Nanny Piggins and the Rival Ringmaster (11 page)

‘Easter,’ announced Nanny Piggins, ‘is about sharing chocolate with others until
they
are sick.’

The children frowned as they thought about this.

‘I suppose that is an improvement on your attitude from last year,’ conceded Samantha.

‘But why did you make that jogger go and buy all the chocolate from Hesselsteins?’ asked Derrick.

‘And why are you showing us your stockpile?’ asked Michael.

‘Because I’ve had a brilliant idea,’ said Nanny Piggins with a big smile.

An hour later Nanny Piggins, Boris and the children were standing outside the Town Hall in the middle of the city centre. Parked alongside them was the big truck from Hesselsteins, and alongside that was a removalist’s truck that Nanny Piggins had hired to transport all the Easter eggs from Mr Green’s garage.

‘What are we doing here?’ asked Michael.

‘I am going to orchestrate the biggest Easter egg hunt ever,’ said Nanny Piggins proudly.

‘How?’ asked Derrick.

‘Have you trained a flock of bunny rabbits to hide them for you?’ asked Boris.

‘No,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘Rabbits are okay. But if you want to distribute something quickly and in every direction I know a much better method.’

‘What are you talking about?’ asked Michael.

‘Cannon fire,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘Look, here it comes now.’

The children and Boris turned to see Rosalind, the bearded lady from the circus, drive Nanny Piggins’ old cannon into the town square.

And so Nanny Piggins, Boris and the children spent Easter morning loading the cannon up and blasting eggs into the sky, time and time again. And the children of the town awoke to the greatest Easter gift ever, the sight of chocolate eggs raining from the heavens.

Nanny Piggins, Boris and the children went home very happy.

‘Was it terribly difficult for you not to go on your chocolate eating rampage this year?’ asked Samantha.

‘No, actually it wasn’t,’ said Nanny Piggins with a smile. ‘While eating chocolate is my very favourite thing to do in the entire world, blasting things out of cannons comes a very close second.’

But as Nanny Piggins pushed open their front gate, they were greeted by a wonderful surprise. The front lawn, and indeed the whole house and back garden as well, were littered with Easter eggs.

‘The Easter Bunny has been!’ squealed Boris excitedly.

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘It must be those nice ghosts, rewarding me for my improved behaviour.’

Now the children realised it was more likely that these were simply some of the eggs they had themselves blasted out of the cannon. But they did not say anything because Nanny Piggins’ behaviour had improved and she deserved a treat.

Nanny Piggins, Boris and the children took off, happily running about the garden grabbing eggs and eating them (sometimes without even removing the foil).

Nanny Piggins and the children were sitting at the dining table eating breakfast. Mr Green was so absorbed in chewing his porridge and studying the stock listings in his newspaper he did not even notice that Nanny Piggins was carving her initials into his replica seventeenth-century dining table. Nanny Piggins did not normally believe in vandalising furniture, but this table was particularly ugly and she was very good at calligraphy, so her initials were sure to improve it.

Mr Green did not even look up from his newspaper when the dining room window behind him opened, and a furry paw (belonging to Boris) flung the mail into the middle of the table.

‘Thank you!’ called Nanny Piggins.

Nanny Piggins set aside the butter knife she was using as an improvised wood chisel and picked up the mail. There were several dozen invitations addressed to her, begging her to attend parties; there was a fan letter, from one particularly ardent cannon admirer; a couple of bills for Mr Green, which Nanny Piggins threw straight in the bin. (Mr Green never paid bills until the provider threatened to cut them off. Sometimes not until three weeks after they were cut off and only then because the weather had got so cold, he had frostbite from standing on the bathroom floor.) And there, at the bottom of the pile of mail, was a lovely thick cream-coloured envelope addressed to Mr Green, bearing a school crest and the words
Bradfield Preparatory Academy
.

‘What’s this?’ asked Nanny Piggins.

‘Bradfield Academy?’ said Derrick. ‘That’s the school Father and Mother attended.’

‘Your parents went to the same school?!’ asked Nanny Piggins. She was totally astounded.

‘Yes,’ said Samantha, ‘except for their last year, when Mother was an exchange student in Paris.’

‘But if your parents went to school together,’ said Nanny Piggins, ‘then your mother must have met your father. And if she knew what he was like, how on earth did she come to marry him?’

‘Maybe they didn’t have any classes together,’ guessed Michael.

‘Maybe she felt sorry for him,’ guessed Derrick.

‘Maybe he blackmailed her, forcing her to marry him,’ guessed Samantha. ‘That’s what men do all the time in romance novels.’

‘Yes, but only attractive men,’ countered Nanny Piggins, ‘who the heroines are secretly glad to be forced to marry.’

At this point, having read every single stock listing and found none with a price-to-earnings ratio that appealed to him, Mr Green looked up from his paper.

‘Is that the mail?’ he asked stupidly. Really, what else could the collection of envelopes be?

‘Yes, I was just about to hand it to you,’ fibbed Nanny Piggins (she was actually about to hold it over a cup of tea to steam it open).

Nanny Piggins and the children watched Mr Green.

‘Well well well, Bradfield Academy,’ said Mr Green, reading the envelope. ‘They probably just want a donation.’ Despite this dreadful possibility Mr Green tore the envelope open and took out the card inside, but as soon as he read the first words he dropped it as if it were a venomous snake. ‘Wah!’ yelped Mr Green.

‘What is it?’ asked Nanny Piggins.

‘Take it away! Burn it!’ exclaimed Mr Green. ‘Get it out of the house!’

Naturally, Nanny Piggins did the exact opposite. She picked up the card and read it aloud to the children. ‘Bradfield Preparatory Academy invites you to attend your 25-year school reunion.’

The children gasped.

‘Someone wants Father to go to a social function!’ marvelled Michael.

‘Perhaps they want someone to make fun of,’ guessed Derrick.

‘Or they’re going to drop something on his head and embarrass him,’ guessed Samantha. (Having watched many high school movies, she knew this was very common.)

‘Children,’ said Nanny Piggins gravely, ‘you are overlooking the much more shocking detail. If your father has been invited to his 25-year school reunion, that means he is only 43 years old!’

They all turned and looked at Mr Green. The children realised they had never known their father’s age before. If they’d had to guess they probably would have said somewhere between 52 and 102. He certainly had the dress sense of someone who had been alive during the second world war (and been hit in the head by a piece of shrapnel).

‘Unless,’ said Nanny Piggins, ‘you were held back several times for being slow?’

‘I was not held back,’ snapped Mr Green, snatching the invitation away from Nanny Piggins. ‘In fact, if you must know, I am actually 42.’

‘Don’t believe him, children,’ advised Nanny Piggins. ‘In this day and age of computer technology it is very easy to forge a birth certificate.’

‘Are you going to go?’ Michael asked his father.

‘Where?’ asked Mr Green.

‘To the reunion,’ said Michael.

‘Hah! Not if all 180 students from my year got down on their hands and knees and begged me!’ exclaimed Mr Green. ‘I would require a written letter of apology published in all the major national broadsheets.’ Mr Green stabbed the table for emphasis with his own butter knife (causing much more unsightly damage to the patina than Nanny Piggins’ initials).

‘What is he going on about?’ Nanny Piggins asked the children.

They just shrugged.

‘Mr Green, would you please tell us what you’re talking about immediately,’ demanded Nanny Piggins, ‘because I will find out anyway, and I’d rather not have to waste my morning going through your underwear drawer. Especially when I can’t remember where I put my extra thick rubber gloves.’

Mr Green looked from Nanny Piggins to the children. He was itching to tell someone. He had bottled up his feelings on the issue for so many years (25 to be precise). And since he had no friends, his family would have to do.

‘When I was in my final year at school,’ began Mr Green, ‘I was wrongly accused of committing a crime.’

‘Wearing really ugly clothes?’ guessed Nanny Piggins.

‘No,’ said Mr Green.

‘Being cruel to small children?’ guessed Nanny Piggins.

‘No,’ said Mr Green.

‘Smelling?’ guessed Nanny Piggins.

‘I do not smell!’ protested Mr Green.

‘No, of course you don’t,’ said Nanny Piggins, raising her eyebrows.

‘Those things aren’t crimes,’ Samantha pointed out.

‘They should be,’ muttered Nanny Piggins.

‘What crime were you wrongly accused of, Father?’ asked Derrick, trying to get the conversation back on course.

‘I was accused,’ said Mr Green, ‘of stealing the Inter-School Lacrosse Champion’s Cup.’

‘And that was a big deal?’ asked Nanny Piggins sceptically.

‘It was a beautiful big silver cup,’ explained Mr Green. ‘And having won it, after 97 years of never winning it, it was the pride and joy of the school.’

‘But I’ve never seen a silver cup anywhere about the house,’ said Nanny Piggins, ‘and I’ve been through every drawer and cupboard many times over when I’m looking for cake ingredients. So where do you keep it?’

‘I don’t have it!’ yelled Mr Green. ‘I was
wrongly
accused.’

‘Oh come on,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘You can tell us the truth. It was 25 years ago. I’m sure you won’t get in trouble now. And we won’t tell anybody.
Except perhaps the Police Sergeant if you really irritate us.’

‘I’m serious!’ yelled Mr Green. ‘I don’t have it. I’ve never had it. I did not steal that cup.’

‘You can see why he was wrongly accused,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘He’s not very convincing, is he?’

‘But think about it,’ said Samantha. ‘Can you really see Father stealing a trophy?’

They looked at Mr Green. He was dullness personified.

‘True,’ agreed Nanny Piggins. ‘It would be totally out of character for him to do something so interesting. I suppose he must be telling the truth.’

‘Of course I am,’ said Mr Green. ‘I never stole the cup.’

‘Then there’s only one thing to do,’ said Nanny Piggins decisively.

‘What?’ asked Michael.

‘I will just have to go to the reunion with your father, discover the real thief and clear Mr Green’s name!’ declared Nanny Piggins.

‘You will do no such thing!’ screamed Mr Green.

‘Why not?’ asked Nanny Piggins.

‘If I were going, which I’m not,’ yelled Mr Green, ‘I would not go with a pig!’

Nanny Piggins sighed. She had tried to teach Mr Green to overcome his pigist prejudices, but it was an uphill battle. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Don’t come. I’ll go on my own.’

‘No!’ wailed Mr Green, ‘I won’t let you.’

The children all drew in their breaths.

Nanny Piggins turned on him with narrowed eyes. ‘What did you say?’ she asked.

‘Quick, Father, back pedal,’ urged Derrick.

‘Apologise and say you’ll go with her,’ urged Samantha.

‘You’ve got nothing to lose,’ added Michael. ‘After all, they all think you’re a horrible thief, so their opinion of you will only improve if they see you have a fondness for animals.’

Mr Green had developed a healthy fear of his nanny’s angry glares, and he had left his shin pads in his bedroom so he had no protection if she decided to give him a manners lesson. He decided cowardice was the wisest policy.

‘Would you like to come to my school reunion with me, Nanny Piggins?’ Mr Green asked.

‘I think you can ask more nicely than that,’ said Nanny Piggins sulkily.

Good manners did not come easily to Mr Green, so Derrick had to help him.

‘Here Father, repeat after me –
Please, Nanny Piggins
…’ said Derrick.

‘Please Nanny Piggins …’ repeated Mr Green.

‘It would be a great honour for me …’
prompted Derrick.

‘It would be a great honour for me,’ repeated Mr Green.

‘
If you were to grace me with your company at my school reunion
,’ prompted Derrick.

‘This is ridiculous,’ said Mr Green, rolling his eyes.

Nanny Piggins leapt to her trotters.

‘All right all right,’ said Mr Green. ‘If you were to grace me with your company at my school reunion.’

Nanny Piggins stared at him. ‘And?’

‘
And
? What does she mean by
and
?’ asked Mr Green.

‘Tell her you’ll give her a great big chocolate cake if she does,’ advised Michael.

‘I’ll give you a great big chocolate cake,’ added Mr Green.

Nanny Piggins smiled. ‘I’d be delighted to accompany you to your reunion. Now you run along to work. I’ll take your credit card out of your wallet so I can buy myself a suitable dress. And don’t give it another thought.’

‘But, but, but …’ protested Mr Green.

‘Father, just get out of here while you still can,’ advised Samantha.

Mr Green took this advice and left.

The night of the reunion came and Nanny Piggins, Boris and the children got in the car with Mr Green to drive to Bradfield Academy. Nanny Piggins had insisted that the children should get to go too, because if something was going to be dumped on Mr Green’s head she thought it would be unfair for them to miss it. And she managed to get Boris included in the group by telling Mr Green he was a chauffeur she had hired for the night.

‘That is an unusually hairy chauffeur, Nanny Piggins,’ whispered Mr Green, not realising that Boris could hear every word he said because he had bear hearing, which was much better than a human’s.

‘Really? I hadn’t noticed,’ said Nanny Piggins.

‘And he’s huge,’ added Mr Green. ‘He must be …’

‘Ten foot tall,’ supplied Michael.

‘And 800 kilograms,’ added Mr Green.

They all heard a sob come from the driver’s seat.

‘The chauffeur does not weigh 800 kilograms,’ said Nanny Piggins pointedly. ‘He just has big bones.’

‘And,’ continued Mr Green, ‘I could swear, as I was getting in the car, I saw him do a pirouette.’

‘Was it a good pirouette?’ asked Nanny Piggins.

‘Well yes, I suppose so,’ conceded Mr Green.

‘Then you should be grateful,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘An unusually tall chauffeur who is very good at ballet will only be helpful later in the evening if you find yourself being chased by an angry mob. He will be able to do a little dance to distract them while you disappear into the sewers.’

When they arrived at Bradfield Preparatory Academy the gloomy sandstone building, floodlit against the night sky, looked like something out of a horror movie. It had been architecturally designed to be an intimidating institution, with gargoyles and statues of mythical beasts adorning the roof. In the centre, directly above the main entrance, was a spectacularly ostentatious piece of stonework depicting the school’s first headmaster, Hubert Bradfield, in a sword fight
with a three-headed gorgon, symbolising the three evils of ignorance, illiteracy and innumeracy.