Nanny Piggins and the Race to Power 8

by R. A. Spratt

  Nanny Piggins leapt to her trotters. ‘Nanny Anne is a raving lunatic,’ she declared.

  ‘Hear, hear,’ agreed the councillor.

  ‘But in this instance I agree with her,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘These plans to build a park are morally bankrupt. But for the opposite reasons Nanny Anne has given. A park is wrong because there is no way a park can be as fun as a vacant lot.’

  ‘Within the last three months, four children have been taken to hospital with head injuries, one with a tetanus infection and two with rat bites and all from the Hazelnut Street vacant lot,’ said the councillor, reading from his notes.

  ‘Which just goes to show how much they must love playing there,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘I remember my first tetanus infection. In hindsight it was silly to tap-dance on a bed of nails, but at the time it was a lot of fun.’

  ‘The park is going ahead,’ said the councillor. ‘We’ve been given a grant by the Ethel Baumgarten Society for the Beautification of Suburban Areas. We can’t spend the money on anything else so it will be spent on this.’

  ‘Please, for the sake of the children, can’t you embezzle the funds and run off to Brazil,’ pleaded Nanny Piggins, ‘or has your job in local government entirely robbed you of any initiative?’

  ‘It is going ahead,’ declared the councillor firmly, ‘and we have been given a generous grant. Apparently the children in this area have the seventh highest rate of asthma, and the fifth highest rate of vitamin D deficiency in the country, and therefore particularly inspire the pity of wealthy benefactors. So we are doing this properly. We have hired a leading expert in the international study of children’s play to be a consultant on the project.’

  ‘You’ve hired an adult who has spent his whole life watching children?’ asked Nanny Piggins. ‘Why couldn’t you just flush the cash down the toilet like a normal lunatic?’

  ‘Dr Higgenbottom is a leader in his field,’ said the councillor.

  ‘Hah! So he’s a world leader in waffle,’ scoffed Nanny Piggins. ‘If I had a PhD in shim-sham I wouldn’t be boasting about it. When does he get here?’

  ‘He flies in from Geneva tomorrow,’ said the councillor.

  ‘What was he doing in Switzerland?’ asked Nanny Piggins. ‘Advising them to move the alps three inches to the left to improve their feng shui?’

  ‘Actually he was advising them on –’ began the councillor.

  ‘It was a rhetorical question,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘You’re not meant to answer rhetorical questions. You’re just meant to accept that you’ve been insulted. Now, when is this snake-oil salesman going to inspect the site?’

  ‘I can’t give you the details of our private meeting,’ said the councillor.

  ‘What about the Freedom of Information Act?’ demanded Nanny Piggins.

  ‘People have a right not to be harangued by pigs,’ countered the councillor.

  ‘Not when they are going to ruin my favourite vacant lot, they don’t,’ declared Nanny Piggins.

  ‘I’m not telling you when the meeting is,’ yelled the councillor.

  ‘I’ll find out,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘I don’t like being unpleasant. But I’m very good at it and if that’s what it takes, I’ll do it.’ Nanny Piggins started to strip off her dress to reveal her wrestling leotard underneath (which had the words Nanny ‘The Crusher’ Piggins emblazoned in diamantes across her chest).

  ‘You really would be better off if you just told her,’ said Derrick kindly.

  ‘You’re being a nuisance,’ accused the councillor. ‘I’ve got a good mind to call the police and have you removed from this meeting.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ challenged Nanny Piggins, ‘but I’m one step ahead of you. I never go to a public meeting, auction or library without a two-kilogram box of shortbread biscuits in my handbag, especially for bribing the police.’

  ‘Nanny Piggins, remember you promised the Police Sergeant you would stop telling people you bribe him,’ reminded Samantha.

  ‘I meant “coax” the police to see my point of view,’ amended Nanny Piggins.

  ‘This meeting is adjourned,’ called the councillor, banging a gavel on the fold-up table.

  ‘You can’t do that!’ said Nanny Piggins.

  ‘Yes, I can,’ said the councillor. ‘It is in the rules for public meetings. As soon as a member of the public physically threatens me I can call the meeting to a close. So thanks to you I can get home in time to eat my reheated dinner while watching The Young and the Irritable with my wife.

  ‘I will admit,’ said Nanny Piggins as they walked home, ‘that I feel slightly guilty about berating the councillor. If he likes The Young and the Irritable, he is clearly a man of discerning taste.’

  ‘So you are going to abandon your opposition and let the council go ahead and build their beautiful park?’ asked Derrick.

  ‘Goodness, no!’ exclaimed Nanny Piggins. ‘It would be wrong to allow them to proceed with such senseless vandalism. I think I shall have to persuade this international expert to see my point of view.’

  ‘How are you going to do that?’ asked Michael.

  ‘A good hard bite on the shins ought to do it,’ guessed Nanny Piggins.

  ‘But you don’t know when he’s going to inspect the park,’ said Samantha.

  ‘We’ll just have to camp there until he turns up,’ said Nanny Piggins.

  ‘But our tent blew away when you tried to convert it into a hot-air balloon by strapping the kettle barbecue underneath and filling it with hot air,’ Derrick reminded her.

  ‘A double tragedy,’ said Nanny Piggins sadly. ‘We lost the tent and we haven’t had toasted marshmallows since but never mind, at the vacant lot we can sleep in one of the burnt-out cars.’

  ‘But what about the rats?’ protested Samantha.

  ‘I’ll bake them a cake,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘They won’t want to bite us after they’ve tried my raspberry ripple delight cake.’

  ‘Will we get some too?’ asked Michael. He liked anything with the words ripple or cake in it.

  ‘Of course,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘I can’t have you biting the rats out of jealousy.’

  So Nanny Piggins, Boris and the children spent the night camping in a burnt-out car on the vacant lot. To be strictly accurate they spent about 45 minutes camping on the vacant lot. By the time they had baked all the supplies Nanny Piggins felt were necessary for a night of camping, then baked another batch of supplies because they had so thoroughly ‘tasted’ the first batch, then packed it all up in Nanny Piggins’ travelling trunk, along with several gripping novels and complete changes of clothes for any eventuality – Nanny Piggins felt it was vitally important that a person should be prepared for a white-tie ball at a moment’s notice – they eventually stepped out their front door at 5.45 am.

  It then took them an hour and a half to walk the six blocks to the park, partly because the travelling trunk was so heavy to drag, but mainly because they got so engrossed in a very enthusiastic game of hide-and-seek along the way. Nanny Piggins managed to squeeze through Mr Mahmood’s cat-flap and hide in his kitchen. And because none of the children thought to look in a locked house, and Nanny Piggins was thoroughly engrossed in eating the entire contents of Mr Mahmood’s fridge, it took some time for them to find her. It was only when Mr Mahmood came downstairs to breakfast and discovered that Nanny Piggins had drunk all the milk that they heard his telltale yelling and guessed where she was.

  Fortunately he was soon placated by a half share of a raspberry ripple delight cake and they arrived safely at the vacant lot at 7.45. They had only just rolled out their sleeping bags and set up their camp fire when three white cars drew up alongside the vacant lot.

  ‘Who could that be?’ wondered Derrick.

  ‘Perhaps they’ve come to burn out their cars,’ guessed Nanny Piggins. ‘That would be good. There are already three burnt-out cars here. If there were another two, we could have one each to sleep in.’

  ‘It’s the councillor,’ excl
aimed Samantha as grey-suited men began to emerge from the vehicles.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ demanded Nanny Piggins rudely.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ demanded the councillor.

  ‘This is public land. I have every right to be here,’ stated Nanny Piggins boldly.

  ‘No, actually it’s not,’ said the councillor. ‘It won’t become public land until it becomes a park. So technically you’re trespassing.’

  ‘I’m not tres-passing,’ said Nanny Piggins, ‘I’m tres-staying because I’m not passing anywhere until this issue is resolved.’

  The councillor sighed. ‘Please just go home. Dr Higgenbottom is going to be here any minute and I don’t want you to embarrass me in front of him.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Boris. ‘Nanny Piggins never sets out to embarrass anyone else. She would only ever embarrass herself.’

  ‘And I don’t embarrass easily,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘After spending years of being blasted out of a cannon and having people look up my dress, it takes a lot to mortify me.’

  Just then another car pulled up.

  ‘Out of interest,’ said Nanny Piggins, ‘were you planning to burn out these cars? Because if you did I think they would make a fine addition to this vacant lot.’

  The councillor rolled his eyes. ‘We are building a park, not adding to the waste on a vacant lot.’

  ‘All right,’ said Nanny Piggins, ‘but I know which would be quicker. Five gallons of petrol and a lit match and my improvements would be done with.’

  They watched as the car door opened and a tall, heavy-set man wearing a strange-coloured suit got out.

  ‘Is that suit red?’ asked Derrick.

  ‘It looks almost pink,’ said the councillor.

  ‘I think you’ll find the technical name for that colour is “blush”,’ said Nanny Piggins, ‘or, as the laymen say, “dark pink”.’

  ‘What sort of man wears a pink suit?’ wondered the councillor, beginning to suspect that perhaps he had made a horrible decision.

  ‘What sort of man has the word “bottom” in his name and doesn’t get it changed by deed poll?’ asked Nanny Piggins.

  ‘Would you like me to ask him?’ asked Boris. ‘He’s coming this way.’

  ‘Dr Higgenbottom,’ said the councillor, holding out his hand, ‘I’m Councillor –’

  ‘Aaa-aaa-ah,’ said Dr Higgenbottom. ‘Stop right there. I am a creative. I can’t have my head filled with meaningless details.’

  ‘I was just going to tell you my name,’ said the councillor.

  Dr Higgenbottom held up his hand for silence again. ‘Enough. I’m here to create a vision, a space that will improve the lives of the children in this town for decades to come. I can’t have my head filled with empty words.’

  ‘I told you so,’ said Nanny Piggins smugly. ‘I’ve never met anyone with a PhD whose head wasn’t largely empty.’

  ‘I knew I should have worn my earplugs,’ sighed Dr Higgenbottom, turning to the scurrying assistant behind him. ‘Sebastian, is there some way we could get these people to stop talking.’

  ‘Shhh,’ said Sebastian sharply, with his finger across his lips, in case the rudeness of his shushing was not immediately apparent.

  ‘Samantha,’ whispered Nanny Piggins. ‘Remind me to bite both of them before they get back in their car.’

  ‘I’m ahead of you,’ whispered Samantha, for she already had out her notepad and was jotting a reminder note for her nanny which said just that.

  Nanny Piggins, Boris, the children and the councillor stood and watched as Dr Higgenbottom and Sebastian strode about the park. Dr Higgenbottom stared at things, lay down on the concrete, jumped up and down in the water of the stormwater drain, licked a burnt-out car and generally behaved like a nitwit while Sebastian took photographs and measurements.

  ‘Do you think he really is a doctor,’ asked the councillor. ‘He seems to be behaving like a lunatic.’

  ‘There is no doubt in my mind that he is both,’ said Nanny Piggins wisely. ‘He is clearly a lunatic because what he is doing is barking mad. But he is clearly a PhD because anyone with a lesser qualification who carried on like this would have been locked up years ago.’

  After fifteen minutes of eccentric behaviour the doctor and his assistant returned.

  ‘My report is ready,’ said Dr Higgenbottom.

  ‘Don’t you need time to go away and write it up with photos, graphs and spreadsheets?’ asked the councillor.

  ‘I don’t work in government – that’s your job,’ said Dr Higgenbottom. ‘I have reached my verdict. Of all the thousands of public spaces I have been asked to inspect, in dozens of different countries around the world, I have never before seen one like this. It is absolutely and utterly . . . perfect. There is no need to change a thing. Except perhaps you could add a couple more burnt-out cars.’

  ‘I knew it!’ exclaimed Nanny Piggins. ‘The man is a genius.’

  ‘But it is dangerous, unsafe and rat-infested,’ protested the councillor.

  ‘As is life,’ said Dr Higgenbottom. ‘This park has wonderful scope for the imagination. There is opportunity for water play, interaction with small mammals and role-play games using found objects.’

  ‘You mean there’s a drain, rats and rubbish,’ summarised the councillor.

  ‘Exactly! This park has everything,’ gushed Dr Higgenbottom. ‘For the sake of the children, I forbid you to change a thing. Sebastian, give the man his invoice, we’re leaving.’

  Sebastian slapped a sheet of paper into the councillor’s hand and they left. The councillor slumped down on the bonnet of a burnt-out car.

  ‘What am I going to do?’ he asked. ‘I’ve been given a two-million dollar budget to improve this park and I’ve got nothing to spend it on.’

  Nanny Piggins felt sorry for the councillor. ‘Don’t worry. Why don’t you just hire another advisor? One who will be more cooperative.’

  ‘But where am I going to find another person with a PhD in children’s playgrounds,’ asked the councillor.

  ‘I doubt you’ll find a second person quite that silly,’ agreed Nanny Piggins. ‘Why don’t you hire me? I am the world’s leading flying pig. Amazing and delighting children comes as naturally to me as breathing in and out.’

  ‘She’s telling the truth,’ confirmed Michael. ‘She amazes and delights us every day.’

  ‘Sometimes she horrifies and shocks us as well,’ added Samantha, ‘but she always makes us the most delicious cake afterwards to help us get over it.’

  ‘Plus Nanny Piggins only charges ten cents an hour,’ added Derrick.

  ‘And it’s only going to take me one minute to tell you how to spend your budget,’ said Nanny Piggins.

  ‘It will?’ asked the councillor, beginning to feel a glimmer of optimism.

  ‘Obviously you can’t change a thing that is here,’ said Nanny Piggins, ‘but you could add to it.’

  ‘Add to it?’ asked the councillor, liking the idea. ‘How?’

  ‘Really, the only way I can think of improving this already wonderful public play area is by building a state-of-the-art ice-cream shop slap bang in the middle,’ stated Nanny Piggins, stamping her trotter on the very spot she thought suitable.

  Everyone gasped, the way people instinctively do gasp when they know they have just heard a brilliant idea.

  ‘Ice-cream and playgrounds go together like . . .’ said Nanny Piggins, ‘well, like cake and more cake.’

  So that is exactly what the councillor did. And because Nanny Piggins was a generous soul, she even agreed to allow some of the budget to be spent on planting flowerbeds, because everyone liked looking at flowers and lawn, and because she knew how much it would upset Nanny Anne.

  The Hazelnut Street Park soon became the most popular park in Dulsford, because even the most scrupulous parent can overlook a few rats and a stormwater drain when they had a double scoop of chocolate ice-cream with extra sprinkles in their hand.

 
; Nanny Piggins, Boris and the children were very bored. There was no reason why they should have been – they were standing in the Russian embassy, and usually embassies are fascinating places. You never know what sort of spies, important dignitaries or looted art is hidden away inside. And even if none of those things is there, Nanny Piggins enjoyed pretending they were. Her imagination was so vivid that playing a game where you pretend to cause an international incident was almost as much fun as actually causing an international incident. If anything it was more fun, because it tended to result in less jail time.

  But on this occasion they were not enjoying themselves, because they had not come to the embassy to apologise for destroying a national treasure or beg for the release of a much loved circus colleague. They had come for a much more tedious reason – to renew Boris’ passport.

  There is something about the bureaucracy of passport dispensing, that even in this day and age of computers, digital photographs and holographic watermarks, it still takes weeks for a government to issue a small cardboard book with a photo stuck inside. And even though they could easily have the television on in the waiting area (perhaps playing re-runs of The Young and the Irritable) or hire a juggler to amuse the waiting applicants (goodness knows you would not have to pay them very much; unemployment among professional jugglers is sadly very high, over a hundred and ten per cent), passport officials seem to take pride in ensuring the boredom of all those who enter their office. And passport applicants are always so anxious that they may have committed some terrible transgression, like signing their name outside the box, getting their birthday wrong or smiling in the photograph, that they are overcome with boredom due to the stress of the situation.

  It is a strange fact that you are only ever bored if you are stressed. If you are relaxed and content, you can happily lie on a beach doing nothing for hours. But five minutes in a line at the passport office feels like five hours of being hit about the head by a wet fish.

  Normally Nanny Piggins would have alleviated the boredom by handing around some cake to everyone in the office or loudly denouncing the inefficiency and inhumanity of the staff; but on this occasion Boris had made her promise that she would behave, because he really did want a passport.