Nanny Piggins and the Race to Power 8

by R. A. Spratt

  Nanny Piggins was standing in the living room, posing for her mayoral statue. I know this seems a little presumptuous (the election was still a month away) and extremely egotistical (she was way behind in the polls). But it was traditional for the newly elected mayor of Dulsford to commission a portrait of himself or, in this case, herself. And if Nanny Piggins got elected she had no intention of doing anything dull. She wanted to have an enormous statue of herself made entirely out of marzipan. That way it would be a piece of art the people of Dulsford could actually enjoy, by licking the sugary almondy goodness every time they walked past it.

  Fortunately Nanny Piggins was dear friends with the world’s leading marzipan artist, Piers Flom of Belgium. And he was delighted to fly in and craft a masterpiece for her, in exchange for six tea chests full of her chocolate fudge brownies. (Like Nanny Piggins, he preferred to make financial transactions in cake. Cash can lose its value but cake has an inherent undisputable worth.) Piers only had a brief window of availability before he had to fly to South America and craft a 60-metre-high statue of an up-and-coming dictator, so this was why Nanny Piggins was forced to pose for this pre-emptive statue. She reasoned it was worth doing because even if she lost, she could always put it in the front garden and invite local children to come over and lick it instead.

  Nanny Piggins was just entering the third hour of holding her pose (she had chosen to pose holding a cake in the air in triumph) when there was a knock at the door.

  ‘Who could that be?’ asked Nanny Piggins.

  ‘Je ne sais pas,’ said Piers, which is Belgian for ‘I haven’t the foggiest’.

  ‘There’s no way Mirabella could have discovered you’re here, is there?’ asked Nanny Piggins, growing alarmed.

  Mirabella Coeur was the world’s second greatest marzipan artist. She and Piers had a fierce rivalry. They would often turn up at each other’s events and denounce each other, partly because Mirabella believed in a modern expressionist style of marzipan art whereas Piers was a conservative practitioner of traditional marzipan values. But mainly because, of course, they were secretly in love with each other but had not realised it yet.

  ‘If it is her, let her in,’ said Piers. ‘I am not afraid of that woman.’ A statement he truly believed, even though he unconsciously contradicted himself by slipping a paint palette into the seat of his pants in case she burst in and started kicking him.

  ‘I’ll go and see,’ said Michael. He was eager to answer the door because he had never seen two confectioners fight before.

  But it was not to be.

  ‘It’s the retired Army Colonel who lives round the corner,’ said Michael. ‘He wants to know if he can come in and talk to you.’

  Nanny Piggins sighed. ‘If he has come round to propose to me again, I don’t have time for it today. Tell him to come back on the weekend. Then I can bake him his favourite Dundee cake, which should soften the blow when I refuse.’

  ‘I don’t think he’s come to propose today,’ said Michael. ‘He’s brought a friend who’s wearing a military uniform with a very smart hat, and his leg is in a cast.’

  ‘Has he come round to propose?’ asked Nanny Piggins, suspiciously. She intensely disliked being proposed to by men she had not even met.

  ‘They say they have a problem they want your help with,’ said Michael.

  ‘What do you think, Piers?’ asked Nanny Piggins. ‘Have I been posing long enough? Will you be able to continue without me for a while?’

  ‘Oui, oui,’ said Piers. ‘If you leave your shoes I can focus on your feet until you return.’

  And so Nanny Piggins, still wearing her mayoral robes (homemade from red crepe paper, cotton balls for the fur trim, and linked chocolate coins for the mayoral necklace), led her impromptu guests into the kitchen where she got out a cake and a pot of tea. (Military men always like tea.)

  After the Colonel’s friend had finished saying, ‘Mmmm-mmm-mmm, this is sooooo delicious,’ many times (he had never tried one of Nanny Piggins’ cakes before), they got down to business.

  ‘What seems to be the problem?’ asked Nanny Piggins.

  ‘Well, Bert here was my sergeant in the –’ began the Colonel. ‘Actually, I can’t tell you which campaigns because it is all top-secret and hush-hush. But we fought side by side in many a sticky situation.’

  ‘Oh I know all about sticky situations,’ sympathised Nanny Piggins. ‘I once fell in a vat of maple syrup. Fortunately I had a large supply of pancakes on hand so I was able to eat my way out.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed the Colonel, ‘well anyway, Bert is a good chap. But he is a Drill Sergeant now, in charge of training troops for the elite bombardiers squad.’

  ‘I know them!’ said Nanny Piggins, surprising the Colonel because generally Nanny Piggins was not well versed on anything to do with the military. (She thought his medals were a collection of rare chocolate coins he had picked up on his travels.) ‘The bombardiers are the ones who wear those jaunty brown berets, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yes, actually they are,’ said Bert the Drill Sergeant. ‘Only men who have completed the arduous training program have the privilege of wearing the brown beret.’

  ‘More accessories should come with arduous requirements,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘If men were required to do fifty jumping jacks before they put on a fedora, perhaps the extra oxygen flow to their brain would make them realise how silly they looked.’

  ‘Anyway, the problem is,’ continued the Drill Sergeant, deciding it was better not to try to follow Nanny Piggins’ logic, ‘we are not getting the quality of recruits we used to get.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Nanny Piggins.

  ‘It’s young people today,’ explained the Colonel. ‘They’re all wishy-washy.’

  ‘They are?’ asked Nanny Piggins.

  ‘To be strictly fair,’ said the Drill Sergeant, ‘I have been a Drill Sergeant for twenty years now and in that time the recruits have always been wishy-washy.’

  ‘I suppose that young people with lots of initiative and enthusiasm prefer to go into more active fields, like confectionary research and ice-cream making,’ guessed Nanny Piggins. ‘The military would be too dull for them.’

  ‘The problem is that the rules have changed,’ explained the Drill Sergeant. ‘We’re not allowed to do any of the things we used to do to motivate the raw young recruits.’

  ‘What sort of things did you used to do?’ asked Nanny Piggins.

  ‘Make them stand in the rain, force them to do push-ups and yell mean names at them right in their faces,’ said the Drill Sergeant.

  ‘I see,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘That doesn’t sound terribly pleasant.’

  ‘But if you don’t yell at them they don’t do as they’re told,’ complained the Drill Sergeant. ‘Last week when I told them to clean the latrines (army-speak for toilets) with their toothbrushes, they all ran away and hid behind the mess hall (army-speak for dining room).’

  ‘That shows good evasive instincts,’ approved Nanny Piggins. ‘Heading for the nearest source of food.’

  ‘Yes, but when I chased after them,’ said the Drill Sergeant, ‘I slipped over on a potato and tore my Achilles tendon.’

  ‘Vegetables cause so much pain,’ said Nanny Piggins sadly, shaking her head. ‘So why have you come to me for help?’

  ‘Because the army needs troops with bravery, gusto, athleticism, strategic thinking and an appetite for violence,’ explained the Colonel. ‘Which made me think of you.’

  ‘Why, Colonel,’ said Nanny Piggins, ‘I think that is the most romantic thing you have ever said to me.’ For the first time since they had known each other the Colonel had made Nanny Piggins blush.

  ‘We were hoping you could join my unit, fill in for me as a temporary Drill Sergeant and lead the troops by example,’ said the Drill Sergeant. ‘They’ve got important war games coming up in two weeks. I don’t mind if they don’t win, but I don’t want them to embarrass me in front of the other Drill Sergeants.’
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  ‘Go on, say you’ll do it,’ pleaded the Colonel. ‘Show them how a warrior should behave.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘I am tremendously busy. I’m running for mayor and I was planning to roast marshmallows this afternoon.’

  ‘But this will help your mayoral campaign!’ exclaimed the Colonel. ‘Voters love a candidate with a military track record.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Nanny Piggins.

  ‘It might help them overlook your criminal record,’ suggested Derrick.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘Posing as a Drill Sergeant does sound fun, but I already have a full schedule posing for a giant marzipan statue.’

  ‘We’ll make it worth your while,’ said the Colonel.

  ‘How?’ asked Nanny Piggins.

  The Colonel nodded at the Drill Sergeant meaningfully.

  ‘We’ll buy you a chocolate cake,’ said the Drill Sergeant. He’d clearly been coached in what to say.

  ‘Deal!’ exclaimed Nanny Piggins, leaping to her feet and shaking both men by the hand. ‘I was worried for a moment you were going to offer me a medal, which would have been a tremendous honour, but I couldn’t have accepted it. I wouldn’t have liked to pin anything through my dress because it’s silk, you see.’

  ‘So will you come with me right away?’ asked the Drill Sergeant.

  ‘Of course,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘I’ll just use the photocopier in Mr Green’s office to make a photocopy of my face. That will give Piers a good visual reference to be going on with. Then I’m all yours.’

  ‘You lucky man,’ sighed the Colonel.

  ‘But what about us?’ said Derrick.

  ‘Who will look after us if you go off and join the army?’ asked Samantha.

  ‘You’re coming with me,’ said Nanny Piggins, surprised that they had ever thought otherwise. ‘You’ll be my assistants.’

  ‘The army doesn’t normally allow under-age recruits,’ said the Drill Sergeant.

  ‘Pish,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘We’ll just lie about their age and say they are unnaturally short due to chocolate deficiency in their diet when they were babies. If anyone questions it we’ll accuse them of discrimination against the chocolate deprived.’

  And so Nanny Piggins and the children got in the Drill Sergeant’s jeep and were driven off to a remote training base deep in the forest. The base consisted of several long corrugated iron barracks, a parade ground, a shooting range and lots of tricky obstacle courses, and exercise equipment for training fit young men to become even fitter young men, with a total disregard for their own safety. When the jeep pulled up the raw recruits were lined up ready for Nanny Piggins to inspect them. They were an intimidating sight: twelve athletic young men, all immaculately dressed in khaki and standing at attention. They did not look wishy-washy with their buzz cuts and obvious brawn.

  ‘What do I do first?’ whispered Nanny Piggins to the Drill Sergeant.

  ‘Traditionally,’ said the Drill Sergeant, ‘a Drill Sergeant starts out by saying lots of mean things about how the men are useless good-for-nothings. Then you go along and give each of them a horrible nickname.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Nanny Piggins.

  ‘There are twelve of them,’ said the Drill Sergeant. ‘It’s hard remembering all their real names.’

  ‘All right,’ said Nanny Piggins, ‘I think I can handle that.’

  She stepped forward and looked the first man up and down, then walked along the line, tapping each soldier on the chest as she renamed him. ‘Victor, Bridge, Crevasse, Michelangelo, Reef, Thunder, Vincent, Hadrian, Vincello, Tub, Peregrine and Thor – they are your new nicknames.’

  Nanny Piggins walked back to where the children were standing.

  ‘But they’re all names of characters from The Young and the Irritable,’ whispered Derrick.

  ‘I know,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘I thought it would give them some inspiring role models to live up to.’

  Nanny Piggins turned to face the men, using her fiercest glower. ‘I understand that you have all been very naughty boys,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘You have been ignoring your Drill Sergeant.’

  Several of the soldiers sniggered.

  ‘You think it’s funny to ignore a man who has dedicated his life to training soldiers so that they don’t get blown up in battle?’ snapped Nanny Piggins.

  ‘No, I think it’s funny that you called us naughty boys,’ said Vincello.

  Now all the other soldiers sniggered.

  ‘Are you laughing at me?’ asked Nanny Piggins.

  ‘Yes,’ laughed Vincello.

  ‘Right,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘Do any of you think you can run faster than me?’

  The men laughed again. ‘Of course we do,’ said Vincello. ‘You’re only four feet tall.’

  ‘And you’re wearing a dress,’ added Peregrine.

  ‘I suspected that would be your attitude,’ said Nanny Piggins. She turned to the children. ‘Michael, please produce the cake I made earlier.’

  ‘Yes, Nanny Piggins,’ said Michael as he obediently opened her expansive handbag and produced a beautiful chocolate mud cake, so sweet and sticky that it glistened in the sun.

  A gentle wind blew across the parade ground and wafted the smell of the heavenly cake in the direction of the men.

  Several of the men groaned with longing, some even said, ‘Cawww, look at that!’

  ‘This cake is the reward for the first man to catch me,’ said Nanny Piggins.

  ‘So we have to chase you, and if we catch you, you’ll give us that cake?’ clarified Vincello.

  ‘That’s right,’ confirmed Nanny Piggins.

  ‘When do we start?’ asked Thor.

  ‘Look over there!’ exclaimed Nanny Piggins. ‘The General is giving away free computer games!’

  The men turned to look and when they turned back Nanny Piggins was sprinting down the road carrying the cake.

  The men realised they had been tricked and ran after her. And that is how Nanny Piggins enticed the men into doing their first 30 mile route march. They chased her all day and into the night, not realising that Nanny Piggins had actually hidden up a tree as soon as she was out of sight, eaten the cake herself and gone back to the base for a lie down and a game of cards with the children.

  At eight o’clock that night, she took pity on the men and drove out in a truck to fetch them.

  ‘So where’s our cake?’ asked Vincello. (He was too exhausted to snigger now.)

  ‘I ate it,’ said Nanny Piggins truthfully. ‘I knew you wouldn’t catch me.’

  ‘Awww, that’s not fair,’ complained Bridge. (He particularly liked cake.)

  ‘All’s fair in love and cake,’ said Nanny Piggins.

  ‘I think the expression is “All’s fair in love and war”,’ corrected Crevasse. (He was a bookish soldier.)

  ‘That may be what humans say,’ said Nanny Piggins, ‘but we pigs say “all’s fair in love and cake” because cake baking is much more brutal and cut-throat than any war. Now come along, back to the barracks. I’ll have another exercise for you tomorrow and you can have another chance to get a cake then.’

  The next morning the men were awoken by Nanny Piggins standing in the middle of the barracks, banging a ladle on a saucepan. ‘Wake up, wake up,’ she ordered.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Thor.

  ‘Today you are going to learn rope climbing,’ declared Nanny Piggins.

  ‘Stuff that, I’m going back to bed,’ said Vincello.

  ‘Very well,’ said Nanny Piggins, ‘but first you might like to have a look at this. Samantha, show them today’s cake.’

  Samantha opened a cake box to reveal a beautiful caramel glacé angel cake. A cake so good it smelt like it had descended from heaven. It was fresh out of the oven, and the only thing that smells better than cake is warm cake. And the only thing that smells better than warm cake is warm cake covered in runny caramel glacé.

  The men all got out of bed and some e
ven started lunging for the cake (for which we must not judge them too harshly. They had missed their dinner the night before and were yet to have their breakfast. So they were practically delirious with cake longing). Luckily Boris was on hand to act as bodyguard to the cake.

  ‘A-a-ah,’ warned Boris, standing between the men and the cake. ‘Now, unlike my sister I do not believe in violence. But I do believe in sitting on people who don’t do as they are told, and I am a little bigger-boned than the average human –’ This was Boris’ way of saying he weighed 700 kilograms – ‘so if I sat on you, you might not find it comfortable.’

  ‘The only way you’re getting that cake,’ said Nanny Piggins, ‘is by doing as you’re told.’

  The men were soon out on the training ground, standing beneath a 15 metre rope.

  ‘We can’t climb that, it’s too high,’ complained Peregrine.

  ‘You don’t have to climb it,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘You are welcome to stay here on the ground if you like. But I have stationed Derrick and the cake on the platform at the top.’

  Derrick leaned over the edge of the platform and waved a slice of cake.

  ‘So if you want some cake you’d better get up there,’ said Nanny Piggins.

  The men all rushed forward and fought over who was going to get first go, which actually gave them all a good, practical, half-hour lesson in hand-to-hand combat training before the first soldier even had a go.

  Eventually, Peregrine, who had a particular knack for noogies, won out, took hold of the rope and started climbing. Now, climbing a rope is very difficult under the best of conditions. The rope wiggles, your arms get achy and the skin on your fingers gets terribly roughed up. It’s hard to hold on, let alone climb upwards. But it just so happens that Nanny Piggins had made it especially difficult by smearing golden syrup all over the rope. True, the syrup did make the rope sticky, which helped a little. But it also made the rope slimy, which did not help at all. Plus, the syrup made the rope very attractive to bees. So Peregrine was only a metre off the ground when a bee started buzzing around his head. He panicked, let go and landed on his bottom.

  The other men surged forward to have a try, and try they did, all morning, but not one of them got further than a couple of metres off the ground.