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Driving Lessons Chapter 56 - Bohemian Rhapsody
England sat at the table and looked out of the window. At least it had stopped raining. That was the only optimistic thought in his head.
That, and someone had put the kettle on.
Nothing else was looking up at all.
"Do we actually have teabags?" England asked morosely, his head in his hands.
"Camomile…" America answered.
"That's not tea!"
"Well it says here, camomile tea, so…"
"Oh please, behave!" England retorted.
"Honestly, dude. You need to cheer up. It's not all that bad," America told him. The American was weirdly cheery.
"Not all that bad? Not all that bad? My bloody cottage burned down!"
"Yeah but I think…"
"I don't care!" England yelled at him.
America looked severely put out. He was still eating candy floss.
"And stop eating that muck. You'll have a sugar high."
Having rescued nothing but a few mugs, Russia's vodka and Germany's paperwork (which, amazingly, was unmarked) from the ashes of the cottage, England was feeling less than happy.
Above England's head was a pair of socks. This was because someone had strung a string from one wall to the other and hung their wet socks on it. Wall was actually a loose term, as they were sat in a 10 foot by 4 foot touring caravan. This was kindly lent to them by England's brother, Wales. Bryn Jones (or 'Uncle Bryn' as America kept calling him) had rolled up in his tractor (why he had a tractor, England didn't ask) and rescued them from all sleeping in a tent or risk bothering the local B&B owners.
England wasn't sure whether he should thank his brother though. There was barely room to swing a cat. When he'd said this at first, there'd been a stunned silence and everyone had stared at him. Then he'd realised that they did have cats with them. He was then accused of being cruel to all felines.
He'd denied this of course.
"I'll be going then now, Arthur. Have a good holiday," Bryn said as he headed out of the door, wiping his wellington boots on the mat as he left. Why he wiped his boots as he went outside, England had no idea.
"Yes… thanks…" England said, without enthusiasm.
"And try not to burn this down," Wales added as he slammed the door.
England didn't answer him.
"Wow Uncle Bryn is really bad-tempered. He doesn't look very fishy though does he?" America asked. His eyes were wide like dollar pieces (England didn't know how big dollar pieces were but probably pretty big) and he was bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet.
"Fishy?" England wondered what weird and wonderful drugs America could be on.
"To say he's the personification of Whales. Does that include blue whales and humpbacks?"
"Wales. You fool, Wales!" England yelled. "And whales aren't fish. They're mammals," he told America.
Wales popped his head back round the door and said in his sing-song voice, "Do you know Russia is still on your roof?"
"Yes," England answered wearily. "He's watching for the enemy."
"Like Snoopy." America said incomprehensibly.
King Henry slept on, still snuggled incongruously in a 'Monsters Inc' sleeping bag. The medieval king had slept through the whole of the fire and had been shoved into an overhead cupboard. This would have upset the royal personage quite a lot if he'd been conscious. England thought he must have given the King rather too much cough medicine.
Wales looked around the caravan, "Well I hope you'll all be comfortable here," he said, looking at the king finally and left.
"Well he's funny," America said and switched the kettle on again.
"Stop messing with the kettle," England told him.
"There's nothing else to do!" America replied.
"I thought you were buggering off back to London anyway?"
"My CIA dudes say that I have to stay here because nothing ever happens in Wales and that means I'll be safe," America said, chewing on his candy floss.
"Safe from what?" England asked, astounded.
America didn't answer as the door was flung open and Italy came in. "I found my big pasta pot!" he said triumphantly. "Germany had it in his car! By the way, your brother is crazy, England!"
"I know that. And why is that uptight German sat in his car anyway?"
"Because this place is way too small for all of us!" America said and bounced around. "I feel like dancing! Dance with me, Feli!"
"Well…" Italy began to say but was soon bouncing up and down in the caravan with America while the latter Nation sang 'Born in the USA!'.
"Of course you were born in the USA. You're bloody America," England muttered and hurried out. It was always best to make oneself scarce when America was in 'Springsteen mode'. It was only a matter of time before Alfred got out his microphone aka hairbrush or used a frying pan as a makeshift guitar and began singing 'Born to Run' or some such foolery.
Outside, things were no better.
Germany was resolutely fuming in his brand new BMW - this car was a replacement for the Mercedes that England and France had accidentally wrecked with an antique bureau. England still felt some satisfaction at that.
The German wasn't actually fuming. To England's disgust, the German didn't smoke.
England approached him and was delighted to see that France was stood at the German's driver's window begging him if he would take him for a driving lesson.
Germany utterly refused to open the window but was pretending to read a road atlas instead.
"You can't fool us, Germany," England called, tapping on the glass, "Open the door! And besides you have the atlas upside down."
"Da, it is true," came a voice above and behind them.
The sight of Russia sat on top of the caravan was alarming enough. The fact that he also seemed to be holding a Kalishnikov was even more alarming.
"Where did you get that weapon from?" England asked nervously.
"This?" Russia asked, waving it around most carelessly England thought.
"Yes, that."
"Down at the seafront while you were stuck on that Ferris wheel," Russia answered.
"Really?" England had no idea there were arms dealers down at the seafront. He would have to re-evaluate his whole outlook on Welsh seaside villages.
"Da." Russia said and aimed the weapon at England and pressed the trigger.
England flung himself to the ground.
He was hit.
France peered around the car at him. "What is wrong, mon cher?" He asked.
England stood up, brushing mud off his knees and looked at the projectile that had hit him. A tennis ball. "It fires tennis balls?" he asked.
"You are very jumpy, mon cher."
"I hope that didn't hit my car!" Germany said, winding down his window.
"Of course it fires tennis balls!" Russia said. "Who would sell a real gun at a funfair? You English are crazy."
England growled to himself.
"Please Allemagne, please take me on a driving lesson! I promise, mon cher that if you do I will teach you all about l'amor," France begged Germany.
Germany quickly closed his window again.
England tapped on the glass, "Yes please take him, Germany. And he will teach you l'amor…" England shuddered.
Germany ignored them both and turned up the volume on the car radio.
"Eet eez terrible, how will I ever learn to drive, non?" France whined.
England shrugged and tapped on the glass rhythmically, "Germany, perhaps if you take him on a lesson, Russia will stop hitting your car?" England said.
"But he's not hitting my car!" Germany hissed at him, after winding down the window.
England waved at Russia, who 'reloaded' and fired at Germany's car.
"My new car! I just got this from the dealership this week!" Germany yelled as a ball hit the roof.
Russia's aim was rather good, England thought.
"I was aiming for England," Russia said, reloading. "But I don't like German cars either."
"Charming…" England muttered. He was caught between the insanity of being used for target practice by a mad Russian, or going back into the caravan from which an awful screeching could be heard. America's own version of 'Springsteen Live in Wales' in full flow.
England hurried to the black van parked a couple of hundred yards behind the caravan.
"Hello?" He asked, as he opened the door.
He found a large man in a smart suit, blocking his way. "What do you want, Kirkland?" The man asked.
"Bloody CIA…" England muttered. "Is my son, Peter, in there?"
"You can't come in without an appointment," the man said.
"I'm his bloody father!"
The man shut the door in England's face and England could hear talking within the vehicle.
Then the door opened and the man said, "You have two minutes. He's waiting for the markets to open in New York."
"Peter? Are you okay? I know this is a bit rubbish staying here in this hovel and I should have checked in with you earlier…" England began to say as he boarded the van. He then realised that within the van, Peter was living in hi-tech luxury.
There were at least six screens, one showing Bloomberg, another showing the markets in Hong Kong, China, Taiwan etc, another showing a shopping channel that seemed to marketing sailor suits and yet another with a cartoon channel on it.
"What in God's name?"
"Hurry up, Dad. I don't have all day. I'm waiting for a call back from the CEO of Samsung," Sealand told him.
"Eh?"
"Dad, I'm having a busy day. My stock has fallen 20 per cent. Do you understand what that means?"
"What?"
"Clive, get rid of him," Sealand waved at one of the CIA men.
"No! Wait! I was just checking on you. Has he been good?" England asked 'Clive' who England had thought of as 'Marcel'.
"He reinvested my pension portfolio. It's now worth five times as much," the man said.
This meant absolutely nothing to England. He might as well have been talking in German.
"Anything else, Dad? You should really get rid of that house of yours in London while the property market's up." Sealand said helpfully.
"That house has been in my possession for two hundred years. I'm quite attached to it!"
"Yeah well…"
"Are you running some kind of international company or something?" England said, looking round, finally catching on. Sealand was sat in an office chair, drinking from a Starbuck coffee mug, a percolator in the corner bubbled away and there was a fax machine throwing out paper.
"You always said I should do more!" Sealand protested.
"I said you should do more homework!" England said, exasperated. "I shall be telling Finland and Sweden about this," England said. He hoped they'd take the child off his hands.
Sealand shrugged and said, "This is homework! We were told in Maths to look at market forces."
"I doubt that very much. When I last looked at your maths homework book you were supposed to be doing ratios."
Sealand shifted uneasily in his seat and then his phone rang, the ringtone was the theme from the Godfather. He picked it up with some relief. "You have to leave, Dad," he told him, his hand over the mouthpiece.
England was about to protest but was propelled out by 'Clive'.
"But… but…" he said and then gave up as he was 'helped out' by Clive onto the muddy field.
"I say!" He said as he straightened his jacket and tie. An Englishman should never be thrown out of a black van in the middle of a grassy field. Particularly when there was a German around to judge.
Germany was shaking his head. England was unsure if it was because of his parenting skills or at France's pleas.
Suddenly, the German jumped out of his car, shoved France out of the way and stormed towards the caravan.
England called out, "I wouldn't if I were you, Germany. He doesn't like being interrupted in the middle of one of his Springsteen concerts." England had remembered when he'd walked in on Alfred singing 'Dancing in the Dark' or should that be 'Shouting in the dark'. England had walked in, switched the light on and told him to stop making a bloody row. The American had sulked for hours.
"Queen," Germany said over his shoulder to him, while opening the caravan door.
"I bet your pardon?" England said, utterly appalled.
"I zink he means zat you are a queen, mon cher," France said, diligently picking the lock on Germany's BMW.
What Germany meant was that the noise coming from the caravan was actually Queen the band. Or more precisely, America and Italy 'singing' a Queen song.
"I'm just a poor boy, nobody loves me!" America sang at the top of his very loud voice.
"He's just a poor boy from a poor family!" Italy sang back.
"Spare me my life from this minestrone!" America sang incomprehensibly.
"Easy come, easy go, will you let me go?"
"Wish me luck, I will not let you go!" Italy mis-sang.
"Beezlebub had a devil for a sideboard for me! For me! For me!" America yelled.
Russia, stood outside, his eyes as wide as saucers and said to France, "I once met Beezlebub at a Demon Sub-Committee meeting and he stole all the biscuits." France was too busy picking the lock on Germany's car to listen.
Germany's agitation grew, and not noticing France's thievery, he entered the caravan which was now rocking from side to side. "Italy! Are you okay? What is happening? You sound as if you are in pain!" He called, panicking.
Inside the caravan, Italy and America were bouncing up and down - both high from copious amounts of candy floss - and yelling at the top of their voices.
"Psst, Angleterre," France hissed.
England turned to the BMW and stared in horror as France slithered onto the driver's seat which was still warm from Germany's indignant bottom.
"Want to go for a ride?" France said and winked.
England shuddered. Nothing, short of a disaster would impel him to get in that car.
"Germany Germany, will you do the fandango?" Italy and America 'sang'.
Clearly, Germany would not. Because England could hear him telling them he wouldn't.
Russia shook his head, "He really should," he said and followed the German into the caravan with his 'gun'.
It was probably the Russian's extra weight that made the caravan tip over. Or perhaps America's and Italy's attempts to get Germany to 'fandango'. Many theories were put forward afterwards.
England didn't wait to find out.
"We can go for fish and chips!" France said to England as Wales' caravan tipped on its side like a floundering cod.
England jumped in the car, saying a prayer as he did so, and the BMW sped off, the back wheels spinning in the mud.