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Warnings: Baking
Driving Lessons Chapter 23 - Cake to Bake
"There!" England stood back and surveyed the scene. The cake stood on the cooling rack and seemed to smoke. He'd followed the recipe exactly. He turned to Sealand beside him. The boy looked as if he'd been in a war.
They were both covered in flour. As was the kitchen counter top. A mixing bowl stood derelict next to the cooker top. A lonely testament to England's baking.
A broken egg squelched underfoot as England stepped back. His tartan slipper skidded but he regained his balance.
"Wow." Sealand said in awe. "Is it supposed to glow like that?"
England frowned and consulted 'Mrs Beeton's Home Baking for the Frugal Housewife' again. "I'm really not sure."
"Is it edible?" Sealand breathed, his eyes wide. "You could take over the world with that though." The young principality was thinking hard. Images of him being crowned Emperor of the World atop the cake that destroyed the Nations. Although not killed them, no, just made them bow down to him. It was like the ultimate weapon. And it could be his.
Outside in the dragon-less garden, Germany, America, France and the two CIA men were hiding behind sandbags.
'Gaston' (France had decided that 'Renee' had been relieved by somebody else - how France could tell as the new CIA man looked exactly the same as the old CIA man, is anyone's guess) was radioing in. "We have a code Purple. Yes a code Purple. Can someone from the Special Branch instigate a containment field around Trafalgar Gardens, NE London?"
Germany was shaking his head, "Who allowed this? France?"
"Eet eez nozing to do avec moi, Allemagne. By ze way, your hair looks tres belle. Did you use zat new conditioner I sent you?"
"He's going to cause another Three Mile Island incident!"
"Eet eez not zat bad. He baked scones last week and I just threw zem in ze bin. He ate one!" France declared.
"You're braver than you look, Sir," 'Gaston' told him.
France puffed out his chest. "I am! But zese fools do not realise zis!"
America snorted and looked at him, "When he baked that Christmas cake last year you ran away!"
"Zat was different. Zat was sultanas!"
America shook his head.
The other CIA man (who France had now named as 'Phillippe') said, "Sir, we're still dealing with the effects of the scones that were dumped into the Atlantic by the Royal Navy during World War 2."
"This would never happen in my country," Germany said.
"No, that's because you don't allow England to bake in your country."
"Ja, we value our countryside as it is."
The Nations didn't complete their conversation as a series of white vans pulled up outside England's house and much to the neighbours' interest, a dozen or so people in full Hazmat suits leapt out and piled into the house.
A cordon was put up around Trafalgar Gardens. Plastic fencing was hastily put up around Number 69, the road was closed off citing 'chemical spill' and the neighbours were instructed that they were being evacuated.
The CIA men shoved America, France and Germany into a people carrier with blacked-out windows.
Meanwhile, England and Sealand were pulled out of the house and shoved, before either could protest, into a decontamination van.
Having been stripped, their clothes were incinerated, England and Sealand were then sprayed with disinfectant, tested for radiation and then handed paper boiler suits to wear.
England blinked in the sunlight, "Well… I think that was uncalled-for."
"Come on, dude! Get in the car!" America yelled.
England jumped into the people carrier, pulling Sealand with him. "What on earth is going on? Has there been a gas leak or something? I really don't understand."
"We're going to IKEA!" America yelled.
"IKEA?" England was still dizzy from his 'disinfecting'. He was still stunned to find he was wearing paper underwear. He had never in his life worn anything other than his own underwear. He felt odd.
"Step on it, driver!" America yelled. "Yeah! IKEA! You have to buy me a bed remember? I want a race-car bed!" America told England.
"You are such an dumkompf, England," Germany said, crossing his arms, as the military could be seen fighting with a growing, oozing cake - sponginess bulging against the windows.
"Wait a minute! Who's driving?" England asked, looking across at the two CIA men.
He soon knew as the vehicle skidded off and swerved over the pavement.
"France!" he yelled as he was flung into Germany's lap.
Five minutes later they all got out, looking rather green.
"Who in their right sodding mind let him… with a bloody broken foot… drive a bloody car? Are you all absolutely stark staring mad?" England yelled.
France hopped down, smiling sheepishly. "I did not hit anyzing," he protested.
He hadn't. But the car was abandoned/parked across the end of the road, abutting the junction and blocking a dual carriageway.
The two CIA men looked at one another and then at England, "The gentleman said he could drive."
"He has a sodding broken foot!" England yelled.
"I'll drive…" America said.
"Somebody needs to," Germany pointed out as a dozen cars and lorries queued up around them.
England shoved France back in the car, "Bloody idiot."
"I have not had my driving lesson!"
"No, and you're not likely to! You've got a broken bloody foot!"
"Ah mon foot," France sighed as he sat next to Sealand and observed his potted appendage.
Germany had evidently taken charge. They could hear America sat in the passenger seat next to him.
"Put your foot down, Germanland! You drive like an old lady!"
"Why didn't either of you two drive?" England asked the CIA men.
"We are security, Mr Kirkland. We have to have our weapons handy at all times."
"I want to know though, what on earth you expect to happen to that lunk here in London?"
One of them nodded pointedly at England's paper boilersuit and said nothing.
England sat back and decided to shut up. They appeared to be going around 20 miles per hour. Or as America shouted at Germany, "We're not in a funeral procession. Get your foot down!"
Sealand was amusing himself by practising his speeches. "Free ice cream for all! All candyfloss and ice cream to be free!"
"What on earth are you on about?" England asked him.
"When I run for POTUS, these are my election pledges."
England had no idea what a 'POTUS' was. "What?"
Sealand rolled his eyes. "When I run for Pres!"
England shook his head and leaned his head back against the headrest.
"You will be wonderful!" France said.
"Don't encourage the boy."
"I will build a giant bouncy castle in DC and make England pay for it!" Sealand announced.
France nodded.
"France, will you give me…" here Sealand was consulting his notebook. "…Alsace?"
France thought about this.
"You can't just ask Nations to give you bits of their territories!" England said, appalled. "I taught you better than that!"
"Non!" France said.
"How about…"
"No! Sealand! You can't do that." England shouted.
"Mr Russia said I could have South Ossetia."
England almost fell off his seat. "Did he?!"
"Ah ze boy has ambitions, non?"
"Yes, one day I'm going to have a piece of all the Nations and then I'll rule the world!" Sealand said and then laughed most evilly, England thought.
"You'll be grounded if I have anything to do with it," England muttered. The boy had clearly been indulged by Sweden and Finland.
Up in front America was still berating Germany. "You drive like a granny!" he yelled.
"You should abide by the legal speed limit," Germany countered.
"This is dead boring. Shove over and let me drive."
"There is no need for everything to descend into a car chase," Germany told him.
"There isn't?"
"Nein."
"Nine?"
England sighed. Listening to America attempt to communicate with his European neighbours was sometimes both frustrating and hilarious.
Often the American asked England to 'translate' as if they were speaking a foreign language.
Which in this case, they were. Germany muttered to himself in German.
"Wait a minute! Hold the phone!" America suddenly yelled.
"What phone?" everyone asked.
"I mean stop the car!" America shouted. "There's Pru and Den!" he waved at them as they retreated down the road. They looked as if they had committed a crime.
"They look as if they're up to something," America mused.
"Yes! Stealing my bloody tools! Get out and arrest them," England urged the CIA men.
'Gaston' and 'Philippe' glared at him. "We do not have the power of arrest here, Mr Kirkland."
"Really?" Sealand asked, his eyes wide. "But I bet you can assassinate anyone you want, can't you?"
"No, Sir."
England gritted his teeth. Why the bloody hell did they call everyone 'Sir' but him?
They got out anyway. 'Den' and 'Pru' as America so loquaciously called them had already 'scarpered' as England called it.
But England's eye was caught by a card in the window of the nearby shop. It was written in crayon as if by a 3 year old child:
"ME AND MY MATE PRU WILL FIX YR STUFF"
Underneath it said, "THE NUMBER"
"What on earth is that all about?" England asked.
"Dudes are trying to get work," America explained, recognising the handwriting.
England understood none of it.
To explain the advertisement, we have to quickly flashback to the previous evening to Denmark and Prussia sat in a grimy public house just around the corner from England's house (he would have been horrified to find them even that close).
"We can't do that taxi-ing no more, dude," Denmark told Prussia sadly over his half pint of beer. (Half pint due to his lack of finances, he hoped no Viking saw him with a half pint, he would never live it down. He might as well take up knitting and be done with it.)
"Why not?" Prussia asked, resisting the urge to correct Denmark's grammar. That would be really lame.
"Cos we ain't got no taxi."
"Ah. That kind of messes our plans up right there."
"Ja." Denmark traced dirty diagrams in the spilled beer on the table in front of him. Not his spilled beer. That was a crime. Really.
"We should start a business!" Prussia exclaimed.
Denmark looked up, his face suddenly lighting up. "A business…" he said slowly.
"Ja."
"Doing what?"
"What are we good at?"
"Drinking. And burping. And…" here Denmark thought hard. It was difficult to think when one was sober. "…Breaking things."
"Ja…" Prussia also thought hard. He was the Awesome Prussia. He usually had lots of ideas. "We're good at pranking people!"
"We could hire ourselves out as pranksters!" Denmark said triumphantly.
"Ja… or as demolition men!"
"Ja!" Denmark's eyes shone. He remembered times past when he'd helped demolish parts of the English countryside.
"Like when I rode that camel through the Austrian Embassy!" Prussia said.
"Or… we could fix stuff!" Denmark said.
"Well.. Ja… like my bruder does?"
"Ja…"
"We need to advertise."
"Like on the television!" Denmark said. "I want to be on the BBC!"
Prussia punched him in the arm, "Stupid! We can't do that!"
"Why not?" Denmark looked hurt. "You mean cos of money?"
"Well… nein… BBC don't do advertising…"
"They'd do ours!"
Prussia, probably the only one between them who had a working brain cell, decided they should 'start small' with advertising.
Thus the next morning, they pinched an exercise book from an unfortunate schoolboy stood at a bus-stop. They tore a page from it and flung it back at the poor boy.
Sitting on a bench, with a crayon, using Prussia's back for something to lean on, Denmark (his tongue stuck out in concentration) wrote their masterly advert. "This is sure to get us loads of jobs," he said.
"Don't forget to put the number," Prussia told him.
"Ja! I have!" Denmark said as he wrote 'THE NUMBER' underneath the advert.
They would wonder, for quite a number of centuries, why they never received any calls.
IKEA opened up to them like a dream, like a cavernous delight, like a lost weekend… America gazed around himself, spinning around with delight. He was pushing a trolley the size of a small aircraft carrier, Sealand perched in it like a king. "We'll buy all of the things!" he said and took off.
England followed wearily. His paper suit rustled unpleasantly. The CIA men occasionally spoke into their radios and looked most conspicuous, England thought. Germany trudged after England looking very unimpressed. France was nowhere to be seen. Which could be either a good thing or a bad thing. Depending on one's point of view, England often thought.
As it was, he was too busy trying to keep up with America and busy ignoring Germany's conversation. If conversation was the correct term. A conversation usually meant that two people were interacting. Nobody was interacting with Germany. Germany was talking at England. He was telling England exactly how much his Mercedes Benz had cost, and how dreadful England's life now was. England didn't need anyone telling him how awful his life was. He lived with France didn't he? Wasn't that evidence enough?
"Where's France?" England suddenly said as they headed through the 'bedroom' section.
"Dude! Why man? Why?" America shouted in utter exasperation.
England did not need to ask why America was shouting or at who.
France suddenly poked his head out from underneath a duvet. He appeared to be completely naked beneath.
England hoped America had covered Sealand's eyes.
"Shush, enfants," France said maddeningly.
England almost exploded with rage. That France, the most despicable, most degenerate of Nations should call them 'children', completely maddened him.
"He has a point…" Germany muttered, pointing at the security cameras. "If we just move on. Perhaps they…" (Germany clearly meant the staff) "…won't realise we're with him." He said the word 'him' with utter disgust.
England shoved America along quickly. "Move on, move on. We know nothing…" he said. He tried not to notice that there appeared to be not one, not two, but three pair of feet poking out from under the duvet.
But then everything seemed to go wrong very quickly.
One of the CIA men said to America, "Sir? We need to get out of here quickly. The containment field around the cake has been breached."
America looked at him dumbly. Torn between shouting at France and telling England off for not letting him look at the race-car beds, America was trying to work out what the hell was a containment field and why it was breached.
"The cake, Sir…" the CIA man said and then turned to his colleague.
"We need to take cover. God help those people out there on the streets," the other CIA man said.
"What?" America, England and Germany all said.
"Cool…" Sealand said. He appeared to be the only one who'd twigged exactly what was happening and the implications.
And then a noise England had not heard since the War - the wail of early warning sirens.
Germany looked at England and shook his head, "I knew this was how the world would end…"
America and England were still staring around them.
"Pray do tell?" England said finally, ignoring the panic around him and the CIA men trying to shove them towards the stairs.
"Your baking…" Germany answered.
Ten miles north of their location, in Trafalgar Gardens, England's cake had achieved sentience, had grown to enormous size and was oozing its way down the dual carriageway…
*To be continued*