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Driving Lessons

Chapter 3 Blind Date

England had not had any chance to change or reasonably freshen up. A quick shave, brush his teeth and gargle mouthwash and he was out with his date.

He was amazed, literally, that France had got him an actual date with an actual woman. Although he wished he'd had a little more notice.

"Honestly Arthur, you look fine," Belgium told him as Arthur apologised for the 100th time for wearing the same suit he'd worn all day.

"I've had an awful day, Louise," England told her as they got in the taxi.

"Really, Arthur. It doesn't matter. Francis texted me and told me…"

"Dreadful…"

"I know. Losing your trousers like that…"

"I didn't lose my bloody trousers! That was France!"

"Ah right."

"What else did he say?"

"Well, that you needed a date tonight because you've not dated anyone for 100 years."

"Bloody liar."

"And that you're teaching him to drive."

"I was conned, Lou."

Belgium was well used to being a mediate between France and England and had affection for both of them.

"My government said I had to help him," England continued. "For Anglo-French relationships they said."

"Francis said you were doing it out of love," Belgium said before she could stop herself.

England was appalled, "Love! Love! Let me you tell you, young Belgium, about the first time I met that pervert!"

Belgium shook her head and put her finger to her lips, nodding her head at the taxi driver who was looking at them in the rear view mirror with some suspicion. Besides, she'd heard this tale many many times.

"Where shall we go, Lou?" England asked, changing the subject. "I know a rather nice fish and chip restaurant…"

"Francis has booked us a table at Chez Pierre's."

England's face fell.

"I know Arthur. But it's really nice. They have a guest chef on tonight. I know how you feel and how you had a fist fight with the maitre d' last time over the beer."

"It wasn't beer, Lou. They brought me French lager rubbish."

"Arthur you really should broaden your horizons. It really is nice food."

England didn't look convinced, "Well I can't go back anyway. Not after that chef chased me down the street with a meat cleaver."

"There's a guest chef tonight anyway. I told you. Besides, you did say something really rude about his sauce."

"It's French nonsense, Lou. It was gravy. And you know it."

Belgium rolled her eyes. "Anyway, Francis pulled a lot of strings to get us this table."

"You mean he slept with the owner?"

"Probably."

At the restaurant...

"I'll have whatever…" England said, looking morosely at the menu. It was in French. "Is there anything that doesn't have strange sauce on it?"

The waiter looked down his long nose at England, "Monsieur?" He obviously was pretending not to understand.

"…Or garlic," England added and took a sip of wine and then grimaced. This was not the pint of 'Speckled Hen' that he'd ordered.

"He'll have what I'm having," Belgium told the waiter, taking the menu off England with some force and ordering quickly in French.

"What's French for pie?" England asked.

Belgium sighed. She liked England, she really did but for various reasons she did not think of him in 'that' way. He was more like an older brother or a grumpy uncle. France or 'Big Brother France' as he insisted the younger European Nations called him, she viewed as the embarrassing older brother. And so this date had been set up by France as Belgium was in London and at a loose end and she also wanted something to take her mind off her romantic problems with someone else...

"I hope bloody Francis is paying for this mush," England said.

"You sound like Austria!"

England looked outraged. But before he could launch into another rant, a waiter put a plate down in front of him.

Oysters.

Like 99% of Britons, Arthur had zero experience of how to eat these. He looked around the restaurant for inspiration.

He spotted a familiar looking, but morose face at a table nearby. It was a face not particularly inspirational. It was Spain. He looked very sad. Big brown eyes were gazing at Belgium like a lost puppy.

England looked at Belgium (who was obliviously checking her phone) and back at Spain.

He decided then to have nothing to do with the situation. He'd heard from the gossip grapevine (Poland at the last world meeting) that Belgium and Spain were on a 'break' but England was often confused by his fellow Nations' romantic entanglements with each other. He preferred to stay out of it.

"Lou? Lou?" he hissed.

Louise was frowning at her phone. "What Arthur?" she asked, without looking up.

"How do you eat these?"

She demonstrated by tipping one back into her mouth, "It's not rocket science." Honestly, some date this was, she thought.

Arthur was thinking the same, he'd been amazed France had got him a date with a real woman, no less, and knowing France's propensity for playing jokes on him, but he'd thought of Belgium as a little sister. He hoped she wasn't going to be disappointed when broke the news to her.

"Think of it like those whelks you had at Blackpool seafront, Arthur."

"They're nothing like that and besides the last time I was at Blackpool I was forced onto the rollercoaster with that idiot Denmark. We got stuck at the top. Being stuck for two hours on a big dipper with a drunken Dane is not fun. And without beer, he's positively feral."

"You're actually a very negative person, Arthur." Belgium observed.

"I have bloody reason to be negative," he replied. "You weren't stuck with him."

England began to eat his oysters with a knife and fork. In his head, only sausage rolls, buns and scones should be eaten without utensils.

He continued his diatribe, "He's the most moronic Nation I've ever met… Apart from him…" he added.

"Hola!" Spain shuffled up to them, dragging the heaviest chair he could find from a nearby table.

"Oi! That's my wife's chair," a man said.

England sighed. He hated scenes of any kind. This was precisely why he didn't like socialising with his fellow Nations.

"But she not there!" Spain said in broken English, his big brown eyes looking innocent and… dopey.

"She went into the toilet," the man said indignantly.

"I hope she's alright, que?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Antonio looked worried at this.

Belgium intervened, "He just means he hopes your wife is okay."

Antonio nodded enthusiastically, "Si si," he said, looking at Belgium with soppy eyes.

Whilst all this was going on, England was trying unsuccessfully to cut his oysters with a knife and fork.

The man now stood up and it looked as if things were going to go bad for Spain, who was oblivious, and then one of England's forks hit one of the oysters and the slippery mollusc left the plate at some velocity and flew straight at a nearby table.

England, Belgium and Spain (whose reaction time was far behind everyone else's anyway) had no time to react as the oyster hit the man full in the face.

"I'm so sorry," England said.

The man, who was on the large side, slowly wiped the oyster from his face. He didn't look happy.

The man's wife then re-appeared.

"Oh look here's your wife! See! She's okay!" Spain said, ever one to be optimistic.

"Why shouldn't she be okay? Are you being funny? And who threw this bloody oyster?" the man said.

England stood up, feeling he should take charge, "Well… as for feeling funny, I mean, this funny French food is enough to make anyone feel funny…"

One of the waiters hurried off to tell the chef that the awkward Englishman was making terrible aspersions about his food.

"And you really need to calm down," England said, in what he thought was a masterful voice and was punched in the face for his trouble.

England fell back onto a neighbouring table and his bottom landed on someone's creamy dessert. He was glad now that he hadn't bothered to change his trousers earlier after all.

"So sorry," he said to the table's occupants.

They were not happy. One stood up and told the man who'd punched England that he should buy them another dessert.

"I only asked if his wife was okay," Spain said slowly.

"I know Tony," Belgium said, patting him on the arm.

"I love you, Louise," Spain said sadly.

"I know Tony, but we are never getting back together…"

Chaos had erupted around them. England, having had a long tiring day, was fed up of apologising for stuff that frankly he didn't see as his fault.

"You need to calm down, all of you," he told everyone, taking someone's steak tartare off their plate and placing it on his now swelling right eye.

"Yes. Arthur is right," Belgium agreed.

"That's my steak!" someone yelled.

"Well it was probably rubbish anyway," Arthur told them. "All that garlicky sauce rubbish."

"That's probably why that man's wife had to go to the toilet," Spain said unhelpfully.

England ducked as the man whose steak he'd stolen, swung a fist at him.

"Tony, that man didn't say she was poorly," Belgium was explaining to Spain.

A plate of lobster was tipped over and two men were now crowding around England.

England was aware he was at a disadvantage. His trousers were covered in dessert for one thing. And he couldn't rely on Spain for any help. Spain was, unless completely enraged - which took a huge effort - no help at all in a fight. Belgium was sometimes good in a punch-up though.

But the French chef, who was actually the 'guest chef' that night, Francis Napoleon de Chevalier Bonnefoy, suddenly waded in brandishing a large pepper grinder. "Who said zat zay do not like my food?"

"That woman…" Spain said, pointing at the poor woman who had been to the toilet.

"Oh bloody hell!" England groaned. "I had enough of you today. What in the name of Wimbledon are you doing here?" England asked the Frenchman.

This was as stupid a question as England could possibly ever make.

France pointed at his rather tall white hat.

England, not usually obtuse but then again he'd had a particularly trying day, just said, "Well don't bloody tell me then."

"My food are little morsels of heaven on earth. Zay are not too garlicky! Zay do not make anyone go to ze toilet. And if anyone has anyzing to zay zen zis pepper grinder will be inserted somewhere," France yelled.

"I prefer paella," Spain said. "You should cook more with tomatoes."

"Tony!" Belgium said in alarm.

But England had already punched the man who'd punched him, then been punched in turn by the man whose steak he had stolen.

England pulled back his fist to hit back but found his opponent thwacked over the head with a pepper grinder.

And then someone called the police…

Later...

"Well au revoir, Angleterre!" France called as England trudged out of the police station for the second time that day.

England muttered something indescribable back and tried, failed to pull his wet trousers out of the crack in his bottom.

His right eye was closing up and he had a split lip. He'd had no dinner and had been given a police caution and a fine for 'public disorder' and Belgium had gone off in a taxi with Spain but at least he hadn't had to pay for dinner…

All in all, not the worst date he'd ever been on.

He fell into bed just after 2.00 am with a soothing cup of tea and a hobnob.

Unbeknown to him, an envelope plopped through his letterbox. It was a bill for £2000 from Chez Pierre's for damages and unpaid dinner bills.

Also his phone buzzed and two text messages lit up the screen:

"Thanx Arthur 4 tonite. Tony & I are giving it another go. Thanx 4 your advice. Lou." (Arthur would be singularly alarmed and puzzled by this - he had given no advice.)

The other was more cryptic and sinister:

"England, you will meet me at the north gate of London Cemetery at 6.00 pm tomorrow for our date. If you value your life, do not be late."

There was no signature…

*Author's note: Belgium's human name in this fanfic is Louise (I don't think Himaruya ever gave her an official one and as it's the name I've used in my previous fanfics I thought I'd stick with it), England often just calls her 'Lou'.