Nanny Piggins and the Pursuit of Justice (17 page)

‘No it’s not,’ corrected Agatha. ‘I’ve received testimonials from everyone living in your street
about what a wonderful job Nanny Piggins does looking after your children.’

‘Even Mrs McGill, the nasty old lady next door?’ asked Derrick.

‘Yes, even her,’ said the social worker. ‘She’s impressed by how much outdoor exercise Nanny Piggins makes sure your children get, by running into her backyard and stealing lemons from her tree.’

‘Nanny Piggins does not normally approve of fruit,’ Samantha explained, ‘but she does like a little lemon zest in a victoria sponge.’

‘You can’t force me to re-hire her,’ spluttered Mr Green.

‘Yes I can,’ said the social worker. ‘It’s either that or I charge you with child neglect. Then
you’ll
be the one with a criminal record.’

Mr Green went white at the horrible thought. ‘But everyone at work would laugh at me.’

‘When are you going to realise, Father,’ asked Samantha kindly, ‘that they are always going to laugh at you?’

‘I can’t do it,’ said Mr Green. ‘I can’t bring myself to do it.’

‘It’s because you’re frightened of Nanny Piggins, isn’t it?’ guessed Derrick.

Mr Green nodded and sniffed a little.

Just then Nanny Piggins burst back into the room. ‘Don’t worry, Mr Green,’ declared Nanny Piggins. ‘I re-hire myself. Another chore I’ll save you from having to do yourself.’

‘Thank you,’ muttered Mr Green weakly.

‘But I’m afraid I do insist on renegotiating my contract,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘I want more money.’

‘Oh no,’ said Mr Green, going white again.

‘If I am going to return, I insist on being paid . . . eleven cents an hour!’ declared Nanny Piggins boldly.

‘It’s a deal!’ exclaimed Mr Green with relief. He knew a good deal when he heard one. ‘Can I go back to my office now.’ He looked from Nanny Piggins to the social worker for their permission. They both nodded and he ran out of the house.

‘What a dreadful man,’ said the social worker.

‘In his defence,’ said Nanny Piggins, ‘he usually behaves himself very well. Sometimes we can go weeks without noticing he lives here.’

The children nodded.

‘Well, this calls for a celebration!’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘Michael, run along the street and invite all
the neighbours over for a party. I’m going to replicate the cake that caused all this trouble – the one I tightrope-walked between buildings for.’

‘You’re going to throw a neighbourhood party on a school night?’ scowled the social worker.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘You’re invited too. In fact, you’re the guest of honour.’

‘That means you get the largest slice of cake,’ Samantha told her.

The social worker was soon charmed by Nanny Piggins’ homemade baked goods, and they all had a wonderful party with delicious cake and a tightrope-walk re-enactment that the neighbours talked about for years to come.

Even Mr Green had a lovely time, at his office, fudging his clients’ tax returns into the small hours of the morning.

When Derrick, Samantha and Michael emerged from school they were surprised to see their father’s Rolls-Royce sitting outside the gates with the engine running. They were surprised for two reasons. First, in the entire time they had been at school they had never, not once, been picked up by their father. (Not even the day their mother had gone missing in that mysterious boating accident. Even then he let them catch the bus home before breaking the
terrible news.) Second, the street outside the school gates was a ‘No standing’ zone, and Mr Green would never have the courage to disobey a sign put up by the municipal council.

‘Is that Father’s car?’ asked Samantha in bewilderment.

‘Who else do we know who owns a vomit-yellow Rolls-Royce?’ asked Michael.

‘It must be Nanny Piggins,’ said Samantha. ‘She must have “borrowed” it.’

‘But Father had all the locks changed and only one key pressed, which he keeps hidden on a chain around his neck,’ said Derrick.

‘I knew that sounded like a bad idea as soon as I heard it,’ said Michael. ‘As if Nanny Piggins would let a little thing like Father’s neck stand between her and the Rolls-Royce.’

As the children approached the car, a tinted window rolled down and they could see a figure entirely dressed in black and wearing a balaclava, sitting behind the wheel.

‘Eeek!’ said Samantha. ‘It’s a car thief!’

‘If it was a car thief, why would they come and pick us up from school?’ reasoned Michael.

‘Perhaps they feel bad about being a car thief,’ suggested Samantha.

Just then the black clad figured pulled up her balaclava, revealing herself to be none other than their beloved nanny.

‘Quick, get in!’ called Nanny Piggins.

‘How on earth did you get hold of Father’s car?’ asked Derrick.

‘You didn’t cut his head off, did you?’ asked Michael, although he doubted if she did it would do their father much harm. Chickens can survive for weeks with their heads cut off, provided you keep putting food down their oesophagi. And his father often reminded him of a chicken.

‘No no, not at all,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘I didn’t have the time. I just borrowed a half brick from Mrs Simpson and dropped it in through the sunroof.’

The children peered into the car to see the gaping hole.

‘He should thank me really,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘Convertibles are much more fashionable and he could do with some work on his tan.’

The children were not entirely sure their father would see it that way.

‘Hurry up and get in,’ urged Nanny Piggins. ‘We’ve got work to do. I’ve got balaclavas for all of you so the police won’t be able to prove anything.’

The children obediently got in the car and pulled their balaclavas over their faces, as Nanny Piggins peeled away, with tyres squealing.

‘Where are we going?’ asked Derrick.

‘To teach someone a lesson,’ explained Nanny Piggins.

‘Who?’ worried Samantha.

‘The advice columnist from the newspaper. She’s been at it again,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘See for yourselves.’ Nanny Piggins passed a copy of the local newspaper back to the children.

They scanned it quickly. It seemed like pretty standard sort of advice. ‘Be honest with your husband.’ ‘Save ten per cent of your income.’ ‘Buy your wife some flowers once in a while.’

‘Which one are we meant to be shocked by?’ asked Derrick.

‘The second one from the bottom!’ said Nanny Piggins.

Michael read it aloud: ‘
Dear Aunt Alice, I put on a couple of kilos over Christmas and I just can’t lose it again. I’ve tried three different diets but nothing works. What should I do? Yours, Frumpy
’

‘Now read the response,’ said Nanny Piggins.

Samantha read:
‘Dear Frumpy, Why don’t you take up jogging?’

‘Can you believe it?’ exclaimed Nanny Piggins. ‘Jogging, I mean jogging!’

‘What’s wrong with jogging?’ asked Michael. He had never tried it himself but he wasn’t aware that there was anything terribly wrong with it. ‘I thought you said people who wanted to lose weight should exercise.’

‘But not jogging!’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘It is the most humiliating and degrading of all sports. It’s even worse than beach volleyball. And you have to do that wearing a bikini and sticking your bottom out for everyone to look at.’

‘But lots of people jog,’ said Derrick. ‘Presidents do it.’

‘I know,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘That’s the tragedy. They have no-one in their lives to tell them how stupid they look bouncing up and down. And all that sweating! So disgusting. But that’s not the worst thing about jogging.’

‘It’s not?’ asked Samantha. She thought bouncing and sweating sounded pretty bad.

‘The worst part is that it’s so utterly, miserably boring,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘Just pounding along the road, one foot in front of the other, desperately trying not to think about the pain in your legs.’

‘But you run all the time,’ Derrick pointed out.

‘That’s different,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘I run away from dangerous things like police officers. Or I run towards delicious things like ice-cream vans. That’s exciting and purposeful, whereas jogging is just painful and pointless.’

‘So what are we going to do about it?’ asked Samantha.

‘We’re going to kidnap Aunt Alice,’ declared Nanny Piggins.

‘What?’ exclaimed all three children.

‘Nanny Piggins,’ said Derrick. ‘You can’t!’

‘Why not?’ asked Nanny Piggins. ‘She’s had it coming for months now.’

‘You can’t kidnap her, it’s illegal!’ said Samantha. ‘Seriously illegal. You’ll get more than community service if you get caught.’

‘Pish!’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘I’ve been kidnapped lots of times and I’ve never come to any harm.’

‘Yes, but you’re circus folk,’ argued Derrick. ‘The advice columnist isn’t. She won’t like it.’

‘Oh piffle,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘All I’m going to do is throw her in a sack, drive her down to the local jogging track and make her do fifty or sixty laps to see how she likes it.’

Nanny Piggins hit the brakes and the car screeched to a halt.

‘Here’s where she lives,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘Now pass me that sack, rope and gaffer tape.’

‘How did you get her address?’ asked Samantha. ‘I thought the editor had ordered his staff not to give it to you.’

‘Hah!’ scoffed Nanny Piggins. ‘He was easily dealt with. I just baked him one of my quadruple fudge cakes and when he passed out from a calorie high, I rifled through his address book.’

Nanny Piggins took her equipment and bounded out of the car.

‘We’ve got to stop her,’ said Derrick.

‘How?’ asked Samantha. ‘She’s never listened to reason before.’

‘If only we had our own sack, rope and gaffer tape, we could kidnap her,’ said Michael.

‘She is always urging us to take those things to school,’ said Samantha repentantly.

‘Come on,’ said Derrick, ‘we’d better catch up with her. The least we can do is yell “run” when Nanny Piggins kicks in the door.’

But, somewhat to Nanny Piggins’ disappointment, she never got to kick in the door. Because before she even pressed the doorbell the door swung open, revealing a nice old lady.

‘Hello,’ said the old lady. ‘Have you come to sell me something? Do come in and tell me all about it.’

‘Do you often get four door-to-door salesmen turning up wearing balaclavas?’ asked Derrick.

‘No,’ admitted Aunt Alice, ‘but I don’t want to second-guess your sales tactic. Now come on in for a cup of tea. I’ve got some lovely flapjack I baked this morning.’

At the mention of baked goods the steam entirely went out of Nanny Piggins’ anger. ‘Flapjack? Where?’ she asked. ‘Never mind. I’ll find it,’ she shouted as she pushed past Aunt Alice and ran into the house, looking for the kitchen.

They soon found Nanny Piggins chomping her way through half a tray of golden, sticky treats. ‘Not bad,’ conceded Nanny Piggins. ‘But that does not excuse your dreadful behaviour.’

‘It doesn’t?’ asked Aunt Alice. ‘What have I done?’

‘You’ve given out simply terrible advice,’ accused Nanny Piggins, popping another square of flapjack in her mouth.

‘Oh, I know,’ said Aunt Alice, helping herself to a square of flapjack too, ‘but it’s so hard thinking up what to say. I get bored with myself sometimes.’

‘But that is a terrible attitude,’ accused Nanny Piggins. ‘These people turn to you for help. You can’t let them down.’

‘Oh, don’t worry,’ said Aunt Alice. ‘I don’t let
real
people down. You see, I don’t just make up the answers, I make up the letters too.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ exclaimed Nanny Piggins.

‘Nobody writes to the newspaper wanting advice anymore,’ said Aunt Alice, ‘and when they do, the things they ask about are rarely fit for print.’

‘They’re about exercising?’ guessed Nanny Piggins.

‘No, it’s all about relationships,’ said Aunt Alice, ‘and I’ve been single my whole life, so I don’t know much about all that sort of stuff. That’s why I make up the questions as well as the answers. It’s easier that way.’

‘That’s awful,’ denounced Nanny Piggins. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to get you fired.’

‘Not out of a cannon?’ queried Michael.

‘No, from her job,’ said Nanny Piggins.

‘Please don’t,’ said Aunt Alice. ‘I rather like having a job and earning money. It helps me to pay for food and such like.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Nanny Piggins, ‘I’m not a cruel pig. I’ll make sure you get another job that suits you much better.’

And Nanny Piggins was true to her word. By five o’clock that afternoon she had been to see the editor again, woken him up from his fudge-cake-induced slumber by giving him a slice of coffee cake, and insisted he sack his advice columnist.

The editor was, at first, resistant. Aunt Alice had once given him excellent advice on how to get a blueberry stain out of white woollen carpet, so he was very loyal to her. And since he never read her column (he was a very lazy editor), he did not realise how rotten it had become.

‘But she’s a sweet old lady,’ protested the editor. ‘I can’t sack her. The union will come after me.’

‘I’m not suggesting you leave her penniless on the street,’ said Nanny Piggins.

‘You’re not?’ said the editor.

‘No, I think you should give her a job she is actually qualified to do,’ explained Nanny Piggins. ‘Her flapjack is really very good. The best I’ve ever tasted cooked by a human. So I think you should give her a cooking column.’

‘I suppose I could do that,’ said the editor, ‘but what about the advice column. It’s been part of the paper for eighty years. I can’t cut that.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘I’ll write it for you.’

‘You?’ said the editor.

‘Why not me?’ said Nanny Piggins.

‘You can read and write?’ asked the editor.

‘Of course I can!’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘What are you trying to imply.’

‘She is actually very good at writing,’ said Derrick, chipping in to help his nanny. ‘Particularly angry letters and rude letters. She writes those most days.’

Nanny Piggins nodded with agreement. ‘And I get into lots and lots of trouble all the time. So I have plenty of advice I could give people.’

‘You do?’ asked the editor sceptically.

‘Yes,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘For example, given my current legal predicament, I could now advise anyone wanting to eat a slice of birthday cake not to tightrope walk between two buildings.’

‘You would?’ asked Samantha, relieved to hear her nanny sounding so sensible.

‘Yes, I would advise them to blast themselves from a cannon instead,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘The police never would have been able to prove it was me if I was just a blur of speed across the sky.’

Eventually the editor decided he would give Nanny Piggins a go as his new advice columnist. He was sure that whatever she wrote, while not
necessarily being good advice, would certainly be entertaining advice. And that’s all that mattered to him as a newspaper man. Plus Nanny Piggins bribed him with promises of more fudge cake, so she soon had her way.