Nanny McPhee Returns (18 page)

The Diary 25

You can very easily freeze that moment in your heads, can’t you? Norman standing there looking very heroic, everyone staring up at him or down at him depending on who they are, and Mrs Green about to pour the tea. There.

Nice day! Nice weather! We are at Tilsey Farm at what we call the carousel field because it was where we shot the piglets flying around the tree (they weren’t really flying, of course, it was me and all the children’s mums and dads running around holding foam piglets and singing silly songs). There’s no loo paper in my trailer, so halfway through this morning I had a rather nasty moment in my corset and curls. That’s filming for you. Very little in the way of personal dignity is left by the end of a long shoot. Most people have seen you either cry, lose your temper, vomit, hit things for no reason, whinge – or in this case, seen your bottom, which is really the lowest point in my view. Rather unpleasant altogether, but there it is.

Our fabulous Mr Green is on set to do a flashback scene (he’s a bit of a secret so I’m saying nothing here about who it is) and being as gorgeous and funny and loving and great as Mr Green could ever be. All the females on set are trembling slightly. Bit like releasing a particularly genetically suitable bull into a herd of slightly somnolent cows. We’ve all woken up a bit and are milling about, mooing at each other and preening.

August 1st: We’ve all just had two days off and are feeling rather chipper! Ralph Fiennes is in giving his Lord Gray (we sometimes say ‘give’ instead of ‘play’ – I don’t know why, it’s an acting term, I suppose). He is wonderful. Chilling and full of internal pains and conflict and buried emotions. He and I spent lunchtime discussing Pasolini’s film
Salo
, which seemed to be all about poo. I feel rather ill now. It might also be because the family left for hols in Scotland this morning and I am alone in the house with Oatcake the hamster.

Went to set glumly and was greatly cheered by Ed Stoppard (Lieutenant Addis) and Ralph and the boys (Asa and Eros) being brilliant in the scene. Rhys is back, his foot all better – hurrah! When I first saw him in his wig and costume I didn’t actually recognise him. Peter King and Jackie Durran deserve medals for that creation.

August 4th: Weather out here is so bad that we’ve moved the entire unit back to Shepperton. Ghastly business – everyone has to pack up their gear, tons and tons of it, and load it on to lorries and trucks and then drive and unload it and set it all up again, crossly, and then have half an hour to shoot what we needed the whole day for. It’s no fun and it makes everyone incredibly grumpy. I feel that I may be shooting this film for the rest of my life, and I’m not the only one. Susanna had to wave her girls off the other day too. I’ve told her she can borrow Oatcake if she gets too lonely. He’s quite a laugh, if you like that sort of thing. Filming is even worse for directors because they have to be there before everything starts and after everything stops FOR AGES, sorting out the day or watching the stuff we’ve shot. It is a brutal schedule.

August 6th: Oh dear. Was mucking about on the picnic set, trying to make the children laugh, saw a cricket bat and, thinking it was the rubber one that Vinnie uses in the first bit of the story, proceeded to hit myself very hard in the face with it. It wasn’t the rubber one and I now have a very sore face. Mind you, they laughed. Luckily I didn’t bruise, so even though I complained like anything, as soon as they realised nothing was going to show, everyone lost interest and ignored me.

August 8th: Doing all Phil’s scenes with Topsey and Turvey, which is complete fun. We’re filming outside on the Getty estate, which is so beautiful and peaceful. Went home, talked to Oatcake, watched two French films, picked up fallen damsons and collected cucumbers from the greenhouse. Nice things to do.

August 10th: You see, what no one
tells
you about jackdaws is that they
smell
.

I think it’s all the raw meat they eat. All the birds have been fantastic. I started training with them in February (they live at Leavesden, which is where all the Harry Potters are filmed) and, like I said, they remember everything. Such clever creatures. They’re not like pets or anything, you can’t stroke them, but you can talk to them and they will talk back, and once they get on to my shoulder, they’ll stay there for ages, just chatting away. I’m very fond of them all, but particularly the youngest whose name is Al. He has a most endearing personality and a cheeky look in his eye.

We’re shooting somewhere called Hambledon soon. Apparently someone called Lady Hambledon wants to say hello to me – she must own the place . . .

Bill Bailey is back today with a horse and wagon. The horse is huge and doesn’t look like a horse at all. Bill says it is not, in fact, a horse but a giant bulldog in a horse costume. There were fireworks outside my hotel window last night so didn’t get to sleep until late. I am so tired today that I lay down at lunch and didn’t move a muscle for an hour and a half. Apparently there are only fourteen more shooting days. Can’t be true. We are nearly finished. But all the stuff we have yet to shoot is HUGE so it’s not just a matter of mopping up little bits here and there. Martin, our First AD, will leave next week – a holiday that can’t be cancelled. Several folk are dropping away as we go on into the summer, because no one foresaw we would shoot for quite this long. Even I will have to leave two days before the bitter end, which feels most odd and like some awful betrayal of everyone.

August 12th, I think: We’re shooting the picnic scene so, of course, it’s raining. The Art Department have finally got the cowpat right. I wrote this sentence in the script: Mrs Docherty spies a big cowpat.

‘Oh look!’ she says. ‘How thoughtful! You’ve put out cushions!’

I didn’t describe the cowpat in any great detail, but I saw in my head one of those round things with a dip in the middle that really could be mistaken for a brown cushion if you couldn’t see very well and were slightly bonkers, both of which apply to Mrs Docherty. But the first cowpat that arrived was – well, it was terribly realistic, of course, because we have a brilliant Art Department, who went and looked at lots of real cowpats and produced an exact replica. Anyway, it was green, with bits of stuff sticking out here and there, and Maggie Smith took one look at it and said, ‘You must be joking! I wouldn’t sit on that – it looks like a pile of sick.’ We all laughed heartily of course, except the Art Department, who had to go away and make a new one. Susanna is going to take pictures of her cowpats at home (she lives on a dairy farm) to make sure that we are getting it right. This new one is perfect and looks as though it would be very comfy if you sat on it.

The cowpat’s all right, but Simon (our sound maestro) has brought in his brand-new sound machine with sixteen tracks on it because there are ten people in this scene – and it’s broken. We are DOOMED.

The Story 25

Everyone whirled around to see Norman standing in the doorway looking very stern and pointing an accusing finger at Phil. Flanking him were Cyril and Nanny McPhee looking equally grave.

‘Norman!’ cried Mrs Green. ‘Where on earth have you been?’

This was Norman’s big moment – he’d thought about it from the moment the awful telegram had arrived and he’d known it was false and he’d wanted to shout it then but knew he couldn’t, but now he had proof and he could. He took a deep breath.

‘Mum – Dad’s alive.’

Vincent breathed in sharply. ‘What?’ he said, in a tiny squeaky voice.

‘Dad’s alive and I can prove it.’

Mrs Green sat down very suddenly. Luckily there was a chair behind her so she didn’t fall on the floor.

‘How?’ she said, very quietly.

Norman walked over to her. ‘Cyril and I went to the War Office in London with Nanny McPhee. We saw Cyril’s dad and found out that Dad was M.I.A.’

‘That means Missing In Action,’ said Cyril helpfully.

‘And we found out something else – no telegram was ever sent – the one we got was forged!’

‘Exactly!’ cried Phil with relief. ‘And I forged it! I’m an evil forger! There’s your crime! Now will you arrest me?’

But Mr Spolding was gazing with admiration at Norman and Mrs Green, who had tears in her eyes that made them shine even brighter.

‘Norman – how did you know Dad was still alive?’ she asked.

‘I could feel it in my bones,’ said Norman, without hesitation.

Mrs Green looked at him for a long moment.

‘Then it must be true,’ she said, getting up and hugging him to her chest. ‘Thank you, my darling, thank you, thank you.’

And then some of the tears fell on top of Norman’s head but he didn’t notice them.

‘And Cyril! Thank Cyril too!’ he said, somewhat indistinctly.

Mrs Green cried, ‘Oh, Cyril darling, come here!’

And he did, and Mrs Green hugged him to the other side and nearly suffocated them both, and Mr Spolding wept a small tear as well, because he was so happy to hear that lovely Rory Green was alive.

‘Didn’t you hear?’ shrieked Phil, clutching at Mr Spolding’s arm. ‘I’m a forger, a villainous forger! Arrest me, please, before it’s too late!!!’

But Mr Spolding had started to consult his pamphlet.

‘Leave it, Phil,’ he said, crossly. ‘There’s a bomb out there what needs dealing with.’

This was the first the boys had heard of it. Everyone went to the window again.

‘It’s a UXB!’ said Cyril.

‘They know,’ said Celia. ‘I just told them.’

‘It could go off at –’

‘They know that too,’ said Celia, patiently. ‘We’ve been through all that. The question is – what do we do now?’

‘Don’t we run away?’ said Vincent, looking concerned.

‘No!’ said Norman. ‘It’s right in the middle of the barley! If it goes off, the whole harvest will be destroyed! Mr Spolding! What does it say in the book?’

Mr Spolding held up a finger and read out the following:

‘“Defusing your bomb. Four Simple Steps to an Explosion-Free day.”’

‘Can’t you at least cuff me?’ said Phil, despairingly. ‘So as they see I’m under arrest? They won’t be able to touch a person who’s in custard and cuffs!’

‘Here, Phil, do it yourself,’ said Mr Spolding, throwing him a pair of handcuffs. ‘I’ve got work to do.’ And with that he walked out of the door towards the bomb.

‘Shouldn’t we help him?’ said Norman worriedly.

‘Certainly not!’ said Mrs Green. ‘He’s a fully fledgling professional, leave it to him.’

‘Megsie, help me with these, will you?’ said Phil, helplessly trying to cuff himself up.

Now that Mr Spolding was dealing with the bomb, everyone had time to remember what a terrible thing Phil had done. They all turned and stared at him. He quailed.

‘You don’t deserve any help, you completely
wicked
person!’ said Megsie.

‘Please!’ said Phil. ‘I’m begging you!’

‘Allow me,’ said Mrs Green, in an icy voice that none of her children had ever heard before. She went over, led Phil to the oven range and cuffed him to the iron bar above, where the saucepans hung.

‘Thank you, Isabel,’ said Phil, in pathetic tones.

Just then, Mr Spolding’s voice was heard through the loudhailer and everyone turned away from Phil and back to the window.

Mr Spolding had put a ladder up against the side of the bomb and was on top of it, shouting towards the house. ‘I am about to disarm the device,’ he intoned. ‘If I succeed there will be no further peril or untimely demise –’

He lowered the loudhailer for a moment, but lifted it again as though struck by a new thought.

‘And if I don’t succeed,’ he shouted, sounding a little less confident, ‘there will be lots of peril and we’ll all die, especially me, cos I’m closest.’

Then he lowered the hailer again and lifted the pamphlet, wobbled slightly, wobbled a bit more, gave a tiny moan and fell backwards off the ladder and into the barley. There was a dead silence.

‘He fell over,’ said Vincent, in case no one else had noticed.

‘I think he may have fainted,’ said Mrs Green.

‘That’s useful,’ said Cyril.

‘Who’s going to defuse it now?’ said Norman.

‘I bet Megsie could!’ said Celia.

‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous!’ said Mrs Green, but found herself shouted down by five children all crying, ‘Yes! Yes! Megsie can do it! Let her try!’

Mrs Green was adamant, but finally Norman caught her arm and said, ‘Mum – listen, if that thing goes off, the crop will be destroyed and it will all have been for nothing!’

‘Oh, please let me try!’ begged Megsie.

‘There’s an official pamphlet!’ said Cyril. ‘What could go wrong?’

All the children started to march off in a determined pack.

‘All of you, come
back
here, right now!’ shouted Mrs Green, following them.

‘Help me to stop them, Nanny McPhee!’ she cried as she ran out of the door.

‘I doubt that will be possible,’ said Nanny McPhee, allowing herself just the slightest hint of a smile before she too left the kitchen.

Phil was left alone. He examined the bar he was cuffed to. It was good and strong. Even if the hit-women came, they wouldn’t be able to take him away, he reckoned. He was as safe here as anywhere and a lot safer than the rest of the family, who were probably going to get blown up. Which meant that the farm would be available after all. He brightened slightly. Things were looking up.

In the field, Mrs Green had failed to stop the children from taking action and had gone with them to see if Mr Spolding was all right after his fall. While she and Vincent fanned him, Megsie issued orders:

‘Boys, put that ladder back up! Celia, you’ve got the best diction and the loudest voice, you read out the instructions.’

Megsie shimmied up the ladder like a monkey and called out, ‘Right, I’m in position. Go!’

‘Step One,’ said Celia, in her clearest tones. ‘Open the vent situated by the tail fin with a screwdriver.’

Megsie looked at the bomb – there was the vent, right in front of her. She whipped out a screwdriver and tried it but it was too small, so she got the next size up, which fitted perfectly. Taking a deep breath, she attacked the screws, extracting each one quickly and efficiently.

‘I’m taking the vent off NOW!’ she called out to the others, who were all at the base of the ladder watching her with tense anxiety.

Megsie pulled hard, and with a screech of metal that made her wince she pulled off the vent and flung it away from her into the barley, where it landed with a quiet thud.

‘Vent’s off!’ cried Megsie. ‘What’s next!’

‘Step Two,’ said Celia. ‘Cut the blue wire.’

Megsie looked into the bomb’s innards. She’d been quite calm until now, but the sight that met her eyes gave her a real shock. The bomb was a mess of cables and wires and nuts and bolts that looked as though someone had just pushed them all in without caring where anything went.

‘No wonder the blinking thing doesn’t work,’ she muttered to herself, gingerly using the screwdriver to push aside the mess and find the blue wire. Talking to herself calmed her down slightly and then she saw the wire she wanted nestling next to some others which were different colours. She took out a pair of wire-cutters from her tool apron. At the bottom of the ladder, Norman was panting with tension.

‘Have you done it?’ he said.

‘No! These are too small!’ cried Megsie, waving the cutters at the others. ‘Has anyone got a penknife or something?’

Everyone searched their pockets frantically until Celia gave a shout. ‘Here!’ She handed up a pair of nail scissors she’d found in her nail kit.

‘Try these!’

‘Perfect!’ said Megsie gratefully.

With great care, she reached into the bomb again and
SNIP
, cut the blue wire.

‘Done!’ she announced.

Everyone heaved a sigh of relief. Nothing bad had happened. Everything was going according to plan.

‘Step Three!’ said Celia. ‘Cut the
red
wire.’

Megsie searched for the red wire and finally saw it – deeper down than the blue; she was going to have to reach her body further over the lip of the bomb than felt quite safe. But she was a brave and determined person, so she pulled herself up and stretched inwards.

‘It’s like being a lion-tamer,’ she said to herself. ‘I’m putting my head into the lion’s mouth.’

Below her, things were getting even tenser.

‘What’s taking so long?’ shouted Norman.

‘Can you see it?’ shouted Celia.

‘Have you done it?’ shouted Cyril.

But Megsie was so far inside the bomb she couldn’t hear them. All they could see were her legs waving in the air. Mrs Green was biting her fist to keep herself from screaming. She was desperate to get everyone away but she knew that they couldn’t move Mr Spolding, who was still out cold, and she couldn’t think of any way she could move the children, except by carrying them bodily away one by one, which would never work. The suspense rose. Everyone stopped breathing.

‘Isn’t it EXCITING!!!’ said a very loud voice. They all jumped ten feet in the air and whirled round to find Mrs Docherty standing there, gazing at the bomb with huge enthusiasm.

‘Shh!’ they all said. ‘Megsie’s trying to defuse it!’

‘Ooooh!’ said Mrs Docherty, thrilled, and going to stand beside Mrs Green and Mr Spolding.

‘Hello, Algernon,’ she said. ‘You’re not dead, are you?’

Mrs Green whispered an explanation as Megsie’s head finally re-emerged from the bomb and she waved the scissors aloft and cried, ‘Done! What’s Step Four?’

Then, very suddenly, the bomb gave a lurch. Megsie shrieked with alarm.

‘Is that supposed to happen?’ quavered Mrs Green, running to look over Celia’s shoulder at the pamphlet.

Unseen by all, a little red light on the side of the bomb started to flash. It was in a row of ten . . .