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Driving Lessons Chapter 54 - Stormy Weather
England did not appreciate being woken up at 5.00 am after only two hours sleep by having an American shoving a tin - yes, tin of disappointing tea into his hand (America could not find the mugs apparently).
"Yo! Get up Artie dude. We need you to light the stove thingy." America said.
England frowned, tasted the tea, found it to be largely milk and cold.
He was wet. Probably wetter than the 'tea'. It was raining in through the canvas roof. Russia slept on, hugging his faucet pipe and twitching like a dog in his sleep as if he were chasing rabbits. He looked dry. King Henry was also asleep - but no doubt drugged up from the cough medicine.
"I hate you all," England muttered.
Russia grunted something and England leapt out of the tent.
It was still raining. Of course it was. Alfred kindly held a rainbow umbrella over him as they ran into the house.
"Why's this a cottage?" Alfred asked him.
"Why can't you just light the bloody stove?" England asked him.
"Why don't you have electricity?" America countered.
"Why don't you bugger off back to Washington?"
"Washington, Tyne and Wear?" Sealand asked, poking his head around the door.
"No, you idiot child!" England shouted. He began rearranging the logs and trying to light the stove.
"Because that would be cruel," Sealand told America.
"How come you're up?" America asked him.
"NASDAQ's just opened," Sealand replied.
England and America exchanged looks. Neither had a clue what Sealand was talking about.
"I've got stocks at an all time high, I have to sell but there's no signal. It cuts out every time Uncle Den moves his head! Then there's my dealer in Dubai who's got some gold…" Sealand shook his head and walked away talking to himself. "I'm losing millions. I made millions while you lot slept and now I'm losing millions…"
"I think that kid's been sniffing the baking powder again," America said to England.
England had more pressing worries. He could not get the stove to light and he needed tea. There was no way he could survive a weekend with these idiots without tea.
"You should pour petrol on it," America said in his most wise voice.
England stared at him, "Out of all the stupid things I've ever heard you say - and that includes 'let's go to the theatre Abe', this is about the stupidest."
America just shrugged, "I think you're afraid to lose your eyebrows. Again."
"Yes, who can forget the last time you aided me with a spot of fire-lighting?"
"How was I to know that your home-made shortbread would go up like a Chinese fire cracker?"
England was still trying to light a match and going through a box pretty quickly. He stopped and turned to America, "Talking of Chinese… you know, Alfred, I really am worried…"
"Yeah so am I. This place is the pits, man."
"No, I mean about Mr Panda…"
"Why? Is he here?"
"No I mean I'm sure he's trying to kill me…"
"To be honest, man, none of us are happy about the state of this place…"
"He's not bloody here, Alfred!"
"So why's he trying to kill you?"
"Keep up, Alfred! Because I exposed him."
"Jeez, man. You shouldn't go round pulling down people's pants. Especially deranged bears' pants. Leave that to France. He has far more experience than you."
"No, not like that. I exposed him as the villain behind the whole thing."
"You did?"
"Yes. And now he's trying to kill me."
"He is?"
England seriously wondered if America had short-term memory loss. "I showed you the bloody text he sent me, you ass."
"Oh yeah. Cool guy."
England wondered if America really wanted him dead. He smacked him around the head, "Go get my cigarette lighter out of the car."
"Right-o."
"What?"
"I'm trying out my Cockney accent."
"Don't."
The rest of the house seemed eerily quiet. Only the odd snoring sounds and drips into buckets from the leaking roof could be heard. England still could not work out why America had woken him up with a cold cup of tea just so he could light the stove to make himself a cup of tea.
He was about to ask when the kitchen door opened. England hoped it wasn't France in his flimsy silk dressing gown. It wasn't. It was Germany in his pyjamas, his hair greased back. England wondered how the German could look so put together at that time in the morning.
"Why are you shouting, England? It sounds like World War 3!"
"I don't think you should be talking about war, Germany." England warned. "Anyway, I'm trying to light this stove."
"Matches?"
"Oh I never thought of that! What a genius you are. I've been pointlessly banging my head against this cupboard for an hour thinking that will light it. What an idiot I am."
"Sarcasm is really the lowest form of wit."
England handed him the matchbox. "Go on then, Herr German-pants." (England felt some shame at that insult. It wasn't up to his usual standards.)
America skidded back into the kitchen, looked at Germany lighting the stove and handed England an ABBA CD.
"I'm hardly going to be able to light the stove with that, am I?"
"Oh yes, I forgot. You said cigarette lighter…"
Germany stepped back, "There…" he said triumphantly as the stove roared into life. "Although I must say, I worry about you and naked flames, England," he said and left.
"Hahaha, naked…" America sniggered.
England shook his head, sticking up two fingers at the retreating German's back. He filled the kettle and placed it on the stove and then watched in horror as America demonstrated why he was so rubbish at making a cup of tea.
"Don't put the bloody milk in first, you imbecile!" He yelled.
America halted, his hand holding a bottle of milk hanging mid-air. "Is it water first?"
"It's teabag, water, milk. In that order. How many times do I have to tell you?"
One hour later, England was sat at the kitchen table drinking tea (made by America and only just passing muster) and eating a bacon sandwich. As it involved just bread and did not matter how crispy (burnt) the bacon was, bacon sandwiches were pretty much the only thing England could reliably cook.
It was still raining. England had finally got himself dressed (he felt uncommonly exposed being in his pyjamas in the kitchen, particularly a kitchen shared with so many Nations). For some reason the only radio station he could pick up was a Welsh one and so was unintelligible (to him anyway, he was ashamed to admit that he had never learned Welsh).
Italy stumbled in, wearing precisely nothing, put on a pot of coffee to heat on the stove and yawned. "Ve England, this radio station is crazy! What are they saying?"
"It's Welsh. Can you put on some clothes, please?"
"Ve, it is cold isn't it?" The Italian said, his eyes closed. But he didn't attempt to cover himself. He promptly made himself and presumably Germany, two cups of coffee and left.
England noted that America, having got him up at such an ungodly hour, had now gone back to sleep. He thought about getting the idiot up but didn't have the energy. So he did the crossword. Unfortunately, the answers in the Times crossword from the day before all seemed to point to some terrible fate and also seemed to indicate an awful few days in store.
"Precipitation, flooding, ramshackle, hovel, debauchery, drunken, grim, assassin, liquidator…" England read out some of the answers with a sinking stomach.
He almost jumped out of his chair when a hand rested on his shoulder. He was about to fling them over his shoulder when he realised it was Italy.
"Ve! I have a liquidator!" The Italian said cheerily. Now dressed.
"Liquidiser, Feli, liquidiser." Germany corrected.
"You little moron…" England muttered. He looked around. Actually most of the Nations were now awake and up and moving around in their own imitable way.
"It's still raining! What a crap country this is!" Prussia shouted.
"I'm not getting out of my onesie. I don't see the point." Denmark told someone.
"I made Artie dude a cup of tea and he made me make it again 12 times!" America was telling someone who obviously sounded sympathetic.
France was saying, "I know, mon cher. Eet eez terrible, he does not understand how such things can cut you to ze bone. It took me over a century to make a perfect cup of tea."
"And you never managed it, did you?" England shouted through. He was still shaken by the crossword answers. He quickly covered it up when the other Nations came stampeding in like cattle and took over his kitchen.
Breakfast over and buckets of rainwater emptied, the Nations were sat around moaning, complaining or just generally trying to get a mobile signal. There was sudden silence though when Russia entered the kitchen.
"The sheep at the end of the lane says that the rain will stop later," the Russian announced, shaking himself like a dog and thus soaking the floor. He had eschewed the use of Italy's rainbow umbrella saying that 'Soviet soldiers do not need an umbrella'. Indeed, he was dressed in military gear and looked as if he were going to war.
"Board games!" America yelled.
"It's not Christmas, Alfred," England said. He was busy washing up. France, disturbingly dressed in a pink apron was drying.
"So?"
"I'm bored alright," Sealand sighed, still holding his phone next to Denmark's hair. "Don't move Uncle Den, it's the only way I can get a signal."
"Cool!" Denmark said and burped. It was 11 in the morning and the Dane was already drunk. It was inspirational, Prussia thought.
"I'm not playing," Italy told them. He was making the largest pot of pasta anyone had ever seen. England wondered if the Italian was expecting more Nations to turn up. "My pasta has won awards," the Italian told England.
"Ja, for killing the most people," Prussia interjected.
Italy spun round with a large spoon in his hand. He was usually the one who burst into tears if anyone insulted him but he could actually get angry if anyone insulted his cooking. "Che?" He asked, brandishing his spoon which dripped bolognese sauce all over the floor. "This recipe was handed down by Grandpa Rome!"
"Italy calm down. He was joking," Germany said, giving Prussia a shove. "Let's all play this board game…" he added, trying to diffuse the situation.
"You're dripping on my floor," England remonstrated with Italy.
"Ah Senor Inghilterra, I'm so sorry! Please forgive me!"
France began wiping the floor with a piece of rag.
"Is that my bloody shirt?" England asked the Frenchman.
France turned to England, "Zis shirt is only fit for scrubbing floors. You need a makeover, mon cher."
"Operation!" America yelled.
"I'll give him a bloody operation," England muttered, scrubbing a frying pan aggressively.
"Nein, last time I played it was too stressful," Germany said, his arms crossed.
"I like it. I like pulling bits of organs out of people," Russia declared happily, pulling off his huge boots.
"Buckeroo!" America shouted, putting 'Operation' away quickly.
"I find that game disturbing," Germany said.
"I know a game we can play!" Russia said.
America quickly produced another, "Scrabble."
"Except only I can spell. Also what happens when you lot start putting words down in your own languages?" England pointed out. "Remember last Christmas at Poland's house? It was carnage. Lithuania had to call the Police. This is the reason I'm staying home this Christmas. Alone," England added the last word emphatically.
"Oh yes that was an amazing weekend!" America's eyes shone with the memory. "Way better than going to Artie's and watching the Queen and listening to boring carols. Did Pol ever get that foam out of his carpet?" America said.
"Nyet," Russia said. "I gave him the number of a good carpet cleaner I know who is good with bloodstains. But the man has retired, or something…. I was not invited to Polska's Christmas weekend party."
"But you turned up anyway," Germany pointed out.
"Da. With my yak!" Russia exclaimed.
"It crapped on the lawn," England said, shuddering. "I bet it was a bugger to get that lawn right after that."
"I offered to clean up!" Russia pointed out.
"But not with dynamite surely?" Germany asked.
"It worked!"
"Yes but it left holes in the lawn that looked as if giant moles had been through."
"I know!" Russia did not seem to think this was a problem.
"Monopoly!" America said, bringing out the game.
"A game that underscores the capitalist society exploiting the workers," Russia said.
"And building houses!" America said and began setting the game up.
"I'm not playing," England said quickly, putting down his dishcloth. It was best to put his foot down with a firm hand straight away.
"I will be ze racing car," France said.
"No! I'm always the car! Tell him Artie!" America wailed. But England had already headed outside with a packet of fags and a mug of very strong tea (with two sugars - he needed it) in a Welsh dragon mug that said I 'heart' Cardiff United on it.
In the normal way of things Russia of course should not have won with just Old Kent Road, being the cheapest rental of all the Monopoly properties, however, nobody had dared refuse the extortionate rent he charged… And so just an hour after the game had started, the game finished.
France had played the game by going around the board in reverse - much to Germany's wrath.
Germany had taken hold of the rule book and was loudly remonstrating with all of them about how they were all breaking the rules (France - see above; America - for putting hotels on Mayfair before he'd even bought Mayfair or any houses; Prussia - for hitting France with his battleship; Denmark - for attempting to use a full size can of Carlsberg as a playing piece). Sealand had refused to play, telling them that it would have been 'like taking candy from a baby'.
England was called back inside when Russia began chasing Prussia around the cottage with his miniature piece of lead piping he'd stolen from a Cluedo game and a full size piece of lead piping after the Prussian had picked up a 'community chest' and told Russia to go to Pall Mall. Russia had, inexplicably, taken great umbrage at this. Perhaps the Russian thought that this was some euphemism cast on his sexuality?
"Can we all stop chasing each other around, please?" England yelled.
France sidled up to England, "So mon cher, can you test me on my Highway Code?"
"Oh God, why me?"
"Cos you're English, dude," America said as Prussia and Russia skidded past them again.
"Please tell me you haven't put in for your bloody driving test again?" England asked.
"Of course I have. I need zat car zat mon Government have promised me," France replied.
"That was your last government. What about zis, I mean, this Government?"
"Que?"
"What about Macron?" England said, slowly.
"Ah oui, he is so gorgeous."
"No, you silly French tart, I mean now you have a new President, how do you know you're still going to get that car?"
"You are right, Anglais. Avec zis new President, who is so young and gullible, I may never have to pay zem back for everything zat I have done! You are so clever!" France kissed him on the cheek and waltzed off happily, dodging past Russia who was storming up and down trying to find Prussia, who in turn was hiding behind some curtains - the most obvious place. Russia was obviously no good at hide and seek and when America was about to point this out, England shushed him.
Twenty minutes later, France returned with a hangdog expression. In fact, he looked as if he'd been crying. "Mon President says I must pass my driving test to be allowed to drive again and zat you, mon cher, have not fulfilled your end of ze bargain."
"Don't start talking about my end, you scoundrel."
"How did you get a signal?" America asked France.
"Ze boy, Peter, got a signal. He is stood outside next to ze CIA van. I zink zay have ze technology, non?"
America slapped his forehead and ran out with his various gadgets.
England brewed a pot of tea, sat down at the table, shoved Denmark out of the way - the Dane was playing some sort of make-believe game where the Monopoly pieces were invading Piccadilly. He told England it had been the next target in the war of the Vikings versus the Britons, but they hadn't got round to it, they'd been too busy buying up souvenirs and then they'd had to go home in time for tea.
England ignored him and took the book from France with an air of defeat. "We'll start with the easy ones."
"Ah I adore you, mon cher."
"Shut up." He flicked through the book and then showed France a picture of a white circle with a red border with the number '40' in the middle. "Well?"
France sighed and stared at the picture, "It means you have to be over 40 years old to go on zis road."
England stared at him, "Are you deliberately being stupid?"
"I know I know!" Denmark put his hand up. "It means you have to be going over 40 kilometres per hour to go on this road." He turned to France in triumph.
England twitched at the word 'kilometres'. He growled at the Dane, "Are you high? Of course it doesn't!" He held up another. A red circle with a white horizontal line. "This is very important." He told them.
"It means… there is a barber in town." France replied.
"What? How?"
"He's right, man. That's the universal sign for a barber." Denmark said, scratching his head.
"NO!" England yelled at them.
"I think you'll find it is," Denmark argued.
"It's 'no entry'!"
"To where?" France asked, bewildered.
"Are you bloody drunk? To the bloody road!"
"Ah. That makes no sense."
"You make no sense," England told him.
"What about this one?" He showed the Frenchman a simple sign showing traffic lights - at red. "This is easy. If you don't get this, you should give up driving forever."
France screwed up his eyes, thinking hard.
Italy, who was busy stirring his pot of pasta said, "Easy! It means you should stop and never go again and it is time to cry!"
England looked at the Italian, "You're almost right…"
"Well done, Feli," Germany said absent-mindedly. He was sat at the end of the table trying to put the Monopoly board items back in a sensible manner and had been appalled to find buttons, a piece of chewing gum and plastic soldiers thrown in willy-nilly.
England showed him another sign - a black car and a red car side by side. "And no it doesn't mean no black or red cars!"
Denmark put his hand up as if he were in school, "It means you can't race red cars."
Germany shook his head in disgust. "And you call yourself a taxi driver," he said.
"No, I don't."
Italy waved a spoon at them, "It means that black cars are boring and you should only drive red cars."
"You're a fool," Denmark told him.
Italy's lip trembled, "No, I'm not. You are." He said with as much courage as he could muster.
Denmark reached across and hit the Italian with his own bolognese sauce covered spoon, leaving a smear on the Italian's head.
"No over-taking," England told them.
"I was going to say that," Germany said.
"Really? Then you bloody test the moron," England replied, handing Germany the book.
Germany sighed, "You need flashcards," Germany told the Frenchman, who was in turn not listening to a word, "You should be tested everyday for ten minutes and perhaps England could produce a subliminal tape for you to listen to while you sleep," Germany added.
"Why is this my responsibility?" England asked, appalled.
Germany didn't answer but flicked through the book, "These are similar to the German signs but are less efficient." He turned to France, who was messing with his hair, "France, you have driven in Germany. I know this. I had the misfortune of being behind you at some traffic lights in Dusseldorf once." He turned to England, "He mooned me," he explained.
France pouted and blew a kiss.
Germany showed him a sign that said 'Go', "We'll start with an easy one France, and then go up a level," he told the Frenchman.
"It means…
"It means GO GO GO GO GO!" America said, skidding into the kitchen.
"Well done, Alfred," England said. He turned to Germany, "I taught him to drive," he said. "He passed after the fourteenth test. And I didn't have to take valium."
"What?" America looked at them all. "No I mean the rain's stopped! We should all go go go!"
"Where?" Italy asked, wiping bolognese sauce off his head.
"To bother the native townspeople!" Denmark said with purpose and picked up his Viking helmet and rubber axe. "Pru!" He shouted, "We're rolling!"
Author's Notes:
Obviously, England is using the UK's Highway Code here and the Monopoly game being 'played' is the UK edition.