Nanny McPhee Returns (3 page)

The Diary 5

I’ll stop there for a minute because no one’s interested in tidying, for crying out loud. Let them get on with it. It’s raining really hard here now. All the children are ready for their close-ups. The poor chickens are sitting in the pretend mud, which is getting thinner and thinner because of the rain. Devil is still too fat to work and Beryl has gone on hunger strike. If it goes on like this we certainly won’t survive the next three and a half months.

Jackie Durran, our costume designer, has come to show me my khaki uniform. She is an absolute genius, who wears mad hats and invents all these brilliant things for people to wear, like Mrs Green’s costumes, which all remind me of a cottage garden. You’ll hear about the khaki uniform later in the story.

But wait! The pattering upon the plastic roof of my palatial trailer (it has pelmets) has stopped! Chris Stoaling, our Second AD (see Glossary), has knocked and said we’re off to shoot the arrival of the Rolls-Royce. Massively exciting. I am going to pull on wellies and rush down there to get in the way.

My wellies, by the way, are never damp inside. That’s because my Dresser (see Glossary), Helen Ingham, makes sure they are clean and toasty every day. Only the actors are cared for in this way – everyone else has to wash their own wellies. Helen, or ‘H’ as she is known, is very funny. We giggle a lot.

Just arrived. Oh, it’s started to rain again. Everyone’s standing about in the mud looking glum. We’re not shooting the arrival of the Rolls-Royce. Massively boring. Better get on with the story then. There’s nothing else to do . . .

Might call this bit Chapter Two. Why not? It has a nice ring to it.

The Story 5

Chapter Two. The day before the arrival of the Gray children, everyone got a bit tense. The children had been too excited to sleep and had woken up grumpy as a consequence. Vincent was feeling resentful because Norman had made him promise to wash the bedclothes with Megsie instead of scratching the piglets. He’d been stewing on this for ages and finally decided to do something really naughty and steal Norman’s last sweetie from the secret tin.

I had better explain something here; I don’t know about you but I wasn’t really allowed sweeties when I was little. My dad used to buy us a sixpenny ice-lolly on a summer Sunday but that was pretty much it. Perhaps because of this I wanted and loved sugar in all its forms more than anything else in the world. The situation for the Green children was similar because during the war there was hardly any sugar in the whole country and certainly not enough for people to have sweeties every day. They were allowed about two ounces of sugar a week per family, which is about one bite of a Mars Bar. To share. So you can imagine, after a few months of that, the very thought of a sweetie would just about drive you mad with desire. So mad that you might consider stealing someone’s last one, especially if you were cross with the person to whom it belonged. Vincent was
very
cross with Norman, so he crept into the best parlour, climbed up on to the dresser, took the secret tin down and opened it. There, at the bottom, was the last sweetie. A lemon drop. Not, you might think, the most exciting sweetie in the world, but for all the reasons I have just mentioned, the thing that Vincent wanted more than life itself. He took it out, replaced the tin, got down from the dresser and then made his one mistake. A fatal mistake. He decided to open the sweetie there and then. As any fool knows, all children can hear the rustling of sweetie paper from a distance of several miles. This applies even if children get regular sup- plies and aren’t in the deprived condition of the Greens. So the moment Vincent started to unwrap the lemon drop, Megsie, who was outside milking Geraldine, heard, dropped the milk bucket and raced inside. Norman was oiling the tractor in the barn and, despite being several hundred metres away from the wrapper
and
whistling to himself, heard as well and headed straight for the best parlour, roaring, ‘Who’s eating my last sweetie?!’

Vincent only just had time for a few good sucks on the lemon drop before his siblings burst in on him and, at a glance, worked out what he’d been up to.

A passionate brawl ensued. Megsie got hold of Vincent and turned him upside down in the hope of shaking the sweet out. When this didn’t work, Norman tried to prise open his brother’s jaws but got bitten for his pains. Vincent sucked harder and harder as Norman yelled, ‘That was MINE!’ over and over again.

Suddenly an appalled Mrs Green rushed in.

‘Stop it! Stop it at once!’ she yelled. ‘Stop fighting! Stop shouting! Get off the furniture!!’

Mrs Green was furious. She’d spent hours trying to get the best parlour tidy just in case her sister turned up with the cousins. By the time Mrs Green had got the children to stop fighting and stop shouting, Vincent had finished the lemon drop.

‘Look here,’ said Mrs Green crossly, ‘you lot are supposed to be getting the farm spick and span for the cousins and all you’re doing is fighting, fighting, fighting, when what I want to be seeing is sharing, sharing, sharing!’

The children groaned.

‘We’re not sharing Dad’s jam with the cousins!’ said Vincent defiantly.

‘No, of course not, silly,’ said Mrs Green. ‘That’s for Dad when he comes home! I mean your beds and your toys and everything.’

‘When is he coming home?’ said Vincent.

Everyone went quiet. This was the question no one else dared to breathe. The sad fact was that not only had Mr Green not replied to their letters, but he had also missed his last leave and there had been no word from him or from anyone to explain why. When Mrs Green had tried to contact his unit there had been a lot of official language about ‘troop movements’ and ‘belated leave’ but no hard information about exactly where Mr Green might be or when he might be coming home. Like all very scary topics, it was something the family didn’t talk about much in case something or other came true. But Vincent was only five and sometimes he forgot the rules.

‘I don’t know, darling,’ said Mrs Green, suddenly calm and quiet.

‘Why won’t he reply to my letter? His last one came years ago!’ said Vincent, wandering over to look at the tied-up little bundle of letters that was kept safe on the mantelpiece.

‘Three months, darling, that’s all,’ said Mrs Green.

‘Yes, but why? Why won’t he reply?’

‘They move them around a lot, that’s all it is. Your letter’s sitting somewhere safe waiting for the next post, darling –’

Vincent persisted. ‘How do we know something bad hasn’t happened to him?’

‘Well –’ Mrs Green started to say, but Megsie interrupted.

‘Because they always send a telegram when something bad’s happened. They’re little yellow envelopes –’

‘I know!’ said Vincent. ‘I’ve seen one. It came for this boy at school. It said his brother was dead.’

‘That’s quite enough, all of you!’ said Mrs Green sternly. ‘You are quite right, Megsie, and that’s a very sad story, Vinnie, but nothing like that is going to happen!’

Mrs Green didn’t mean to be stern, but she was awfully scared about her husband and what might have happened to him and the only way she could cope with the fear was by being absolutely sure and certain that Mr Green would one day be walking back over the hill to them all.

‘And now I really have got to go to work. Please get on with all the chores and don’t eat the last bit of ham till I’ve cut it up evenly otherwise there will be arguments.’ And even though Mrs Green knew she hadn’t managed the situation terribly well she had to leave, so with one last glance at the three sad faces, she rushed out of the door.

The children didn’t feel like fighting any more. Norman, still grumpy about the sweetie and as concerned about his father as the rest of them, went off without a word to do his chores.

Megsie followed, and Vincent, having already had a bashing from both his siblings, decided that he might as well continue to be naughty, so instead of helping wash the bedclothes as he had been told, he went into the barn and started to pedal the Scratch-O-Matic. No sooner had all the piglets settled under their favourite scritcher for a good going-over than Norman marched in, hauled Vincent off and screeched, ‘You are in Big Trouble!’

Vincent wrenched himself out of Norman’s grasp and raced out of the barn. Norman followed at speed, only to be tripped up by Vincent with Megsie’s broom which she’d just mended and which broke again as Vincent and Norman careered into a huge heap of dung she’d just finished sweeping, which collapsed and scattered over the yard, by which time everyone was furious all over again. They were chasing each other about and screaming when suddenly Megsie saw something and stopped.

‘LOOK!’ she yelled.

No one took any notice.

‘LOOK, LOOK!’ she yelled again, and this time Vincent turned and saw an extraordinary sight. A huge motor car was coming up the lane. You, I imagine, are quite accustomed to seeing lots of cars every day of the week, but these children had hardly ever even seen ONE, let alone one like this. It was enormous and shiny and two different colours and had a silver lady statuette on the bonnet.

The Diary 6

Freezing today. For some reason May has decided to be January. We’re all wearing four layers and fur hats. Well, I am. Poor Danny Mays, who is playing the chauffeur Blenkinsop, has to do a backward roll in the mud and fall into the duck pond. He’s got a wetsuit on under his uniform but still . . . No one told him he was going to be performing stunts, and he’s being brilliant and excited about it and making us all laugh.

At least it’s not DARK and not raining. I see we’ve got to quite an exciting part of the story so let’s go back to it. There’s nothing much going on here. Lots of people standing about while other people push lamps through the mud, swearing quietly. I’m sitting in a patch of nettles but at least I’m not in the way . . . oh wait! Something happened! Oscar slipped over in the mud! He wins the prize and it’s TEN POUNDS. Now everyone is
trying
to slip over in the mud so they can win a prize too. But it’s too late.