Nanny McPhee and the Big Bang (7 page)

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Later: I am wet through. This is how it happened.

It was very difficult for the children to act delight and astonishment with nothing to react
to
. So I made a little plot with Martin – the camera started to roll and Martin pulled me bodily off the set and pushed me into the water, where I did quite a lot of very silly things. The children were delighted and astonished, and now that it’s in ‘The Can’ (see Glossary) I am delighted and astonished too.

The Story 11

Is it Chapter Three yet? I don’t know. You decide.

So, if you remember, Phil was desperate to get Mrs Green to sign full ownership of the farm over to him so that he could sign it over to Mrs Biggles.

‘Isabel,’ he said urgently, ‘you haven’t even got enough money to pay for this month’s tractor hire –’

‘Phil,’ interrupted Mrs Green, quite rosy with irritation, ‘didn’t you hear me? Norman has solved that problem by agreeing to sell the piglets to Farmer Macreadie!’

‘Sell the piglets to Farmer Macreadie?’ said Phil, his eyes narrowing.

‘Yes! And that will tide us over to harvest time! Now, if you’ll just let me pass –’

But as Mrs Green was about to run off, a voice interrupted. ‘Don’t panic!’ it cried. ‘Don’t panic! Stop all that panicking! Help is at hand!’

Phil and Mrs Green turned to look as a little round man with round spectacles on a round nose in a round face came bowling up in a white helmet and a blue serge uniform that didn’t fit.

‘Good morning, Mr Spolding!’ said Mrs Green, delighted to have been rescued. ‘My, don’t you look smart?’

‘Yes,’ said Mr Spolding, puffing up his chest until he really was as round as a human could be without being a grapefruit.

‘As you can see I have received my official uniform and am now a fully fledgling professional – and look here – my official pamphlet –’ Mr Spolding held out a little buff pamphlet. He pronounced it ‘pamph
lette
’, but Mrs Green didn’t have the heart to correct him and Phil was too preoccupied to notice.

‘That’s lovely, Mr Spolding. Now I really do have to get to work –’

But Mr Spolding wasn’t having that.

‘No, now, no, no, Mrs Green, you really should listen to this short official warning now that I am a short official – I mean, an offishial,’ he said and, planting himself firmly in front of them both, he read from the pamphlet.

‘This here pamphlette authorryises me to round up suspishious persons and put them in a offishy custardy – I mean a fishy custard –’

‘I think that’s official custody, Mr Spolding,’ said Mrs Green, ducking around him. ‘Why don’t you tell Phil all about it – I’ve got to get into the shop!’

And she was gone, leaving Phil with Mr Spolding, who had caught hold of his arm, determined at all costs to keep at least one member of his audience captive.

The bell dinged as Mrs Green entered and sniffed the air. Docherty’s Household Supplies had the best smell of any place ever. It was a mixture of furniture polish, liquorice, tar and apples. All seemed quiet as Mrs Green called out, ‘It’s only me, Mrs Docherty!’ and pulled on her apron. The shop was very still and silent. Mrs Green was just beginning to think that Mrs Docherty was still in bed (her bedroom was above the shop so she got to smell the lovely smell all day and all night) when all of a sudden a spooky white thing popped up from behind the counter.

Mrs Green gave a little shriek. She didn’t believe in ghosts, but when one appeared right there in front of her, she couldn’t help getting a fright.

‘What on earth’s the matter?’ said Mrs Docherty.

Mrs Green heaved a sigh of relief, which was closely followed by a yelp of alarm.

‘What
have
you done, Mrs Docherty?’ she said. ‘You’re all white.’

‘I’ve just been putting the flour away,’ said Mrs Docherty, clapping her hands and sending up a huge cloud of white dust.

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Mrs Green groaned. That meant the monthly delivery had been made and that Mrs Docherty had started to unpack it by herself. No matter how many times Mrs Green begged her to wait, Mrs Docherty liked to get on and do it alone because it made her feel responsible and happy. The results, though, were often disastrous. Mrs Green zipped around behind the counter and found Mrs Docherty standing waist deep in a conical mound of flour. Swearing very quietly under her breath, Mrs Green got out the dustpan and brush.

Back at the farm, everything had gone from bad to worse . . .

Cyril had done something truly dreadful. He’d opened the pot of special jam the children had made for their father’s return. Seeing what he’d done, the Greens had rushed at him and he’d slid the pot down the kitchen table to Celia. She was trying to pretend she wasn’t there and the jar had flown off and smashed to pieces on the stone flags of the kitchen floor. Then the fighting had started in earnest. They’d chased each other round the farm, pelting each other with hay and rotten apples and bits of cow poo. All Celia’s clothes, which had been new and therefore in cardboard boxes and not suitcases, were trampled in the mud and the cousins all absolutely hated one another with a passion. Having exhausted all the possibilities for warfare outside, they were now INSIDE the house, wrestling and scratching and yelling like banshees as they got nearer and nearer the best parlour . . .

The Diary 12

I have absolutely no idea what day it is because the weather has been so awful I have had to stop writing a diary. It kept getting rained on. We’re a bit behind now, which isn’t comfy for anyone. People start to worry about what’s known as ‘going over’. That means having to shoot for longer than was originally budgeted for, and you know what THAT means. It means the film will cost a little bit more. I say ‘a little bit’. But films cost so much per week (I’m not even going to tell you because you would be shocked and possibly not even believe me) that any time you think it might take longer, every single person on the set starts to go a bit green. And all the people who are responsible for paying for the film come down on set and stare at us grimly. It’s all very difficult. And no matter how many times you wail, ‘But it’s not our fault! It’s the weather!’ it still
is
our fault and we have to do something about it quickly. So it all gets a bit tense and the set nurse (who is called Rachel and has the dirtiest laugh of any medically trained person ever) has to give out a lot more aspirin than usual.

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Bill Bailey has been on set for the last three days. It’s awfully difficult not to throw myself at his feet in a spontaneous act of worship every time he passes. He’s playing Farmer Macreadie in a wonderfully battered old felt hat. Darling Danny Mays (Blenkinsop) is back and we are hoping to finish Scene 54, where the children come back with the piglets, but it is horribly complicated. Nine – count them – NINE actors (all of whom have to get a close-up), seven LIVE SQUEALING piglets, a large horse, a cart, and depressed chickens in the rain. It’s hellish. Quite an emotional scene too, so there’s a lot of acting required. Yikes.

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2 p.m.-ish: You see, it’s hot now. And the good thing about the rain was that I didn’t get hot. It’s very hot indeed in the full Nanny McPhee costume, I can tell you. A big fat-suit over my own fat, then several layers of heavy black material, pretend boobs (very heavy – they are made of silicone and are what people use to replace a boob if they have lost one in an operation. Sometimes I whip one out unexpectedly – grown men have been known to faint . . .) a hump and a front hump, pretend ears, nose, warts and a wig. It’s no fun in there. In the sun, I just gently trickle with sweat all day long. It crawls down my shoulder blades like a tickly worm and I can’t reach to scratch. Also, my teeth are hurting. I have a big set up at the top and plumpers in my cheeks that attach to my lower teeth. They are brilliantly made, but after a few hours, anything pushed in your mouth like that would begin to ache. Nobody’s fault. My make-up was designed by Peter King (he won an Oscar for doing all the Lord of the Rings make-up) – who is immensely clever and very good fun. It is all applied by my Welsh make-up artist, Paula Price, who is nothing short of angelic.

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When I need to be in my full Nanny make-up, she has to get up at 4.30 a.m., drive from Cardiff, meet me at 6 a.m.-ish and start by sticking on my nose with very strong glue. Then my ears, my warts, my monobrow and my wig. And she’s called an artist because she
paints
them into my face so that you can’t see the join. And you really can’t – it looks absolutely real even if you are close to me and peering like anything. It is important to like your artist because they get very near to your face very early in the day. I am lucky because I don’t just
like
Paula, I
love
her. I do, however, make much less of a fuss than the piglets. They are having their black spots painted on at the moment. This involves being lovingly cradled by Guillaume and gently painted by Gary. They kick up the most unbelievable racket, like a gigantic bucket of angry babies. It’s really quite upsetting for everyone. Silly creatures. They don’t know how lucky they are.