Nanny McPhee and the Big Bang (9 page)

‘Celia! Cyril! You’re early!’ she screamed. ‘How’s your mother?’

The children took not the blindest bit of notice and continued to wrestle and screech until Mrs Green had to stop her ears and thunder, ‘STOP! STOP FIGHTING!!!’

But no one could hear her. Just at that moment there was a thundering rap at the door. Lightning illuminated the room and Mrs Green whirled to see a very odd, lumpy silhouette through the glass bit of the door.

‘What on earth . . .’ she breathed, when there it was again. RAT-A-TAT-TAT. A heavy, no nonsense, answer-this-door-immediately kind of knocking.

Mrs Green went to the door feeling a trepidation quite unlike anything she had ever experienced before. She took hold of the door knob and threw open the door. As she did so, lightning blazed across the sky, allowing her to see in intense detail the person who was standing in the porch.

It was female, of that there could be no doubt. A vast and hideous female, dressed from head to foot in rusty black stuff trimmed with jet. But the face! Her face was so UGLY, so ugly you could hardly believe it. Her nose was like a giant pocky old potato. Her eyebrows met bushily in the middle and she had two enormous black hairy warts like spiders! Out over her lip stuck a gigantic and discoloured tombstone-shaped tooth and she stared at Mrs Green out of ancient glittering eyes.

Mrs Green was entirely unable to speak. Even though she had been taught from a very early age that it was rude to stare, she simply couldn’t help it. She stared and stared and then she stared some more.

The fierce-looking female stared back for a short moment. Then she opened her mouth to speak. It seemed strange that anyone with quite so many enormous teeth should be able to speak at all, but when she did, it was in a calm, almost mellifluous way.

‘Good evening, Mrs Green. I am Nanny McPhee.’

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Mrs Green realised she had stopped breathing, took in a big lungful of air and tried to address her visitor as politely as she knew she ought.

‘Oh,
you’re it
! I mean him – her – the Nanny they – I do beg your pardon – who?’

Unperturbed, and casting a glance at the violence that continued without interruption behind Mrs Green, the strange person spoke again.

‘Nanny McPhee. Small
c
. Big
p.
’

Mrs Green felt that the last thing she needed was someone this scary-looking trying to interfere.

‘Yes, I see, righto, but the thing is – the thing is that I haven’t hired a nanny – you see? I don’t – I’ve never – I don’t actually like nannies and I’m managing perfectly well here –’

This was the moment Norman chose to pick Vincent up and throw him bodily at Cyril. Nanny McPhee raised her single bushy eyebrow at poor Mrs Green.

‘It’s the war!’ said Mrs Green, somewhat hysterically. ‘It’s not a very good influence.’

All the children were now in the best parlour, bashing each other and screaming louder than ever. Mrs Green backed away from the front door and closed the door to the parlour. When she turned around, Nanny McPhee was in the house with the front door closed and even though Mrs Green knew she hadn’t
exactly
invited her in, something very deep inside her seemed to be saying, ‘Yes, do come in, please do come in.’

‘Tea?’ said Mrs Green, trying to lead Nanny McPhee away from the parlour into the kitchen.

‘Perhaps later,’ said Nanny McPhee calmly. ‘Let me just introduce myself to the children.’

Mrs Green panicked.‘Oh no! No, no – I mean – wait – I mean – have you got any references?’

Nanny McPhee turned and fixed Mrs Green with a penetrating stare.

‘I am an army nanny, Mrs Green. I have been deployed. Why don’t you put the kettle on?’

And again, while every conscious thought inside Mrs Green’s head was screaming, ‘Get out of my house you scary thing’ another voice, deep inside her, was saying gently, ‘Yes, let’s put the kettle on. What a good idea.’

So she turned to put the kettle on, and when she turned back the kitchen was empty.

The Diary 14

Back in the studio now. Hot in there, but I’m surviving. We took three days to shoot the Greens fighting over the lemon drop and now we’re starting on another three-day marathon. Maggie Gyllenhaal, our beautiful, harassed Mrs Green, had to shout so much during the lemon drop bit that she lost her voice! She was heroic. The children coped gamely with the heat and all the smoke they pump into the set to make it look more real. (I know that sounds peculiar but it’s true – the smoke softens everything somehow and makes it look lived in. They call it ‘atmos’, which is short for ‘atmosphere’.)

Simon’s set is genuinely breathtaking.

Maggie G., by the way, has come all the way from America with her husband and her little girl (who is only four) to live on our rainy island for THREE MONTHS. We are all very proud she is here with us, and when Susanna, Lindsay and I sit at the monitor to watch her, we sometimes gasp and hold on to each other because she is so, so beautiful.

We’ve had some seriously bad news – Rhys Ifans, our Phil, has broken his foot showing some six-year-olds a few nifty football moves. It’s always something tiny that causes an accident, but the implications for the shoot are enormous. David Brown’s rushing around trying to sort it out. We can’t shoot on him until August and it’s only June! Yikes.

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Shepperton Studios is its usual collection of huts, stages and car parks but very pleasant even so. And no problems with the weather, of course, because we’re shooting indoors. I am in the full Nanny gear, with the cape and everything. So far it hasn’t been too hot.

Later: I spoke too soon. Nose has peeled off and refuses to be re-stuck. Paula will have to put on a new one. Did I tell you she keeps them in the fridge? Because she does.

I can’t eat or laugh in this get-up. Talking’s hard too. Let’s face it, this costume does inhibit most of life’s major pleasures. It is, however, one of the most effective costumes I’ve ever worn, so hats off to the Costume Department (see Glossary).

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The Story 14

In the best parlour, the violence was escalating. Vincent was still bashing at the furniture with his cricket bat but being careful not to dent anything too precious. Megsie now had Celia in a fireman’s lift and was smacking her bottom with the fire-tongs while Norman and Cyril were busy pushing each other’s heads into the wall.

The door opened and in glided Nanny McPhee. No one took much notice. Norman flung her a glance and managed to grunt out a ‘Who are YOU?’ before being slammed on to the sofa.

‘I am Nanny McPhee,’ replied the ghastly-looking stranger. ‘Please listen carefully. You are all to stop what you are doing and go upstairs to bed.’

Now, it was an odd thing, because although Nanny McPhee spoke far too softly to be heard above the din, nonetheless every word dropped into each child’s ear as clear as a silver bell.

But did they do what they were told?

Of course they didn’t! They were far too busy fighting and screaming.

‘Did you hear what I said?’

Again, they heard it, every single word. But Norman just yelled, ‘Ha! A nanny for the namby-pamby townies!’ before proceeding to kick Cyril hard in the shins.

Nanny McPhee gazed at them all and narrowed her eyes. Her long black cloak moved and from underneath it she produced a strange, knobbly stick.

Raising it, she brought it down to the floor with a sharp bang that seemed to echo through the house. The children were far too busy to notice the golden sparks that spattered from the bottom of the stick and escaped under the door. But they did all stop, just for a second, to stare at her.

‘Was that supposed to impress us?’ Cyril sneered. Nanny McPhee looked at him expressionlessly. He shrugged his shoulders and raised a fist to thump Norman.

And then the oddest thing occurred. Instead of thumping Norman, his fist, as though in the grip of an invisible puppeteer, twisted at the end of his arm and tried to thump
him
, missing twice before grabbing his own collar and throwing him to the floor.

Cyril, winded by the fall and the surprise, just lay there panting, with his eyes as round as golf balls. Norman sniggered and pointed. Cyril’s hand then yanked Cyril about and thwacked him hard on the head. Now Norman laughed out loud as everyone else stared in astonishment.

‘What on
earth
are you doing, Cyril?’ said Celia, as, very suddenly, Norman clutched his own ear and pulled himself across the room squealing with pain.

Even if Cyril had been in any position to answer her, Celia would not have noticed. She was too busy grabbing her own hair and pulling it very hard. Her eyes were screwed up so tight against the stinging that she didn’t even notice Megsie hitting her own bottom hard with the fire-tongs and yelping, ‘It’s happening to me too!’

Meanwhile, Vincent, his eyes like saucers, suddenly felt the cricket bat twitch in his hand. He stared at it apprehensively. Very suddenly it jerked itself up into the air and came down very hard on the best mahogany table, giving it a terrific dent.

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‘Oh no!!’ cried Vincent, trying to drop the bat. But it seemed stuck fast to his hands and now he started to go about the room whacking and whacking and whacking whatever got in the way. Ornaments went flying, crockery smashed and Vincent, terrified, started to yell, ‘Stop, stop, stop, stop!!!’ at the top of his voice.