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Chapter 7 Mustang Sally
"For goodness sake, Arthur, just get on will you?"
England looked up at the horse (who was not the speaker) and then the rider. "Miss Hungary…?" he began.
"Oh God! Just call me Liz, or Elizaveta if we have to be formal. Jeez. How long have we known each other? Calling me Miss Hungary makes me sound like a Miss World contestant."
England didn't like to say it, as he was a gentleman, but she didn't look like a Miss World contestant. She was dressed in a Hussar's uniform, along with a crossbow on her back. He was about to say that carrying such a weapon along the streets of London would mean arrest but didn't. Instead, he said, "Why have you come by horse?" he thought it was a reasonable question.
"Have you seen the state of the taxis around here?" she replied.
"Funny you should say that…" England was about to go into a very long and sorry tale about his encounter with Prussia and Denmark and their lamentable taxi driving skills when 'Liz' rudely interrupted him.
"Francis! You old tart!" Hungary shouted. (Why oh why did his fellow Nations have to be so bloody loud?)
France stood in the doorway still in his apron and wearing his marigold gloves. "I am now Angleterre's maid and will be forever in his service," he said this with a wink and a leer.
"Oh dear Lord. I bloody hope not," England exclaimed.
"Come with us!" Hungary asked France.
"He's not bloody coming. This is supposed to be a bloody date," England said, utterly dismayed by the idea. He had serious doubts as it was about this 'date' anyway. "It's not a date if he's there."
"Well, I thought actually with you two living together…"
"We're not living together!" a vein began to pulse in England's forehead.
"Okay…" Hungary said slowly.
"It is fine, I will stay and sweep the cinders. I do not have a dress anyway," France said incomprehensibly.
"Cinders?" England looked confused. "What cinders?" he didn't say anything about the dress.
"Aw, so sad…" Hungary said.
"It's not bloody sad! It's bloody weird!" England yelled.
"You need to calm down," Hungary said, threateningly. She took her crossbow off (England flinched) and threw it at Francis. "Look after this," she told him.
"You two go and have fun!" Francis waved at them. "Be home by ten o'clock, Angleterre!" he added.
Later...
'Fun' was not a term England would have used to describe his evening so far. Indeed, calling his evening 'fun' would be libellous. He did not think riding down his street holding onto a woman dressed as a Hungarian cavalry officer 'fun'.
His neighbours, who already doubted his lifestyle choices as it were - particularly with the frequent visits of a flamboyant Frenchman in excessively tight jeans - were even more inclined to gossip after this. Also England's horse-riding was an intermittent affair and his thighs were now chafing.
The restaurant where France had booked them a table was another 'foreign affair' with no carpet and no tablecloths. A sure sign, in England's view, that the owners expected people to drop food on the floor.
The table also distressed England, beside the lack of tablecloth. It was set for four.
"Er, excuse me?" he said, trying to get the attention of the waiter. And failing. Finally, he clicked his fingers.
This did not go down well.
The tall, gloomy waiter with a long droopy moustache loomed over England and glared at him, "Mit?"
"Mitt?" England looked confused.
"It's 'what' in Hungarian," Hungary explained.
"Is it?"
"Yes, he's asking what you want?" Hungary said again. She wondered sometimes if England pretended to be dumb. She was of the opinion that most of the male Nations were stupid, but always thought that England, Austria and Germany were the exceptions.
"Can we have a table for two, please?" England said slowly, assuming that if he spoke slowly, the man would understand him.
The waiter turned to Hungary and said something in a foreign language that England, with his very limited knowledge of foreign tongues, knew was not French, German or Italian. Beyond that, he had no idea.
"Nem," the man said.
"He says no," Hungary told England.
England sighed. This was unfortunate, it meant that anyone could join them.
The horse, tied up outside, as if they were in a Western movie, looked at him balefully through the window. England looked back.
When he looked back at his table there was a large glass of something which was not beer and a bowl of something that looked like stew.
"Is this goulash?" he asked.
"Oh right, I see! You think because this is a Hungarian restaurant, all they serve is goulash," Hungary said, looking quite angry.
"Of course not, I just wondered…"
"Well actually it is goulash but that's not the point!"
England decided not to argue. He instead ate his goulash, which in his view, was just fancy stew. The drink was another matter and nearly blew his head off.
"What is this?" he asked, spluttering.
"Palinka!"
"Can I have a pint of beer?"
Hungary sighed. The rumour amongst the Nations was that England had a drink problem. Not that he was a terrible drunk - he was - America claimed England had once fought a lamppost and then burst into tears after three pints of beer, the latest rumour was that he was obsessed with 'pubs'. This had come from an excellent source (Belarus), and not the usual one (America).
Hungary had hoped that the palinka would be enough - the fruit brandy might just make England merry enough to be bearable but not drunk enough that he began moaning about whether he was Catholic or not.
"So you had a date with Belarus?" Hungary inquired.
England was about to tell her everything but remembered that she was an irreverent gossip and no doubt it would be all around the rest of the Nations by text before the evening was out.
"Can I see your tattoos?" she asked.
England groaned, "Who told you?"
"Francis of course!"
"Is nothing about my life private?"
"Not really."
England realised he would have no choice and rolled up his sleeves.
"Wow! They're really creepy!" Hungary sounded positively delighted.
To be fair, some of them had begun to fade. But England was still worried, "How do I get rid of them?"
"Magic?" Hungary suggested.
"I've tried that."
"I'm amazed you didn't turn yourself blue."
England snapped his fingers to get the attention of the waiter. And failed.
Hungary effortlessly called him over, said a few words in 'gobbledegook' and took out her phone.
"A phone call? Is it an emergency? Do you have to leave?" England said hopefully. Although the evening was marginally better than the previous one, he was still aware they were getting funny looks from the other customers.
Hungary's hussar's uniform could be the reason, he surmised. On the other hand, unbeknown to him, he had a sign on his back that said 'GAY AND PROUD'.
"It's Austria. He's absolutely useless without me," Hungary explained proudly.
England didn't think this was a good thing. Being proud that your ex spouse couldn't find his way around his mansion without your help was not something England thought called for celebration.
"He's asking how to switch on the washing machine," Hungary confided before rattling off a series of instructions in Hungarian.
England shook his head, as a man who prided himself on washing, ironing and starching his own laundry, he was often appalled by his fellow Nations' ineptitude.
"I thought he had servants?" England asked.
Hungary looked at him, "Not all of us can afford maids, Arthur."
"Francis is not my bloody maid!" England said rather too loudly, causing the rest of the customers to look around.
He was mollified a little when the waiter brought him a pint of beer. He cradled it in both hands as if it were a mug of cocoa or a life preserver.
"Well, Feli was no bloody good as a maid and obviously he left," Hungary said, ending her call with Austria. "He kept breaking stuff and crying."
England didn't really want to hear about Austria's domestic arrangements but it looked as if he was not going to get a choice.
"I mean how can you not tell Feli is a boy?" Hungary continued.
England shook his head and clutched his beer. He had visited Austria on a number occasions - particularly when they were 'allies' during the War of the Austrian Succession. He remembered the 'cute' but dizzy little maid and had been as shocked as everyone else that Italy was a boy. He was still unsure about this.
"What about that other little weirdo who lived there? Holy Rome?" England asked, despite his own fears of being drawn into a long conversation.
"Well now, that's an funny story…" Hungary was about to say more when she looked up and waved enthusiastically.
"Please don't be a Nation… Please don't be a Nation…" England prayed to himself.
Unfortunately, England's luck was not holding out
"Yoohoo! Sweeties!" The unmistakable voice of Poland invaded the restaurant.
England didn't mind Poland, as far as Nations went. It was the just so flamboyantly 'don't give a fuck gay' attitude that England had a problem with.
Poland embraced Hungary and then dragged England out of his seat and embraced him as well, kissing him twice on both cheeks which England always thought over the top - even for a 'continental' type. There was also Poland's attire - pink flowery blouse, a rather short skirt and platform boots.
They made Hungary's clothes look positively understated.
"Hahaha, I feel rather under-dressed," England said, trying to sound at ease. He wasn't.
"Poland, you've achieved maximum gay!" Hungary said, looking Poland up and down.
England winced.
"Thank you, hun," Poland replied.
"Arthur, show Pol your tattoos," Hungary ordered.
"I really don't think…" England began to remonstrate.
Poland clapped his hands together delightedly, "Anchors? A naked lady? France's delightful face?"
"We're not a couple!" England protested.
Nobody was listening. Hungary winked at Poland, "Arthur went out with Belarus last night. She said it was like going out with a shop dummy."
"Did she? Well I'll have you know…" England began.
Pol squealed and sat down at the table and called the water for a bottle of vodka. England, of course, was the only person the waiter failed to notice.
"A date with Princess Crazy and you're still alive?" Poland asked him (England not the waiter).
Hungary nodded sagely and rolled England's sleeves up. "Look at these."
"Wow! Well at least she didn't break your fingers. She's a crazy girl…" Poland said, peering at the tattoos. "Are they everywhere?"
"I haven't looked!" Hungary confessed.
They talked as if England was not there.
Poland looked amazed. "Honestly sweetie the girl's completely mad as a fish. As well as that big lunk of a brother."
England looked around, "You never know who's listening, Poland!" he said worriedly.
"Oh hun! Those thugs don't scare me."
It was true, England thought, nobody scared Poland or Hungary for that matter. They were both easily the toughest Nations.
England stared gloomily out of the window at the horse, who appeared to be having a much nicer evening than him. He wondered if he could possibly jump on it and escape. They were examining his tattoos as if he were an interesting specimen and had taken off his jacket and Poland had lifted England's shirt to look at the tattoos on his chest and back.
Hungary's phone beeped, "I'm just telling Austria about Arthur," she said as she began texting. "Oh my God! He says he's flooded the kitchen!" she said, first in Polish to Poland and then in English to England.
England sighed, at least someone else was having an awful evening.
"Must you tell all of Europe about my problems?" England asked.
"Well yeah…"
"Well isn't this nice? I mean it could be worse…" England began as they continued to manhandle him.
"It looks like a shopping list," Poland said.
They weren't listening to England, so he decided to drop a conversational bomb. "So how about Prussia and Denmark with a taxi eh?"
There was silence as both Nations stared at him.
"Erm…" England thought quickly. He knew Gilbert in particularly annoyed both Nations to distraction.
But they both shrugged. Clearly, England's tattoos were more interesting.
England didn't think it would get worse even when Hungary began taking pictures and texting them to God knows who.
"Romania's good at magic. Do you know his number?" England asked.
"Oh hun!" Poland said, dismayed.
Hungary growled at Arthur.
"Obviously not…"
But then it got worse. Much worse.
"Yo! Dudes! The hero's here! Wow Artie, you pulled two chicks this time. You dog!" It was America with some poor chap in tow.
"Oh no…"
"Hahahaha! Pole-land!" (this was how America thought it was spelt) "I thought it was a chick!"
Hungary and Poland both stood up and kissed America on the cheek.
"Woah there!" America was just as awkward as England.
"Aw, you're so cute," Poland tweaked America's cheeks a little too hard. "You're my favourite superpower."
"Ow that hurt!" the superpower said.
Poland winked and turned to the man stood next to America, "And who's your sweet little friend? I love a cowboy."
The 'sweet little' friend was well over 6 feet tall and dressed in a suede jacket with fringes, cowboy boots and a ten gallon hat. England felt very sorry for him.
"Were you on your way to a fancy dress party?" England laughed, relieved that Hungary and Poland's attention had been diverted.
"Nah! This is Texas, my boy!" America said.
"Oh my God! The last time I saw you, you were tiny," England said.
"Hi Uncle Artie," Texas said. He turned to Hungary and Poland and kissed their hands in turn, "Ma'am," he said to each.
The two Nations squealed with delight. England rolled his eyes.
"I'm showing Tex around London," America told England. "I was going to take him to Buckingham Castle but they wouldn't let us in!"
"Imagine that!" England said, tucking his shirt back in and eyeing the exit.
"I know!"
Poor Texas sat with Hungary and Poland either side of him feeling his biceps. He looked a bit uncomfortable. England felt sorry for the lad. He remembered 'Tex' as being a small boy in specs who was fond of horses. Although, usually as loud as his dad, Texas' spirit was obviously being drained by Hungary and Poland. America was blissfully ignorant.
"Belarus eh? I'm amazed you're still alive Artie. I mean she's crazy, dude. You don't wanna be messing with them Russkies," America all but shouted.
"Those Russkies… I don't want to mess with those Russkies. If you're going to give me advice then please use proper grammar," England told him.
Nobody was listening to him. Poland had pulled out a diamante-encrusted iphone and began telephoning some poor unfortunate soul which seemed to enthral both Hungary and America.
England decided to make the most of the diversion and focused on getting the hell out of there. He slid quietly off the chair, dropped to the floor and began crawling SAS-style towards the toilet door.
He got to the door, opened it, crawled inside as if he were on a special ops mission, looked around, stood up quickly and headed to the window which was way above his head.
He could hear the shrieks of hilarity as Poland was translating to Hungary that he'd rung 'Norway to tell him that Belarus had put a curse on England' and that Norway thought 'it highly likely there would be a plague of Frenchman hitting London before long'.
England attempted to pull himself up onto the window ledge.
"Do yer need a hand there, Uncle Artie?" came a Texan drawl.
England spun round, "Oh Texas! I didn't hear you come in! Yes, please. Could you give me a leg up, kind boy?"
"I sure can! I remember you bought me a cowboy doll when I was just a kid," the Texan said.
"Yes yes yes, I did! Now if you don't mind..." England interrupted.
"And I remember you bought me a toy pony…"
"It was a hobby horse, young man."
"Hell yeah! It sure was!"
"Well this is all very nice but I really must be going…" England said, aware he only had a limited amount of time before Hungary and Poland realised he'd disappeared and would be on the hunt.
"I hear yer!" the American said but didn't move.
"Well if you could just help me get out of this window. I mean you really have no idea what hell I've been through today. If you could cover for me…"
"You're not enjoying your date with Auntie Liz?" Texas asked.
"My dear boy, I would prefer to be painted blue and paraded naked down Kensington High Street."
Texas nodded, "I thought as much. I mean I thought Auntie Liz wasn't really your type."
England was pulling the wastebin under the window and about to climb up when he stopped, "What do you mean by that?"
"Well, with what you've got on your back…"
"What's on my back?"
Texas pulled the notice from England's jacket and handed it to him, "I did wonder, Uncle Artie. I mean, it's entirely your business. I'm not here to judge."
"Gay and proud?" England stared. "I am going to kill France," he said decisively.
Time passes...
"I am going to kill you!" England announced as he stormed into his lounge.
He had managed a daring escape, without Hungary and Poland seeing him, and rode the horse home. He noted with approval that Texas had covered for him. He heard Texas telling the remaining Nations that 'Uncle Artie' had had a brainstorm. He would have to have words with the boy about that.
Francis, he found with great distaste, was lying on his sofa listening to a recorded phone message from Scotland (weekly telephone calls from his brother telling him to retire were the sole reason England had purchased an answering machine).
"I think it's time yer retired as Britain, Arthur. Yer rubbish and yer know it. Going around gettin' tattoos, chasing after Russia, he's a dangerous man he is, yer don't want to anger him by spurning his little sister. Queen Liz sent me a Battenburg cake and if that isn't evidence enough that she wants me to be Britain and not you then I don't know what is. I will nae live in London though, I'm stayin' oop here in Glasgow. Yer can retire and be a poncy gardener with yon Francy-pants…"
England switched off the rest of the loud, angry diatribe.
France frowned, "I was listening to that. I find he has such a musical, soothing voice."
"Why the bloody hell are you here?"
France declined to answer and loped out of the door (much to England's relief).
"Bye zen, mon ami. I will see you tomorrow. Do not forget our next most wonderful lesson. I am learning so much, eet eez truly an honour to be avec vous and…" but the door had slammed in his face. France shrugged, patted the horse who was stood outside nonchalantly eating England's prize begonias, and headed off singing to himself.
England opened a bottle of whisky and poured himself a very large dram. He wondered what tomorrow would bring...