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Driving Lessons Chapter 61 - White Wedding
"Your Majesty?" England bowed.
"Ah Arthur what happened to you? You look… have you been ill?" The Queen asked him.
He was stood in an 'audience room' at Windsor Castle feeling very improperly dressed (still covered in mud).
"No ma'am. I've had a rather unaccountably long day."
"You could have at least had a wash. You're leaving bits of mud all over the Axminster."
"I hear you burned down your brother's cottage?" The Duke, who was sat next to Her Majesty, asked.
England gritted his teeth, sat down and then hurriedly stood back up when he realised that the Queen had raised an eyebrow at him. He forgot he wasn't allowed on the best chairs. "Well actually…"
"And Germany's car…?" The Duke continued with a mischievous look on his face that England felt like slapping off.
"That wasn't entirely my fault," England said, wondering where they were getting all this information.
"Anyway get yourself cleaned up please and wear a tie," Her Majesty continued.
"I always wear a tie!" England exclaimed.
The Queen said, "And please don't bring any more dead kings into my house!" She then rang a little bell.
This was obviously England's cue to go. He remembered when the Queen had been just a little girl and he'd bought her an ice cream (although he'd then accidentally tripped her up and it had gone in her hair) or that time when he'd spooked her pony she'd been riding on by demonstrating how bagpipes should be played. It had been four miles before they'd caught up with the thing.
He left, with as much dignity as he could. Bloody upstart bosses, he thought.
"Come on, Francis. And no you're not my plus one," he said to France who was sat outside in the corridor, picking at the seams on a priceless Queen Anne chair.
"Ah mon cher. I do love a wedding," France said sadly.
"Her Majesty requests your presence, Monsieur Bonnefoy," a courtier said emerging from the room as the two Nations were ambling down the corridor.
"Moi?"
"Ha! You're in bloody trouble Francy-pants, my old perverted friend!" England jeered.
The courtier looked England up and down, "Actually Her Majesty wishes to take tea with Mr Bonnefoy and 'catch up'."
"Well screw me sideways with a Jaffa cake and call me Brenda!" England exclaimed and watched as France skipped into the room he'd just departed and the door slammed in his face.
A series of guffaws could be heard from within.
"Damn him!" England exclaimed. He'd forgotten that the Queen actually liked France and his 'bon viveur'. England found this inexplicable.
"I suppose," England said to the courtier, "That you're going to show me to my room?"
"Good God no! You're not staying here, Sir. Not after last time. Her Majesty's orders."
And thus England found himself staying at the only available Bed & Breakfast in Windsor - 'Castle View'. Which did not have a view of the Castle at all.
Later…
England sat in a very hard single bed in a pair of pyjamas borrowed from one of the Princes (despite his aversion to wearing borrowed nightwear, he couldn't bear to go to bed in his nuddy-pants as France called them). The horrid pink candlewick bedspread was pleasingly covered in dried mud as England had been unable to have a bath.
The bathroom had been as cold as Russia's house and the plumbing like something from the 1640s. The bath taps being so complicated with various worn instructions on them that England had decided that one must have a degree in engineering to work them and had given up, particularly as all he could produce from them was water that variated between so cold that ice had formed at the bottom of the huge porcelain bath or so hot jets of steam had scalded his eyebrows.
He now sat trying to get the remote control to work but had found that after pressing every button on it, there was only one channel - BBC2 - and this showed the upcoming wedding on a running loop as if it were some blockbuster movie. He gave up. He had missed Coronation Street, he could only hope that Russia had recorded it for him.
He couldn't even make himself a cup of tea as he found it impossible to fill the kettle from the tap as the tap was too low to fit the kettle beneath it. He instead munched his way through some out of date custard creams.
He realised he did not have a decent suit for the wedding, there was nowhere to get his own soiled suit to the cleaners and he'd forgotten to ask the particular Prince from whom he'd borrowed the stripy cotton Jim-jams for a appropriate pants and jacket. He considered texting one of his fellow Nations (England did not have any human friends apart from a man named 'Bob' with whom he'd struck up a friendship in a particularly long Post Office queue). But he knew that they would all, without a doubt, laugh at his predicament. He also did not trust them not bring him something completely inappropriate. He wasn't going to be caught out like that again - wearing an Emu costume to an investiture at the Palace had not gone down well. Besides, there wasn't even a trouser press in the room.
The next morning, England emerged from his B&B after a superbly uncomfortable night tossing and turning and worrying about the borrowed pyjamas and how he was going to find a suit. The breakfast had been nothing to write home about either. (However, there was only Prussia and Denmark to write home to, but England didn't know that.) England had had to complain vociferously about the lack of fried bread.
But now he felt rather more the thing. The streets were thronged with people dressed in Union Jacks or alternatively Stars and Stripes flags (the latter upset him, he had no idea why they were waving American flags?). But he had a plan. There was always a charity shop selling clothes and that's where he headed, with the borrowed pyjamas under his arm in a borrowed Tesco carrier bag.
Forty minutes later, England emerged from an Oxfam shop, wearing a tight tartan suit. It was the only one in the shop that was a near enough fit. (He'd been delighted to find a changing room and had tried on several suits - including one that looked like it belonged in the 1960s and was probably one he'd donated himself.). He'd also been delighted it had cost him just ten pounds. He felt remarkably better, particularly as he'd asked the bemused lady in the shop if he could use her facilities to have a wash. She'd evidently thought he was one of the homeless, so he'd tried to explain and then given up. She didn't believe he was actually going to the wedding and knew the groom. She seemed to think he was deluded.
So he sprung out of the shop, feeling rather dapper, wrapped up the pyjamas in some snazzy wrapping paper to give to the happy couple as a wedding present - it was after all the brother of the groom who had lent them so that was alright and set off down towards the Castle. He really hoped that Her Majesty was putting on a good buffet of pork pies and scotch eggs.
At least he didn't have any dead kings with him. Thankfully, his mobile phone's battery had died so he now couldn't receive or send any text messages and was thus totally oblivious to the events unfolding around him.
"I have an invitation!" England told the bemused looking policeman at the gate to the Castle. "I know I don't look like I do, but I do. Go on, ask Her Majesty. She issued it to me personally." He'd been stood there for half an hour arguing his case. "Ring Lascelles, the Queen's Private Secretary. He got me out of jail himself yesterday."
The policeman looked at the man in front of him in the horrid 1950s style tartan suit that smelt 'odd'. He turned to his colleague, who was watching with a disinterested air while eating a digestive biscuit. "What do you think, Bob?"
"Dunno. Has anyone recognised him? He's not famous is he?"
"He looks a bit familiar…"
England got this all the time. Most of his fellow countrymen often thought that their Nation looked 'familiar', similar to Russians finding their Nation terrifying or Americans mistaking their Nation for their best friend.
"You weren't on that Britain's Got Talent?"
"I most certainly was not!" England exclaimed.
"Are you Gary Barlow?" The policeman ventured.
He was about to remonstrate more when a chauffeur-driven limousine (pink) went past and the gates opened. Inside, on the back seat and waving regally was France sat between the two Princesses of York. He looked entirely at home.
"Francis! You bugger!" England yelled and then seeing that the policemen were probably going to arrest him, he hurried off to rethink his options.
He wandered the streets of Windsor. At least he was amongst his people, he thought, even if they were completely mad on that particular day. Old ladies dressed top to toe in the Union Jack. Men in sleeveless vests with cans of Heineken lager (England cringed, one should not attend a wedding in a sleeveless vest, however tenuous the invite and however far away from it you were, he thought). Scores of excited schoolchildren waving flags. Giggly women in ridiculous fascinators (whatever they were). And most perplexing an alarming number of Americans.
The latter detail flummoxed him. He knew Americans liked the Royal Family (Alfred found it all very amusing and weird like a soap opera) but he'd never seen so many in this part of Britain before.
He paused outside a teashop, wondering if he should go in for sustenance and ask if he could charge up his phone to ring Alfred when he saw the said American sat inside eating a scone and drinking tea. This made England so confused he pulled when he should have pushed the door to get in, causing the people in the shop to stare at him as if he were a lunatic.
He hoped America was alone. He wasn't. But at least he wasn't with Germany and Italy. He was dining with Russia. The two superpowers looked incongruous sat in the teashop sharing an afternoon tea (it wasn't yet afternoon so England heartily disapproved) of dinky sandwiches cut in triangles, scones and cups of tea.
"Yo! Artie! Did you get out of jail then?" Alfred yelled.
"Why in God's name are you here?" England asked.
"Wedding, dude," Alfred replied as if that was obvious.
Someone told them to shush.
"I thought this would be like the Russian tea shops we have in Moskva, but it is not," Russia said sadly. "There is no vodka anywhere."
"You're going to the wedding?" England asked, aghast. "Why?"
"The bride, man!" America replied as England pulled up a chair.
"The brideman?" England misconstrued and stared at him.
America nodded.
England had no idea what he was talking about. He turned to Russia, "Why are you here?" He said more politely.
"Wedding, da? I like weddings."
"Is he invited?" England asked Alfred, nodding his head towards America.
America shrugged, "Dunno. Would you turn him down? He came with me."
"Germany not with you?"
Russia growled at the name as if he were a large bear. He was looking at the scone with much suspicion and motioned to the (possible) owner, a woman who was glaring at them all, "Excuse me, who baked this? It wasn't by him was it?" He asked indicating England.
"I should say not!" The woman replied.
Russia smiled and ate the scone whole, with no butter or jam. England was most consternated, as was the owner.
"Please tell me you didn't bring King Henry with you?" England asked Russia, knowing that for some extraordinary reason, the two had become friends.
Russia considered this, "I do not think so. He dissipated just after we destroyed your brother's caravan."
"Oh no…"
"I know… I will miss him."
"No, I meant oh no with regards the unfortunate destruction of my brother's caravan."
America patted him on the arm. "Never mind, dude. Things can only get better eh?" He straightened his own suit, which to England's annoyance was obviously a good one. "Well we have a wedding to go to. I don't know what you're doing, but I'm going to get me some wedding fun. I'm hoping there's a disco afterwards. Why do you smell funny though, Artie? You smell like something's died."
England ignored him and shoved some left-over triangular sandwiches into his pocket.
Russia copied him.
"You smell funny like something's died," George Clooney said to Arthur.
Arthur had no idea who George Clooney was. He looked vaguely familiar and just smiled thinking that the man before him was some kind of satirical comic.
They were stood just inside the Chapel and England had to keep moving for various so-called celebrities who were getting past him. He was seated right at the end, near the doorway, in fact if he'd been any closer he would have been outside.
"I'm sure there's been some mistake and I should be up there in the quire with the rest of the Family," England had protested to somebody who looked like they might be in charge as he had attempted to sit in seats reserved for the Royal Family.
In fact, the Queen's Secretary had intervened and ushered England down to the back of the nave with the rest of the 'hoi-polloi'.
"Good heavens! I remember when this was bloody built!" England had remonstrated but was told to sit and be quiet.
He just couldn't be quiet though. Particularly when he saw America slouch past and sit almost at the bloody front. He'd actually walked in with America to the Castle grounds and that's where they'd parted company as America had run off as soon as he saw someone Opera Windy or whoever and had gone to chat to her.
Typical.
Still no sign of any dead kings. He dreaded seeing any other Nations. And they appeared to have lost Russia. He sat down, looked at the order of service, looked up, was annoyed that he couldn't see anything for somebody's hat in front of him. Thought about telling the offending woman to bloody well take it off, thought better of it and then sat back down.
"I love weddings, don't you? I wonder if I will see the Duchess?"
England almost jumped several feet in the air.
It was Russia. Sat beside him and eating a left-over cucumber sandwich. "Do you think they will let me talk to her?"
"Who?" England was dumbfounded. "How did you get there? I didn't see you."
"Secret ninja," Russia said creepily. "I knitted some things for the new royal baby. I like babies." He said and held up a small baby's cardigan that had two head holes.
England gulped, "Oh right. The Duchess of Cambridge… I don't think so…"
"I sent her some of my knitting through the post." Russia continued.
"Oh dear God," England said without thinking. He'd forgotten Russia liked knitting, babies and royal families.
'I sometimes miss my royal family," Russia sadly, a purple haze forming around him which usually meant bad things were going to happen. "It was a shame what happened to them."
England was about to say something but decided not to. He wondered if he could sidle off when he saw that the person in front of him with the ginormous hat was Poland. Sat next to him was Lithuania, the latter desperately trying not to look round at them.
Bugger it, thought England, why were they bloody there? "Poland? Lithuania?" He asked.
"Lithuania?" Russia exclaimed, almost fell over the aisle and shoved aside David Beckham to get to the Lithuanian whom he hugged.
"Hey! Braginski!" Poland said, hitting the Russian with his handbag. "Get off him! He's mine!"
Russia growled.
"You look… interesting," England said to Poland.
The Pole was dressed in a long flowing pink couture dress, pink high heels, and was wearing a bright green very big hat. "Hey! If the Queen can wear pink and green together so can I!" Poland said. "We're here because we're personal friends of the groom's."
Lithuania was trying to get Russia off him, "Yes, it's true!"
"I missed you, Lithuania. You, Estonia and Latvia should all come and live with me. I've had to move in with England and it's not much fun."
"Hey!" England exclaimed. "I showed you Monopoly and Coronation Street."
"He made me live in his closet," Russia confided to Lithuania.
"So you've come out of the closet?" Poland asked Russia.
"Da! I have!" Russia agreed.
Poland smirked and sat down, fanning himself. "Honestly, if David Beckham asks me to go out with him one more time I will honestly tell his wife," he confided to England.
England wondered what he could possibly have done wrong in a previous life to be lumbered with these imbeciles.
Poland suddenly lurched forward then and cut England's next question off, "Serena!" He bawled. "Serenaaaaaaa!" He then shoved everyone out of the way to go and hug someone.
England sat back down and observed the melee. Only by looking at the order of service did he find out who the bride was, but he had never heard of her. He'd never heard of any of the guests either although he thought one of them might have been a James Bond but he wasn't sure.
"It was all so different to when this place was a site of all those burials… Charles I, Henry VIII, Edward IV…" England mused aloud to himself.
"I can't stand him. Stole my crown," came a voice next to him.
England closed his eyes. "Please don't let it be him…" he said to himself.
"I'm buried here. They reburied me."
England turned to King Henry. "No you're not. Don't lie."
"I bloody am! Look at the altar. Go on. They decided to re-bury me next to bloody Edward of York. What an insult."
England shut his eyes. "I remember all that. Give it a rest will you? You were a rubbish king and your grandfather was the one who stole the crown from Richard II."
Henry was having none of it. "They're all heathens. I wish Margaret was here."
England was bloody glad Queen Margaret was not there. She was a hard nut. He also hoped that nobody noticed he was sat with a dead king. He remembered what Lascelles had said and he knew that he would be in deep trouble if a dead king was found here. But surely one dead king could be hidden. Particularly as Russia now sat back down on top of Henry. It will be okay England thought.
But then Francis sashayed down the aisle in a tight purple velvet suit and a ridiculously large top hat with a feather in it. On his arm was one of the York Princesses.
England stood up to shout at him but America got in the way and was glad-handing some slack-jawed imbecilic C-list celebrity who seemed to think France was of Royal blood. If that was not bad enough then Mr Panda suddenly appeared next to him. He was also wearing an outrageously good suit, a top hat (and tails) and was smoking a cigar.
"Hey fathead," Mr Panda said.
"You! I suppose Idris told you where I was…"
"No he had no idea. But I have other sources. I have unfinished business with you," Mr Panda told him. "Now I need to walk this bride down the aisle," he added, flicked ash at him and strode down the aisle as if he belonged there. Which really, he didn't.
England looked around. Surely a panda should not be at a wedding? Never mind that he was in a better suit than him.
"Terrible manners," said someone sat on the other side of Russia. He hoped it was Russia throwing his voice. (Russia was busy sorting through his knitting bag.)
"What?" England asked, hoping just hoping it wasn't another dead king.
"You should answer your dead bosses, England. It's impolite. If I ignore my dead Tsars they throw things at me." Russia said.
"Oh no…" England said when he saw it was indeed yet another dead king. And then the National Anthem started to announce the arrival of the Monarch and England dropped his borrowed pyjamas.
Author's Notes:
Queen Margaret was Henry VI's wife and yes she was tough.
When Henry VI refers to Edward of York he means Edward IV who took the throne from him during the Wars of the Roses, but then Henry regained it for less than a year - there was much wrangling.