Nanny Piggins and the Race to Power 8 (19 page)

‘They would shove the extra teaching into the children’s heads,’ continued Nanny Piggins, ‘and who is going to make the children’s heads bigger to accommodate this extra learning that they are supposed to be doing?’

‘I don’t think you can make a child’s head bigger,’ said Boris. ‘Well, you probably could if you grabbed them by their ears and pulled them hard enough to stretch their skull a bit. But it would be tremendously painful.’

‘And education is painful enough without yanking on children’s skulls,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘No, I don’t approve of any additional education. The only adjustment to the school system I would make is to drop all the useless subjects like maths, geography and chemistry and replace them with cake baking. Cake baking includes maths, geography and chemistry but it is a much nicer way of learning about them.’

‘Pish!’ declared Derrick, in his role as the mayor (he had picked up some of Nanny Piggins’ debating terminology).

‘It’s true,’ declared Nanny Piggins. ‘To make a good Dundee cake you must measure all the ingredients, which is maths, know that Dundee is in Scotland, which is geography, and combine the ingredients in the right way and at the right temperature to entirely change their physical structure, which is carbon chemistry. And the best bit about educating children through cake baking is that if their skulls do start to ache from all the knowledge going in there, they can sit down and eat a slice of cake to make themselves feel better.’

Boris broke into rapturous applause. ‘There is no way you can’t win,’ he said, mopping tears from his eyes. ‘Your policies make so much sense. The only way you could miss out on being mayor is if someone higher up hears what you’ve got to say and insists you immediately take over the whole country instead.’

‘I had considered that danger,’ agreed Nanny Piggins. ‘Rest assured I am ready to bite anyone on the shins who tries to get me to run for national office.’

‘We’d better get going,’ said Samantha, checking her watch. ‘The debate is in two hours and they’ll want you to be there an hour early so they can do your hair and make-up.’

‘They’ll do what?!’ exclaimed Nanny Piggins.

‘They always do your hair and make-up before you appear on television,’ explained Samantha.

‘How impertinent,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘As if I would let some amateur interfere with my hair. They’re not qualified.’

‘I’m sure they use trained hairdressers,’ said Michael.

‘A trained hairdresser?’ exclaimed Nanny Piggins. ‘That’s a contradiction in terms. My hair knows more about what to do with itself than any hairdresser would. I look perfectly fabulous as I am now!’ – which was true – ‘We shall set out now, but only so we can go to the sweet shop on the way to the studio to stock up on supplies. You will all need pockets full of lollies so that you don’t fall asleep while your father is talking. And I shall need pockets full of lollies both for eating and for throwing at your father when I strongly disagree with his point, which I anticipate will be quite a lot, so I have worn a dress with extra-large pockets.’

The detour to the sweet shop took a full hour and a half and it was actually excellent debating practice, because they spent most of the time arguing which sweet would be optimal both for deliciousness and painfulness when thrown at an opponent’s ear. Clearly anything light and fluffy like marshmallows or strawberry bonbons would not do. They needed a heavier sweet, perhaps a hardened caramel or a boiled lolly?

Eventually Nanny Piggins decided on a combination of chocolate éclairs and sherbet lemons (both were hard and heavy), with a side stash of extra-long chocolate bars either for eating or hitting her opponents over the head if they refused to concede she was right.

So they arrived at the television station ten minutes before the scheduled start of the debate and were greeted by a very anxious producer.

‘You were supposed to be here an hour and a half ago,’ the producer wailed.

‘Get a grip of yourself, woman,’ said Nanny Piggins, shoving a sherbet lemon into the producer’s mouth in the hope that the sugar would help calm her down. ‘Remember, this is only television. If I hadn’t turned up, what is the worst that could have happened? You could show a re-run of
The Young and the Irritable
and the electorate would probably learn more. They would certainly be a lot better entertained.’

‘If you hadn’t turned up,’ said the producer as she ushered them through security and into the building, ‘things could have been much worse than that. The debate would have gone ahead with just Mayor Bloomsbridge and Mr Green.’

‘But that would be the most dangerously boring hour of television ever broadcast,’ protested Nanny Piggins.

‘I know, that’s why I’m so glad you’re here,’ said the producer.

While the receptionist took forever misspelling their names on their visitors’ cards, Nanny Piggins, Boris and the children took a moment to look about the television station. The debate was being filmed at the proper television station in the city and it was much more impressive than their local community television station. True, the building was still run-down – it needed a paint job and the halls were lined with faded photos of celebrities who hadn’t been famous for thirty years – but it was a big building with a lift, so it had a much more professional feel.’

‘Where’s the outfit you’ll be wearing?’ asked the producer.

Nanny Piggins glowered.

‘You shouldn’t have said that,’ muttered Derrick.

‘What . . .’ asked Nanny Piggins, glaring hard, ‘is wrong with what I have on?’

‘Say “nothing, you look fabulous”,’ urged Michael.

‘Um,’ said the producer, ‘it’s just that you are wearing a floor-length, crimson designer evening gown and usually politicians wear grey suits.’

‘Further evidence that they are fools,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘If they have not got the panache to look traffic-stoppingly fabulous, then that is their problem. I am a trained circus pig. Looking good, often while travelling at supersonic speeds through the air, is my speciality.’

At this point they only had six minutes until the broadcast started, so the producer decided to avoid any further discussion and quickly usher Nanny Piggins into the lift.

‘Are you nervous?’ asked Derrick.

‘About what?’ asked Nanny Piggins.

‘Being on television in front of millions of people,’ said Derrick.

‘Piffle!’ exclaimed Nanny Piggins. ‘It is the viewers who should be nervous about what they’re about to witness.’

Suddenly the lift lurched to a halt.

‘What was that?’ asked Samantha.

The producer pressed the tenth-floor button on the panel over and over.

‘Unless that button generates energy through you repeatedly pressing it, I don’t see how what you’re doing is of any use,’ said Nanny Piggins.

‘The broadcast starts in three minutes,’ panicked the producer. ‘We don’t have time to be stuck in a lift.’

‘Why don’t you try the emergency button?’ suggested Boris. ‘I always wanted to have an emergency in a lift so I could press that button.’

The producer pressed the emergency button, and in the distance they could hear an alarm bell ring.

‘That just sounds like a loud doorbell,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘If no-one does anything when a car alarm goes off, they are hardly going to leap into action because they hear a loud doorbell.’

‘Try the telephone,’ urged Boris. ‘The secret one behind the panel. I’ve always wanted to use that too.’

‘You use that all the time,’ chided Michael.

‘Well, sometimes in a lift I get lonely,’ explained Boris, ‘so I like to ring up the lift mechanics and have a little chat.’

The producer picked up the phone and held it to her ear. ‘It’s dead!’ she wailed.

‘Of course it is,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘It’s an inanimate object.’

‘No, I mean the line is dead,’ said the producer. ‘There’s no dial tone.’

‘Perhaps it’s because someone has cut that big wire,’ pointed out Michael.

They looked down to see that the handset was entirely detached from the base unit. The cord had clearly been hacked in two by a blunt pair of scissors.

‘I am beginning to suspect sabotage,’ said Nanny Piggins.

‘You think someone did this on purpose?’ asked the producer.

‘Of course,’ said Nanny Piggins.

‘But who would do such a thing?’ asked the producer.

‘We must ask, who stands to gain from my being trapped in a lift two minutes before the mayoral debate is about to begin?’ said Nanny Piggins.

‘Father,’ exclaimed Samantha.

‘And Mayor Bloomsbridge,’ said Derrick.

‘Precisely,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘That one of them was capable of something as imaginative as this actually raises them in my estimation. Nonetheless, I shall have to escape and punish them as a matter of principle.’

‘But how?’ asked the producer. ‘We’re six storeys up. You can’t climb about in the lift shaft when we’re this far off the ground.’

Nanny Piggins just laughed.

‘Nanny Piggins is the world’s greatest flying pig,’ Derrick explained. ‘She can do things six storeys up that most people can’t even do on the ground.’

‘But you’re wearing a floor-length, designer evening gown,’ said the producer.

‘We’ll soon change that,’ said Nanny Piggins. She undid the zip and stepped out of her dress. This was nowhere near as shocking as it sounds because, naturally, Nanny Piggins had worn her hot-pink wrestling leotard underneath.

‘Nanny Piggins!’ exclaimed Derrick. ‘Why were you wearing your wrestling leotard under your dress?’

‘I thought it would be best to prepare for all eventualities,’ said Nanny Piggins evasively.

‘You were planning to end the debate by putting Father and Mayor Bloomsbridge in a painful leg lock, weren’t you,’ accused Derrick.

‘Perhaps,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘I thought it would be a good way to demonstrate my ability to get things done.’

‘The debate is starting in 60 seconds,’ urged the producer. ‘If you’re going to get us out of here, you need to do something now!’

‘No problem,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘Boris, would you be a dear and smash me feet first into that service hatch in the ceiling so I can kick it open?’

‘All right,’ said Boris as he spun his sister upside down and rammed her into the ceiling.

‘Ow!’ yelled Nanny Piggins, which made Boris drop her (on her head) and burst into tears.

‘Ow!’ she said again as she landed on the floor.

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Samantha as they crouched around to check that their nanny was all right.

‘I’ve broken my sister’s ankles!’ wept Boris.

‘I’m fine,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘Stop weeping, Boris. A slight double sprain is all. I’ve never had any trouble kicking open a lift service hatch before. I suspect foul play.’

‘When have you had to kick open a lift service hatch before?’ asked Michael.

‘Oh, many, many times,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘The Ringmaster is always coming up with new and imaginative ways to kidnap me and sometimes they do involve lift shafts. Service hatches are designed to be easily opened in an emergency so this one must have been tampered with, possibly with superglue.’

‘What are we going to do?’ asked Samantha. ‘Does that mean we are trapped – forever?!’ She started to hyperventilate.

‘Pull yourself together,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘This is a confined space. Only one of us can go into hysterics at a time and Boris has already gone first. You have to wait your turn. Here, have a bag of sherbet lemons. It will take your mind off things.’

Samantha gratefully started sucking on her sherbet lemon. They were her all-time favourite sweet. If she was going to spend the rest of her life in a lift shaft, she was glad that this was the food she would be trapped with.

‘If the service hatch is sealed shut,’ continued Nanny Piggins, ‘we will just have to make another service hatch.’

‘How?’ asked Derrick.

‘Fortunately we have been trapped in the lift with a ten-foot-tall Kodiak bear in supreme athletic condition,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘Boris, I want you to stop crying and punch a hole in the roof please.’

‘I can’t,’ sobbed Boris.

‘If you don’t, we’ll run out of oxygen in about seven minutes,’ said Nanny Piggins.

Without hesitating, Boris used every ounce of his strength to slam an uppercut into the ceiling panels, tearing aside the insulation and sheet metal and making a neat hole up into the shaft.

‘Thank you, Boris,’ said Nanny Piggins kindly. ‘Now if you’ll just rip the sides of the hole so that it is a bit bigger, you can go back to having your hysterics.’

‘Thank you,’ said Boris as he quickly tore the opening wider, then sat down on the floor and dissolved into wracking sobs.

Nanny Piggins climbed up Boris, stood on tippy-toes on top of his head (which was not easy given that he was sobbing and therefore shuddering back and forth), then pulled herself up through the hole and into the darkness of the lift shaft.

‘What can you see?’ asked Derrick.

‘Nothing,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘It’s pitch-black. Lift shafts aren’t at all like they are in action movies. There is no internal lighting and no-one thought of putting in any windows.’

‘What are you going to do?’ asked Michael.

‘I suppose I could light a fire,’ pondered Nanny Piggins.

‘No!’ yelled everyone in the lift in unison.

‘All right,’ said Nanny Piggins. ‘I know, I’ll just smell my way.’

‘What does she mean?’ asked the producer.

‘Nanny Piggins has an extraordinary sense of smell,’ explained Derrick.

‘She can smell things other people can’t,’ added Michael.

‘Like a chocolate truck travelling at full speed one hundred kilometres away,’ added Samantha.

‘Or how many cakes you could buy with the amount of money you have in your wallet,’ added Michael.

‘Surely not?’ asked the producer.

‘I can smell that you have a five-dollar note and two twenty-cent pieces in your pocket,’ called Nanny Piggins. ‘That would buy you one slice of mud cake and half a doughnut from Hans’ Bakery.’

‘You see,’ said Michael.

‘Okay, I’ve found the lift cable,’ called Nanny Piggins. ‘I’m going to shinny up that until I get to the floor where the debate is being held.’