Nanny Piggins and the Rival Ringmaster (15 page)

‘Right, you just wait here,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘I’m going to go and see if I can get you fired in time to get home for
The Young and the Irritable
.’

Nanny Piggins disappeared behind the sets. Boris and the children amused themselves for the next couple of hours by playing ‘Guess When The Crew Member Last Had A Bath’. The assistant directors looked pretty clean but some of the gaffers looked like they only washed on weekends (which is actually a look that takes much more time in front of the mirror to achieve).

Three hours later Nanny Piggins had not re-emerged. And certainly nothing spectacular and sack-worthy had occurred. It looked like Boris was going to have to go on. He had been given make-up (one dab of powder on his shiny nose) and costume (a belt) and they were about to shoot the big special effects scene.

‘I do hope that Sarah hasn’t run off and forgotten about me,’ said Boris sadly.

‘Of course she hasn’t,’ said Michael.

‘Not unless she’s seen something to eat,’ said Derrick.

‘But all the catering department does is churn out delicious food!’ panicked Boris. ‘I’m doomed! I’m never going to see my sister again!’

‘Quiet, please!’ yelled the assistant director. ‘Everyone to your marks.’

Which meant that all the actors, including Boris, had to go and stand on specific spots on the floor. Then they were given strict instructions not to move (not even to do ballet), because there were going to be so many explosions and phaser blasts that if they moved an inch they might get hurt by a piece of flying debris.

‘Okay, we’re going for a take,’ called the director through a bullhorn. ‘This scene is costing $400,000 to shoot. There will be no take two. So please, nobody stuff it up.’

‘Camera’s rolling,’ called the director of photography.

‘Sounds good,’ called the head of the sound department.

‘All right, ACTION!’ yelled the director.

And suddenly Boris was in the midst of the most terrifying cacophony of explosions he had ever experienced. (At least, not since the Ringmaster hired a very angry Chinese fireworks expert who tried to blow up the whole circus with bottle rockets.)

The lead actors were yelling dramatic dialogue – ‘You’ll never take me!’, ‘Nooo, I don’t care if you’re my biological father, I refuse to be evil!’ and ‘Shut up, Alien, you’re not the boss of me!’ – all while shooting at each other with phaser blasters.

Then just as the melee of gun play and screamed dialogue was about to climax, the most unexpected thing happened. There was a huge explosion and Nanny Piggins, dressed in a space costume, smashed in through the back of the set, tearing the canvas that had been painstakingly painted to look like outer space.

When she landed gracefully, by slamming into the leading lady and knocking her down, all the other actors froze in stunned astonishment.

‘I am Pigdora, Queen of the Pig People, from the planet Swineacentori,’ announced Nanny Piggins. ‘And I have come here to tell you all off for making too much noise and disturbing the rest of the galaxy.’

The lead actors looked at each other. They knew this was an expensive scene and it could not be shot again, so they had to improvise.

‘Um … sorry?’ said the heroic leading man.

‘CUT!!!’ screamed the director, throwing his bullhorn on the ground and marching out onto set.

‘Oh goody,’ said Boris. ‘I think this is the bit where I get fired!’

‘Who are you?’ the director demanded, standing over Nanny Piggins.

‘I am Boris’ sister,’ announced Nanny Piggins. ‘I was visiting him when I thought it would be fun to join in.’

‘You just thought you’d join in?!’ exclaimed the director.

‘Yes,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘Oh I do hope I haven’t done anything wrong.’ (Which was a fib.)

‘You …’ said the director, stabbing his finger at Nanny Piggins, ‘were brilliant!’ He broke into a big smile.

‘I was?’ asked Nanny Piggins in confusion.

The director grabbed her and kissed her once on each cheek. And Nanny Piggins was so shocked she did not even stamp on his foot.

‘We’ve been looking for a way to end that scene,’ enthused the director. ‘You were perfect. Just what we needed.’ He turned to the producer. ‘Fire the writer! We’re going with the ending this pig improvised.’

‘Wait! Hang on a minute, we need to talk …’ began Nanny Piggins.

‘Yes, we do need to talk,’ agreed the director, putting his arm around Nanny Piggins’ shoulders
and leading her away. ‘I’m going to sign you up to a lucrative, long-term, multi-picture deal.’

‘This isn’t what Nanny Piggins planned, is it?’ Boris asked the children.

‘I don’t think so,’ said Michael.

They watched as Nanny Piggins disappeared into the director’s trailer.

‘Oh dear,’ said Boris. ‘I’m going to be stuck being a movie star forever.’

Boris and the children sat helplessly watching the outside of the director’s trailer. They were given very little indication of what was going on inside. Occasionally they could hear yelling but they could not make out what was being yelled. And at one stage there was clearly a struggle because the trailer rocked back and forth and there was the sound of china being smashed over someone’s head.

After two hours the door suddenly burst open and Nanny Piggins emerged. She walked straight over to Boris and grabbed him by the arm.

‘Come on, we’re going,’ said Nanny Piggins.

‘But …’ began Boris.

‘No buts,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘We have to get out of here before I do something else that’s fabulous and one of these lunatics tries to put me in an action-adventure comedy.’

Later that day, Nanny Piggins, Boris and the children sat around their kitchen table eating Madeira cake to calm their nerves after such an eventful morning. Nanny Piggins explained what had happened in the trailer.

‘They wanted to sign me to an exclusive long-term contract for millions and millions of dollars,’ shuddered Nanny Piggins. ‘But after a lot of haggling I got them to agree to my terms.’

‘What were they?’ asked Michael.

‘I said they could use the footage of me smashing in through the back of the set, rename the movie
Revenge of the Pig Queen
and put huge movie posters of me all around the world, on the condition that they immediately fire Boris and give us enough money to pay for the damages at the Honey Emporium.’

‘And they agreed to that?’ asked Derrick.

‘Reluctantly,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘They are going to get in an animatronic pig to play me in the rest of the movie.’

‘What about Boris’ part?’ asked Samantha.

‘They are going to get a man in a hairy suit to replace him,’ explained Nanny Piggins.

‘But that sounds crazy,’ said Derrick.

‘As far as I can tell, these film people
are
crazy,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘They’re even worse than circus folk.’

‘True,’ agreed Boris, ‘but their catering is much better.’

‘But Nanny Piggins, why didn’t you take the deal?’ asked Derrick. ‘You’d be a rich movie star with millions and millions of dollars.’

‘Then who’d look after you three?’ asked Nanny Piggins. ‘I could hardly leave your father in charge.’

‘And I’m not management material,’ said Boris sadly.

Nanny Piggins gave him a supportive hug. ‘That’s all right. It’s much better I stay here and be the nanny. If I were a rich glamorous super celebrity I wouldn’t have nearly enough time for baking.’

BANG, BANG, BANG! Someone was loudly and rudely knocking at the Green’s front door. And the rudest thing about it was that they were knocking on the door at six o’clock on Saturday morning, a time of the day when Nanny Piggins and the children preferred to be fast asleep.

‘We’re under attack!’ panicked Nanny Piggins as she leapt into action.

‘Why are we being attacked?’ asked Derrick blearily as the children emerged from their bedrooms to see why their nanny was yelling and running about.

‘Who knows!’ exclaimed Nanny Piggins. ‘It could be the police, it could be a rival flying pig, it could be the milkman fed up with me for denouncing him for not putting chocolate in the milk and making all his customers much happier. But we can’t just roll over and surrender, we must fight back.’

Nanny Piggins was pushing a chair over to the hall window, which overlooked the front door.

‘Shouldn’t we look and see who it is first?’ asked Samantha.

‘And lose the element of surprise?!’ exclaimed Nanny Piggins. ‘I think not. Michael, fetch the bucket of custard I keep on my nightstand.’

Michael ran off.

‘Why do you keep a bucket of custard on your nightstand?’ asked Derrick.

‘For just this sort of eventuality,’ explained Nanny Piggins. ‘Or in case I get peckish in the night and the chocolate cake I keep on my other nightstand is a little dry.’

Nanny Piggins climbed up on the chair. Michael ran back with the custard (which is not easy to do
without slopping some on your pyjamas. Fortunately this was a very thick custard, so Michael only got a litre or so on his clothes). Nanny Piggins threw open the window, took the bucket and hurled the contents onto the heads of the unsuspecting victims knocking below.

She was immediately satisfied with the results. There was lots of screaming of ‘Whhaaa!!’, ‘What is this!’, and ‘Mmmm it’s rather good custard’.

‘Go away!’ yelled Nanny Piggins authoritatively from the window. ‘I absolutely refuse to serve time, or duel another flying pig, or give away my custard recipe, so you may as well go home.’

Two custard-covered men looked up at the window.

‘We only wanted to ask where number 47 was,’ said the larger man.

‘What’s he talking about?’ asked Derrick.

‘I think it’s some sort of secret spy code,’ said Nanny Piggins.

‘We’re removalists and we’re supposed to be unloading our truck at number 47,’ explained the thinner, custard-covered man.

Nanny Piggins and the children now noticed the huge eighteen-wheeler truck parked in the street, with the words ‘Rapid Removals’ written on the side.

‘Oh!’ said Nanny Piggins, beginning to feel a little foolish about throwing custard without asking a few questions first.

‘This is a strange street,’ continued the thin, custard-covered man. ‘There are no numbers on the letterboxes, the curbs, the front doors, anywhere! How are we supposed to know which house is which?’

‘Yes, how very strange,’ said Nanny Piggins. Although to her it was not strange at all. She knew exactly why there were no numbers on any of the houses. It was because she had been up and down the street the previous afternoon, prying them off, painting them over and peeling them from letterboxes. You see, Nanny Piggins had a library book which had been overdue for two weeks, and she reasoned that she would not get a fine if the postman could not find the house to deliver the fine notice (the flaw in the logic was that the postman had been delivering mail to their neighbourhood for 12 years, so he knew which house was which. He particularly knew where Sarah Matahari Lorelai Piggins lived because at no other house was he ever attacked, then offered mouth-wateringly delicious cake, then attacked again). ‘Number 47 is the house four doors up. It’s the one that smells like mushrooms.’

‘Come again?’ asked the larger removalist.

‘It’s the one with the For Sale sign in the front yard,’ added Derrick more helpfully.

‘Thanks,’ chorused the removalists, as they turned to their truck.

‘And?’ said Nanny Piggins meaningfully.

The men turned back, they looked confused.

‘Aren’t you going to thank me for the custard?’ asked Nanny Piggins.

The men licked some of the custard that was still covering their faces and dripping through their hair. While it was inconvenient to be covered in thick sticky liquid, especially at such an early hour in the morning, they could not deny that the custard was delicious. ‘Thank you,’ called the men.

‘You’re welcome,’ said Nanny Piggins happily, before shutting the window and turning to the children. ‘Well, this is going to make for a fun morning.’

‘It is?’ asked Derrick.

‘Oh yes,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘Derrick, run and fetch the binoculars and your father’s telescope. Michael, go next door and borrow Mrs Simpson’s camera with the telephoto lens, and remember it’s early, so try not to wake her up when you sneak in. And Samantha, you run around the corner and
borrow some field glasses from the retired army colonel who is deeply in love with me.’

Fifteen minutes later they all gathered down in the living room. In that time Nanny Piggins had been busy herself. She had entirely draped the front of the house in camouflage netting.

‘What’s all this for?’ asked Michael.

‘Spying,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘We are going to watch the removalists unpack their truck. That way we can learn all about our new neighbours by seeing what sort of things they own.’

‘Isn’t that an invasion of their privacy?’ asked Samantha.

‘Oh yes,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘But it would be rude not to do it. We don’t want our new neighbours to think we don’t take an interest in them. Besides, finding out what they’ve got now saves me having to break into their house and snoop around later.’

Normally watching two men unload box after box, for hour after hour, would be a trifle dull. But with Nanny Piggins it was fun. She would get excited by the most ordinary brown cardboard box, crying things like: ‘Look at that one! I bet there is a dead body in there.’ And when one of the children pointed out that it was not big enough to contain a
dead body, Nanny Piggins would only reply, ‘Even worse. It must be half a dead body!’

By the time the truck was entirely unloaded Nanny Piggins was convinced that in addition to the normal household furniture they had seen unpacked, their new neighbours also had boxes and boxes of dead bodies, murder weapons, pirate treasure and stolen ancient artefacts (all cursed, obviously).

‘Well, children, this is a sad day for me,’ sighed Nanny Piggins. ‘Until today, I was the most interesting person who lived on the street. But now that psychotic antique-stealing pirates have moved in four doors down, I shall have to take second place.’

‘You don’t know they are psychotic antique-stealing pirates,’ said Samantha reasonably. ‘Those plain brown boxes could just as easily have been full of books and kitchen equipment.’

‘Oh no,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘There was something about those plain brown boxes. They looked wicked.’

The children had long realised there was no point in trying to get their nanny to see reason; her brain was unaccustomed to it. So they simply changed the subject by pointing out that it was lunchtime, and got on with their day.

And so Nanny Piggins and the children forgot about the excitement of having psychotic antique-stealing pirates down the street until the next morning, when they were again brutally woken up by the BANG BANG BANG of someone pounding at the front door.

‘Right!’ exclaimed Nanny Piggins. ‘Where’s my custard?’

Unfortunately she had eaten the custard during the night. (They’d had an unusually dry Dundee cake as a midnight snack.) So Nanny Piggins had to go down to the front door to confront the people herself.

‘But Nanny Piggins,’ worried Samantha, as the children followed their nanny, ‘surely you’re not actually going to open the door? What if it’s the police?’

‘Or a rival flying pig?’ said Michael.

‘Or a sales rep from a telephone company?’ asked Derrick.

‘I am prepared to take the risk,’ said Nanny Piggins, flinging open the front door.

But on the doorstep, Nanny Piggins was shocked to discover a lovely looking elderly man and woman.
Now, you may think it’s odd of me to describe them as being
lovely looking
, although indeed they were. They were smiling, well dressed, healthy looking old people who radiated goodwill. But as far as Nanny Piggins was concerned, the single and most outstandingly lovely thing about them was that the elderly woman was holding an enormous chocolate mud cake (that did not look at all dry). Nanny Piggins could not stay angry in the presence of such a cake, so without being offered, she took a slice and started eating. As far as Nanny Piggins was concerned, holding a cake in a forward position was equal to an invitation and if these strangers did not want her to start eating it, they should have encased it in the safety of a Tupperware container.

‘How dare you wake us by rudely banging on our door at such an obscenely early hour,’ said Nanny Piggins, as she chewed the delicious cake.

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said the old woman, her face beginning to crumple. ‘It is 11 o’clock. We didn’t realise you would still be in bed. Are you a shift worker?’

‘Yes, I am,’ said Nanny Piggins, helping herself to another slice. ‘Nannying is a 24/7 job.’

‘We just popped by to introduce ourselves,’ said the old man. ‘We’re Ida and Bruce Pidgeon. We’ve just moved in to number 47.’

‘Then why are you bringing us cake?’ asked Nanny Piggins. ‘Surely we should be bringing
you
cake?’ (Nanny Piggins had been planning to take them a six-tier lemon cake that very afternoon.)

‘We just wanted to get off on a good foot with everyone,’ said Mrs Pidgeon, smiling again. ‘We’re so happy to be part of such a lovely neighbourhood.’

‘Oh dear, is there something wrong with your eyes?’ asked Nanny Piggins kindly. ‘Do you suffer from cataracts?’

Mrs Pidgeon laughed and shook her finger at Nanny Piggins. ‘We’ve heard about you.’

‘You have?’ asked Nanny Piggins. ‘Where? The police reports? The evening news?’

‘The other neighbours,’ said Mr Pidgeon. ‘They’ve all been telling us what good fun you are.’

Now it was the children’s turn to raise their eyebrows.

‘Anyway, we just wanted to pop by, say hello, give you this cake and invite you to our little house-warming party next weekend,’ said Mrs Pidgeon, handing Nanny Piggins an envelope.

‘It’s going to be a mystery party,’ said the old man with a big wink.

‘Is there something wrong with your eyes too?!’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘You two really should see a good optometrist.’

The old couple just laughed.

‘Bye,’ said Mrs Pidgeon.

‘See you at the party next weekend,’ called Mr Pidgeon.

Nanny Piggins and the children walked through to the kitchen so they could enjoy some pre-breakfast chocolate as they read their invitation. But as soon as Nanny Piggins opened the envelope and took out the card, she let out a yelp of horror.

‘Aaagghh!’ yelped Nanny Piggins.

‘What is it?’ asked Derrick, straining to read the card upside down.

‘They’re murderers!’ exclaimed Nanny Piggins.

‘And they gave you a card saying that?’ asked Samantha.

‘See for yourselves,’ said Nanny Piggins.

The children gathered round their nanny to see the card. It read:

A murder most foul will take place at number 47 Stedman St. You are invited to come along and join in the search for the killer.

‘Should I call the Police Sergeant?’ asked Nanny Piggins. ‘Or do you think Mr and Mrs Pidgeon will murder me if I did?’

‘Um, Nanny Piggins,’ said Derrick looking more closely at the card. ‘I think you’ll find they aren’t
real
murderers.’

‘You won’t say that when they hit you over the head with a candlestick in the conservatory,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘I’ve read all those Agatha Christie books. I know that’s what innocent-looking nice old people do all the time.’

‘No, I mean it’s just a game,’ continued Derrick. ‘They’re holding a mystery dinner party where you
pretend
there has been a murder, for fun, so the guests can unravel the clues.’