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Driving Lessons
Chapter 4 - Mercedes Benz
England's cornflakes tasted odd. It could be due to the milk, too much sugar or the fact that the imbecilic Frenchman sat opposite him had poured wine over them.
"What in God's name are you doing here?" England asked again.
"I have come for petit dejeuner!" France replied but looking morosely at the lack of croissants.
"I don't have a small dejeuner!" England protested, utterly appalled. "Why would you say that? What's a dejeuner?"
"You have four new text messages," France said, not answering the question.
"Wait! Get your bloody hands off my phone, that's private."
France had arrived half an hour earlier - at 8.00 am sharp - before England had even had time to have his second cup of tea.
The Frenchman was wearing a very tight black t-shirt with the name of a band England had never heard of and distressingly tight jeans.
"Hmm… a message from your brother Scotland telling you to give up your job as Nation of Britain."
"That's a monthly occurrence, now give me my phone."
"And one from the local garage about your ongoing complaint about your spare tyres…" France raised an eyebrow and looked at England's middle. "Oui… you have a spare tyre."
"Give me my bloody phone!"
"Oh and your date for today!"
"Wut? I mean… what?"
"Oui! And I see Belgique has gone back to l'Espagne. Ah well, old friend, l'amor! You cannot come between two lovers!"
"I didn't even try!"
France just shrugged.
"Give me that bloody phone… what bloody date?"
"Ah yes…" France finally handed him the phone, "6 o'clock today, do not be late."
"Who is it? I don't recognise the number."
"Ah…I do not know."
"How can you not know?" England asked, eschewing the wine-drenched cornflakes and spreading jam on his toast.
"Well, I asked a few ladies who I know… I forget," France replied.
"Anyway, why are you here?"
"My driving lesson!"
"Not today, I'm busy."
"You are not busy until 6 pm, mon ami."
"I am very very busy. There's a cricket match I have to go to."
"Who needs to go to a cricket match?" France shook his head in disbelief at English culture.
"So no driving today. My nerves won't stand it."
"It will be practice for me!"
"No."
"Fine, zen I will ring back zis date and say you are not available."
"Damn…" England sighed.
France grinned triumphantly, "After all mon ami. Zis date may be the woman for you!"
"Yes… right…" England doubted this very very much.
"And you might even have a wonderful time…"
England would remember those words later…
"So it was a good night last night, non?"
They were sat in the Mini going down the High Street, France had already clipped the wing mirror off a white van and waved merrily at some workmen who were attempting to set up some roadworks.
A traffic cone was now stuck under the front bumper.
"In answer to your question, no, last night was not a good night. Have you seen my eye? And I ruined a very good pair of trousers."
"Well you should not go around insulting other people's wives."
"I didn't!"
France didn't listen but drove straight at someone who was attempting to cross the street.
He then began singing, in French. England kind of recognised the tune but refused to acknowledge it.
"Ah ze music of l'amor."
"Isn't that Sacha Diesel?"
"Eet eez Sacha Distel. Ze greatest French singer…Where are we going Angleterre?"
"Just down here, left then second left and drop me off at the gate," England said quickly. He was regretting this. He'd come up with the idea of a cricket match but was now changing his mind. He really didn't want to take France to a cricket match.
"I have to park and besides you have to stay wiz me, I'm a learner, non?"
"Oui… I mean oh bugger."
France drove round and round the car park. "Non… non… non… non…" he said at each empty space.
"Just. Bloody. Pick. One!" England yelled finally.
France jumped in his seat and promptly stalled the engine. "Sacre bleu!"
"You will be the bloody death of me. Just park the damned thing."
France pouted and re-started the engine. "Zis car is, how you zay… crap."
"Just park it!"
France crunched through the gears and then promptly stalled the engine again.
There was a horn blast behind them.
"Ignorant bloody buggers," England cursed. "We have L plates!" he yelled out of the window.
"Non, we do not."
"What?"
"I took zem off."
"And why would you do that?" England asked with a sigh and then realising he was talking to France. Everything related to Francis was illogical.
"Because it made me look like a learner."
"You are a bloody learner, you idiot!"
The car behind them blew their horn again.
France crunched up and down the gears again and the car shot backwards so fast that England was jerked forwards in his seat.
The car came to a dead stop, having hit the car behind them - a large silver Mercedes.
"Oh dear," France muttered.
"Oh bugger," England agreed and got out slowly. "Stay there and I'll deal with this," he told France.
"Oh Angleterre, you are so manly."
England's left eyebrow twitched.
England hesitated and wondered whether France should also get out and face the music but decided that France and his tight jeans would just antagonise the other driver unnecessarily. However, he thought, if it were a woman in the other car, France and his startling sex appeal might actually be useful.
It wasn't.
"Oh well, at least there's no damage to your car," England began without even looking at the other driver.
"Oui!" France shouted from the Mini and sounding very louche and quite drunk, England thought with a sinking heart.
"This is unacceptable!" A familiar German voice yelled.
England's heart sank even further. Of all the people to run into. He was glad now that France had stayed in the car…
"Ah Allemagne! You look so well…" France imbued this statement with a lot of suggestion.
"Him!" Germany's rage and indignation hit DEFCON 3. "He can't even drive!"
England realised that leaving France in the car was the smartest move he'd made all day. "Yes, I'm teaching him."
"Well you're not teaching him very well are you?"
England ignored this 'joke'. It was probably the first Germany had made all year. "Well, I see there's no damage so… we'll be on our way."
"That's not the point. We should exchange insurance details," Germany told him. He stuck his hand into his immaculate jacket pocket and pulled out a pen and notepad.
"I don't think that's necessary," England replied.
"And I see you don't have L plates."
"You can't tell me my own bloody road rules!"
"I do not need L plates!" Francis shouted from the car.
There was now a row of cars behind Germany all sounding their horns.
England tried not to look flustered, but he was aware his face was flushed.
"You'd better get that vehicle out of the way," Germany said, saying the word 'vehicle' with a lot of distaste.
"That's my newest purchase!" England said, preparing to get into a stand-up row with the tall German.
"Well I like it!" came an Italian voice from the back seat of the Mercedes.
Germany spun round, "How did he get there?"
Unfortunately for both England's and Germany's discomfort, France parked right next to Germany's plush Mercedes. So close that France had to slither his way out of the driver's window. Thankfully, England noted, France's 'pantalons' stayed on their owner.
Italy climbed out of the other car - via the window. Although as Germany pointed out, he could have used the doors on the other side.
"What other side, Luddy?" Italy asked, looking genuinely confused.
"The other side of the car!"
"The trunk?"
"Nein! The other side of the car, you dummkopf!"
Italy blinked in confusion and England wondered, not for the first time, if Italy had been dropped on his head as a child.
"Right bye then!" England said cheerily, hoping that was the end of it. It wasn't.
"201-4! Wow these scores are crazy, Senor England!" Italy said excitedly, bouncing around in his seat between England and Germany.
Germany looked bad-tempered.
Italy looked happy.
France was reclining lazily on the seats, smoking a French cigarette (a 'no smoking please' notice above his head) lazily texting some poor unfortunate.
"It's the number of runs," England explained through gritted teeth.
"They have the runs!" Italy exclaimed far too loudly for both England's and Germany's liking.
"Why are you bloody here anyway?" England asked Germany. He was asking this question a lot lately he realised. He had to lean over Italy to say this.
"I am here for a cultural visit," Germany said.
France harumphed to himself. "Ze Engleesh have no culture. Zay have all ze culture of an out of date yoghurt!"
"You take that back!" England growled.
Germany ignored the possibility of an Anglo-French disagreement brewing next to him - it was a default setting for them both. Instead he took out a notebook, "Can you explain the rules, England?" he asked.
England sighed. His 'quiet' day of watching cricket (ignoring the fact that he'd only just brought this up as an excuse not to teach France to drive), savouring the 'thwack' of willow hitting a leather ball, the 'Howzat?' calls of the bowlers, the polite clapping and the chances of a very nice cream tea later were all in grave threat.
"They're weird bats, man!" a very loud American yelled behind them.
No, scrub that, the afternoon wasn't under grave threat, it was ruined and buried under a huge pile of what used to be England's hopes and dreams.
England put his head in his hands.
"Si! And nobody has scored a goal since we got here!" Italy agreed.
"It's totally crazy, man!" America clambered over the seats and shuffled himself between England and France - for which England was grateful. He never liked sitting next to France at the best of times. This wasn't the best of times.
"Explain the rules to me, England," Germany said again, his pencil poised over his notebook.
"GOAL!" Italy yelled as a wicket fell.
The whole cricket ground turned to look at them.
Not for the first time when he was in the company of his fellow Nations, England wanted the earth to open up and swallow him whole.
"Can we go get corndogs?" America asked.
England shook his head.
"Aw why?"
England didn't want to admit that he had absolutely no idea what a 'corndog' was.
Later, when England looked back he would curse his decision to visit a tea bar to get a mug of tea (in a polystyrene cup which he only tolerated as he was 'parched') and a buttered scone. It was whilst he, America and Germany were stood in the queue, America bouncing around from foot to foot and Germany tutting loudly, that France was arrested for the third time in just two days.
England, for a few minutes, was blissfully unaware of what was transpiring outside.
"You know I did not know Italy was in my car or how he got there," Germany said awkwardly.
England nodded equally awkwardly.
"I mean… I have no idea how…" Germany began to say.
"Really, Germany… erm… Ludwig…" England began, not quite comfortable with calling Germany by his human name. "Erm nobody cares if you're with Italy you know."
"What?" Germany said, glowering.
"You know that we all know you're in a relationship," England continued. "Don't we, Alfred?"
"They don't have corndogs!" Alfred replied, utterly appalled.
"No, because this isn't Texas!" England told him.
"I'm not in any way…" Germany began to protest.
"Honestly, this isn't the 16th Century anymore," England said.
"It might as well be! I mean, man, no corndogs! No mustard! No popcorn!" America lamented.
"This is a tea bar," England turned round and told him. He turned back to Germany, "Really you don't need to be ashamed of your relationship any more."
"I'm not… I mean I am but only because…" Germany tried to say.
"Dude! No-one cares if you're gay! Put a sock in it!" America yelled for all the world to hear.
Germany blushed a deep red and then had the further ignominy of England clapping him on the shoulder.
"He's stupid but he's right."
And then there was an announcement over the tannoy. 'Can an Arthur Kirkland please come to security.'
"No!" England attempted to escape but was barreled along by America and Germany and besides he realised too late that idiot France had the car keys.
"I wonder why they want you, Artie? What have you been doing?" America asked.
It was Germany who answered by pointing at the television screen set up showing live screening of the match. "That's why I'm ashamed of being in a relationship with Italy… he's a moron…" he said sadly.
There, in on a giant television screen, several metres across, in glorious technicolour, the Nations of Italy and France could be seen running across the cricket pitch, both waving their 'pantalons' joyfully in the air, their white bottoms bobbing up and down. The footage was being played over and over.
"Streaking! You were streaking!" England exploded at France and Italy. The latter hung his head in shame.
"You Engleesh are so prudish," France said, his hands in front of him bound by cuffs. He didn't look ashamed.
"I'm very sorry, Mr England. Big Brother France bet me that I couldn't get across the pitch in less than 20 seconds and I really needed the euros so I said I could and he said that if I took off my trousers then I would run faster and then he chased me. But he had taken off his trousers as well!" Italy said, in all one rush.
Germany shook his head, his arms folded.
Later...
England only just arrived at London Cemetery at the allotted time of 6.00 pm. Providing bail for France (Germany had stumped up the bail for Italy), ensuring the Frenchman was deposited at his embassy without further incident and sourcing the only place in London corndogs could be bought, had taken up the rest of his day.
So now he stood at the North gate of the Cemetery (he'd had to check his compass that he was stood at the correct entrance - he always carried a compass, a hangover from his Navy days), drizzle beginning to trickle down his neck, a gloom descending over the area.
He had a sense of impending doom and wondered vaguely if he'd left the stove on or run out of teabags.
England squinted as a figure loomed up out of the gathering mist.
"Oh no…" he whispered and attempted to run…
**To Be Continued **