would have to go back without proof, and his mum would sell the farm and one day his dad would come home to find that his life had disappeared.

But Lord Gray turned to them when he reached the door and said, expressionlessly, ‘Wait here.’

Back in the kitchen at Deep Valley Farm, Mrs Green was on page three of the contract. Phil was standing over her with his pen at the ready.

‘Hurry it up there, Isabel,’ he said.

‘Mum,’ said Megsie, for the umpteenth time, ‘please wait for Norman!’

‘There’s absolutely nothing Norman can do,’ said Mrs Green. ‘Just stop it, Megsie. It’s all difficult enough as it is.’

Phil shot a hard glance at Megsie, who was biting her lip and wondering what on earth she could do to prevent her mother from signing. Suddenly, there was an ear-splitting shriek. It was Celia. She’d got up on to a chair and was screaming, ‘A mouse! A mouse!’ and pointing over to the cooker. Everyone looked.

‘Argh! Aaaarrggh!!! A mouse under the cooker, a big fat mouse, aaaaarghh!!!’

Phil, who was terrified of mice, got nervously on to the settle, while Mrs Green, wincing at the screams, got up and started to poke about under the cooker with a fly-swat. Megsie looked up at Celia who, continuing to scream, pointed urgently at the kitchen table. Megsie looked and saw Phil’s fountain pen lying by the contract. Then she understood Celia’s plan. Quick as a flash, she picked up the pen and hid it in her tool apron. Neither of the adults saw, engrossed as they were by the mouse drama and deafened as they were by Celia’s screeching.

While Celia was giving this fine performance, Norman was pacing up and down in front of Lord Gray’s desk until Cyril finally said, ‘You’ll wear a hole in the carpet if you go on like that.’

‘I know,’ said Norman apologetically. ‘It’s just that I can’t seem to stop moving.’

He looked at Cyril and saw a very sad expression.

‘Are they really going to get divorced, your mum and dad?’ he said.

In those days, I should tell you, divorce wasn’t quite so common as it is now and people were quite shocked by it when it happened. So Cyril felt awful when he had to say, ‘Yes.’ It made him feel oddly ashamed, as though it were in some obscure way his fault, which it wasn’t.

Norman looked at him compassionately.

‘You know, you can come and stay with us. Live with us. You and Celia. Not just wartime. All the time.’

Cyril looked at him and there was a glimmer of light in his eyes.

‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘That’s jolly decent of you. Thanks.’

At that moment, the little door opened and Lieutenant Addis came in with a long length of white tape. Lord Gray followed, wearing glasses. Both men looked very grave.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Lord Gray, consulting the tape.

‘What? What does it say?’

‘I’m afraid he’s M.I.A.’

‘What’s that?’ said Norman, dread in his heart.

Cyril came forward and put a consoling hand on his friend’s arm. ‘Missing In Action. I’m sorry, Norman.’

Everyone looked very serious. Norman couldn’t understand it.

‘Wait –’ he said. ‘Wait – missing in action? Not killed in action, like it said?’

‘Not killed,’ said Lord Gray. ‘The telegram you received was – incorrect. In fact, there’s no record of any telegram having been sent –’

Before Lord Gray could finish the sentence, Norman had flung his arms around his neck and was hugging him so tightly he nearly choked. Lieutenant Addis gave another of his little shrieks and dropped the ticker tape.