-1Disclaimer - The characters aren't mine, and although the plot is I'm making no profit from this story.
Note - I'm not sure how popular this is in urban areas or other countries, but here in rural England gathering blackberries is a popular late summer and early autumn activity and on the weekends at this time of the year it is common to see families out together roaming footpaths and fallow fields to get enough blackberries to make a pie or crumble.
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England was sat out on the veranda enjoying his afternoon cup of tea, savouring the still-warm afternoon while the days were still warm enough to sit outside and enjoy the garden without being bundled up. The breeze was just cool enough to make him glad he'd worn his suit jacket, a refreshing change from the still heat of summer. Even when he was a over-stretched as now with war, recession, public funding crises and the 'flu' he managed to find time for this ritual, one of his few luxuries in times such as this. He smiled as he watched a great tit hopping about in the hedge, pecking at the bright berries growing therein. He supposed that the brambles were weeds and he ought to do something about them, but was struck by memory.
The boys were running off ahead as usual, leaving England carrying the collecting bowls and straining his eyes to keep watch over them. As usual America was leading the way, swiping at nettles and other errant weeds with a stick he'd picked up (didn't he know that sticks were dirty and he'd get bark stains on his nice clean suit?) Canada had been cajoled and taunted into a hyperactivity that was not at all his custom, chasing his brother in an impromptu game of tag.
England sighed, then brightened up as he spotted a clump of berries, the immature red ones catching his eye and helping him notice the glossy dark purple mature ones. Ah yes, these fine plump blackberries would be great in an apple and blackberry crumble. Gently he began plucking the finest and fattest ones from the prickly creepers, diligently leaving some for the animals of his kingdom. He inhaled and smiled, the scent of drying hay was heavy in the air and the golden sunshine was warm. In the distance he could hear a team of workers bringing in the barley, while nearer were the joyful laughs and shouts of his two charges. It was the sort of day he needed, a day in his countryside with the boys to remind him of why he was doing it all, why the meetings and all-night paperwork binges were worthwhile.
Canada had caught up with America, taking advantage of his brash brother being distracted by a red admiral butterfly and pouncing, sending them both tumbling to the ground, rolling around in the dusty cart track, trying to stuff handfuls of long parched grass down each other's shirts. England decided to step in before he had so mend yet another torn shirt. Did they think him a seamstress?
Reaching into the fray he grabbed a shirt collar in each hand and separated them, brows furrowed in mock anger as two pairs of blue eyes stared up at him from under golden hair the colour of hay. The boys looked at one another and visibly swallowed. 'We came out blackberry-ing, not for a fist-fight. If you don't smarten up and behave then we'll just have to go straight back home and there'll be no crumble for pudding tonight!'
He was unaware that the final threat was not nearly so fearsome as he thought, for while England liked his cooking, he was a poor cook, massacring his nation's cuisine. England rather liked his cooking and couldn't see how the other countries might possibly find it unpalatable, despite having a connoisseur's taste for different blends of tea and whisky. Both boys went still in his grasp, horrified at the prospect of their afternoon out being cut short. Their big brother had been so busy and grumpy lately that they'd been overjoyed that morning at breakfast when he'd revealed his plan for the afternoon outing. They nearly drowned one another out, both promising to be good and begging not to be taken home with huge pleading eyes. England smothered a smile and picked up the bowls he'd brought along, showing them the berries he'd already gathered and warning them to leave some for the wild animals and fairies. America rolled his eyes at the mention of fairies again, but both nodded and were soon engaged in a fierce contest to see who could collect the most blackberries. Judging from the purple stains all over their faces from the berries they'd eaten instead of collected for the bowl it would probably be a draw.
'Hey, that's not fair!' America whined as England stretched over the boy's head to pluck the higher berries that the boys and local women were too short to get to. England carefully grasped the bough so as not to stick himself on the spikes and bent it down so both boys could fill their own bowls. A howl from Canada made him let got of the branch in shock, sending it flying up into his chin, spines and all.
Looking back England was able to piece together events as they'd unfolded. Canada had shifted his weight to get at some of the berries further along the branch, but his foot had slipped, sending him falling into a patch of the nettles that seemed to thrive beside the blackberry bushes. His scream had surprised England who'd let go of the branch in surprise and alarm, which made it spring straight up into his chin and throat, sending him flying onto his back bleeding and swearing profusely. America had then started beating the patch of nettles his twin had fallen into in retaliation as England had gathered the sobbing boy into his arms and soothed him as best as he could, ignoring the blood tricking down his neck and staining his shirt.
Fortunately he'd got the stick out of America's grasp before anyone got any more injuries and shown the boy how to find the dock leaves that always proliferated side by side with the nettles while he distracted little Canada from his pain by getting the boy to help gather up as many of the berries that had fallen out of the bowls when they'd dropped them as possible.
Exhausted, dirty, bleeding and with two boys who were chattering away nineteen to the dozen about the amazing adventure that had been England couldn't help but smile and hope things were always that way.
England sighed and finished his now-cold cup of tea. Of course the boys had grown up and history had taken its course, leaving him alone in the same house in which he'd raised the boys. America still resented him for the way he'd had to gain his independence he was sure and Canada had turned out shy and unremarkable in response to that trauma and England's reactions to it. Where had he gone so badly wrong? Before melancholy could swallow him entirely England stood up and gathered his tea things to take inside and wash up. He was a busy nation with far too much to do to waste time maundering on about the past. Nonetheless he turned for a final look over his shoulder at the blackberries before he went inside.