by R. A. Spratt
They were too busy staring at the beautiful red and gold gypsy caravan parked on the street. It had big wagon wheels, two little shuttered windows, an arching roof, window boxes filled with flowers and lots and lots of decorative trim.
When their father finally turned round he flinched in horror. ‘What is that monstrosity?’
‘It looks like a gypsy caravan,’ said Samantha.
‘Gypsies!’ panicked Mr Green. He’d had a rational fear of gypsies ever since a Gypsy Queen had kidnapped him and tried to force him to marry her. (For more information, see Chapter 12 of Nanny Piggins and the Wicked Plan.)
Just then the little shuttered windows of the caravan flew open and Nanny Piggins popped her head out. ‘Yoo-hoo!’ she called. ‘Would you like a slice of cake before you go to school?’
The children rushed forward, partly to grab a slice of cake but mainly to hug their beloved ex-nanny.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ demanded Mr Green. ‘This is an outrage!’ His mouth continued to open and close while he tried to think of more coherent things to say. ‘I won’t stand for it . . . This is unacceptable . . . I’m calling the police.’
‘No need,’ said Nanny Piggins happily. ‘The Police Sergeant is here already.’
The other little shuttered window of the caravan swung open and the Police Sergeant popped his head out. ‘Good morning, Mr Green,’ he called, before taking another bite of his shortbread cookie.
‘I demand that you remove this pig from my premises!’ yelled Mr Green.
‘She isn’t on your premises,’ said the Police Sergeant. ‘She’s parked her caravan on a public street, as she is fully within her rights to do. There are no legal grounds on which I could remove her.’
‘Another shortbread cookie, Sergeant?’ asked Nanny Piggins.
‘Don’t mind if I do,’ said the Sergeant. (He was normally a very honest man, who would never dream of taking anything that could be misconstrued as a bribe. But he did have a weakness for shortbread cookies, a fact Nanny Piggins knew full well.)
‘I’ll go over your head,’ spluttered Mr Green. ‘I’ll go to the Chief Superintendent.’
‘You can, but the laws which protect the rights of travelling people are very old ones,’ said the Police Sergeant. ‘The Chief Superintendent may be sympathetic to your cause, but the law is the law. You should know. Didn’t they teach you that at law school?’
Mr Green went red and then purple in the face as he tried and failed to think of something cutting to say.
‘You’d better move along, Mr Green,’ advised the Police Sergeant, ‘before one of the neighbours calls me complaining about the amount of noise you are making so early in the morning.’
Mr Green stomped off, taking the children with him (but not before Nanny Piggins had handed them each a packed lunch of chocolate, cake and chocolate cake so they would not starve under their father’s care).
‘I think that’s round one to Nanny Piggins,’ whispered Derrick to Samantha and Michael as they slid into the back of their father’s Rolls-Royce.
When the children came home from school that afternoon they were disappointed to discover that, while the gypsy caravan was still parked in the street, there was no-one inside.
‘You don’t suppose Father’s found some way to chase her off, do you?’ asked Michael.
‘I can’t imagine how he could,’ said Derrick, ‘short of buying a tank.’
When they let themselves into the house, their spirits were low. That was until the wallpaper starting talking to them.
‘Did you have a good day at school?’ asked the wallpaper.
‘What?’ asked Derrick. He had never been spoken to by an interior decoration before.
‘It’s okay,’ said the wallpaper. ‘It’s me!’ The wallpaper now moved. It seemed to wave at them. Then they all realised it was Nanny Piggins. She was entirely covered in body paint so that she looked exactly like the ugly forty-year-old floral wallpaper that lined their house.
‘Nanny Piggins!’ exclaimed Samantha, rushing forward to hug her.
‘Freeze!’ yelled Nanny Piggins. ‘You mustn’t hug me. Your father is watching with his video cameras.’
‘What video cameras?’ asked Michael.
‘Up there,’ said Nanny Piggins, gesturing to a camera attached to the ceiling. ‘He’s had them installed in every room so he can watch you all the time. But fortunately for us, he did not bother paying the extra to have microphones installed, so we can say whatever we like and he can’t hear us.’
‘Good,’ said Derrick, turning to scowl at the camera, ‘because I want to say that our father is the biggest . . .’
Unfortunately Derrick never got to share his thoughts because at that moment an incredibly loud voice barked out around the house.
‘Don’t stand around dillydallying. I want to see you all doing your homework, right now! Quick sticks!’ boomed the voice.
‘What on earth was that?’ asked Michael.
‘I forgot to mention,’ explained Nanny Piggins. ‘Your father has had speakers installed in every room so that he can broadcast instructions to you.’
‘So he can speak to us but we can’t speak to him?’ asked Samantha.
‘Yes, he does seem to have engineered this whole scenario to suit himself,’ agreed Nanny Piggins.
Once they got used to the new arrangements, Nanny Piggins and the children found they could be easily worked around. All it took was a dollop of whipped cream smeared over the lenses of the cameras at crucial moments, then they could all jump out the window and run off down the street. So in reality all that high-tech monitoring equipment barely altered their routine.
One day, when the children got off their school bus in the afternoon, they found Nanny Piggins waiting for them.
‘Why aren’t you wearing your body paint?’ asked Samantha. ‘Aren’t you going to spend the afternoon with us?’
‘Of course I am,’ said Nanny Piggins, ‘but this morning I had an even better idea about how to thwart your father.’
‘What is it?’ asked Michael.
‘I’ve painted life-size cardboard cut-outs of each of you and positioned them in front of the cameras in your house,’ explained Nanny Piggins, ‘so right now it looks like you are sitting quietly in the living room doing maths.’
‘But won’t Father be suspicious if we never move?’ asked Samantha.
‘No, it would be his dream come true,’ said Derrick.
‘So what are we going to do now?’ asked Michael.
‘Well, you are probably dangerously weak after having to endure an entire day at school,’ said Nanny Piggins, ‘so I suggest we start by going to the ice-cream shop and having a giant banana split, without the bananas of course.’
And that is exactly what they did. In fact they ended up spending the whole afternoon at the ice-cream parlour. Nanny Piggins convinced Andre the owner to allow her to use the ice-cream to create a life-sized sculpture of Mr Green. It was a very convincing depiction. She used strawberry ice-cream for his head and hands, chocolate icing for his hair and eyebrows, and pistachio and hazelnut ice-cream for his grey–green suit. The statue was so convincing it made Samantha shudder and feel guilty about not doing her homework every time she looked at it. And it turned out to be quite a boon for the ice-cream shop because Nanny Piggins invited all the other patrons to throw glacé cherries at Mr Green’s head, something they all enjoyed enormously. Before they left, Andre made Nanny Piggins promise to come back the following week and do another statue of someone unpleasant, perhaps Headmaster Pimplestock, to shock and appal his patrons.
So it was eight o’clock at night when Nanny Piggins walked the children home, laughing and talking about their wonderful evening. But when they arrived at their front gate they were greeted by an unhappy sight. Mr Gr
een was standing on the front doorstep waiting for them. And he looked very cross.
‘What are you doing here?’ demanded Nanny Piggins. ‘You usually aren’t home for hours yet.’
‘It’s my house!’ yelled Mr Green. ‘I’ll come home when I like! You are fired! You should not be going anywhere near my children!’
‘It’s not my fault I bumped into them coming out of the library and we all happened to be walking the same way along the street,’ said Nanny Piggins.
‘I don’t believe that for one instant,’ shrieked Mr Green. ‘How do you explain the fact that you all have ice-cream smeared across your hair and clothing?’
‘Um . . .’ said Derrick.
‘Because an ice-cream truck crashed and we stopped to render assistance, of course,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘What other explanation could there be?’
Mr Green looked like his head was ready to explode he was so angry, but somehow he managed to rope in his temper. ‘I do not have time for this,’ he hissed. ‘I received a phone call today from the Department of Child Services. They are sending a social worker around to inspect the children. She will be here in three minutes. I need you all to get in the house this instant, clean off that ice-cream and do your homework.’
‘If you were a good father, wouldn’t you be feeding them dinner?’ asked Nanny Piggins.
‘Do your homework, eat dinner, whatever!’ exploded Mr Green. ‘I want you to get in the house and pretend to be good children right now!’
‘Good evening,’ said a woman walking along the street.
‘Go away,’ yelled Mr Green. ‘Can’t you see I’m in the middle of admonishing an ex-member of my domestic staff?’
‘Domestic staff?’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘I was the only member of your domestic staff.’
‘Just get out of here,’ yelled Mr Green. ‘Go on, get in your caravan and leave my children alone.’
Nanny Piggins sauntered back to her gypsy caravan and slammed the door.
‘Good evening,’ said the woman again.
‘I thought I told you to go away,’ yelled Mr Green.
‘Yes, I think you might like to rethink your tone,’ said the woman, as she reached into her handbag and pulled out her ID badge. ‘I’m Agatha Crawford from the Department of Child Services. I’ve come to inspect your child-care arrangements.’
‘Oh,’ said Mr Green.
‘Several of your neighbours have contacted us with their concerns,’ continued Agatha. ‘They are all distressed that you’ve fired your nanny, but we have received conflicting accounts as to how you look after the children now. Mrs Simpson is worried that you are tying them up in the attic, the Retired Army Colonel who lives round the corner is concerned that you will ship them off to join the French Foreign Legion, and Mrs Lau from across the street is upset that you are keeping your children in the basement under house arrest and forcing them to hand-make sneakers.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ spluttered Mr Green.
‘Yes,’ said Nanny Piggins, sticking her head out of her caravan window. ‘He has installed the sewing machines, but he hadn’t got around to getting the shoe-making supplies yet.’
‘You shut up!’ growled Mr Green.
‘Perhaps we should go in the house,’ suggested the social worker. ‘We can’t stand out here on the street leaving your children unattended.’
‘What?’ said Mr Green. ‘No, of course not.’
‘Would you like me to come too?’ asked Nanny Piggins.
‘No!’ bellowed Mr Green.
As he led the social worker into the house, he did what he always did after an unpleasant show of emotion. He pretended it had never happened. So, with a forced smile, he showed her into the living room, where Derrick, Samantha and Michael were now sitting, immaculately groomed and doing their homework.
‘These are my children,’ said Mr Green. ‘Derrick, Samantha and Mitchell.’
‘Michael,’ corrected Michael.
‘What?’ asked Mr Green.
‘My name is Michael,’ said Michael.
‘No, it’s not,’ said Mr Green. ‘I think I know my own son’s name.’
‘It says Michael on my birth certificate,’ said Michael.
‘It must be a typo,’ said Mr Green. ‘You know what secretaries are like.’ He chortled. ‘All air between their ears.’
‘I used to be a secretary,’ Agatha informed him.
‘Really?’ said Mr Green. ‘I don’t suppose you could make me a cup of tea then?’
‘Even secretaries don’t make tea anymore,’ said Agatha.
‘Mine does,’ said Mr Green.
‘I bet she spits in it,’ muttered Derrick.
‘So I take it that the well-dressed, ice-cream-smeared pig living in the caravan outside is your former nanny?’ asked the social worker, consulting her notes. ‘Miss Sarah Matahari Lorelai Piggins?’
‘World’s Greatest Flying Pig,’ added Samantha.
‘Nobel Laureate,’ added Derrick.
‘And master baker,’ added Michael.
‘And convicted criminal!’ added Mr Green.
‘What was her crime?’ asked Agatha, her pen held at the ready.
‘Tightrope walking,’ explained Samantha.
‘Tightrope walking?’ asked Agatha. ‘And how did this endanger the children?’
‘It didn’t,’ said Derrick.
‘She broke the law!’ declared Mr Green. ‘She set a bad example.’
‘Yes, but you have to understand that I work with the Department of Child Services,’ said Agatha. ‘I’m used to dealing with people who commit crimes like selling their children, or setting fire to their houses while their children are inside playing with Lego. I’ve never come across a case of tightrope walking before. Did she do it to get away from the children and neglect her duties?’
‘No, she did it to fetch us a slice of chocolate cake,’ explained Michael.
‘I see,’ said Agatha, writing on a large notepad. ‘So what alternative child-care arrangements have you made.’
‘I’ve been looking after the children myself,’ said Mr Green proudly.
‘Really?’ said Agatha, looking up. ‘Because when I rang Botswana and spoke to your employer earlier today, Ms Isabella Dunkhurst, she said you work 95 hours a week, every week. So how is that possible?’
‘I had video cameras installed,’ said Mr Green, proudly indicating the video camera on the ceiling of the room.’
‘And he yells at us through loudspeakers,’ added Derrick.
‘And you thought this would substitute for the loving presence of a responsible adult?’ asked Agatha.
‘Well, it’s a darn sight better than having a criminal pig look after them,’ said Mr Green.
‘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.
