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Driving Lessons Chapter 59 - Car Wash
"Is the dragon still out there?" England asked.
France shrugged in his annoying Gallic way. "I cannot see from here, mon cher," he replied.
Of course he couldn't. He was sat on the floor of the passenger side of the Bentley (still not being allowed on the seats). He also could not see outside because they were sat in a car wash. They had been in the said car wash for at least two hours.
It had been a good idea at the time. But England had regretted it within about five minutes. But at least no-one would think of looking for him there. And when the trail had gone cold, they could leave and head home. In fact, England seriously thought about following Sealand into exile in Slough. Nobody would look for him there. Germany had pretty much declared war on him. Or at least had told him that he was a 'poor excuse for a Nation' while looking at him as if he resembled a particularly nasty carpet stain.
"You know, mon cher. I zink it would be very kind of you if you let me sit on ze seat," France said, blowing smoke in England's face.
England shuffled in his seat, "Be grateful I let you smoke!" He said. "Especially after what you did to Germany's car. Besides you're still covered in mud."
"So are you."
"Yes, but this is my car and this is my mud," England said.
"I could go and get you a cup of tea from ze service station," France said in a wheedling tone.
England twiddled with the radio - the bloody foam rollers of the car wash were playing havoc with the cricket coverage. "Tea?" He brightened instantly.
"Oui," France said. Despite knowing England for centuries he was still amazed at how excitable the Englishman could get at the idea of a hot beverage.
"Well be quick about it and make sure that bloody dragon doesn't see you," England said and switched off his phone before it could ping him any more obscene and quite frankly threatening text messages from the likes of Germany, Italy et al.
France shuffled out of the car and scuttled out of the car wash - the rollers had stopped moving now - in an odd crab-like like movement and was lost to view.
England sat back and thought about his life choices. All in all, things really were looking quite shit.
After Germany's car had burst into flames (I mean who could possibly have foreseen that?) - England had said, "Of course we will take full responsibility," and then jumped into his Bentley and sped off down the road.
France had run after him, his flip-flops flapping comically, shouting "Wait for me, mon cher!"
Unfortunately, he had. He'd stopped at the end of the dirt track, opened the passenger door and France had jumped in.
"This doesn't mean I like you," England had said. "And get off the seat."
He had then had to put his foot down as German ran after them, shaking his fist. He'd almost caught up too, in fact the German's hand had caught hold of the rear passenger door handle but France had opened his window and blown a kiss at him which had made the German fall over in disgust/surprise.
Thinking about it now, England had thought hiding in a car wash had seemed like a good idea. A dragon would never look for them there. Why was Mr Ping looking for him? Why was Mr Ping instructing Idris the Welsh dragon to pass on messages? England suspected it was something to do with Mr Panda who was surely behind the whole destroy the world thing despite what everybody said and that Mr Kumajiro (now on a 'most wanted list') and Mr Panda were out to kill him. The 'cute' bear act had never fooled England.
While he was ruminating and despairing over the England Cricket Team's performance and tutting along with the commentator (tutting was one of England's most common indicators of displeasure), France was having a 'to-do', as England would call it, in the service station.
"A cup of tea, sil vous plait," France said politely. Politeness he knew was highly prized here in Britain, more so than wealth (which was looked down upon), good looks (ditto) and good teeth.
"We don't do cups," the Welsh person behind the counter told him in a bored manner.
France was used to the bad service in Britain's establishments. It was barely any better in France. What usually appalled him was the fact that they never showed much interest in France's attire, and were often laissaiz-faire about his Frenchness - usually the opposite. France found that Brits were appallingly ignorant of other countries' accents and frequently mixed French up with Spanish, Italian or, horror of horrors - German. They never realised that he was from the great 'Le France'.
He often told them this and found that they were either completely uninterested or, worse proceeded to tell him that they'd been to Boulogne on a 'booze trip'. France could never understand the Brits' enthusiasm for travelling to his gorgeous country for the sole purpose of going to a hypermarket to buy cheap alcohol and then going home.
"No cups? My friend has to have a cup. How will he drink it?" France asked, horrified. He could only guess at England's displeasure if he brought back a beverage not in a china cup.
"We use those over there," the bored attendant pointed at a stack of polystyrene cups.
"He doesn't like them. Don't you have a mug at least? A proper receptacle for your wonderful national drink?" France asked.
"Are you being funny?" The man finally looked at France and saw a seedy-looking middle-aged man in too-tight mud-encrusted jeans, an equally mud-splattered poncho and flip-flops. In fact he'd never seen anyone so covered in mud who wasn't in a mud bath.
"I think I am actually," France replied, leaning on the counter.
"Is this for that weirdo sat in the car wash?" The man said.
"Actually it is and yes he is," France replied. "Are you free later for a candlelight dinner?" France asked the man. He found usually this question directed the mind more.
The man hurriedly began filling a mug emblazoned with 'Swansea Rovers' with tea. No doubt to get rid of the weird Frenchman.
"Ah zis country is so very very odd," France drawled. "Do you sell Gauloises?"
"Galoshes?" The man asked, misunderstanding.
"I suppose, if zat is what you call zem here," France said, thinking of his beautiful French cigarettes being called something akin to waterproof outerwear.
The man shook his head and dumped the mug of tea in front of France.
"Ah never mind," France said and sighed as if it were the most terrible thing in the entire world.
"That's two pounds eighty pence."
"Your conversation has been worth more zan zat," France said, as he gave him a 5 euro note.
"Can you remove your hand, please?" The man asked as France's hand lingered on his. "And we don't take euros."
"But you could exchange it, non?"
"For what?"
"Ze English money non?" France said.
"No we don't do exchanges."
France thought they didn't do much at all in his view, "I can persuade you I am sure…." France said in a faintly sinister manner put his hand down his pants. (Usually when he did this he found England would immediately back down on his demands and assumed that all Englishmen would do the same.)
The man misconstrued this immediately, "Are you threatening me with a weapon?" He asked shakily.
France giggled, "You could say I have a weapon, oui," he said.
And that was how France found himself unwittingly the perpetrator of an 'armed' robbery.
"I wonder if my hair would look better if I parted it to the left?" England mused to himself, looking in the rear view mirror at himself. He hadn't changed his hairstyle since around 1515. It might be time he actually tried to grow it long again. Although he did disapprove of such untidy looks (his own hair was not in any way shape or form in a 'style'), he thought he needed a change.
He wondered vaguely where France had got to. The idiot Frenchman had left to get a drink over twenty minutes ago. Surely it shouldn't take this long to get a cup of tea? Unless of course the moron had been distracted by the sight of the pure plethora of biscuits and other snacks for sale. (England was often appalled when he'd visited France due to the lack of appropriate biscuit foodstuffs. To be clear he visited the country, not the Nation - he rarely visited France's home - it was den of iniquity.)
"Bloody hell, I hope he's not browsing the biscuit aisle and talking guff about bloody French Lu biscuits being better than good old custard creams again," England muttered to himself. He opened the door in-between the car wash rollers going over his car (he'd shoved over forty tokens into the machine to ensure that he could stay in the car wash all afternoon).
When he dodged the car shampoo and stepped out into the daylight, blinking as if he had just emerged from a bunker, he was greeted with a sight that made him almost dodge back. And he would have as well if a policeman hadn't collared him and said, "Did you see the robber entering the service station, sir?"
"Oh bugger," England muttered as he surveyed the throng of South Wales police force encircling the service station, the helicopters overhead and now, even worse, the TV cameras.
Back at 'Happy Valley' Caravan Site...
"He's not going to get away with this!" Germany was saying again. For the hundredth time as he looked at the burnt-out remains of his BMW. The South Wales Fire and Rescue Service had arrived promptly and extinguished the fire, leaving a burnt-out skeleton of what was once a fine example of Germany engineering. Just two hours in England's possession had reduced it to a tangled wreck of jagged burnt metal.
"Germany I think that England and France should be told off!" Italy told him, nodding. "Now I'm going to make some pasta for all of us…"
"I'm making haggis!" Came a Scottish accent inside the caravan. For some reason, the drunk Scottish Nation, having seen his brother drive off in Germany's car, had shrugged and proceeded to clamber into the caravan and begin cooking. He was so drunk he thought he was in his own Highlands castle. King Malcolm had passed out on top of a protesting King Henry.
America was chasing down the lane after the fire engine, "Take me with you! I can be a firepersonman!" He yelled after them and then gave up as they turned the corner disappearing from sight. He jogged back to his fellow Nations looking forlorn.
"That is very sad," Russia said, shaking his head.
"I have my own axe and everything," America said sadly.
"I'm going to make bolognese!" Italy announced and disappeared back into the upturned caravan and began arguing with Scotland. "Bolognese and haggis don't go together!" Italy could be heard sobbing at Scotland, who belched in his face.
"I'm going to hunt down England and tear his head off," Germany said resolutely.
Russia took hold of Germany by the lapels of his nice shiny German-made suit. "Don't do that, it would not be a good idea to do that. My day would not be improved if you did that," Russia growled.
"Erm…" Germany suddenly found himself in a cold sweat. "Why?" He asked in a squeak. "I didn't know that you and England were friends."
Russia dropped him as if he were hot, "Nyet, we are not!" Russia looked appalled at the idea. "I think he a traitorous potato," he said incomprehensibly.
Germany frowned. He'd never heard of anyone being called a 'potato' before but perhaps it was a particular Russian insult.
"But he is still married to my sister, Bela." Russia explained. "So that makes him family…"
"Hell yeah!" America said, "That's punishment enough!"
Russia looked at him balefully but did not disagree. He turned back to Germany, "Plus he has the rest of the Coronation Street DVDs I need to borrow."
"You don't need them now you have the Knitting Channel!" King Henry called from within the caravan, still stuck underneath his fellow ghostly king (he was stuck underneath King Malcolm, not the caravan).
Russia's violet eyes seemed to light up, "But does the television in there have freesatview?"
"It's actually called freesat," America corrected him.
Russia ignored him. What could the American possibly know? He was just a child.
There was a pause, then a tentative, "Yes. I'm watching repeats of something called Downton Abbey," King Henry replied. "King Malcolm could you get off me now, please?" There was a snore in answer.
Russia shoved America and Germany out of the way to get to the caravan. "It's my favourite!" He shouted. "I just need my vodka and some beetroot soup and I will be set for the evening."
"Wild," America said. "Is that the loserville series Prussia got obsessed about that time he spent that summer working in a Tea Shop in Huddersfield?" America asked Germany.
"I never believed any of that," Germany said, straightening his tie and punching some numbers into his phone.
America nodded. "Nah you're probably right. I never believed there was ever a place called Huddersfield. Totally made up."
"Taxi please to a place called…" here Germany looked at America, decided such a cretin could not know where they were so strode up to the caravan and asked Russia, who he deemed slightly more competent (by not much). "Where are we, Ivan?"
"I am in a caravan trying to find out whether Lady Mary really did steal those silver teaspoons and somebody keeps interrupting me…" came a threatening voice from inside.
"Quite right…" came King Henry's voice.
"We're in Lochmahaggis!" Scotland yelled back. Surely a made-up name, Germany thought. But who knew? Scotland sounded drunker than that time he'd gone on a six-week drunken bender with Prussia and the pair had woken up naked in the middle of a dog show in Milwaukee. Thus, Germany decided to ignore his advice.
"We're in Silly Valley or something like that. Silly Valley Caravan Park Site," America told him confidently. America was of the opinion that if you said something with enough conviction it eventually became true.
Germany looked at him skeptically. "Happy something Caravan Site," he said to the voice in the telephone. "Please don't send anyone on your books named Gilbert or Matthias who may also go by the names Pru and Den. Please." He did not want wake up in Milwaukee, Peru or worse, Huddersfield.
"Where are you going anyway?" America asked.
"I'm going to kill…" Germany began to say and there was a warning cough from inside the caravan. "…I'm going to give England a good telling off and present him with a bill or at least have him committed to a psychiatric ward."
America stared at him and then said finally, "Cool, bro. I think he should go in a cycle war. Although he's not very good on a bicycle. He might need stabilisers."
"He definitely needs stabilisers," Germany muttered to himself as a taxi made its way up the track.
"Luddy! Be back by six o' clock and pasta time!" Italy called out.
"Shut up, little Italy," Russia could be heard saying. "I can't hear what Lord Grantham said about the spoons… I missed it now! Did they find them? Did they? I think they should be shot. I would take an axe to their heads…"
Italy jumped out of the caravan and caught hold of Germany, "Take me with you to tell off Mr England! Mr Russia scares me and Mr Scotland keeps threatening me with his sporran."
"He scares us all, Italy…" Germany said with a sigh as the three Nations got in the taxi.
"How do you know where to find Artie dude, dude?" America asked as the taxi pulled away. Behind them, a small fire had started in the caravan as Italy's bolognese sauce caught fire. Scotland could be heard trying to extinguish it with Russia's vodka. This seemed not to go down too well as Scotland was suddenly ejected bodily from the caravan.
Germany turned his attention to the taxi driver and away from the chaos behind him. That wasn't his affair. He really hoped Wales, England's brother, and the owner of this abysmal caravan site, was a hard-nut and would kick Russia's butt. He doubted it though.
"I think we should head towards the wailing sirens, helicopters and evidence of military vehicular activity," Germany said, answering America's question.
America nodded, his eyes bright. "Coolio."
"You mean like that there?" Italy said, pointing upwards as a police helicopter sped overhead.
"Follow that helicopter," Germany said to the taxi driver.
Author's Note:
Sorry for the delay in updating this story - been a bit busy. Had the song 'Car Wash' playing while I typed this...