Nanny McPhee and the Big Bang Read Free Page B

that, the very thought of a sweetie would just about drive you mad with desire. So mad that you might consider stealing someone’s last one, especially if you were cross with the person to whom it belonged. Vincent was very cross with Norman, so he crept into the best parlour, climbed up on to the dresser, took the secret tin down and opened it. There, at the bottom, was the last sweetie. A lemon drop. Not, you might think, the most exciting sweetie in the world, but for all the reasons I have just mentioned, the thing that Vincent wanted more than life itself. He took it out, replaced the tin, got down from the dresser and then made his one mistake. A fatal mistake. He decided to open the sweetie there and then. As any fool knows, all children can hear the rustling of sweetie paper from a distance of several miles. This applies even if children get regular sup- plies and aren’t in the deprived condition of the Greens. So the moment Vincent started to unwrap the lemon drop, Megsie, who was outside milking Geraldine, heard, dropped the milk bucket and raced inside. Norman was oiling the tractor in the barn and, despite being several hundred metres away from the wrapper and whistling to himself, heard as well and headed straight for the best parlour, roaring, ‘Who’s eating my last sweetie?!’
    Vincent only just had time for a few good sucks on the lemon drop before his siblings burst in on him and, at a glance, worked out what he’d been up to.
    A passionate brawl ensued. Megsie got hold of Vincent and turned him upside down in the hope of shaking the sweet out. When this didn’t work, Norman tried to prise open his brother’s jaws but got bitten for his pains. Vincent sucked harder and harder as Norman yelled, ‘That was MINE!’ over and over again.
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    Suddenly an appalled Mrs Green rushed in.
    ‘Stop it! Stop it at once!’ she yelled. ‘Stop fighting! Stop shouting! Get off the furniture!!’
    Mrs Green was furious. She’d spent hours trying to get the best parlour tidy just in case her sister turned up with the cousins. By the time Mrs Green had got the children to stop fighting and stop shouting, Vincent had finished the lemon drop.
    ‘Look here,’ said Mrs Green crossly, ‘you lot are supposed to be getting the farm spick and span for the cousins and all you’re doing is fighting, fighting, fighting, when what I want to be seeing is sharing, sharing, sharing!’
    The children groaned.
    ‘We’re not sharing Dad’s jam with the cousins!’ said Vincent defiantly.
    ‘No, of course not, silly,’ said Mrs Green. ‘That’s for Dad when he comes home! I mean your beds and your toys and everything.’
    ‘When is he coming home?’ said Vincent.
    Everyone went quiet. This was the question no one else dared to breathe. The sad fact was that not only had Mr Green not replied to their letters, but he had also missed his last leave and there had been no word from him or from anyone to explain why. When Mrs Green had tried to contact his unit there had been a lot of official language about ‘troop movements’ and ‘belated leave’ but no hard information about exactly where Mr Green might be or when he might be coming home. Like all very scary topics, it was something the family didn’t talk about much in case something or other came true. But Vincent was only five and sometimes he forgot the rules.
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    ‘I don’t know, darling,’ said Mrs Green, suddenly calm and quiet.
    ‘Why won’t he reply to my letter? His last one came years ago!’ said Vincent, wandering over to look at the tied-up little bundle of letters that was kept safe on the mantelpiece.
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    ‘Three months, darling, that’s all,’ said Mrs Green.
    ‘Yes, but why? Why won’t he reply?’
    ‘They move them around a lot, that’s all it is. Your letter’s sitting somewhere safe waiting for the next post, darling –’
    Vincent persisted. ‘How do we know something bad hasn’t happened to him?’
    ‘Well –’ Mrs