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Driving Lessons Chapter 55 - Mr Blue Sky
In a small seaside town in South Wales...
"How did the young man get his head stuck in there, Sir?" the fireman asked England.
England sighed. It was just he and France who stood by as America, his head stuck fast inside a miniature windmill, moaned quietly.
"It's a long story…" England said as he watched the firemen get their tools out. He noted that the other Nations had scarpered.
It all began when they had all flung themselves in their respective vehicles and slammed down the tiny roads to the nearest 'town'. England felt sorry for the locals. He had tried to escape but unfortunately, France and Russia had sat in the back of his car. England had tried to ensure they both sat on the cellophane covering the vintage leather seats, but Russia had declared that the Allies hadn't won the war by being afraid of leather. There was nothing you could say to that.
Fortunately, the Russian did not drop anything on the leather. France was ordered, by England, to keep as much of his body off the seats and so sat in the passenger footwell. At least he was wearing pants today.
"Where are we going, mon cher?" France asked.
England looked in the rear view mirror and was dismayed to see Prussia and Denmark's car following in a black haze of exhaust smoke and following that was the CIA van.
"Why can't they bloody leave me alone?" He asked.
"I do not know, comrade," Russia said. "It must be very annoying to have people with you all the time like that. Following you around and going everywhere with you." Russia continued with no trace of irony in his voice.
"We're going to see the sea, France," England replied to France.
"La mer?"
"Mare? What are you on about you goon?"
"Can I sit on the seat, mon cher and look out of ze window?"
"No, stay down there. You know you're not allowed on the seat."
Russia, sat in the back seat, picking at the cellophane covers. "He is like your pet, da?"
England ignored him and drove on. Unfortunately, all the signs were in a mixture of Welsh and English and confused the Englishman. "Can you see a sign that says," here England paused and took a deep breath, "…Abertenbydyfi?" he said cautiously.
"I think he is having some kind of fit. I have seen this before. In the War and other places. When I have surprised someone," Russia said to France, leaning over the back of the passenger seat and staring at the crouching Frenchman.
France nodded, "Do you want me to drive, mon cher? You look odd."
England gritted his teeth and went round a roundabout three times. The vehicles following him stopped on the roundabout abruptly and Denmark wound down his window with creaking jerks. The window stopped halfway - at a 45 degree angle. The Dane stuck his head out and yelled, "Oi! England! What are you doing? There's a pub down there," the Dane helpfully pointed the way they had come.
Russia wound down his window and shouted back as they went past the Dane, "We know. We are going to see the sea!" He sounded like a kid on holiday with his parents.
A trail of traffic consisting of three lorries, four cars and a farm tractor pulling a trailer transporting sheep blocked the four exits of the roundabout.
An exchange of views commenced between some of the drivers, England and Denmark. (The CIA van containing America and Sealand - the latter charging his devices and using the CIA's wifi signal - headed off on the exit clearly signposted 'seafront' as America ordered them to find him a 'funfair, man'.)
"Get your stupid bloody crap car out of the way!" One of the lorry drivers yelled.
"Can you tell me the way to…" here England tried to say the name of the town again.
"…Is there anywhere we can get an ice-cream?" Prussia yelled.
"You can all bugger off back to England!" Shouted one of the car drivers.
"I say!" England exclaimed.
"That way!" Russia said. "Follow that black van. I could see young America in it."
"Damn…" England said and followed Russia's directions.
Denmark however had gotten out of his vehicle, and still dressed in his unicorn onesie, was remonstrating with a large lorry driver.
"I don't like your attitude," Prussia told the lorry driver, joining his friend.
Denmark nodded but was interested in the fact that the lorry had 'Carlsberg' emblazoned on it.
"Pru, look!" he said.
But Prussia was in full flow, "You lot make me sick. We didn't even bomb Wales in the war. Well not much. Not as much as London and Hull and well, with Hull it was an improvement."
"What?"
"I said…" Prussia was about to continue but Denmark was tugging on his sleeve.
"Dude Pru, look!" He said excitedly - almost jumping up and down. "Carlsberg…"
Pru did need look. "You get the beer, I'll get the sheep," he whispered.
"Dodgems!" France shouted, utterly delighted.
They were walking along the seafront at… wherever it was (England could still not pronounce it), still in wellington boots, raincoats and, in France's case, a rainbow poncho. Russia wore his scarf and told them it was 'tropical'.
'They' were England, France, Russia, America and two CIA men. Thankfully, Italy and Germany had not joined them. England was thankful for this small mercy. Apparently, Italy was making emergency pasta.
"That's for kids!" America yelled.
England nodded. It was. But it was also ideal for France's driving lesson.
"Come on, you French imbecile, get in," he said wearily and handed the bored-looking youth 'in charge' a handful of coins. "There, my good man."
"Please get in with me, mon cher," France pleaded.
"I don't bloody think so," England told him, wincing at the idea of being crammed in such a small space with the Frenchman, whether he was wearing his galoshes or not. It would be most unbecoming.
Russia stood with his huge size 14 booted foot up against the dodgem. "I think, England, that you should get in with Francis. He cannot be trusted."
"He can't bloody go anywhere with it!" England pointed at the low wooden border around the bumper car track.
Russia growled at him.
"Dude's right, dude," America said. "Anyway I'm off on the Big Wheel. Who's with me?"
"Where is Peter? Why isn't he with you?" England asked America as he felt himself being shoved into the dodgem with France.
"He said he had business to attend to," one of the CIA men told England as he left to follow America.
Russia stepped back as the dodgem was switched on. "Good luck," he told them.
"How long is this ride for?" England asked the bored teenager.
"15 minutes," the teenager said.
"Dear God."
"Drive drive drive!" Denmark yelled, his arms full of Carlsberg cans.
Pru did. They looked behind them at the utter scene of chaos and destruction.
It looked as if the four horsemen of the apocalypse had come to town and had a party.
There was a lorry driver shaking his fist at them, a half empty lorry with its doors hanging off, a very angry farmer and two cars stuck actually on the roundabout having had to swerve to avoid the herd of sheep roaming.
Pru gave Den a high-five. "Genius, just genius. Letting out those sheep."
"I know…" Denmark looked behind him at the backseat which was full of beer. The small car groaned as they sped away.
"Which way?"
"Back to Shitrose Cottage?"
"Ja!" Prussia replied and went in totally the wrong direction.
England would have been appalled to hear Primrose Cottage called such a name but at the moment he did not care about anything. He was more concerned about surviving this horrific ride.
France seemed incapable of driving the dodgem straight at all and they were now going round and round in a tight circle at speed.
Surely dodgems never used to go at such a dangerous speed? He could not recall it being so terrifying when he'd brought Sealand on the dodgems many years ago, although the young boy had insisted on driving and yelling 'Ahoy!' each time they had crashed into other children on the ride. England had almost had his head taken off by a large man whose child had burst into tears after Sealand's driving had hemmed them into the corner and Sealand had shouted 'pirates!' and jumped on the other child's dodgem.
"Just bloody well drive it straight, you loon!" England yelled at France.
"Eet eez difficult!"
"It's a bloody dodgem, you idiot."
"How much longer are we on this?" England asked Russia. He felt very very sick.
"I gave the boy another pound so that you can stay on for a bit longer," Russia said, watching them go, his eyes round with wonder.
England wrenched the wheel from France and forced the dodgem to go straight.
"Zis is terrible. Can we practise three point turns?"
"What for? We're in a bloody dodgem."
"Zat is not a very good attitude to have, mon cher."
"Just drive."
At least they had stopped going round and round.
But just as England thought he might just survive this particular fairground ride, he was almost jolted out of his seat by a slam from behind.
"Ooh lala! We have been rear-ended!" France shouted. He looked pleased.
England was sure he had whiplash as his head jerked forward. "Bloody hell!"
A very loud American voice yelled, "Come on Grandad, get a shifty on!"
"I bloody hate him sometimes," England told France.
France spun the dodgem around to try to face their foe.
But they were being shoved to the edge of the track. "Turn the bloody thing round, France," England shouted.
"Don't shout at me!"
England lowered his voice, "Turn us round."
"Que?"
England was sure the Frenchman was just buggering around.
At the edge of the track, Russia watched, picking sweets out of his lead piping and chewing them, his eyes wide. Two kittens (presumably Boris and Borislav or something - the others were in England's car) peeped out of an oversize pocket.
England bloody hoped the other kittens weren't still in his Bentley. The last time they'd been left in there it had been a proper carry-on and it had taken a week to get rid of the smell.
He thought seriously about getting a ten stone Rottweiller that he could train to attack the Nations on command. He went into a little reverie as France tried to turn the bumper car around and failed and they were rammed repeatedly from behind by America, who yelled "Oh yeah!" each time.
Could his life get any worse?
Yes it could.
A whole hour later...
"I bet I'm going to need a neck brace," England said as they walked along the promenade.
"What a dump," America said. He was eating candy floss.
They had extricated themselves from the bumper cars after a brain-crashing hour of going round and round. The extra time being bought by Russia, who thought he was doing them a favour and seemed to find the whole thing utterly fascinating.
He strode along with them, looking at America's candy floss with a mixture of deep suspicion and jealousy. He would have liked to try it (if America would share, which he wouldn't) but thought it looked weird.
France was complaining bitterly about the lack of decent coffee bars.
England wished they were back at the cottage.
"I went on the waltzer before I found you two and it was rubbish. Didn't even go round," America was telling them into between mouthfuls of candy floss.
"Did you pay the man?"
"No."
"Bingo."
"Where's dead dude anyway?" America asked.
"Who?" England was bewildered.
"Henry," America replied.
"I presume he's in the tent where Russia and I left him."
"I liked him," Russia said.
England was disturbed by the past tense and wondered what on earth the Russian could have done to the dead King.
But before he could ask, America interrupted, "Can we go on the big wheel?"
England looked at him and said, "You go on, you don't need me. I'm not your keeper."
"Actually, you are," France reminded him.
They'd come to the end of the 'promenade' or 'prom' as England called it, which had confused America and the funfair loomed ahead of them. 'Fun Fair' emblazoned on a rusty sign that clanged in the wind. It reminded England of a rather creepy Stephen King movie he'd watched in the cinema once with America - the latter had thought they'd gone to see a superhero movie and had subsequently hid under a seat. England found it weird that the American, although loving alien movies, guns, explosions and war movies, could not cope at all with horror films. As it was, England had not been bothered at all - largely due to his upbringing with his brother. Anyone who could cope with the sight of Scotland's sporran first thing in the morning was not easily scared.
"That doesn't look like fun to me," France remarked looking at the sign.
"Come on, guys!" America yelled, all raw enthusiasm. England hated him sometimes.
They trudged in.
Twenty minutes later…
"I told you that youth did not look as if he knew what he was doing," England told America.
They were sat at the top of the Ferris wheel. Stuck being the operative word. Nothing was moving. There were no other customers.
France had told them he had a 'fear of heights' and stood many feet below looking up. Russia, stood next to France, looked almost small from their lofty height and was chewing thoughtfully on America's candy floss.
England waved down at France, who moronically waved back. If this wasn't irritating enough, Prussia and Denmark strolled up to France and Russia. Prussia was eating an ice cream - England and America briefly argued over what flavour they thought it was. Denmark was wearing a 'Kiss Me Quick' hat on top of his usual Viking helmet. It was not a good look.
England took out his phone and pressed the appropriate number, "Francis, you useless tart, ring the emergency services!" He said down the phone when France finally answered.
"Que?"
"What?"
"What?" France replied. "I'm sorry I do not understand. You're breaking up!"
America snatched the phone from him, "Dude, I'll deal with this," he told England. "Dude Francy-pants, where did Gil-dude get the ice cream?"
England shook his head, "No, you idiot! That's not important…" he said desperately. "And hurry up. I'm sure I only have limited credit!"
"Oh sorry… yeah… " America shook his head and smacked his forehead, "Dude… I mean what flavour is that ice cream? Cos Artie thinks it's vanilla but I'm sure it's strawberry."
"No! Tell him to call 999." England yelled.
"Right… Oh yeah, Francy-pants get me a 99." America added, nodding at England who was in a paroxysm of rage.
"You're going into a tunnel!" France said down the phone. He could be clearly seen pointing and laughing at the phone with Denmark.
"He says we're going into a tunnel," America said to England as France hung up.
"No we're not. We're on a bloody ferris wheel!"
America shrugged. "Maybe he means he's going into a tunnel?" he suggested.
England looked down at France who waved back at them.
"You're going a funny colour, dude," America told England.
England took several breaths and attempted to redial. "I'm out of bloody stupid credit! I'm going to kill…". He glared at his handset and considered embedding it in America's skull. "Ring someone on your mobile," England told America through gritted teeth.
"Can't. It's in the van with Sealand."
"Damn."
"I know I bet he's using all my data."
"Where are your CIA bodyguards when we need them?"
America shrugged. "I think they left to get coffee or ice cream or something."
"Surely someone will bloody call the emergency service?" England said.
England settled himself to wait it out and watch the morons below. One of them would have to rescue them at some stage, after all, he had the car keys.
England couldn't tell what was happening on the ground, but Russia was remonstrating with Prussia and Prussia was making some kind of gesture. It looked as if there was about to be hostilities over the said ice cream and then Russia ran after the Prussian.
A small bird, Gilbird, flew after them. England hadn't realised that Gilbird was actually staying with them but, as America pointed out, almost wisely, what with all the kittens around, it wasn't surprising as it could so easily turn into a Sylvester and Tweetie-pie episode.
Just as England was losing the will to live the ferris wheel started up again. Probably because Prussia and Russia ran through the small wooden hut (the latter chasing the former) containing the on/off switch and woke the 'controller' up.
England staggered off the contraption.
"That was fun," America announced.
"I bet that brought back memories of that time you and me were stuck on top of that rollercoaster at Blackpool for four hours," Denmark told England.
England shuddered. It had been nowhere near as bad.
It also began to rain.
"So much for blue sky…" someone said.
"Poo," France said.
Russia agreed with this sentiment and seemed to have forgotten his feud with Prussia, as someone had given him a bucket and spade.
Denmark was drunk.
It was then that they came across the crazy golf.
England knew, absolutely knew, he could beat all of them at crazy golf. He was the master at it. He'd won the Bangor Crazy Golf Over-50s Competition four years in a row, beaten only by a 75 year old called Marjorie. It still rankled. He would show them.
And everything would have been okay if America had not pleaded with him to go get an ice-cream, while the American paid the man for 'some balls and a stick'.
When England returned, it was carnage.
America had taken up Prussia's bet that he couldn't possibly get his head 'in there'. 'In there' being a miniature windmill on the crazy golf course.
Prussia was laughing.
Denmark was drinking beer and watching the whole thing with a look of drunk bewilderment.
Russia was attempting to free America by hacking his head off with his plastic spade.
Only France was doing anything of use. He was calling 999 and flirting with the caller, "Will you send some big men, mon cher?"
England looked at the situation and silently handed France a strawberry Cornetto in resignation.
An hour later on the way home…
England quietly seethed. The Bentley was covered in a mixture of cat hair and candy floss. And he would find out who had left four kittens in his prized Bentley with candy floss and why.
France sat in the footwell and ate his cornetto while looking at England with anxious eyes.
America sat in the back with Russia, his dignity severely wounded.
"You'd think my main men would have saved me," America said again. For the thirtieth time.
England assumed he was talking about the CIA.
England growled, "I expect they're fed up of your bloody stupid stunts." (In fact, the CIA had decided Wales was such a boring country nothing dangerous could possibly happen to America.)
"Da, it is good that you have me to look after you. I still think that if I was allowed to take off your head it would have been better," Russia said.
"He wouldn't have had a head!" England yelled. "How can that be better?"
"Oui," France said, licking his cornetto.
Russia didn't answer but looked at America.
"Anyway, we're home now," England said as the Bentley swept up the mud track leading to Primrose Cottage.
Which was no longer there.
"What in God's name?" England yelled, climbing out of the car.
Where once stood a 19th century stone-built cottage with thatched roof, was a pile of smoking embers.
The fire service, who had been too busy hacking America out of the miniature windmill to put the fire out, pulled up behind them.
Germany approached England, "It's not as bad as it looks," he told him, taking hold of the Englishman.
"There's nothing left!" England said, shaking off the German.
"It looks better," America remarked and then shrank back when he saw England's face.
"What's happened?" England asked one of the CIA men as they stepped out of the black van.
"He set me up with a pension plan," the man said, pointing at Sealand.
"No, I mean my cottage!"
"It has burned down, mon ami," France said sadly.
"I can see that!"
Italy burst into tears, "I'm so sorry!" He said. His chefs hat was askew and burnt and his eyebrows were singed.
Germany immediately placed himself between Italy and England, "Now before you go laying blame…"
"What did he do?" England snarled.
"Pizza, I think," Russia observed, poking around in the charred remains of the kitchen. He seemed wholly unbothered by the smoke and smouldering ruins. It probably reminded him of home.
"Is everyone accounted for, Sir?" A fireman asked England.
England looked round and did a quick head count. Sealand was sat in the black van selling his online wares. Italy had buried his face in Germany's coat and was crying. America was getting in the back of the black van and telling them to 'high-tail it back to London'. Russia was smiling and picking through the cottage. France was looking at England worriedly and crunching the wafer part of his ice-cream unnecessarily loudly. Denmark and Prussia were somewhere back in town harassing the locals.
He was glad, even though his Bentley was an unwarranted mess, that the cats had been in the car/Russia's coat pockets the whole time. But then realisation dawned on him that not everyone was accounted for.
"Oh no! Henry!" He cried and went into several spasms of grief. France slapped him.
"He's dead, mon cher. I doubt anyzing can hurt him."
Next Chapter...
Arthur wants answers...