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Driving Lessons
Chapter 58: Caravan of Love
America is typing on his phone.
America:
I don't know how long I've been here. Time has no meaning for me. A bit like Arthur when he's waiting for his teabag to brew. This place is hell. No Nation has ever suffered as I am right now. There is no way out. Trapped forever, we are fast running out of air and food. Italy is already on the floor crying. I haven't eaten in hours or could it be days. It may even be years. (Author's note - it's actually two hours.)
Germany was the calmest until he realised that Artie and Francy-pants stole his car. Then he went berserk. Then fat Russkie grabbed him and threatened him with his Nokia.
Man, that was just unbelievable, I was agod (Author's note - he probably means agog). I couldn't believe my eyes. I mean who has a Nokia?
I think the end is coming. What will happen to my country when they have no nation? What will become of Cali, Tex and Maryland? They will all miss me. Probably not New Mex though, I'm sure he hates me.
And now I've no signal and my phone battery after sending all those text messages to Artie dude has meant tha…
Here the missive ended - the last message from the great Nation of the United States of America. Or so he thought as his phone battery finally died.
He, Italy, Germany, Russia and Henry VI were indeed trapped. The caravan had fallen onto its side - the very side where the door was.
They had rung Hungary who, if the background noise was any indication, was in a disco or lunatic asylum or both. She sounded very drunk. She told them she would send her assistant 'Tinks' to aid them and then shouted 'Pol' and told Pol their predicament and then hung up whilst laughing uproariously.
"That sounds like a disreputable place," Germany said with a tut.
The others nodded but looked envious.
Italy rang his brother who hung up, after telling him that after Italy had bailed on him, he had been trying to make pizzas and deliver them and was now stuck on the Edgeware Road in a traffic jam for the last six hours. Italy sighed with the dramatic sadness known only to Italians.
Germany vowed never again to go into business with Italians.
Germany then rang his brother and found that Prussia and Denmark had returned to England's house and turned their entrepreneurial skills to turning the Englishman's lounge into a roller disco. Germany actually smiled, believing that this was divine retribution for wrecking his cars.
"They're charging ten pounds to get in," Germany told the others.
"Disgusting," Russia said.
America stared at him, "I didn't think you would stick up for England."
"That is far too much. I would not pay that." Russia said. "Perhaps five pounds." He added mysteriously giving everyone in the caravan the impression he would go rollerblading.
Germany raised an eyebrow.
Henry VI nodded as if he were going to join the big Russian.
Ringing the CIA outside had done precisely the square root of nothing. Apparently, they could not help as Sealand had ordered them not to. Why Sealand was now in charge of the CIA was not explained. Perhaps it was wholly to do with the stock markets or perhaps it was because the CIA were no longer outside but at the local bank with Peter Kirkland as he was withdrawing all his pocket money ready to make a run for it as he realised the money he had 'wisely' taken on behalf of the Nations and invested had been lost.
"We did say that banana cheese was a risky concept, Sir," one of the agents told Sealand.
"Shut up and hold out that briefcase. I need to book a flight out to Guatemala," Sealand said as he stuffed his pocket money into the briefcase. "They'll never find me there."
"I would just go to Slough," the other agent said.
"Nobody is going to rescue us," Italy wailed from the caravan floor.
"No, probably not. We will all die here and because we are Nations it will take thousands of years. Eventually someone, probably my sestra, will find our bones," Russia told them cheerily.
America stared at him in horror.
"This is your fault," Germany said to Russia.
Russia turned to him, "Wut?" He asked, a purple haze forming around him.
"I mean er… him!" Germany pointed at America.
"Me? What did I do? We were only doing that crazy Irish dancing."
"And now that has allowed England and France, those two reprobates to steal my car. Who knows what horrors they are subjecting it to?"
Russia turned to America, handed him two kittens from his huge coat pocket, "Here, hold my kittens," he said and then punched Germany. (The other kittens sat on the upside down table meowing with interest.)
"I have to say that little old lady was rather rude wasn't she?" England asked France.
France nodded.
"I mean, my money is just as good as hers!"
France nodded.
"Who cares about sodding afternoon tea anyway? They weren't very welcoming were they?"
France shook his head.
"I can get my own teabags and cucumber sandwiches. I bet their Victoria sponge isn't home-baked anyway!" England continued.
France shuddered, whether at the word 'home-baked' - which admittedly did often bring the Frenchman out in hives when spoken by England, or whether at the mention of afternoon tea.
"I do zinc, mon cher, zat ze mud on your back is so bad that they would not let us in. But we could have sat on newspaper as you suggested. That is what your Queen always makes us do."
England nodded. It was true. Whenever he and France had visited the Palace, they had been made to put newspaper on the chairs before sitting down.
They were currently sat in the BMW (a cigarette smouldering on the back seat un-noticed) looking out at the raging Irish Sea. It was raining, the sky a leaden grey. England was eating fish and chips. He regretted that they'd gone in that tea shop that advertised afternoon teas. The welcome could not have been more hostile if they'd been carrying the Black Death. In fact England and France had been in hostelries before carrying the Black Death and not been turned away. But the 1400s had been that type of Century. The women had taken one look at the mud and thrown them out.
He also regretted that he hadn't asked for salt and vinegar on his chips. He offered France a chip, partly in a flash of kindness and partly to annoy the Frenchman.
Francis shrunk back from him as if he'd offered him a gift-wrapped cow turd.
"Good chips these. The fish could have done with better batter," England said, munching happily. "It only needs a bit of ketchup…"
"Disgusting," France muttered, blowing smoke at England.
"I thought I could smell smoke," England replied, ignoring the wafts of smoke behind them. "Perhaps we should get back and see if the others are okay?"
France nodded and watched in muted admiration as England drove them down the road with his fish supper on his lap.
"Perhaps we'd better rescue those idiots. They sound very angry if my text messages are anything to go by," England said.
"Allemagne has threatened to throw me off a cross channel ferry with a brick tied to my feet," France replied, looking at his phone. He didn't sound at all bothered.
England nodded. "I think, my pervy friend, that Germany needs to calm down."
"Calm down, Germania. I mean I know you're upset and all that, but fighting Russkie dude isn't going to make things any better," America was saying.
Germany wasn't actually fighting as such. Germany was getting his arse kicked by Russia. After all, the Russian had to wile away the time somehow.
Italy was trying to pull Russia off him. "Don't hurt him, Mr Russia! I love him!"
"Did you know that there is now a knitting channel?" King Henry suddenly asked, sitting up in one of the overhead cupboards and promptly bumping his head.
"I am going to kill you!" Russia growled at Germany.
King Henry, thinking Russia was addressing him, hunkered back down.
"Please? Mr Russia! Luddy-kins is my bestest favouritest friend in all the world…" Italy pleaded.
"Who is Luddy-kins?" Russia asked, pausing suddenly.
"Me!" Germany gasped.
"Jeez.. Europeans…" America said.
Russia dropped Germany and wiped his hands. He seemed genuinely upset that he'd been hitting someone going by the name of 'Luddy-kins'.
Italy flung his arms around Germany and sobbed.
"Is there really a knitting channel?" Russia asked King Henry.
Germany closed his eyes and prayed for deliverance.
It came in the form of an unlikely source…
"Ah yer wee idiots, what do yer think yer doin'? My brother Bryn is going to kill yer for messing up his caravan!" Came a voice from outside.
Germany and Italy stared at each other.
Russia frowned, in the middle of trying to bully a ghost into telling him about the Knitting Channel, he looked up. "Is that my good friend, Hamish?"
"Uncle Hamish!" America yelled. "We're stuck in this caravan. Artie has left us here!"
They heard a scrabbling and then a white-face framed by shocking red hair appeared at the window - which was now the ceiling. "Yer a bunch of bawbags so yer are!" He yelled at them.
Italy stepped back, "Oh no, it's Scotland!"
"Uncle Hamish can you get us out?" America shouted.
There was actually no need to shout - the window was merely perspex and Scotland was merely four feet away from them.
"Is King Henry there with yer?"
"Which one?" America asked. "There's loads."
"There's only one," Germany told him.
"There isn't. There's at least twelve of them," America replied confidently.
"No, I mean there's only one here," Germany pointed at King Henry, who was cowering away from Russia as the big Russian interrogated him excitedly about where he'd heard the rumour about a 'BBC Knitting Channel'.
"If it's Henry 1, 2, 4, 7 or 8 then we're not rescuing you!" Scotland yelled.
They could all smell the whisky from where they stood.
"They should wear numbers," America muttered, looking at King Henry.
"There's been King Henrys of Germany," Germany said, straightening his jacket and brushing off Italy's attempts to check his bruises.
"Nobody cares," America told him. "Hey, Henry dude! Which one are you?" America yelled at King Henry.
"Wha…wha…what?"
America stood between Henry and Russia, who glared at him. "Are you number 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 or… how many are there? I know you're not number 8…"
Russia prodded America, "I was here first, America. You don't have experience of royalty like I do."
"I had a king once."
"No you didn't."
"I did! Tell him, someone! It was mad King George! Then I got my independence!"
"Because he was mad?" Italy looked genuinely confused.
"Because who would want to be one of Arthur Kirkland's colonies?" Germany said with a sigh. "The man's a lunatic. He wrecks cars."
"Aye, I agree. Although he's never wrecked one of my cars," Scotland told them.
"I'm Henry the Sixth, King of England!" Henry said and then added in a quieter voice, "…And France."
"Yeah yeah whatever," America attempted to pat him on shoulder and his hand passed through. "Oh I forgot you're dead, sorry," he said. He yelled up to Scotland, "He says he's number six!"
Scotland disappeared and they could hear some muttering above them as Scotland conversed with a person or persons unknown.
Scotland then suddenly reappeared and nodded, "Aye, King Malcolm here says that's alright."
"Right then, so let's do this!" America said and waited.
"I don't think Scotland is actually going to do anything," Germany said to America.
The younger Nation looked at him. "I thought he'd come to rescue us? Anyway, what's a bawbag?"
Scotland stared down at them, "I've texted my brother and I'm sure he'll be on his way!" He said.
"But we've done that!" Italy sobbed.
Germany nodded grimly.
"Aye well…" Scotland said. "I'll stay with ye til yer die and play a lasting lament on my wee pipes," he told them.
"Does this mean…?" Germany looked in horror as Scotland suddenly disappeared and re-appeared with a musical instrument.
"I'm afraid it does, Germania," America said and went and sat in a corner with his hands over his ears.
"I can't take this! Oh no…" Italy said and joined America. "I come from the land of Bellini, Puccini and Rossini and this makes me want to stick forks into my ears."
"I have no idea what you just said," America replied.
"Not the bagpipe. Not the Flowers of Scotland…" Germany said. "I appeal to you, Mr Scotland as a fellow Nation, in the name of the United Nations Security Council…"
But Scotland couldn't hear. The bagpipes had started up. Even Russia looked horrified and covered his ears.
"Can't we get out somehow?" Germany mouthed to Russia. "It's up to us now!" He added, looking at America who was rocking slowly backwards and forwards and Italy, never the bravest Nation anyway, who was clinging to the superpower.
Russia nodded grimly, "But even I cannot quite reach the window. Even I, the tallest of the Nations…" he looked at Germany then with interest. "However…"
"Ja! I know what you're thinking!" Germany said, but what happened next was not quite what he was thinking.
"Well here we are, Francis," England said as they pulled up to the caravan site.
The sign said 'Sunny Valley Caravan Site'. England decided that his brother, Wales, must have been having a laugh to call it that. It was neither sunny, nor in a valley.
"I think it's going to rain again, don't you?" England asked France. "It's gone very dark."
"Oui, I wonder if it is because there is a large dragon above us?" France asked.
But England wasn't listening, he was looking in horror at the sight of his brother, Scotland, playing the bagpipes whilst King Malcolm danced alongside him.
Emerging from the upturned caravan was his fellow Nations climbing through a window.
Germany jumped down from the caravan roof. He was holding his head and wincing. This gave England quite a lot of satisfaction.
"What's wrong, Germany?" England asked, hoping that the German would be too concussed to realise that the car was covered in mud.
The reason Germany had a huge lump emerging from the top of his head (like a cartoon) was because Russia, finding he couldn't quite reach the window above them to get out, had grabbed hold of Germany and used the German's head to break the window.
"This is not what I had in mind!" Germany protested as the Russian had picked him up and aimed him at the window above. "I could have given you a leg up or we could have used…" here he broke off as his head broke the window. "…A ladder…"
"Well that was stupid," America said, stepping away from the caravan. "… I mean I couldn't see a ladder in there." He was slightly miffed that he hadn't been the one to get them out.
Just as Scotland was about to launch into the third rendition of 'Flowers of Scotland', Russia tore the bagpipes from him and flung them into the stratosphere.
"Oh grazie, Signore Russia!" Italy said and hugged the big Arctic Nation.
"Oh Francis! You were right we do have a dragon following us!" England said as a large green dragon landed on the caravan and puffed out a stream of smoke.
"He has been following us for a while, mon cher," France said.
"What in God's name have you done to my car?" Germany said, coming round from near unconsciousness. His face was now very red - it had been white before. Having a Russian using your head to break a window kind of took all the colour out of your cheeks.
"Well, it's funny you should say that…" England began.
"We were going to take it to the car wash, but Angleterre gets nervous in car washes," France butted in.
"I thought you were afraid of dragons?" America asked, eyeing the dragon. "And you can't take a dragon into a car wash!"
"That's Idris," England said dismissively. "And we weren't going to take him into a car wash."
"That's bloody big, that's what that is," America said.
"He's a Welsh blue," England replied.
"But he's green," American argued.
"It's just a breed," England explained patiently.
"Hello Idris, do you know Mr Ping?" Russia asked, approaching the dragon.
"You've ruined yet another of my cars!" Germany yelled at England.
"Do you want a chip?" England asked him.
"No I do not!"
"I said we should have gone to the car wash!" France muttered to England.
"Ping, formerly known as Ssss…" here Idris stopped and shook his huge body. "Sorry, I'm not allowed to say his former name… Ping the Magnificent is looking for you, Kirkland," the dragon said. He ignored Russia, as only a 20 foot fire-breathing winged lizard could.
"Did he say anything about Mr China?" Russia asked.
"Oh bugger…" England said. Suddenly, the idea of going in a car wash with France seemed appealing. No-one would look for him there.
"He's still green," America said to England and stole a chip.
"I want to know why the bumper has come off my car and why it's covered in mud?" Germany persisted.
"Calm down," England told him. "France and I will take it to a local mechanic and clean it up…"
"Why're you covered in mud, dude?" America asked. "You look like you've been in the Somme."
Germany's left eye twitched uncontrollably.
Meanwhile Russia, the only person who could argue with a dragon, was arguing with a dragon. "But you must know where he is!" He shouted, waving his faucet pipe around. He was not averse to threatening a fire-breathing dragon.
England handed Germany the car key, "Here, I'm very sorry but France made me do it. He was about to drive off anyway and I thought I should go with him to make sure he didn't do anything stupid…" England explained. "He's still stupid of course," he added lamely. "But all's well that ends well," he said brightly.
That's when the car burst into flames.
Author's notes:
A bawbag is a Scottish insult - it basically means scrotum