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Driving Lessons Chapter 17 - Starman
England leapt up, stumbled over France's prone body and staggered to the window, still holding a sleepy panda cub.
There below him looking enraged was Germany.
England could understand why he was enraged. The Mercedes, whilst before just having a battered roof, was now flattened.
"What have you done to my car?" Germany yelled. Again.
England's head hurt. It felt as if a dozen Denmarks had rampaged through it. He had not needed tea more, not since 1956 when France had wanted to marry him.
France appeared next to him, "Allemagne!" France called down. "You are looking gorgeous. How do you do it? Is eet zat new conditioner I gave you?"
Germany was about to answer this, but then remembered why he was there, "You are a bunch of degenerates. This is a den of iniquity!"
"We're not living together!" England shouted, aware of the neighbours.
"Why is my car like this?" Germany shouted.
"A dragon did that. Not us." France said.
"I'm supposed to believe this?"
"Bloody hell, does he ever stop shouting?" England croaked. He went downstairs and opened the door.
"Bunch of hooligans, vandals, imbeciles…" Germany continued as he stepped in.
England ran a hand over his unshaven chin, realised he was still holding the panda cub and said, "Guten morgen to you."
"Oh please! Don't even attempt my language. It's too painful, England."
"Fine," England shrugged and switched on the kettle.
"Mein Gott! What a dreadful place this is!"
"I know, he does not even have a cappuccino machine." France had somehow hopped downstairs, or slid down the banister. England did not want to know.
"And you're a complete deviant, France," Germany said.
England had to nod at that, but his head hurt.
"I only wanted a coffee machine," France said.
England swallowed a couple of painkillers.
"Zay are mine, mon ami. For mon foot," France took the bottle of pills away from him.
"Drug addicts as well," Germany smugly said. "And smuggling exotic animals into the country." He pointed at panda. "If I'm not mistaken pandas are not wild in this country?"
"The one I saw last night was," England said and shuddered. "It was six foot tall and spoke Chinese and Russian."
"I think you are going mental," Germany declared. "Like those old Nations who eventually lose their minds. Before you know it, you'll be retiring."
England glared at him, squinting against the glare, "Have you been talking to my brother?"
"Nein! But it is obvious. Anyone can see your descent into an immoral abyss."
England opened the door, shoved the big German outside and closed it. "Oh do fuck off," he said.
"I do not zink you are zinking into an abyss, mon cher. Not yet anyway," France said.
"I will return with my lawyer!" Germany called through the letterbox.
Panda growled.
"Quite right," England agreed.
China emerged, looking as fresh as spring blossom, "I need someone to help in finding my dragon," he said. But then he stopped when he looked at them both.
England was unshaven, wearing a stained t-shirt of dubious origins (France's) and too-tight jeans. Whilst France was in a luminous onesie with a foot in a cast.
"Not you two though," China said, looking them up and down.
"Well bye then," England said. "Hope you catch Mr Pong."
"Ping."
"Yes, whatever."
Later…
England's head had almost ceased feeling as if a drunken Dane had been partying in it. He had showered and was feeling a little better. The painkillers Francis had been prescribed were wonderful for hangovers, he thought and went particularly well with tea.
He was just listening to Radio 4's 'Thought for the day' and actually thinking that perhaps this was not going to be a bad day. True, he was still wearing a dubious t-shirt that once belonged to France and realised that, since France had sent his clothes away in a charity donation van, he had no other clothes to wear (apart from a dodgy pirate costume, a Guards uniform and a tatty old t-shirt from the 1980s) but things were looking up.
France announced, dramatically, suddenly and completely without warning that he had a 'job'.
England, holding his china mug full of tea and just about to dunk his custard cream biscuit, almost fell off his chair. "Job?" he squawked. "Job?"
"Oui," France said and went upstairs - by shuffling up each step on his bottom.
England's flabber was well and truly gasted. In fact, for a few moments he just sat stock still as if he'd been hit on the head. "A job…" he muttered to himself wonderingly.
He'd never heard of any of his fellow Nations holding down a proper job for longer than a few days. Denmark and Prussia's joint job as taxi drivers was sure to end soon, he thought. And he was sure they had not realised that they shouldn't really be sharing the job or that both of them need not be actually in the taxi. He'd heard rumours that Russia and the Baltics had had to find jobs to supplement Russia's fondness for vodka, but he seriously doubted this. Who on earth would employ them? He discounted the Italy brothers - their restaurant was, according to the gossip chain, rarely open and when it was open, there were often just fellow Nations dining there. He wondered if those tomato stains would ever come out of that suit… and then remembered that France had thrown that suit in the charity donation bag.
"What job have you got?" he finally called up to France, who was 'making himself respectable' - which, in England's view, would take a bloody long time.
France did not answer the question but shouted back, "I need you to give me a lift, mon cher."
England's eye twitched as it did every time France called him that. But things were looking up. If France had a job, that meant he was both earning money so he could pay back his debts and also, and most promising, he would be out of the house. England did a little dance around the kitchen. He didn't care about the job, he decided, as long as it wasn't illegal or that France wasn't bringing anyone back to his home. He stopped dancing suddenly. "You're not a bloody Avon Lady like Poland are you?" he yelled up to France.
"Non!"
England recommenced dancing. He might finally get his house back, he thought. He turned up the radio. In fact, he was feeling so jazzed up, he switched over from Radio 4 to Radio 2 and danced around the kitchen to some modern music (from the 1990s).
He stopped suddenly when a voice yelled through the letterbox, "Yo! Artie man! Can I come in?"
England hurriedly switched off the radio and dived under the table. If he didn't answer then the daft American might think he was out.
"Yo! I totally know you're there! I could hear your crappy old radio!"
England groaned.
"I can hear you groaning!" America added.
England wondered if he just stayed where he was, whether the young American, whose attention span was shorter than a gnat's, would eventually just go away.
He didn't.
"Aww let me in! I'm jetlagged! I brought some twinkies! I know you like them!"
England jumped up and flung open the door. America promptly fell in.
"For goodness sake, Alfred. You know I don't like twinkles or whatever it is you call them."
"Twinkies, man."
"Whatever. Get up. You look like a slob."
"Well dude, so do you! You look like Francy-pants. Anyway, I'm moving back in."
"What do you mean 'back in'? You never lived here!"
"Yeah I did."
"You have a room here, but that doesn't mean… oh bugger."
America hauled in a huge rucksack that was bigger than himself and a huge black bag full of washing which he dumped on England. "Thanks, dude. I need to crash out for a bit. That election was exhausting."
England had no idea what he was saying but promptly flung the black bag of washing into the kitchen where it came to a rest next to the washing machine. He would get France to deal with it. The rucksack he couldn't even lift at all. He was convinced there was a body in it.
There was yelling from upstairs. England sighed. It was an old argument.
"This is my room, not yours, Francy-pants!"
"L'Amerique! You should give way to your elders and your betters!"
"Well you're neither!"
"I am older zan you!"
"You're not better!"
"Zis is my room now, young l'Amerique!"
"I'm going to tell Artie!"
"You do zat."
"Put your pants back on, man. That just ain't nice."
"Honhonhon."
England shouted upstairs, "In the name of God's trousers, will you two stop bloody arguing?"
France shouted back downstairs, "Mon cher! He has put his silly flag over the top of my flag."
England ignored them both and turned up the radio. There were further howls of protest upstairs but England, wisely put the kettle on.
He could hear France hopping down the stairs and then skidding down on the bannister. "Mon cher! Silly l'Amerique has taken over my room!"
"I don't care."
"I know zat you do."
"For God's sake… Where is this bloody job? I'll take you right now."
"Ah mon cher…"
Shirley's Beauticians stood in a rather insalubrious back street just five miles from Arthur's house. As they pulled up outside, after a roundabout way which took them almost into the city itself, a woman with a bad hair dye waved at them through the window. She was brandishing a curling implement.
"Is this it?" England asked.
"Shirley's?" America asked, incredulously.
The satnav had taken them there and the satnav clearly did not like America or his driving.
But then again, neither did England.
The reason America was driving was because his huge 'Hummer' or whatever it was - England was unsure, it just looked like a massive black tank - was parked right across England's drive and as England could not and would not get out his precious Bentley (France was not allowed anywhere near it or even to touch it or look at it) and the Mini was hemmed in, the 'Hummer' was the vehicle of choice.
France had wanted to drive. But as England pointed out that as his foot was in a pot and as he was bloody useless, that was a no-no. Also America pointed out that only he could drive it as he was insured for it.
But America was also jet-lagged… He had drunk two litres of coke for the caffeine and his eyes looked as if he were wearing bottle-bottom glasses.
"Zis is eet…" France said. "You will aidez-moi, mon ami?"
"Shirley's beauticians? Really? What on God's green earth are you going to do?" England asked as he clambered out of the vehicle. It was like mountain-climbing. The bloody thing should be equipped with crampons. He said as much to Alfred.
Alfred frowned at this, "Aren't they what ladies use when they have lady problems?"
England shook his head and didn't answer. He really didn't want to have this conversation with America. Again. Instead he helped Francis out of the car. This involved basically pulling him out and half-catching him until they both ended up laid on the pavement.
England leapt to his feet. "For God's sake, Francis!"
"Sorry, mon ami."
"What the bloody hell are you doing here anyway?"
"What do you mean?"
"What job are you going to do?"
"I am a hairdresser, mon ami."
"No you're not."
"Oui, I am."
"No you're not."
"You saying I am not, does not make it untrue. Do you not remember when I cut your hair when you were little?"
"Oh do bugger off, France…" England said and blushed. "Actually yes I do. And it looked just the bloody same!"
France pouted and hopped into the salon. "Bonjour girls!" he called. He threw a few red roses around and smiled charmingly. England hated him.
"Pick me up at…" here France turned to the woman with the bad dye job, presumably the 'Shirley' of the title, "What time do we close, ma chérie?"
"Four o' clock," she breathed, swooning.
"…Three thirty pm," France told England without missing a beat.
"I'm not your bloody chauffeur."
France smiled, "Oh but you are at ze moment… or I could ring for Denmark and Prussia…"
"I'm not having those two loons in my house again!"
"Very well zen!" France closed the door on him.
"Bloody French git…" England muttered as he attempted to climb back in the 'Hummer'. "I bloody don't like this vehicle," he told America. He got no response. He looked across. America was not there. "Alfred?" he asked. He then looked behind him. America was sound asleep, curled up on the backseat, snoring loudly, clutching a transformer toy in his hand. He looked so young and innocent that England smiled and then poked him. Hard.
"Bloody wake up, you silly Yank!" England shouted.
There was no response. Just a snort and Alfred's legs twitched as if he were running.
"Chasing rabbits…" England sighed. He clambered into the driving seat and tried to adjust the mirror. It came off in his hand. "Oh." He threw the mirror onto the backseat next to America and searched for the ignition key. There wasn't one. "Oh." He said again when he found an 'on/off' switch. "Well…" he pressed this and smiled as the engine started. But then he looked down. "Oh bugger…"
There was no gear stick. Ah yes, he remembered America could not cope with a gear stick or 'stick shift' as he called it, which made England wince.
After putting the vehicle in drive, England attempted to switch on an indicator. This resulted in wipers whizzing across the windscreen. He pressed more buttons. Lights came on. The radio came on. That infernal song 'Is this the way to Amarillo?' blasted out at him. He pressed more buttons. The radio got louder. The sunroof opened (England hadn't realised there was a sunroof) and then half-closed. It stayed stuck. A warning light came on. By now England was frantic and pressing every button. The indicators were flashing, the hazard warning lights were flashing, the headlights were going on and off. The windscreen wipers skidded across the windscreen, and now to England's horror, the electric windows had joined in and were opening and closing.
"For God's sake!" he yelled. "Bloody American silliness…" he could think of no other insult at that moment.
Amazingly, America stayed asleep.
There was a tap on the window. England tried to press a button. The heater came on full. England tried to switch it off, which made the air con come on. Instead he put his hands over the blower. Abruptly, his seat then shifted and fully reclined. With an effort (he had to shuffle up as he was now lying down), he looked up to find Germany glaring in at him.
"You are an imbecile, England," Germany mouthed at him.
England shook his head. Not just because he didn't agree with this insult, but because he couldn't lip-read.
Germany pulled open the door. "What are you doing?" Germany asked him incredulously.
"What do you think I'm doing?" England responded.
Germany looked over the flashing car, the wipers going so fast they were a blur, the radio was on full blast, as were the heaters and the air conditioning. The sunroof opened and then closed. "I think you're trying to wreck another perfectly good vehicle," Germany replied.
"I have no idea what you mean," England said, feeling at a disadvantage as he was lying down. Behind him, America snored on.
"I am on my way to your house with my lawyer, England. I hope to meet you there and we can sort out how you are going to recompense me for my car."
"Well I can tell you now that you are getting nothing from me!"
"Why? Because you're stuck in this car and don't know how to drive it?"
"Oh bugger off," England said, attempting to sit up so he could actually reach the damn steering wheel. A traffic warden was attaching a parking ticket to the windscreen. "Oh bugger," England repeated. But then again, he thought, it wasn't his bloody car.
Driving home, he drove over the kerb three times, almost ran into the back of a double-decker bus and then finally abandoned the car 500 yards from his house. He didn't really want his neighbours to think he had bought the damned thing. All this time, the lights flashed, the wipers were going and the sunroof was half open. He left it with the sunroof open and just hoped it would rain - that would serve America right for going to sleep, England thought.
He stepped inside his kitchen to find Germany already there - scrubbing the table. "This place is a disgrace," Germany told him.
"How did you get in?"
"Your door was wide open."
"What?"
"Your door was wide open," Germany repeated, adding bleach to the table surface. "If you think I am going to have a cup of tea sat here then…" he didn't finish.
England frowned, "I definitely locked the door," he said.
Germany shrugged. "If you are so careless with your security then you deserve to be invaded," he told the Englishman.
England stared at him, "So… compensation. You can go and stick your head in a food blender. I am not paying you a penny."
"My lawyer may have something to say about that."
England laughed, "Oh yes?"
"Si!" came a voice behind him.
Spain stood in the doorway, in a smart suit carrying a briefcase.
"You have got to be bloody joking!" England exclaimed.
"I am a fully qualified lawyer. I qualified in my spare century," Spain said.
"I didn't get a spare century," Germany said grumpily.
"I bet you hired him because he's cheap," England observed while Spain opened his briefcase spilling tomatoes on the newly scrubbed kitchen table.
Spain looked upset.
Germany ignored them and began to wipe down England's kitchen worktop before switching on the kettle. He acted as if he should be in a Hazmat suit.
"Have you seen China's dragon?" England asked, to deflect from the idiocy.
Germany stopped and looked at him, "I think you are going round the bend. There are no such things as dragons. The next thing you will be telling us is that there are aliens."
England was about to say something else when the door to the lounge opened and a small grey-white figure with huge red eyes peered through, "Keep it down! I'm trying to play Call of Duty," the small person said.
"Oh bloody hell…" England muttered. "Bloody Tony…"
"Si?" Spain asked still gathering up his tomatoes.
"Not you… I mean Tony the alien. Bloody Alfred, bringing his alien friend."
***To be continued***