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Driving Lessons
Chapter 9 Paradise by the Dashboard Light
With the wind in their hair, France deftly drove the Ferrari down the street. England clutched his mug of tea. He really hoped it wouldn't rain. As he had said to France as the Frenchman had winked at a poor woman trying to cross the road with her children, he hadn't brought his umbrella nor was he wearing his raincoat.
France was not listening, his face was aglow and he was talking about the gorgeous lines, smooth interior and how it went 0 to 60 in as many seconds or some such rubbish.
"This isn't bloody Top Gear," England complained.
England had seen France like this before - in love. But this was unusual, for a few reasons, one that it was not over some poor unfortunate soul, and also because England usually placed himself elsewhere when such incidents occurred.
"I really fail to see the attraction," England said. Again. "I mean it's far too small. You'll never get a case of wine in that boot and I really fail to see how you can get anyone into the back seat unless they fold themselves in half."
France retaliated (or that's what it seemed to England) by singing, "Non, rien de rien! Non. Je ne regrette rien!"
England hated it when France sang. Not that France couldn't sing. He couldn't - well, not in England's opinion anyway. It was just that whatever France sang sounded filthy. England knew the song vaguely but had zero idea what it was about, something about 'riens'…
"Is this the way to Amarillo…" England sang vaguely and then stopped. "That damned song! Why is it in my bloody head?"
France had stopped at a pedestrian crossing. The car next to them looked horribly familiar. The passenger had wound down his window and was talking to some small yellow bird, whilst the driver looked very very gormless. The driver's hair was vertical and brushed the roof. There was a smell of stale beer and bacon.
France pulled down his sunglasses briefly and winked at the passenger alongside him.
Prussia (for it was he) glanced at him and then did a double take.
Denmark was oblivious and was chatting merrily to their poor customer who was sat in the back seat.
It was the worst taxi drivers in the world.
England groaned. "Drive, France, drive!" he yelled.
France put his foot down on the accelerator and they took off.
Prussia must have said something to Denmark because France was horrified to find the Uber cab right behind him at the next traffic lights.
"How can you not have lost him in this bloody supercar?" England berated.
France looked in the rear view mirror and made a lewd gesture at Denmark.
Denmark clearly was not really in the spirit of it, he was telling his customer his thousand year history. The poor woman had hailed their cab after emerging from Harrods with a pile of shopping hours ago.
Prussia turned to Denmark, "Den! Did you see that? Are you going to let those two get away with it?"
"I mean when it got to the 1500s dude, I was kinda used to them, but knives and forks aren't really made for Vikings. I remember when Norge tried to get us to use serviettes and…" Denmark was telling his customer, who was desperately trying to get a signal on her phone.
"Den! Bloody drive!" Prussia yelled.
Denmark duly put his foot on the accelerator before the lights had changed and went straight into the back of the car in front.
Unfortunately, of course, it was France's new love.
France was jerked forward and the airbag exploded breaking his designer sunglasses.
England would have laughed at this but found that he'd spilt his tea over his jeans. The tea, having been made from a vending machine in the Ferrari showroom, was hotter than the surface of the sun and so England was yelping and desperately trying to mop his sodden jeans.
"Bloody damnation!"
"My sunglasses!" France exclaimed. The Frenchman batted the airbag out of his face and slammed open the door.
But the door was promptly taken off by Denmark and Prussia's car as they skidded past them.
"Oh dear…" England said, struggling to get out of the car.
France just stood in dumb disbelief holding a car door.
"I don't zink I will be getting my deposit back," he said sadly.
"Yer zink… I mean er think?" England said sarcastically. (For some reason, in moments of high stress or when he spent time with France - which usually all came together, England had a tendency to adopt a French accent.)
France attempted to get the car door into the back of the Ferrari. "Will you help me, mon ami?" he asked exasperated.
"I can't get out!" England yelled.
"Oh."
A queue was starting to form behind them. France walked to the back of the car, noted that the bumper was bent beyond recognition and waved at the cars behind them and then decidedly put the car door to one side.
"I am going to get those two…" he said decisively and got back in the car.
England put his head in his hands, "Let's just go back and try to…" but he didn't get to finish. France had already set off, the wind whistling through the car now at a fair rate of knots.
With no driver's door and no roof it felt, for England as if he were in one of America's army jeeps. And that had never been a comfortable experience.
France had that look on his face, a serious look, that England dreaded. He'd seen it before a few times - in the Napoleonic Wars when they'd faced off on the battleground, during both World Wars when they'd actually fought alongside each other (for the first time in their 1000 year joint history) and when someone called his cooking 'crap'. That latter was usually himself or America.
"Bugger," England said as they sped along the North Circular Road, overtaking, undertaking and narrowly avoiding the number 7 bus.
England clutched his mug which by now only held a few dregs of tea and closed his eyes. He personally didn't think France was a good driver anyway, and it was only when they got to a roundabout that he remembered that he was supposed to teaching France to actually drive.
"Ah…" France hummed and looked at the traffic. He could see his quarry - Prussia and Denmark's Uber cab - stood at traffic lights just past the second exit. But France, having driven on the continent, found English roundabouts completely befuddling. "How do I…?"
England shook his head, "Go left, you foreign nitwit," he said. To him, it was simple. It was the European way of driving that was wrong in his opinion.
France did go left. Causing a 10-ton articulated lorry carrying potatoes to skid to avoid them and spill its load all over the roundabout. France sped on oblivious to the chaos in his wake.
"I mean I like Britain I really do…" Denmark was telling his customer. "And Jorvik is great. I'm going to tell you now about the time me and my Viking dudes invaded north England and we kicked up shit but then Arthur retaliated by baking scones. I thought what harm can a few scones do? But man… we were laid low for weeks. Him and his poncy bakers…"
"Please let me out… I've been in this cab now for four hours and we've passed my house three times," the woman pleaded.
"Dude yer gotta get going, Francy-pants is right behind us and he don't look happy," Prussia told Denmark.
"I'm not scared of France! Come on, Pru, it's bloody years since he invaded us. He's gone soft and all he's interested in now is taking off his pants," Denmark said laughing. "Pass me a beer."
"We were supposed to be proving to my bruder and Sweden and Finland that we could earn our own living."
Denmark gave him a sidelong look, "I know and we are!"
"We've earned…" here Prussia added up the cash, "£5.42."
"Really?" Denmark's eyes were wide in astonishment as they drove off again just as France caught up with them. "Today?"
"This week."
"It's more than Norge said we'd make though," Denmark said, deftly spinning the wheel so they did a U-turn right in the middle of an A road and driving past the other way, waving at a seething France as he did so.
Prussia high-fived him, "Too right!" he said. "I'm going to text bruder and tell him."
"Can you tell him that France is following us and won't leave us alone…" Denmark said. "I don't know how I'm supposed to do this taxi-ing job thingy with a French pervert following me. I mean I know I'm irresistible but France ain't my type."
"Head towards the countryside. Cows make France nervous," Prussia said with some authority. But not much.
"Really?"
"Or it might be crows. Or something…"
Denmark drove in and out of the traffic, around corners, narrowly avoiding pedestrians, sometimes mounting pavements and looked for a sign that said 'Countryside'. "I ain't seeing it, man."
"There!" Prussia pointed to a sign that said 'Hyde Park'.
"That's not the countryside!" the woman in the back said.
"Who are you?" both Nations turned to look at her.
"He won't follow us there," Prussia said confidently.
"Nobody can. Cars aren't allowed," the woman said woefully.
"That's pessimist talk, that is," Prussia told her. "You won't get anywhere with talk like that. I didn't get where I am by being a pessimist."
"Nah, he lives in his brother's basement," Denmark said, with no hint of irony.
"Lived. I lived in my brother's basement. I don't anymore! I live in this taxi. That is the power of positive thinking, my friend."
"Please let me out," the woman said.
"Please let me out," England said.
France wasn't listening. He had a determined expression on his face, his teeth were gritted and his broken sunglasses were askew on his nose.
"Aaaargh! We can't go in there! Cars aren't allowed!" England yelled as they sped past Buckingham Palace (England being so distressed that he didn't salute as they went past) and towards the entrance to Hyde Park.
"Such rules do not apply to moi," France said through gritted teeth. "Zay destroyed my love, my sunglasses and my pride and so zay must pay."
"You're going to pay, Francis. You're going to be paying a quarter of a million quid for this ruined car," England replied and screamed as they followed the battered cab through the entrance, scattering tourists in their ponchos and cagoules.
Several Japanese tourists took photographs as they passed and one shouted, "Are you filming the latest James Bond?"
"No! Call the police!" England yelled. He then realised what he'd said and pulled out his five-year-old Nokia and proceeded to dial 999.
France promptly took it off him and flung it out of the window that wasn't there.
"You mad scone! You'll bloody buy me another!"
France nodded. "It was crap anyway… You could not receive my photo messages, non?"
"Non! And thank God I couldn't." England said, utterly appalled at the very idea.
He soon found out why the tourists were all wearing rain ponchos and cagoules. The rain came down suddenly in sheets, in the only way it could in Britain. One minute it had been glorious sunshine, the next it was as if God himself had turned on some taps.
"Shut the bloody roof!" England yelled at France.
France, while trying to steer his way through an increasing throng of tourists and keep his eye on Denmark and Prussia, pressed every button available.
Firstly, the windscreen wipers flew backwards and forwards at triple the normal speed, then the wing mirrors turned in, the radio came on - the news telling them of a 'disturbance at the Royal Parks' - then England's seat flew forwards so that his face was flattened against the dashboard. Finally, the Ferrari's bonnet flew up and totally obscured the windscreen completely.
"Stop the bloody car!" England yelled as they crunched over something and there were distinct screams and yells.
Evidently, they had run over someone…
Ten minutes earlier…
"Antonio, this is so lovely but I don't know. I mean I think you're cute but…"
"My butt? You like my butt?" Spain aka Antonio Fernandez Carriedo stood up in his too-tight trousers and craned his head to look at his bottom.
"Oh! Antonio… Maybe Arthur was right and we shouldn't be together…" Belgium said, forgetting her own interpretation of England's advice - advice that he never actually gave.
Spain's happy smile faded and his eyes narrowed, "Inglaterra?" he muttered darkly.
Belgium stood up, "Perhaps we really do need a break…"
"A break? I would do anything for you, Louise. I would stand firm against the strongest foes. I would defy the Germanic tribes who took over your…" Spain did not get to finish as Belgium stared in horror at the car fast approaching.
Spain leapt out of the way at a speed he had not moved since the Peninsular Wars, he pulled Belgium with him and shielded her from the devastation.
But he was too slow to save his tomatoes…
"Soz Tony dude!" Prussia yelled as they sped past, leaving tire marks on Spain's laboriously produced picnic.
Spain was very very slow to anger. The last time he had been this angry had been during the War of the Spanish Succession but now he was livid. Especially when he saw his old adversaries France and England heading towards him in a tomato-red Italian-made car. The indignity of it. He tried to stand his ground but had to leap out of the way whilst France finished off what Prussia and Denmark had failed to demolish.
And neither of the Nations had apologised.
Spain said something very rude in Spanish and picked up probably the only unsquashed tomato and threw it as hard as he could at the retreating vehicle.
By some pure luck (or misfortune in England and France's case) the tomato flew low, hit the exhaust pipe and lodged there. The red Ferrari's engine stalled.
"Oh Antonio!" Belgium breathed.
Spain did not answer but strode up to the now stationary vehicle.
"Why have we stopped?" France asked England.
"I don't know but thank God we did…" England said and was about to continue when his door was wrenched open by a grim-looking Spain, who hauled him out.
"Ah! Thank you, Spain! That was jolly nice of you. You know, I've been trying to get out of this damned car for the last…" England didn't get to finish when he was punched by the angry Spaniard.
France, ever the brave soldier, jumped out of his seat and attempted to run for it.
He was halted by a soggy tomato hitting the back of his luxury designer suit. "Aaargh I am hit!" he yelled and fell face down.
Pretty soon everyone was covered head to foot in tomato. Including the car and several tourists…
"I really think I do look rather like Daniel Craig..." Arthur looked at himself in the skewed rear view mirror.
"Oh do shut up, Arthur."
"Si."
"Well I say..."
They were sat in the Ferrari on their way back to the Ferrari showroom. Belgium and Spain were crammed in the back seat - somehow. Both were covered in tomato, as were the once luxury leather seats.
They had had to beat a hasty retreat when someone had rather 'unsportingly' called the police. The sirens had not been an 'emergency laundry service' (France) or an 'emergency tomato delivery service' (Spain).
"Oh, Angleterre, I almost forgot, here is your date for tomorrow as per our agreement." France handed England an envelope. England shuddered, but then brightened when he realised it was a plane ticket to Rome.
"Rome?" he said. "I bloody hope it's not some daft Italian?"
"Non, it is a real girl!" France said.
"It had better not be a date with Romano!" Spain exclaimed.
Belgium hit him.
"I think it's time we dropped those two off…" England said to France.
France nodded.
The last England and France saw of them, Belgium was hitting Spain in the middle of Piccadilly and that wasn't a euphemism for anything.
"But I love you both!" Spain protested.
Belgium was distracted from causing too much damage to Spain by an Uber cab going past and a white face leering at her. A German voice yelled, "Yo, Königreich Belgien! Hit him harder!"
Prussia and Denmark had deposited their customer 10 miles from her home after regaling her with 1000 years of joint history and their 100 top beers of the world list. They'd been outraged that they didn't receive a tip.
"I'm sorry, Sir but we can't possibly give you your deposit back and will insist that you pay us damages for the car." The showroom manager said the word 'Sir' as if someone had stuck a cowpat under his nose.
England shrugged, "I did warn you. He's a reprobate." He handed the man the only thing that was not damaged - the Ferrari showroom mug. Coming from a man with a hole in the seat of his jeans and covered in squashed tomatoes (there were seeds in his hair) this was irony in its purest form. The showroom manager did not appear amused.
"We did a check on you two and you've both got criminal records as long as my arm," the man said.
It was France's turn to shrug. "Oh well..." he did not seem bothered. He did, however, kiss the Ferrari like a lover before they left. The remaining door fell off and France stepped back quickly.
"We're sending the bill to the French Embassy!" the man yelled after them.
This did make France stop, "Oh... I can pick up the other door? I remember where I left it..."
"Yeah well... bound to happen, never mind eh?" England whistled. "Just before you go bankrupt though, remember to replace my phone." He was already hailing a cab (not an Uber cab) and, after giving the driver a very large tip for the tomato stains on the upholstery, was dreaming of a long soak in the bath.
Two hours later...
After finally getting the last tomato seed out of his hair, England whistled as he came downstairs. He was off to Rome tomorrow for a date, hopefully with a proper girl. Perhaps an Italian girl? He switched on the television, hoping he had not missed Coronation Street and almost jumped out of his skin when France appeared at the window.
"Bloody hell! Can't you use bloody doors like anybody else? What's wrong with you?"
"Ze door is locked!"
"Yes! Against you!"
"I have a new mobile pour vous!"
England, against his better judgement, opened the door.
France slid in. To England's utter astonishment, the Frenchman was still covered in tomato.
"Here is your phone..." France handed him a package. "Just as I promised."
"Merci... I mean er... thank you.. but why are you still covered in tomato? What happened to your fancy fashion sense eh? You always say I look like a slob!"
"Ze Embassy has kicked me out and I thought..."
"Oh no... absolutely not. Absolutely. Not. No way." England was saying as he opened the package distrustfully. It was indeed a phone. A brand new Iphone.
"Please... oh Angleterre! It will only be until I get ze money to pay them back and I will not touch you or anyzing else!"
England stared at the phone, then at France. He had no idea that he would have no choice in the matter. He also had no idea yet but the phone was one digit difference from another Nation's telephone number...