by R. A. Spratt
‘Well then, you had better make me two cakes,’ said Nanny Piggins, ‘because I’ll need cheering up.’
‘Deal,’ said Mr Dulsford.
It was Election Day, so the children were surprised when they came down to breakfast to discover that their nanny was not there.
‘Where’s Nanny Piggins?’ asked Derrick suspiciously.
Their father was jauntily whistling off-tune as he read the paper and munched on his high-fibre breakfast cereal.
‘I don’t know,’ said Mr Green. He disliked being directly addressed by his children. It always took him by surprise. He had liked it much better when they were younger and could not talk, walk, or follow him when he left the house.
‘You haven’t had her arrested, have you?’ asked Samantha suspiciously.
‘Or kidnapped?’ asked Michael.
‘Or deported?’ asked Derrick.
‘Of course not,’ said Mr Green. ‘I’m a busy man. This afternoon I’m going to be elected Mayor of Dulsford. It would be beneath my dignity to be involved in the abduction of a pig.’
‘You mean you hadn’t thought of it before now,’ guessed Michael shrewdly.
At that moment Mr Green was saved from further cross-examination by the ring of the telephone. Michael went to answer it and soon hurried back.
‘That was Nanny Piggins,’ said Michael. ‘She’s upstairs in her bedroom.’
‘Then how did she ring us?’ asked Samantha.
‘She used two hankies tied to chopsticks to wave a semaphore message to Mrs Simpson next door,’ explained Michael, ‘and told her to phone us.’
‘What does Nanny Piggins want?’ asked Derrick.
‘She wants us to bring some breakfast up to her,’ explained Michael.
‘Is she all right?’ asked Samantha.
‘I think so,’ said Michael. ‘She asked for two dozen chocolate croissants, a mud cake, a litre of chocolate milk and as many doughnuts as we could carry. So she sounds like she hasn’t lost her appetite.’
A few minutes later the children lugged the considerable breakfast up the stairs and along the corridor to Nanny Piggins’ room. Samantha knocked on the door.
‘Come in,’ called Nanny Piggins.
Samantha pushed open the door and they all peered in. They were disconcerted to discover their nanny still lying in bed. Oddly, she was fully dressed in a powder blue twin-set with pearls. But she was in bed under the covers nonetheless.
‘Is everything all right?’ asked Derrick.
‘I think so,’ said Nanny Piggins.
‘Why are you still in bed?’ asked Michael.
‘It has only just occurred to me that, come this evening, I may very well be Mayor of Dulsford,’ said Nanny Piggins.
‘But you’ve been working towards that for months,’ said Michael.
‘I know,’ agreed Nanny Piggins, ‘but I do a great number of things heedless of the consequences. I’m forever jumping off buildings, blasting out of cannons and diving into crocodile infested waters, never thinking about what I’m going to do next until I’m hurtling towards the bitumen or a crocodile’s open jaws. So I have only just realised that I may soon be responsible for the running of this whole town.’
‘But you take charge of things all the time,’ said Derrick.
‘Yes, but that’s different,’ agued Nanny Piggins. ‘I’ve never been given responsibility before, I’ve only ever taken it or had it thrust upon me.’
‘What worries you about that?’ asked Samantha.
‘This could be the thin edge of the wedge,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘First I’m elected mayor. Then what? Am I going to have to start behaving responsibly in public? Will I have to iron my clothes? Will I have to stop yelling at the people in the post office?’
‘I don’t think anyone will expect you to do that,’ Derrick assured her.
‘I think people like that you do those things,’ said Michael.
‘Being a politician isn’t that big a deal,’ Samantha assured her. ‘If you don’t like it you can always cause some sort of chocolate-related scandal and force yourself to resign.’
‘That’s a good idea,’ said Nanny Piggins, perking up. ‘I could eat all the government’s chocolate reserves.’
‘I know the government has oil and gold reserves, but I don’t think they have chocolate reserves,’ said Derrick.
‘Piffle,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘Of course they have chocolate reserves. Why do you think so many politicians are overweight?’
‘Because they work long hours and don’t exercise?’ suggested Samantha.
‘Work?!’ scoffed Nanny Piggins. ‘What they do isn’t work. All they do is argue with each other, go to supermarket openings and shake people’s hands. And they only do that for a few hours a week. The rest of the week they spend down in a deep bunker underneath the town hall, guzzling chocolate bars.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Michael.
‘It only makes sense,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘If you had ultimate authority over everyone and could do whatever you liked, what would you do all day long?’
Michael thought about it. ‘Do they have video games as well as chocolate in the underground bunker?’ he asked.
‘Definitely,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘They’ve probably got pinball machines too.’
‘Then that’s what they’re doing,’ agreed Michael.
‘So is that what you want to do?’ asked Samantha. ‘You don’t have to be mayor. You could always run away.’
‘Run away!’ cried Nanny Piggins, throwing back the covers and leaping out of bed. ‘I never run away. I’m a Piggins!’
‘Bramwell is a Piggins,’ pointed out Derrick, ‘and he runs away all the time.’
‘I forgot about him,’ admitted Nanny Piggins. ‘If he didn’t look exactly like us and have the same last name I’d find it very hard to believe he was a Piggins at all. But the female Pigginses never run away.’
‘You ran away from the circus,’ Michael pointed out.
‘And you often run away from the Police Sergeant and the Truancy Officer, and Nanny Anne when she starts giving you cooking tips,’ added Samantha.
‘Okay, on a few select occasions I run away for tactical reasons,’ agreed Nanny Piggins, ‘but never out of cowardice. I only ever run away out of bravery because I know I can run faster than the Police Sergeant, or that if I put up with the Ringmaster a moment longer I shall be arrested for throwing him in a river.’
‘That’s true,’ agreed Derrick. Samantha and Michael nodded as well.
‘So there is no way I am going to let my natural revulsion to responsibility, organised government or men wearing grey suits stop me from standing for this election today, trouncing my opponents and taking over Dulsford,’ declared Nanny Piggins.
‘You mean running Dulsford responsibly on behalf of the people who elect you,’ suggested Samantha.
‘I’ve never promised I was going to do that,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘That would be ridiculous. Come along, we need to fetch Boris and get down to the polling station so I can cast a vote for myself.’
It took some time to get ready to go out because Nanny Piggins insisted that everyone look very glamorous in case the paparazzi – or, more realistically, the photographer from the local paper – was there to take their pictures. Which meant they all had to dress up like movie stars with big sunglasses, ostentatious jewellery, unseasonably skimpy clothes and pouty smiles. This was tremendous fun and involved changing in and out of many outfits, and arguing over who was going to wear which panama hat.
Eventually they made it down to the school where the polling station had been set up.
‘Not you,’ said Headmaster Pimplestock ungraciously as Nanny Piggins approached the school. He was standing outside the gate, handing out ‘how to vote’ cards for Mayor Bloomsbridge.
‘What are you doing here?’ demanded Nanny Piggins.
‘It’s my school,’ declared Headmaster Pimplestock. ‘I have every right to be here.�
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‘I suppose,’ said Nanny Piggins begrudgingly, ‘but why are you handing out those cards?’
‘I want to make sure you don’t win,’ said Headmaster Pimplestock.
‘What?!’ exclaimed Nanny Piggins. ‘After everything I’ve done for you!’
‘What do you mean?’ wailed Headmaster Pimplestock. ‘I’ve lost count of the number of times you’ve stomped on my foot, bitten my shin or leapt over my desk and attacked me.’
‘If you knew how many times I’d wanted to do it and restrained myself you’d be more grateful,’ said Nanny Piggins.
‘Goodness knows what damage you’d do if you became mayor,’ said Headmaster Pimplestock.
‘The unemployment rate among headmasters would increase, that’s for sure,’ muttered Nanny Piggins.
‘Mayor Bloomsbridge has a proper respect for education,’ accused Headmaster Pimplestock.
‘Pish!’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘You just mean he came to visit you and brought you a packet of chocolate biscuits.’
Headmaster Pimplestock gasped. ‘How do you know?’
‘I can smell them on your breath,’ said Nanny Piggins, sniffing the headmaster. ‘Choc-mint biscuits . . .’ She sniffed again. ‘A fortnight ago you ate an entire packet but one. I can only assume you let the mayor eat one biscuit himself.’
‘Are you accusing me of accepting a bribe?’ asked Headmaster Pimplestock.
‘I wasn’t planning to,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘I would never begrudge anybody a chocolate biscuit, especially not a free one. But if you want to admit that you took a bribe and are, therefore, shockingly immoral, I’m prepared to accept that.’
‘I did no such thing,’ fibbed Headmaster Pimplestock.
‘You really need to train your eyelid to stop twitching whenever you tell a great big fib,’ said Boris.
‘You’ll never win at poker when your facial muscles are more honest than you are,’ agreed Nanny Piggins. ‘Now get out of my way, I haven’t got time to argue with you. I have come to vote.’
‘Just make sure you don’t damage any school property,’ Headmaster Pimplestock called after them.
‘I wasn’t intending to damage any school property,’ Nanny Piggins called back, ‘but if you keep irritating me, I will take time out of my schedule to toilet paper your car later.’
‘Come on, Nanny Piggins, he’s not worth it,’ said Derrick, taking his nanny by the arm and leading her down the path to the school hall.
Unfortunately, when they got there, there were even further delays because the school’s P&C association was holding a bake sale. A trestle table full of cakes, biscuits and tarts was laid out alongside the queue of people waiting to vote.
As soon as Nanny Piggins saw it, she gasped with delight. ‘Is this for me?’ she gushed. ‘You shouldn’t have! But I’m glad you did.’
‘Nanny Piggins, the cakes are for sale,’ explained Samantha hurriedly. ‘They are to raise money for the school.’
But it was too late. Trying to explain something to Nanny Piggins when she had cake in her sights was like trying to explain something to a lion when it had a side of wildebeest in its mouth.
Nanny Piggins ran over to the table, leapt onto the cakes and started devouring them. It actually held up the voting process for some time because all the people waiting to vote stopped to watch Nanny Piggins guzzle the entire table load of food.
Now, you might think that this public display of gluttony would disgust the assembled crowd. But on the contrary, Nanny Piggins was so athletic and graceful in the way she shovelled food into her mouth it was a spectacular sight to behold. A bit like watching a ballet if ballet dancers ever did a ballet about eating food. And Nanny Piggins was very generous. When she came across a particularly delicious cake or biscuit she would cry out with delight, ‘Oh my goodness, this is divine, you must all try some.’ Then she would rush up to the queue of people and jam chunks of cake into their mouths. Upon which they would all start moaning with delight and agreeing that it was delicious.
‘Nanny Piggins, what are you doing?’ asked Derrick between mouthfuls of treacle tart that his nanny was hand-feeding him. ‘Those cakes aren’t free, you are going to have to pay for them.’
‘You must have eaten three or four hundred dollars’ worth of cake,’ worried Samantha.
‘It will be worth every penny,’ said Nanny Piggins, licking shredded coconut from her snout. ‘I never knew the democratic process involved cake! Otherwise I would have taken up politics much earlier.’
‘Do you have three or four hundred dollars?’ asked Michael.
‘No,’ admitted Nanny Piggins, ‘but I’ll write the school an IOU and then pay them back when I become mayor. Being mayor is an important job so I’m sure it comes with a cake allowance.’
‘I don’t think it does,’ said Derrick.
‘Then the very first thing I’ll do when I’m elected is give everyone in the town a cake allowance!’ declared Nanny Piggins.
‘Hooray!’ cried everyone in the queue.
Nanny Piggins rejoined the line and slowly snaked her way to the front where she could get her name marked off the electoral roll and receive her ballot paper.
‘Name?’ said the electoral worker at the front of the queue.
‘My name is Sarah Matahari Lorelei Piggins,’ declared Nanny Piggins, ‘and I am the world’s greatest flying pig.’
‘Piggins,’ said the electoral worker. ‘How do you spell that? With a P?’
‘How else would you spell Piggins?’ asked Michael.
‘Michael,’ chided Nanny Piggins, ‘you must never be rude to someone who doesn’t know how to spell. You should be envious that their head isn’t filled with so much twaddle and claptrap.’
‘You’re not here,’ said the electoral worker.
‘Yes I am,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘I’m standing right in front of you.’
‘No, you’re not on the electoral roll,’ said the electoral worker. ‘There are no Pigginses.’
‘That is an outrage!’ denounced Nanny Piggins. ‘How dare you exclude me.’
‘Nanny Piggins,’ said Samantha, an unpleasant idea beginning to dawn. ‘You did register to vote, didn’t you?’
‘Whatgister to do what-what?’ asked Nanny Piggins.
‘Register to vote,’ said Samantha. ‘If you want to vote, you have to fill in a form and register yourself on the electoral roll.’
‘You mean I have to voluntarily put myself on a government list?’ asked Nanny Piggins.
‘Yes,’ said the children.
‘As if I would ever do that!’ exclaimed Nanny Piggins. ‘When the government comes looking for me, I’m hardly going to make it easy for them by registering myself and my address on a list.’
‘All citizens have to,’ said Derrick.
‘Ah, well there you go,’ said Nanny Piggins, ‘that’s why I never did it. Because I’m not a citizen either.’
‘You’re not a citizen?!’ exclaimed Derrick.
‘Of course not,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘I’m a pig. We like to live like gypsies, independent from society’s structures.’
‘But what on earth made you think you could run for mayor if you’re not even a citizen?’ wailed Samantha.
‘What are you saying?’ asked Nanny Piggins. ‘I can’t run for mayor just because the government has no record of my existence? Well, that’s very nitpicky of them. Surely they wouldn’t be so petty.’
‘I think people in government like being petty,’ said Boris. ‘They’re good at it.’
‘It’ll be fine,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘All of you will just have to make sure you vote for me twice.’
The children looked at each other.
‘Er . . .’ said Derrick, not knowing how he was going to explain what he had to explain without getting yelled at. ‘No-one can vote twice. That’s how the system works. Everyone gets one vote.’
‘What? Even beautiful people on television and people who make chocolate for a living?
!’ asked Nanny Piggins.
‘Yes,’ said Samantha.
‘Now that doesn’t seem fair,’ argued Nanny Piggins. ‘That someone as accomplished and important as Hans the baker should only get one vote, just the same as someone as useless and insignificant as Headmaster Pimplestock.’
‘Also,’ said Derrick bravely, ‘we can’t vote because we are children. You have to be over 18 to vote.’
‘No!’ gasped Nanny Piggins. ‘But how do they know how old you are? It’s rude to ask a lady’s age!’
‘They’re the government,’ said Michael. ‘They just know.’
‘This is precisely why I never register anything with them,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘So you’re saying none of us can vote?’
‘Actually,’ said Boris, looking a little sheepish, ‘I can.’
‘But you’re Russian,’ said Nanny Piggins.
‘Technically I’m a duel citizen,’ said Boris. ‘I studied the electoral process at law school and it sounded like a lot of fun so I took up citizenship so I could join in.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ asked Nanny Piggins.
‘The day I did it was the day your chocolate sponge cake went flat in the oven,’ explained Boris.
Nanny Piggins let out one loud sob before she managed to contain her emotions. ‘That was a dark day,’ she whispered.
‘I know,’ said Boris. ‘You were devastated. I didn’t like to bother you with my national allegiances.’
‘Well hurry up and vote for me, because Mr Green is definitely going to vote for Mr Green and Mayor Bloomsbridge is definitely going to vote for Mayor Bloomsbridge so we need you to counteract their votes,’ said Nanny Piggins.
‘All right,’ said Boris. ‘I brought along a honey sandwich so I could have a little picnic in the booth while I was voting.’
‘Good thinking,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘It would be awful if you got low blood sugar, your vision went blurry and you accidentally voted for Mr Green.’
So Boris disappeared into the little cardboard booth with his ballot paper and studiously filled it out.
‘It’s a shame we ate all the cake at the cake stall,’ said Nanny Piggins as they stood waiting for him to finish. ‘I’m feeling a little peckish.’
