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Driving Lessons Chapter 37 - Absolute Beginners
"You were right, this isn't about Pilots at all! I wondered when we were going to get on with the flying but that lady there," America pointed at the Pilates instructor at the front, a woman with a determined expression, stood on one leg, "Says that there are no planes and that we need to get on with it or get out."
They were in the community sports hall. 'They' being England, America and France. The three Nations had doggedly turned up for a class in what each of them believed was something else. Although what on earth France thought it was, was a mystery.
England was disappointed that it wasn't a Pirates class. Although to be honest, he would have been surprised if it was.
France, dressed in lurid purple flares, smoking a cigarette was stood on one leg on the mat next to England.
"Zis is so very difficult," he moaned to the Englishman.
England agreed. Trying to attempt the exercise regime in a tweed suit was very very difficult. He'd been told to take off his shoes and was embarassed to note that his socks had holes in them the size of the outer London ring road.
America on the mat the other side of France (the Nation not the country) was also stood on one leg. But he made it appear effortless. This annoyed England somewhat.
"Just do what they do!" America yelled.
England winced.
They were the only male members of the class (and that wasn't a euphemism for anything). The rest of the class being made up of elderly women with an average age of 60. They all had tutted as the Nations walked in. England would have tutted at them also but they all looked quite formidable and he felt a little intimidated.
America had stormed into the room wearing his US Air Force uniform and goggles, declaring that he would show them all how it was done. Whilst Arthur and France were wearing suits. Suits for what turned out to be an exercise class.
All three of them had been totally oblivious to the polar bear and panda walking past them in their badminton gear…
"Now we're going to do three roll-downs, if you can touch your toes," the instructor told them.
England doubted very much he would be able to touch his toes, his 1000 plus year old spine was not as bendy as it used to be. He was in dire need of a cup of tea. But this exercise class should surely count towards the 'rehabilitation' that his Prime Minister had required of him.
France was also not in prime condition either. All that wine and a pack of cigarettes a day, together with several lifetimes of rich food and a highly debauched lifestyle had taken its toll on the Frenchman's physique.
"Ah mon dieu!" France cried as he creaked his way down. He dropped his cigarette which smouldered on the mat and threatened to set fire to the foam. England stepped sideways and stamped it out.
He also stamped on the Frenchman's foot.
"Ow! Oh Angleterre! Arthur! Why do you hate me so?"
"You were setting fire to the bloody room, you moron!" England yelled.
"Can we have a bit of quiet at the back? A bit more introspective concentration on our breathing please?" the instructor called.
"Yeah, Arthur and Francis. Concentrate on your breathing!" America said, effortlessly touching his toes, bouncing back up and then back down.
"Mon foot!" France yelped as he hopped up and down.
"Yes well, now your foot is better after your bloody fake plaster was taken off…"
"It was not fake!" France argued. "My foot was broken. He is so cruel…" he explained to the lady behind him.
"It bloody was! I see it's bloody mended fast. What a bloody hypochondriac!"
"You take zat back! I am not like Austria!"
"No. At least he has a proper job!" England argued back as he tried to reach his toes. He glanced across at America whose hands were flat on the mat.
"This is dead easy, men!" America said.
"I am exhausted!" France exclaimed.
"And now if you lie down on your stomach, we'll start with the plank," the instructor told them, ignoring France, who was wheezing like an old man.
"You're a bloody plank," England muttered at France.
But the woman in front thought he was talking to her and turned and glared.
"Erm not you of course… I mean er… I'm so sorry. I meant my friend here," England said quickly. "What do you think of the weather today? Cold eh?" he added to cover his embarassment.
"Nobody cares about your strange English weather." France whispered. The Frenchman was on all fours and appeared to be having some difficulty.
"This is so easy!" America said from his stance - both legs up in the air.
"That's a handstand!" England said, utterly appalled. "I'm going to tell the instructor."
"I need a rest, ah oui," France said, collapsing on the mat face down. "You can touch mon derriere if you like, mon ami, while I am indisposed."
England shuddered.
"Hold the position for sixty seconds…" the instructor told them.
France, still face down on the mat, moaned.
England sucked in his gut, "I really need a custard cream," he said.
America grinned happily and ate a kitkat with one hand, his whole body balancing on the other hand.
"I hate the boy," England said to himself - meaning America.
There was a tapping on the window a few feet away, causing everyone to fall over.
England looked across, half thankful and half dreading what he would see.
It was Russia. His big face was pressed against the glass and he was miming something.
The whole room seemed to go cold.
"What's fat Russkie want?" America asked.
England shrugged.
"You should know, mon ami. He has moved in with you," France said from his prone position on the mat.
"With 'us', not me, he's moved in with 'us'. I don't see you two moving anywhere at the moment!"
It was true. They had arrived home yesterday - England's home that is - after a truly momentous day. France was still a little 'triste'* at failing his driving test and America was 'pumped' as usual.
*Sad
England had not been 'triste' or 'pumped'. He was actually a little angry. Angry at having his position as personification of the United Kingdom taken away from him and given to his moronic inebriated brother (aided and abetted England suspected, by the equally nutty King Malcolm). He was angry at the insinuations that he was incompetent or that he was 'obsessive'. Obsessive! Him! That damned idiot Austrian had written a load of tosh about him and he had no recourse.
But there was even worse news.
Sat in the living room, in the dark, with the television on and flickering in the corner, sat Russia, his large Army booted feet up on the best pouffe.
England had almost fallen over in shock.
"Privet!" Russia had called, waving at them. He had two kittens on his lap. "Rurik and Oleg are happy to see you as well!" he said and lifted the kittens' two front paws and waved them.
"They're not called that!" America had yelled.
"Da they are," Russia had replied. "They are named after the first two princes of Novgorod."
"Don't antagonise him," England had whispered to America when he saw America about to argue or possibly ask who or what 'Novgorod' was.
And so they found that Russia had moved his 'fat arse' (as America called it - quietly) into the house and had taken to eating all the bourbon creams, hogging the bathroom (he loved very long bubble baths that lasted anything up to three hours) and was obsessed with Coronation Street. All of these things had made life more difficult than it should have.
England sighed and wandered over to the window. "What?" he asked.
Russia frowned and put a hand to his ear, indicating that he couldn't hear England.
"WHAT?" England yelled.
Russia shrugged.
America jogged over to him and yelled, his voice going supersonic, "WHAT?"
Russia frowned and disappeared.
England gave America a dead arm. "What did you do that for? You've just deafened everyone within a ten mile radius!"
America shrugged, jogged back to his mat and continued his Pilates.
England followed him and began a 'reverse curl'. This is probably where the problems started.
"You need rock solid abs like mine!" America told him.
England groaned. He was stuck. His abs, not rock solid, but full of toast and baked beans from his breakfast, ached.
"Can someone help me?" he said, groaning. His left leg was cramping and he couldn't move.
"I will!" said a Russian voice above him.
"Aaaargh!"
After a disposable cup of weak and disappointing tea from a vending machine in the sports centre lobby, England had almost recovered. Thankfully, America's threats of calling an ambulance and Russia dragging England round the room had made England jump to his feet.
"What did you want?" England finally managed to say to Russia.
"What were you doing?" Russia asked them, ignoring the question.
France was slumped on a chair, smoking a cigarette and peering at his phone, "Eet was terrible, young Russie," he replied.
"Pilates!" America said.
Russia frowned. "It looked very weird. Is it an English custom?"
"It's like karate," America said (he pronounced it 'karatay') and karate-chopped his way round the room.
"Except it's not," England said in between gulps of tea. "Anyway, what did you want?"
Russia watched America bouncing around the room. "I found the airbed uncomfortable last night, England."
"Is that it?"
"Nyet. I tried to let it down but it wouldn't go. So I punctured it with my army knife."
"What?!"
"And then I found that somebody had used up all the bubble bath!"
"Zat was me!" France said, looking up from his phone.
Russia looked shocked.
"Why don't you go back to Moscow?" England ventured.
"You asked me to come over," Russia told him. "And I have business in the city," he added, cryptically.
"I did? You do? Oh yes…" England remembered his 'cunning and devious plan' that involved Russia moving in and France, America, Denmark and Prussia moving out. Part of the plan had worked - Prussia and Denmark had indeed high-tailed it out of the house. America and France were more stubborn. In fact, America had taken it upon himself to actually think that he was England's 'bodyguard' and protect him from Russia.
England now realised that he would have to come up with another cunning and devious plan to get Russia out of the house.
"And I've found that I am now up to 1987 in your Coronation Street box-sets." Russia continued.
"Really?"
"Da."
"All the way back to 1975?"
"Da."
"All the way back to Hilda Ogden?"
"Da. She is a wonderful woman. Nyet, I mean she was a wonderful woman. The Motherland would have been honoured to have such a woman."
England stared at him.
"You must have stayed up all night?" England was disturbed that Russia had grown this obsession with England's favourite soap opera. He at first had found it quaint. A hobby he could share with a fellow Nation. America and France had thought it 'weird'.
But sharing a hobby with Russia was not good.
"Your next door neighbours, Mr and Mrs King George complained about the state of your bins," Russia told him.
"My bins?" England assumed Russia meant George IV who was now enjoying his death living with his neighbour next door.
"Da, they said that they are overflowing again with beer cans," Russia said gravely. "They said that you are bringing the neighbourhood down and that their house price has fallen through the floor. I have no idea what that means. But Mrs King George had made a nice fruit cake."
England looked up. "Did you eat the fruitcake?" he asked.
"Da. It was nice."
"He's a fruitcake," America whispered to England. America's 'whispers' though were other people's shouts.
Whilst they were sitting there, Mr Kumajiro and Mr Panda walked back through, still in their badminton gear, carrying racquets chatting quietly.
None of the Nations noticed.
"Oh yes and Austria…" Russia began.
"What about him?"
"I don't like him," Russia said and then remembered what he was going to say, "He knocked on your door. I answered it and he pushed one of your Kings in. That young depressed man. I think he was called Henry."
"Oh no! Why is he back?" England looked horrified. "I thought I'd got rid of him."
"Austria also told me to tell you that he'd never had so many people going to him for therapy and it was all because of you and France."
England looked over at France, who shrugged.
America was backflipping around the room like a 'lunatic' (England's words) and totally oblivious.
"Da," Russia seemed pleased that he was reduced to the role of England's secretary. "And then your Prime Minister boss person rang."
"Oh my God!" England exclaimed. Not at the idea of his boss ringing but of Russia conversing with her.
"Yes. She is a woman!" Russia seemed amazed at this.
England nodded.
Russia nodded as well.
"Well?"
"Oh da. She said that you should continue the therapy with Austria. She called him Professor von Edelstein. I thought this was funny. I told her that was funny. She did not laugh. She sounded very harassed."
"So she should be. She's got my idiot brother now as the United Kingdom!"
"Da. She said something about shortbread and then said you weren't allowed back until you were completely calm."
"I am bloody calm!" England yelled.
Russia stared at him.
"How did you get here anyway?" England said finally after some deep breaths.
"I drove my hire car. I left King Henry person in it. He is listening to Radio 4."
England thought about this, but before he could say anything, France said something he had been praying for.
"I have to go home to Paris, mon cher. You must give me a lift to ze airport!"
"Oh joy!" England said and almost jumped up and down with happiness.
"It will only be for a while. I have to go and see my new boss," France continued. "I know zat you will miss me."
"You have a new boss?" America looked at him. "What's gone on?"
"An election."
"Are you going to stay with dude Artie as well for the next four years?"
"No, he's bloody not!" England interjected.
"I have to stay until I can pay off my debt. But I have to go and see ze new Presidente and kiss zem!"
"Bleurgh!" America looked green.
"Eet eez okay!" France's eyes shone.
"You mean that scary blond woman won?" America asked.
"Non! Eet was ze lovely Macron!" France smiled.
England shook his head.
"What's a Macron?" America asked England.
"Who knows?" England admitted.
"I will take you to the airport," Russia said to France.
"You are very kind, mon cher," France replied.
"Why don't you go to Paris with him, Russia?" England asked.
"I could not possibly do that! I have a business meeting later in the City!" Russia replied.
"Bugger…Can you give me a lift to somewhere then?" England asked.
"Da!"
"But dude, you came with me in my CIA special ops badass car, man!" America yelled.
"That's precisely why I want Russia to give me a lift."
"Da!"
England regretted his decision as Russia dropped him off at the Trafalgar Gardens Allotment Gardens.
Russia drove like a demon. A drunk demon. A drunk demon who was blind and had never driven before.
England had thought France was a diabolical driver but Russia had smashed those perceptions right away.
France sat in the back filing his nails and checking his phone.
"Don't you need your luggage?" England asked him as they drove down a one-way street the wrong way. He clung to the door handle for dear life.
"Non. I do not need my clothes," France said.
England shuddered.
"I will be back by tomorrow," France added as they skidded around a corner, narrowly missing an old lady on a mobility scooter.
Russia spun the wheel, missed a lamp-post and threw the car down the dual carriageway.
It wouldn't be so bad if Russia's hire car hadn't been a tiny Citroen. England felt every single bump in the road and he was uncomfortably close to Russia.
King Henry VI was crying silently in the back.
"Thank God I survived that and perhaps he might actually go and not come back?" England said to himself as he trudged up towards his allotment. "I really should have changed into my wellington boots, but I don't intend to do any gardening anyway. Just a nice cup of tea and a listen to my radio…" he ruminated to himself.
"How are you going to make a cup of tea, Arthur?" came the voice next to him.
England had forgotten King Henry was still with him.
"Oh for heaven's sake!" he exclaimed. "I've got a bloody shed of course!" he all but shrieked.
"Oh…" King Henry picked up the edges of his cloak so that it didn't trail in the mud. "That one there with the flowery curtains?"
"What?"
King Henry pointed.
Arthur stared, "My shed doesn't have flowery curtains! Oh my God!" he ran up, tripped over a spade and then flung open the shed door.
There, within a scene of cozy domesticity, was Prussia and Denmark.
They had, with their inimitable talent, managed to make the garden shed into a veritable home. There was a carpet (England squinted and was sure it was from his spare bedroom), a very old sofa that sunk heavily in the middle, a tin bath (currently occupied) and a cooking stove.
"What in the name of Winston Churchill is all this?"
"It's good innit?" Prussia looked very happy. He was wearing an apron with a woman's anatomy on the front in a polka dot bikini. Evidently, this was supposed to be humorous.
England did not find this funny.
"He wears odd garments," King Henry VI whispered to England, his eyes wide.
"Who's this joker?" Prussia shouted.
"Why are you bloody living here?" England asked, rubbing his temples. He could feel a migraine coming on.
"Well we couldn't live with you any more. Not with fat Russkie." Denmark replied. He was currently sponging himself down in the tin bath. He suddenly stood up and England felt the need to step back.
King Henry almost fainted.
Prussia threw him a very small tea towel with which to dry himself.
England really hoped it wasn't one of his.
"Where did you get this stuff?" England said, turning round so he didn't have to watch the Dane dry himself.
"Some guy down at the tip borrowed it to us!" Denmark said, rubbing a part of his anatomy rather too vigorously.
"You mean some guy down at the tip lent it to you?" England said through gritted teeth. No matter what, he would not have bad grammar.
"That as well."
"The tip? You mean the Council rubbish dump?"
"Yes probably." Prussia said, switching on the kettle.
"What about the carpet? That looks like mine!"
"That's a funny story that is. It looks like yours because it might be." Denmark said.
"That's not a funny story," King Henry pointed out.
"Who's he anyway?" Prussia asked.
"Never mind that! What about the tin bath? And besides you can't live here!" England was now trying very hard not to shout.
"Who says?" Prussia asked, his hands on his hips.
"Me! It's my shed!"
"We're going to stay here cos we're self sufficient. We have all the veg we need and…"
"My veg!" England yelled.
"Yes but we're putting it to use. We're staying here and riding out the storm. When the nuclear radiation has cleared and everywhere's been levelled, we'll be the only ones left standing, right Den?" Prussia said, waving a turnip at England.
Denmark nodded.
"What in God's name are you talking about?"
"When the war is over and all the mutant cannibals have eaten each other and all the other Nations have given up and retired, we'll be here to take over!" Prussia explained. "Now do you want a mug of tea or not?"
"What war?" England stared at him.
"Haven't you heard?" Denmark asked him, now stepping into his pants and pulling on his Viking helmet.
England shook his head, wordlessly taking a 'I heart Berlin' mug of tea (which showed how stunned he was).
"Your brother Scotland just declared war on Spain!" Denmark said.
England dropped his mug as his phone began practically shrieking in his pocket. He took it out, his mouth still in a big 'o'. There were six missed calls and four voicemail messages. He'd had no signal since he'd left the Sports Centre.
Author's Note:
As you may (or may not) notice I usually (if I can) use song titles as Chapter titles but if anyone has any they want me to work into the story please PM me!