Nanny Piggins and the Pursuit of Justice (9 page)

It turns out Nanny Piggins had been entirely right. The World War I fighter planes were fakes. The curator had sold the real planes over the internet and substituted them with forgeries he had made in his own garage. (Which is why they had petrol in their engines, because he had flown them in to work early one morning before anybody else got in.) So the curator was being forced to pay for all the damages himself.

This meant Nanny Piggins, Boris and the children returned home with the $20,000 still in their possession. The cash sat on the coffee table while they stared at it.

‘It’s such a lot of money,’ said Samantha reverentially.
‘What are we going to spend it on?’ asked Derrick.

‘A honey farm?’ suggested Boris.

‘A medium-sized monster robot?’ suggested Michael.

‘No,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘While they are excellent suggestions, I have an even better idea.’

Later that day Nanny Piggins, Boris and the children went out and bought their very own refrigerated cake stand. They put it right in the middle of the kitchen. Nanny Piggins was so proud of their purchase she actually polished it (and as you know she did not normally believe in housework). Of course, the cake stand remained empty at all times. You see, it did its job too well. Whenever Nanny Piggins put a cake in there it looked so good, how could she resist eating it? But she enjoyed knowing she could store a cake if she chose to.

‘Nanny Piggins! Where are you?’ shouted Derrick, as he, Samantha and Michael rushed upstairs to their nanny’s room. Boris followed close behind.

Normally when they woke up in the morning, they went downstairs and found their nanny in the kitchen, making some wonderful sugar-filled delight. But occasionally, when Nanny Piggins was feeling lazy, she would get up an hour earlier, whip up a spectacular seven-course breakfast, then take it
all back upstairs to her bedroom so they could enjoy breakfast in bed. Her room was all set up for it. Nanny Piggins had a camping stove in her dressing table for the omelette bar and a warming plate on her night stand to keep the pancakes at the perfect temperature. If anything else needed warming up she would just give it a good squeeze with her curling tongs. (She had an extra pair of curling tongs specifically for heating food.)

But on this morning, when the children burst into her room, they did not find Nanny Piggins surrounded by food, just putting the finishing touches on a profiterole tower. Instead she was lying in the middle of her bed, staring at the ceiling.

‘What’s wrong, Nanny Piggins?’ asked Derrick.

‘Are you sick?’ worried Samantha.

‘Has someone broken into your bedroom and superglued you to your bed?’ asked Michael.

‘No, I can move and I’m not sick,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘But something is wrong.’

‘You can’t decide what to wear?’ guessed Boris.

‘Worse than that,’ said Nanny Piggins.

Boris gasped. ‘What could possibly be worse than not knowing what to wear?’ (This just goes to show what an empathetic bear Boris was, because he did not even wear clothes himself.)

‘I can’t think what to do,’ explained Nanny Piggins. ‘Normally when I wake up in the morning my mind is bubbling with ideas for adventures and fun. But this morning when I opened my eyes, all I could think was: nothing.’

‘How can you think nothing?’ asked Derrick.

‘I don’t know,’ admitted Nanny Piggins. ‘But I am forever doing extraordinary things I did not know I was capable of. And thinking of nothing must just be another one.’

‘Perhaps if you ate some cake,’ suggested Samantha.

‘I tried that,’ said Nanny Piggins, pointing towards the dozens of Swiss roll packets strewn across the floor. ‘And while that certainly made me feel better about thinking of nothing, it didn’t help me think of something.’

‘Do you want us to take you to the doctor?’ asked Michael.

‘Pish to that!’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘A doctor is hardly the person you turn to for original ideas. They wouldn’t know how to tie their shoelaces if they hadn’t been taught it at medical school. Which, incidentally, is why so many doctors wear loafers.’

‘Then what are we going to do?’ asked Derrick.

‘Do you want us to stay home so we can look after you?’ asked Samantha.

‘Obviously you should all stay home from school,’ agreed Nanny Piggins. ‘But not so you can look after me. So you can help me, because I’ve had an idea about how to come up with an idea.’

‘You have?’ asked Derrick suspiciously.

‘It’s not going to be dangerous, is it?’ asked Samantha.

‘Of course not,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘Well, not very.’

Five minutes later Nanny Piggins was standing in the backyard (still wearing her pyjamas) while Boris and the children hung out of the second storey window directly above, with a great big bucket of apples. (They did not have any apples in the house but Mrs Simpson next door did have several apple trees, so Nanny Piggins thought it would be an act of kindness if they were to pick them for her. Nanny Piggins assumed Mrs Simpson shared her belief that fruit and vegetables were an eyesore in any garden.)

‘I think this is a terrible idea,’ worried Samantha.

‘Nonsense,’ scoffed Nanny Piggins. ‘If having an apple drop on his head gave Isaac Newton the idea of gravity, just think what it will do for me.’

‘What exactly is gravity?’ asked Michael.

‘It’s the reason –’ sobbed Boris, breaking down into tears, ‘we weigh so much when we stand on the bathroom scales.’

‘There, there,’ comforted Samantha. ‘I’m sure the scales are wrong. They are probably broken.’

‘They were definitely broken after Boris stood on them,’ said Derrick under his breath.

‘I’m sure being hit by an apple will help me come up with something much more interesting than one of the fundamental laws of physics,’ said Nanny Piggins confidently. ‘At the very least, a new apple strudel recipe.’

‘But won’t it hurt?’ asked Samantha, holding a Granny Smith in her hand and thinking that the last thing in the world she wanted to do was to drop it on her nanny’s head.

‘That’s the wonderful thing about head injuries,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘If they are severe enough, you don’t feel very much of anything at all. Besides, you forget that I am a former flying pig, and I was blasted out of a cannon hundreds of times before it occurred to me that perhaps I should be wearing a helmet. So I have an unusually thick skull.’

‘Plus it is super strong because of all the calcium Sarah gets in her diet from eating so much butter and cream,’ explained Boris.

‘And chocolate!’ added Nanny Piggins. ‘Never forget that chocolate is a dairy food. Thanks to my high chocolate diet, you could drop anything you liked on my head and I’d be fine. Just don’t drop any vegetables on me – it takes forever to get the smell out.’

‘What type of apple would you like us to drop first?’ asked Michael. ‘A red gala or a Golden Delicious?’

‘Surprise me,’ said Nanny Piggins.

And so Michael dropped a Golden Delicious apple onto his nanny’s head. His aim wasn’t terribly good, so Nanny Piggins had to do some fancy footwork to make sure it hit her, but in the end it bopped her right on the top of her skull.

‘Anything?’ asked Boris.

‘I did just remember where I put my house keys, but no brilliant plans for a day of exciting fun,’ said Nanny Piggins sadly.

‘How about I drop a Granny Smith on you?’ suggested Derrick. ‘They’re bigger.’

‘Good thinking,’ enthused Nanny Piggins.

Unfortunately all the blow from the Granny Smith did was remind Nanny Piggins that she needed to buy nutmeg from the supermarket. Some time later, after 138 apples of varying varieties had
been dropped on Nanny Piggins, she still had not come up with any brilliant ideas. She had not even come up with any revolutionary breakthroughs in physics – although she did remember that she’d put her romance novel in the freezer so that burglars would not steal it, that Tuesday was Mrs McGill’s birthday, that Michael needed a haircut, that Addis Ababa was the capital of Abyssinia and that electric blue would be the perfect colour to repaint the downstairs bathroom.

‘I don’t understand it,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘This having an apple dropped on my head isn’t working for me at all. Perhaps I need to do what Benjamin Franklin did and fly a kite in an electrical storm.’

‘No!’ exclaimed all the children at once. It was one thing to drop fruit on their nanny’s head, but they did not want to stand by and watch her get struck by lightning.

‘You’re probably right,’ agreed Nanny Piggins. ‘I’d hate to ruin our kite.’

‘I’ve got an idea!’ exclaimed Boris.

‘How? Did an apple hit you?’ asked Nanny Piggins.

‘No, I came up with it on my own, just using my brain regularly,’ said Boris.

‘Good for you!’ encouraged Nanny Piggins. ‘What is it?’

‘Wait here!’ said Boris excitedly.

They all waited as they listened to Boris run out of the room, along the corridor, down the stairs, into the kitchen, open and shut several cupboards, then run back up the stairs and back into the bedroom. (Even though Boris was a ballet dancer and therefore very dainty, he was still a 700-kilogram bear, and sometimes when he was excited he would sound like one.)

Boris emerged at the window with a triumphant smile on his face, holding a watermelon. ‘If the apples don’t work, why don’t we try a watermelon?’ suggested Boris, proud of his idea.

‘You can’t drop a watermelon on Nanny Piggins’ head!’ squealed Samantha.

‘Why not?’ asked Boris. ‘I’m sure it will still be good to eat afterwards.’

‘But that watermelon is huge!’ exclaimed Derrick.

‘It’s bigger than Nanny Piggins!’ added Michael.

‘You’ll hurt her,’ added Samantha.

‘Piffle!’ called Nanny Piggins. ‘Just drop the thing. I’ll be fine.’

‘I won’t let you!’ said Michael, grabbing hold of Boris’ arm. Samantha and Derrick grabbed at Boris too.

Now as you know, Boris was a
very
big bear, and three normal-sized children should have been no match for him. But he was also delicate of heart, so being roughly accosted by three of his four favourite people in the world shocked him deeply, and predictably made him cry. In his hurry to find a handkerchief so he could blow his nose, Boris dropped the watermelon without thinking. And when Nanny Piggins saw the watermelon coming she purposefully stepped into its path.

As soon as they heard the ‘thud’, the children and Boris instantly stopped their wrestling so they could look out the window. On the ground below they saw Nanny Piggins lying prostrate and surrounded by shattered chunks of watermelon.

‘She looks so peaceful lying there,’ said Derrick.

‘And the watermelon goes beautifully with her sienna yellow pyjamas,’ said Michael.

‘Oh my goodness!’ exclaimed Samantha. ‘We’ve killed her.’

Boris just wailed.

(Now reader, please don’t panic. As you can see, this is only Chapter 5 and there are another five
chapters to come of this book, and my publisher would never let me kill the title character halfway through. So rest assured
Nanny Piggins is not dead
. It’s just for purposes of dramatic storytelling – the children, though, do not know that at this time.)

They all rushed downstairs to the garden. (Boris tried jumping directly out the window but he would not fit through.) When they reached their nanny she was breathing normally and there were no outward signs of head wounds.

‘Nanny Piggins! Are you all right?’ asked Derrick as they all knelt around her.

‘Should we slap her?’ asked Michael.

‘You can,’ said Derrick, ‘but even if she’s in a coma she’ll probably still bite you.’

‘Look, there’s no need,’ said Samantha. ‘She’s coming round.’

Nanny Piggins’ eyes began to flutter open and she struggled to sit up.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Samantha. ‘Do you want us to call an ambulance?’

‘Ayyymmmmsoooso-o-orrrrrrreeee,’ wailed Boris, crying with the shuddering intensity only a Russian can muster.

Nanny Piggins rubbed her head. ‘What happened?’ she asked.

‘A watermelon slipped out of Boris’ hands and fell onto your head,’ explained Michael.

Boris wailed harder.

‘A watermelon?’ said Nanny Piggins, dazedly looking about at the shattered fruit surrounding her, and pulling a chunk from her hair.

‘Would you like some medicinal chocolate?’ asked Derrick.

‘No, thank you,’ said Nanny Piggins.

The children and Boris gasped. Now they were really worried about her.

‘You don’t want chocolate?!’ asked Samantha.

‘No, I want to know where I am,’ said Nanny Piggins.

‘In the garden,’ said Michael.

‘Who are you?’ she asked, looking at the children, ‘and who am I?’ she added, rubbing her head.

‘Oh no,’ sobbed Boris. ‘I hit her so hard, she’s started asking profound philosophical questions. Next she’ll be asking if a tree falling in the forest will make people clap!’

‘No, it’s worse than that!’ exclaimed Derrick. ‘Nanny Piggins has got amnesia!’

‘Aaaaaaaggghhhhh!!!!’ screamed Nanny Piggins as she suddenly leapt to her feet. ‘There’s a bear!’

‘Of course, it’s your brother, Boris,’ explained Samantha.

‘But how can a woman have a brother who’s a bear?’ asked Nanny Piggins.

The children looked at each other.

‘Um, I’m not sure how to put this delicately,’ said Derrick, ‘but you’re not a woman, you’re a pig.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘How can I be a pig when I’m wearing such elegant pyjamas?’

‘Aaaaaaggggggggghhhhh!!!’ screamed Nanny Piggins, two minutes later when she saw her reflection in a mirror. ‘I
am
a pig!’