Nanny McPhee and the Big Bang Read Online Free Page A
Author: Emma Thompson
cousins,’ she breathed.
‘But they’re not due until tomorrow,’ said Norman.
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All three of them raced up to meet the magnificent vehicle as it pulled up by the farmhouse. Vincent was so awed that he couldn’t close his mouth. He just stood there like a goldfish, staring. They all expected – well, I’m not sure what they expected – the cousins to jump out, shouting ‘Hello!’ and ‘I’m So-and-so!’ or ‘We’ve brought presents from London!’ or, even more likely, ‘Where’s your loo?’ – all the normal things that people say after a long journey. But there was a deathly silence from the car. Only the chauffeur, his face set like stone, hopped quickly out (straight into the mud) and opened the passenger door, standing smartly by it like a soldier. As the door opened they all heard a strange, high, shrieking noise. Vincent went to look in at the window and the shrieking became a sustained scream, which made him jump back in fright.
Norman and Megsie stared as a boy with yellow hair stepped out gingerly. I say ‘boy’, but he looked far more like a perfect miniature adult. His hair was flaxen (which is another word for yellow) and flopped over his forehead in an ‘I’ve got posh floppy hair’ way. He was wearing a yellow check suit, belted at the waist, and proper leather lace-ups. He was also carrying a copy of The Times newspaper and a large bar of chocolate, which he was busy munching.
As soon as he clapped eyes on the chocolate, Vincent gasped.
‘Is that a Fry’s Triple-Layer Chocolate Bar with Cinder Crunch Topping?’ he asked breathlessly. There was nothing Vincent didn’t know about Fry’s chocolate. Before the war he’d got into the habit of saving his pocket money (tuppence a week when times were good, a penny when they weren’t – I know it doesn’t sound like much but these were the days when a penny would buy you four enormous toffee chews that could prevent speech for hours and once pulled out one of my uncle’s molars) and investing in a chocolate bar that he ate immensely slowly, sometimes over a period of several weeks.
The Diary 7
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Raining. Dark. It’s summer in England all right. We are doing what is known as weather cover. This is when you are supposed to be shooting something in glorious sunlight or even just plain old daylight and there turns out to be neither of those things available and you have to go indoors and shoot something else. It’s a bit like wet playtime. I rehearsed with the jackdaws this morning, which was bliss. They really are very clever. They haven’t seen me for a while and yet remember everything. I think it will be possible to shoot most of the scenes with me and one of them in a Two-Shot (see Glossary) and then Pick Up (see Glossary) what we don’t get afterwards with Singles (see Glossary). Olly, one of our Props Artists (see Glossary), has just walked by carrying four white Foam Piglets (see Glossary – sorry, lots of Glossary, but there we are). Not a sight you see very often. The chickens have proved a little disappointing today. Instead of skittering about as the car arrives, they seem to just stand there as if stapled to the ground. The fact is, of course, that they are indeed pegged to a bit of wood, which is then covered with mud to hide it. Prevents them from escaping, see. Oh dear, this weather. Everyone’s damp and exuding a warm animal smell. It’s like being in a wet stable. Anyway. Back to Cyril and his chocolate bar.
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The Story 7
Vincent, eyes out on chapel-hooks, trotted up to Cyril to get a closer look at the confectionery.
‘Since you ask,’ drawled Cyril, draping himself elegantly over the shiny bonnet of the Rolls, ‘it is a Fry’s Triple-Layer Chocolate Bar with Cinder Crunch Topping. Would you like some?’
His vocal chords paralysed with desire, Vincent could only nod so hard that his head nearly came off.
‘Thought so,’ said Cyril, airily popping the last square into his mouth and
‘But they’re not due until tomorrow,’ said Norman.
g
g
All three of them raced up to meet the magnificent vehicle as it pulled up by the farmhouse. Vincent was so awed that he couldn’t close his mouth. He just stood there like a goldfish, staring. They all expected – well, I’m not sure what they expected – the cousins to jump out, shouting ‘Hello!’ and ‘I’m So-and-so!’ or ‘We’ve brought presents from London!’ or, even more likely, ‘Where’s your loo?’ – all the normal things that people say after a long journey. But there was a deathly silence from the car. Only the chauffeur, his face set like stone, hopped quickly out (straight into the mud) and opened the passenger door, standing smartly by it like a soldier. As the door opened they all heard a strange, high, shrieking noise. Vincent went to look in at the window and the shrieking became a sustained scream, which made him jump back in fright.
Norman and Megsie stared as a boy with yellow hair stepped out gingerly. I say ‘boy’, but he looked far more like a perfect miniature adult. His hair was flaxen (which is another word for yellow) and flopped over his forehead in an ‘I’ve got posh floppy hair’ way. He was wearing a yellow check suit, belted at the waist, and proper leather lace-ups. He was also carrying a copy of The Times newspaper and a large bar of chocolate, which he was busy munching.
As soon as he clapped eyes on the chocolate, Vincent gasped.
‘Is that a Fry’s Triple-Layer Chocolate Bar with Cinder Crunch Topping?’ he asked breathlessly. There was nothing Vincent didn’t know about Fry’s chocolate. Before the war he’d got into the habit of saving his pocket money (tuppence a week when times were good, a penny when they weren’t – I know it doesn’t sound like much but these were the days when a penny would buy you four enormous toffee chews that could prevent speech for hours and once pulled out one of my uncle’s molars) and investing in a chocolate bar that he ate immensely slowly, sometimes over a period of several weeks.
The Diary 7
g
Raining. Dark. It’s summer in England all right. We are doing what is known as weather cover. This is when you are supposed to be shooting something in glorious sunlight or even just plain old daylight and there turns out to be neither of those things available and you have to go indoors and shoot something else. It’s a bit like wet playtime. I rehearsed with the jackdaws this morning, which was bliss. They really are very clever. They haven’t seen me for a while and yet remember everything. I think it will be possible to shoot most of the scenes with me and one of them in a Two-Shot (see Glossary) and then Pick Up (see Glossary) what we don’t get afterwards with Singles (see Glossary). Olly, one of our Props Artists (see Glossary), has just walked by carrying four white Foam Piglets (see Glossary – sorry, lots of Glossary, but there we are). Not a sight you see very often. The chickens have proved a little disappointing today. Instead of skittering about as the car arrives, they seem to just stand there as if stapled to the ground. The fact is, of course, that they are indeed pegged to a bit of wood, which is then covered with mud to hide it. Prevents them from escaping, see. Oh dear, this weather. Everyone’s damp and exuding a warm animal smell. It’s like being in a wet stable. Anyway. Back to Cyril and his chocolate bar.
g
The Story 7
Vincent, eyes out on chapel-hooks, trotted up to Cyril to get a closer look at the confectionery.
‘Since you ask,’ drawled Cyril, draping himself elegantly over the shiny bonnet of the Rolls, ‘it is a Fry’s Triple-Layer Chocolate Bar with Cinder Crunch Topping. Would you like some?’
His vocal chords paralysed with desire, Vincent could only nod so hard that his head nearly came off.
‘Thought so,’ said Cyril, airily popping the last square into his mouth and