by R. A. Spratt
Everyone in the hall snickered. They all knew Nanny Piggins spent every meeting reading thrilling novels. In fact, when the novel was particularly good, Nanny Piggins got Michael to keep passing the pages on around the whole room, so that everyone could enjoy them. (They’d had a wonderful evening the time Nanny Piggins brought in The Adventure of the Speckled Band. Absolutely no school business had been accomplished at all.)
“Books?” said Nanny Piggins. “Haven’t you got anything more exciting? A catapult stand? A rat-catching demonstration? Fire-breathing lessons?”
“I can offer you books or knitwear,” said Headmaster Pimplestock smugly. He so rarely got the better of Nanny Piggins and was enjoying himself, which was very silly because, as you have undoubtedly noticed, Nanny Piggins did have an amazing talent for getting retribution.
“All right, I’ll take books,” sulked Nanny Piggins.
“Good. Then meeting adjourned!” announced Headmaster Pimplestock, beating the table with a gavel and sprinting to his car before any of the parents (or nannies) could confront him, or notice how many packages of chocolate cookies he had in the backseat.
Nanny Piggins and the children were just gathering up all the loose pages of their vampire novel when Nanny Anne approached.
“Nanny Piggins, so good to see you,” lied Nanny Anne with a saccharine smile.
“Nanny Anne,” said Nanny Piggins as she scowled back. “I see you haven’t been fired yet.”
“I’m so glad you’re going to run the little bookstall this year,” said Nanny Anne. “If you need any pointers on how to handle a stall, just let me know. I have won Best Stallholder at the school fete for the last seven years.”
“But surely Samson has only been going to this school for five years?” queried Nanny Piggins.
“I know, but I wanted to get involved in the school community early. It is so important to be a joiner,” said Nanny Anne.
“Well, selling books is hardly rocket science. And since I know more than most rocket scientists, I think I can handle a bookstall,” said Nanny Piggins.
“Yes, you would think so, but a nanny has to know her limitations,” said Nanny Anne with false concern. “If it is too much for you, you mustn’t be afraid to ask for help.” Nanny Anne smiled her fake smile and walked away.
“I knew I should have worn my wrestling leotard to the PTA meeting,” growled Nanny Piggins. “Samantha, hold my handbag. I’m going to crash-tackle her.”
Samantha grabbed her nanny’s trotter instead. “You’d better not. You know Nanny Anne always makes you pay her dry-cleaning bills when you attack her. Besides, Derrick needs help waking up Boris. We think he’s fallen into one of his super-deep hibernation sleeps again.”
And so, after Nanny Piggins had awoken her brother by blasting him in the face with a fire extinguisher,5 they all went home. On the way, Nanny Piggins tried to work out how they could earn over $50,000 at a bookstall.
“You could try to get hold of some really valuable books,” suggested Derrick.
“What? You mean romance novels?” asked Nanny Piggins. These were her own personal favorite kind of books, and so she naturally assumed other people must value them as much as she did.
“No, the really valuable books are rare, old ones,” said Samantha.
“Old books! Yuck!” said Nanny Piggins. “They always smell of dust and mold. And you never know who’s been reading them, or whether they washed their hands before they turned the page. I don’t believe anybody would pay a lot of money for tatty old books.”
“They would,” said Derrick. “A Gutenberg Bible is worth millions and millions of dollars.”
“You’re pulling my trotter!” said Nanny Piggins skeptically. “Millions of dollars? But there’s a copy of the Bible in every hotel room in the world. And people give them away free at railway stations.”
“But a Gutenberg Bible is the oldest book ever printed. There are only twenty-one perfect copies left in the world. That’s why they’re so valuable,” explained Derrick. (He had learned this by watching a gripping mystery movie where someone was murdered for his Gutenberg Bible.)
“Really?” said Nanny Piggins. “Then let’s hope someone has donated one to the bookstall.”
The next morning, they were awoken by the delivery of the books (at what Nanny Piggins considered to be an obscenely early hour for a Saturday morning—10 AM). Throughout the year, parents, students, and good Samaritans were able to drop off books in anticipation of the annual school fete. The only problem was that nobody ever donates their good books to a bookstall. They keep those for their own bookshelves. They only donate their awful books—the ones they are forced to read at school, the ones relatives buy for them as Christmas presents, and the ones they bought at the previous year’s bookstall because they felt they just had to buy something. So when Nanny Piggins and the children opened the boxes, they were bitterly disappointed.
“Pee-yew! These books stink of dust! Can anyone see a Gutenberg Bible?” asked Nanny Piggins optimistically.
“No,” said the children.
“I’ve found a set of the Encyclopedia Britannica,” said Samantha.
“Well, that’s good,” said Nanny Piggins.
“Except the ‘C’ volume is missing,” added Samantha.
“Nobody would want to buy a set of encyclopedias with ‘C’ missing. That’s the best volume. The one with all the references to cannons, cakes, and chocolate,” said Nanny Piggins.
“I’ve got a box full of phrase books,” called out Michael.
“Well, that would be handy to anyone planning to go on vacation,” said Nanny Piggins.
“Except none of them is in English,” explained Michael. “There’s Swahili to Thai, Russian to Esperanto, and Czech to Samoan…”
“And I’ve got a box full of knitting patterns,” said Derrick.
“Well…” said Nanny Piggins, but then she gave up. Not even she could put a positive spin on knitting patterns. “Children, I am a brilliant saleswoman. I could sell ice to Eskimos, cars to Detroit, and sunscreen to vampires. But even I would struggle to make over $50,000 selling this moth-eaten, dust-smelling, moldy old pile of junk.”
“What are we going to do?” asked Samantha.
“I know book burning is wrong,” said Nanny Piggins, “but in this instance, some gasoline and a match would be the kindest thing. It would put these painfully boring tomes out of their misery.”
“But you promised to run a bookstall,” said Michael. “I don’t think Headmaster Pimplestock would like it if you just did a bonfire instead.”
“You’re probably right. He’s very inflexible, even for a headmaster. Never mind, we’ll just have to find some good books,” said Nanny Piggins. “The kind people actually enjoy reading. And I think I know just where to start.”
A few minutes later, they were all standing on the front doorstep of their most unpleasant neighbor, Mrs. McGill, which made the children very anxious.
“Is this safe?” worried Samantha. “You know she complains to the police if we even look over her fence. So what’s she going to do if we actually ring her doorbell?”
“Just leave it to me,” said Nanny Piggins.
The children did not need to be told. There was no way they would voluntarily speak to their most feared neighbor.
Suddenly an eye appeared at the peephole. “Who is it? What do you want?” demanded Mrs. McGill.
“We want you to give us your extensive collection of romance novels,” called Nanny Piggins back through the mail slot.
“But surely Mrs. McGill doesn’t read romance novels,” whispered Derrick.
“Of course she does,” said Nanny Piggins. “All lonely old ladies do. I bet she has a stack of them by her bed at all times.”
“I’ve called the police,” shrieked Mrs. McGill through the still-closed door.
“Oh good,” said Nanny Piggins happily. “I want to talk to the sergeant about donating some of his books. I bet he’s got loads
of detective novels.”
Suddenly the front door opened a crack, and Mrs. McGill’s wizened face appeared. “Why should I give you any of my books?” she asked.
“Because it’s easy for you to get them delivered to your house—month after month. But there is no way you can get them out of your house without being seen,” said Nanny Piggins. “And if word got out that you secretly read three or four dozen romance novels a month, your image would be ruined.”
Mrs. McGill’s eyes darted up and down the road, hoping no one had overheard this dreadful thought.
“Children would no longer fear fetching their balls from your garden,” continued Nanny Piggins. “Adults wouldn’t worry about letting their dogs poop on your lawn. And hoodlums would drop their candy wrappers on your front path.”
Mrs. McGill visibly shuddered. She hated hoodlums. And she thought everyone was a hoodlum: the postman, the milkman, even the Meals on Wheels lady.
“You must have piles and piles of books stacked up in your house by now,” continued Nanny Piggins. “I bet they reach up to the ceiling. If you don’t give them to me, one day soon a stack will collapse on you and you’ll suffocate beneath a pile of sweet-dream romance stories.”
Mrs. McGill glared at Nanny Piggins. Nanny Piggins glared back. Then Mrs. McGill leaned forward and whispered, “All right, you can have them, but secrecy is of the utmost importance. Bring a truck around to the back of the house at two AM and wear a ski mask.” Then Mrs. McGill slammed the door in their faces.
“Wow!” said Derrick.
“You were right,” said Samantha in amazement.
“I usually am,” said Nanny Piggins.
Just then the Police Sergeant arrived and Nanny Piggins set to work persuading (harassing) him to donate his mystery books. And so the week progressed. Nanny Piggins forced her way into Headmaster Pimplestock’s house and made him give up his cowboy comics (which were all he ever read. He was not a literary man). She got the retired Army Colonel who was secretly in love with her to donate some really exciting war adventure stories. She got Hans the baker to donate cookbooks (the best kind of books after romance novels, in Nanny Piggins’s opinion). And she even got Mr. Green to give up his law books (that was easy—she just took them). By the end of the week they had quite a collection.
“Now we’ve got some books that people will actually want to buy,” said Nanny Piggins with satisfaction, “as well as your father’s law books, which will be handy if we need to prop up a rickety table.”
“But do we have over fifty thousand dollars’ worth?” asked Samantha.
“Easily, I should think,” said Nanny Piggins (math was not a great strength of hers). “Who needs a Gutenberg Bible when I’ve got three whole boxes of Regency romances?”
The morning of the school fete arrived. Nanny Piggins, Boris, and the children got there early to set up the stall, only to discover that Headmaster Pimplestock had given them the worst location at the fete. (He could not resist the opportunity to be petty.) They were away from all the other stalls, down a path and around behind the boys’ bathroom. But Nanny Piggins was not worried. She assumed the rest of the fete would suffer when all the customers gathered around her stall.
After they had arranged all the books into categories and put up signs saying EVERY BOOK $1 (Nanny Piggins’s pricing policy was based on what would involve the least amount of mental arithmetic), they went up the path to check out the rest of the fete.
“I’ve got a good feeling about this,” said Nanny Piggins. “With just the right amount of persuasion, flirting, and ankle biting, I think I can sell all those books.”
But as they arrived at the main part of the fete, suddenly a large stall in front of them opened. The canvas awnings that covered the sides dropped to the ground, one at a time, revealing the most spectacularly beautiful stall ever. Every flat surface was entirely covered in cakes, cupcakes, tarts, flans, and pastries. And every treat was beautifully presented on a doily, with a ribbon and a little picture of a kitten or a puppy dog. And flashing Christmas lights twinkled over the cornucopia of cake, making the whole stall look like a magical wonderland of delight.
“Gosh!” said Derrick.
“Crikey!” said Michael.
“Is that honey cake?” said Boris.
Nanny Piggins did not say anything, because standing there in the middle of this astounding display of baked goods was her archrival, Nanny Anne. Nanny Piggins was torn between really wanting to bite her nemesis and really, really wanting to bite into one of the cakes.
“Good morning, Nanny Piggins,” smiled Nanny Anne smugly. “I’m so glad you’ve gone ahead with your stall after all. It’s very valiant of you. If you do it again next year, you can go the extra step of putting some thought into your display.”
Nanny Piggins’s heart sank. She knew she was a brilliant saleswoman and every single book on her stall was an excellent purchase, but why would anyone even glance at her books when only a short walk away was this beautiful gleaming display of delicious delicacies?
“I’m opening the gates!” announced Headmaster Pimplestock.
“Are you ready, Nanny Piggins?” asked Samantha.
“What?” mumbled Nanny Piggins. For once her confidence was actually shaken. “Oh yes, of course.” She pulled herself together. “We can do this. True, it does appear that Nanny Anne has ruined our chances with her gaudy display of frippery, but we must push on. After all, we don’t know what’s going to happen. There could be an earthquake that causes the ground to open up and swallow Nanny Anne’s stand, in which case we will be able to draw the customers over to look at our books.”
Nanny Piggins, Boris, and the children went back down the path and set to work. And there was soon a crowd. But the problem was that all the people were facing the wrong way. They were a crowd gathered around Nanny Anne’s stall who were lined up all the way down the path. As a result, by the end of the first hour of business, the bookstall had only sold seven books.
“Are we near our $50,000 target yet?” asked Nanny Piggins.
“Not quite. We’re still $49,993 short,” said Derrick.
Nanny Piggins slumped down on a box and silently rubbed her snout. The children did not know what to say. They had never seen their nanny defeated before. But then suddenly Nanny Piggins leaped up and exclaimed, “You stay here!” and she sprinted off through the school gates.
“Do you think she’s coming back?” asked Michael.
“Oh yes,” said Boris, “although perhaps not today. Today isn’t going very well, is it?”
Boris and the children valiantly continued to run the bookstall, but without Nanny Piggins’s sales talents (biting people on the leg), they sold even less. They were just considering giving up and going over to Nanny Anne’s stall to buy a slice of cake when they heard a car horn honking wildly. They looked up in time to see Mr. Green’s Rolls-Royce smashing through the school gates and mowing down Headmaster Pimplestock’s shrubbery.
“That can’t be Father driving, can it?” exclaimed Samantha.
“No, look! It’s Nanny Piggins,” cheered Michael.
And sure enough, Nanny Piggins was at the wheel. She yanked on the hand brake, doing a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree spinning skid that brought the car to a halt next to the bookstall.
“Quick, children,” ordered Nanny Piggins. “Start unloading.”
“What have you got?” asked Boris. “More books?”
“No, better than books—cake!” said Nanny Piggins, opening the trunk to reveal boxes and boxes of home-baked cakes. “I went home and whipped some up. As well as the few dozen I already had stored in my room, you know, for emergencies.”
“But we can’t sell cake! Nanny Anne is running the cake stall,” said Michael.
“Of course we can’t. But who’s to say we can’t strap a slice of cake to every book I sell as a free gift?!” declared Nanny Piggins.
So that is exactly what she did. And, as a sales tactic, it was an immediate
success. It is an amazing fact of life that people do not realize how much they would enjoy a romance novel or an alien-abduction thriller until there is a slice of chocolate mud cake tied to its side. Nanny Piggins was soon inundated with customers.
Then, gradually, a strange thing happened. While Nanny Anne’s stall sold a lot of cakes, she did not get a lot of repeat business because when the buyers sat down to eat their slice they soon discovered, to their horror, that she had put carrot chunks, or beetroot puree, or sometimes even grated parsnip in it.
Because, you see, Nanny Anne could not help herself. Even when she was running a cake stall, she could not resist the urge to turn every slice into a nutritionally balanced, healthy meal. So when she baked, she used artificial sweetener instead of sugar, low-fat spread instead of butter, and whole-grain flour instead of white flour. As a result, even though her cakes were beautiful on the outside, on the inside they were horrible (not unlike Nanny Anne herself).
Whereas Nanny Piggins’s cakes were a delicious symphony of pleasurable delight. (I will not list the ingredients she used because, if I did, Nanny Piggins would hunt me down and bite my leg for giving away her secrets; but suffice it to say, she did not use health foods.) Her customers, even those who had driven long distances to get home before they took a bite, immediately got back in their cars and rushed back to buy more, much more. So much so that Nanny Piggins, Boris, and the children soon ran out of books to strap the cake to. They even used up all the knitting patterns. Boris had to rush home and fetch more of Mr. Green’s law books.
By the end of the day Nanny Piggins had just one slice of cake left, from an octuple-chocolate chocolate cake (that is chocolate cake with chocolate chips, chocolate icing, chocolate filling, chocolate cream, and chocolate sprinkles, all sandwiched between two blocks of chocolate). But there were still dozens of hungry customers.
“Who will buy this copy of Introductory Calculus, which just happens to come with a free slice of the most chocolatey chocolate cake ever?” asked Nanny Piggins, keeping up the pretense that she was really just selling books.