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Chapter 69 Sweet Child O' Mine
When England walked into his house (ignoring the goat in the back garden), he found sixteen messages on his answer phone - mostly from a Police Superintendent telling him he was under arrest. The rest were an amalgamation of the Allotment Society, the Roundabout Appreciation Society (telling him he'd won one of their annual calendars - he was particularly pleased by this) and a very tearful one from a certain royal Princess asking him to put her in touch with her paramour - France. Poor bloody girl, must be mentally unstable, England thought.
He went through his lounge, which looked as if there'd been a war. America was sprawled on the sofa with a child on his chest. They were both asleep.
England put his mouth very close to America's ear and was about to shout, "Wake up you oaf!" But was stopped by Prussia.
"Don't wake the baby!" Prussia whispered and nodded at the sleeping child.
England growled. Denmark stepped forward and gently lifted the baby from America's chest and carried it upstairs with Prussia dancing ahead of him as if he were carrying an unexploded bomb.
"Careful dude… don't wake it… careful…"
"I know, man!"
"Those two…" England rubbed his head, as he looked at Belarus. The two hour journey home had done his head in. It was still ringing from the horrid refrains of 'Is this the way to Amarillo?'
"Really? Those two?" Belarus said. "Do you have any idea how angry I am?"
"A bit…" England said, lamely. Come to think of it, she hadn't said a word the whole way home. He just assumed it was because of the awful driving. And the singing. How could anyone forget the singing?
"Well, think a bit harder!" Belarus shouted and slammed out. She then slammed the door open again and said to him, "I'm going to stay at the Belarussian Embassy and when you've thought about what you've done you can come and apologise!" She then slammed back out.
England frowned, thought about going after her, thought better of it and then jumped when he heard what sounded like a car alarm or burglar alarm. Whatever it was sounded like inhuman screeching. When he realised that he owned neither and the sound was coming from upstairs, he hurried up to find Prussia walking up and down the landing with the child in his arms, with the sound emanating from the child.
"What's wrong with it?" England asked.
"What?" Prussia asked.
"What's wrong with it?" England asked, louder this time.
"What?"
"What's wrong with it?" England shouted.
"Don't shout, you'll upset him!" Prussia said.
"What's wrong with him?" England said, quieter. He'd had no idea 'it' was a 'he'.
"I can't hear you cos of the baby!" Prussia said, nodding towards the child.
"He's hungry," Denmark said.
"Feed him then," England said.
"Well I ain't exactly lactating right now," Denmark said.
"Well where did America get that milk from?" England said.
Denmark shrugged, "He's a superhero so he can do anything," Denmark replied.
Prussia jigged the child up and down, "Need a hand here, dudes!" He said. He sounded desperate.
"Did you not buy any formula milk you nincompoops?" England asked with a sigh.
"I got beer," Prussia said.
"We can't feed a baby beer!"
"Well seeing as he's not a Prussian, we can't," Prussia said.
England stared at him. Desperate times meant desperate measures.
He then went knocking on each of his neighbours' doors. "I'm so sorry to bother you, but I wondered if you could spare some formula for a baby… well obviously for a baby… I've got a baby…" he began at one neighbour's house.
"Are you the bloody twat making that bloody noise that sounds like a car alarm? Don't you know some people have to get up for work?" A man in disagreeable pyjamas said.
England hurried on and tried again at the next door, to be met with nearly the same message: "Do you know what bloody time it is? What kind of moron has a baby but no formula milk? Do I look like someone with a baby?" As that neighbour was an elderly woman, who had complained more than once about the habitual screams coming from England's house, England felt the need hurry on.
"It's no good we'll have to go to the shop," England said to Denmark who was leaning against a fence and squashing someone's rhododendron bush.
"Don't you have any formula in at all?" Denmark asked him, having followed England from door to door.
"Not since my colonies lived with me," England said sadly.
"Too bad, man. Copenhagen kicked my arse once," Den said, patting him on the arm in an attempt at sympathy.
England took out his phone, "Do Amazon Prime deliver within two hours?"
"I don't know. Isn't Amazon Prime a new superhero?"
"They once delivered emergency trousers for France," England said, tapping his phone.
"Really?"
"Really." England shuddered.
Prussia hung his head out of England's bedroom window. "What are you two doing? This kid's chewing my hand off!"
"Will you lot shut up?" George IV shouted at them from next door.
"Yeah! Shut up, Arthur! You're keeping me awake!" America shouted from the doorway.
England hurried back to his house and then pinned the American against a wall. It had been a long night, he was sleep-deprived and he'd had no tea. "You! Where did you find this bloody baby? Where did it come from? And lastly, why my bloody house?"
"It was on the doorstep in a basket and there was a note that said 'please look after this baby'. So I did. Where's it gone?" America replied.
England stopped trying to strangle America and listened. It was quiet. "Prussia?" He ventured.
"Wind," Prussia replied, entering the kitchen and pointing at the sleeping child in his arms. He didn't like to admit it, but he quite liked being a 'dad', or 'mum'. Whichever. He was Prussian. He could be either.
"Yeah, I get that," Den said.
"Formula? Where is it?" England asked America. He was tired. Too tired. He couldn't think.
"There was another bottle in the basket," America said. "But no more." He added ominously.
"That means we only have a few more hours," Den said and ran out of the door, then ran back in, grabbed England and then back out. "Where's the nearest shop?"
"Why me? I mean why me? I'm a good Nation. I don't go around pissing people off, vomiting at their weddings, stealing their princesses, having sex with their presidents. It's not fair," England whined, following the Dane and getting into the pizza delivery van.
"Hey! Den! Give England his messages while you find a Co-op!" Prussia yelled from the doorway.
"Will you shut up?" Shouted someone from Number 22.
"Stop shouting! There's a baby trying to sleep!" Den yelled back and started the engine. He handed England a scrappy piece of A4 paper that looked as if a child had written on it with a crayon (they had) whilst drunk (they were). Den seemed particularly proud of it. "Your messages while you were away," he explained.
England read them aloud: "Somebody calling himself the high wizard says that you have broken your sacred oath and must pay the ultimate price. There is no need to call back." England gulped. "The Allotment Society ringed…" (England sighed at this and turned to Denmark and said "It's rang not ringed." Den shrugged) "…and says that your allotment's rent is ten days late and so they have taken possession and also that you needn't enter any cucumbers into this year's fund-raising open day because last year's caused so much trouble."
"Wild, man!" Den seemed particularly impressed by this.
"The libary…" Here England's left eyebrow twitched as Den deftly manoeuvred the van down the road and onto the deserted dual carriageway. "It's library." England corrected. "Not libary." There was no need for bad spelling. "How can you get to your age and not know how to spell library?"
"Hey! I didn't get to my age knowing how to spell library! I had other shit to do!" Den replied indignantly.
England continued reading. It was painful. He could barely read the writing. "Who wrote this? A child?"
"Was me. It was my crayon." Denmark replied happily.
"The library ringed… sigh… rang… and says that your overdue fines have acclimated… I think you mean accumulated in intrest… sigh… and are now £424 and your membership is suspended." England looked pained. "It's 'interest', not intrest." He told Denmark.
"What book was it?" Denmark asked, ignoring England's digs at his atrocious spelling.
"Improve your memory. I forgot to take it back."
"I really like the one from the Homeowners Association dudes about the complaints of noise, bad odours and mischief. But I think they're wrong about complaining about putting your bins out on time. Me and Pru…"
"Pru and I…" England corrected, closing his eyes. He was most upset about losing his membership of the local library.
"You and Pru? No it was me and Pru who put the bins out on time. Not you, dude."
"Just drive… and I feel sorry for whoever is looking for this van," England said.
Somewhere across London, Romano slammed back into Cafe Vargas and flung himself into the kitchen. His brother was asleep under a giant chef's hat. Exhausted. "I lost another one!" Romano said.
"Que?" Italy said, his eyes almost open.
"Another van, fratello! I lost another!"
"Noooooo!" 'Fratello' was distraught. So distraught in fact that he sat up.
"I know. But when I found out who stole this one, they will pay."
"A lot?"
"What?"
"A lot of money? Will they pay a lot of money? Because we owe Luddy lots of money for investing in us."
Romano ignored him but was already planning his revenge on the van thieves.
Over at an all-night petrol station, England and Den climbed out of the van emblazoned with 'Vargas Pizzas' and ambled in. "Remember, no beer, no gummy bears, just formula," England warned.
It was too late, as he turned round, Denmark was already eyeing the confectionary aisle.
France thought his driving was going excellently, but he could not understand why he was still not in London. He honestly believed though that Britain was a strange, backward country. The roads were potholed messes. The people glum and abrupt and totally lacking any elegance. And lastly he had no idea what any of the roadsigns meant.
He stopped the car in a slipway on the A1 and stared at the sign. "The North." He said to himself. He'd actually seen four of these already but didn't really understand. He assumed it meant North London. His sat nav which hated him did not elucidate when he asked it. So he drove on, sipping from the Starbucks coffee that he'd bought at the last service station he'd passed.
"I'm coming Arthur!" He said to himself. "To the rescue! I am ze best babysitter in all ze world…"
At that moment, England shivered as he got out of the van. "I feel as if a ghost has walked across my grave," he told Den. He had a bag full of tins of formula, sixteen bags of Haribo and a life-size cardboard cutout of Han Solo that he'd forced the bored-looking insomniac behind the petrol station counter to sell them.
In a fit of guilt, he'd bought it for America to make up for stealing his credit card. "Alfred! Look what I bought!" He said as he came through the door.
But the house was in darkness.
"We're just not appreciated," Den said and flung himself on the couch and was instantly asleep.
England dumped their shopping on the kitchen table and then trudged up to his own bedroom, opened the door, found some morons/imbeciles/demons from the pits of hell had turned his bedroom into a roller disco. He stared at the mirror ball slowly rotating on the ceiling and the parquet floor. "I'm going to kill them," he announced to no-one in particular. Nobody was around. Even Henry VI had obviously decided he wanted no part in this new domiciliary set-up.
He charged into America's superhero decorated room to bawl out the said superpower but stopped in the doorway at the adorable sight.
America was lying on top of his Batman duvet, fully clothed, fast asleep and snoring softly as if he had not a care in the world. Prussia was asleep on the bunk bed above (having 'called top bunk') with a copy of 'Dummies Guide to Parenting' open on his chest.
England felt like picking up Russia's balalaika and hitting them both over the head with it.
The baby was sleeping peacefully at the other end of the room in America's race car bed. England peered at the child, it was swaddled in one of America's Star Wars t-shirts. Admittedly, the one England had shrunk in a too-hot wash, but it proved that the American could be a good dad (whether Texas or 'Cali' would attest to this is not something England thought about).
England turned back to America snoring away and covered him up with France's flag that had been thrown on the floor. That would annoy the American anyway on waking.
He went into the guest room which had the lumpiest mattress imaginable (England did not usually encourage visitors and tried to ensure they were as uncomfortable as possible) and was relieved to find his collection of stripy pyjamas, slippers and dressing gowns (one had been a gift from Noel Coward) were in the minuscule wardrobe. He wondered where his bed was as he undressed and vowed revenge. Again. He then had another horrible thought that if the idiots had indeed stripped his bedroom that his wand etc had been thrown out but after checking in his laundry basket, he found them there, together with a 2000 year old sword that he'd once rescued from a lake… "Phew," he said and went to bed - which was indeed creaky and lumpy.
It was 3.00 am.
France drove on. Surely he should be almost there? He spotted a sign that said 'Welcome to the North'. He frowned. This wasn't right. It was also much colder. The temperature gauge on his car said '5 degrees'. He tapped it and it dropped even further. It was supposed to be Spring. But the seasons in Britain could happen all in one day, France had found. It could be summer in the morning, and then sleet and snow in the afternoon. France had also never known another country (certainly not his own) which was so damp, no matter what season it was. It summed up the Nation himself, France thought.
The satnav told him to turn off at the next junction and he did so. He saw a sign that said 'Pocklington Mumbles'. He frowned, the name stirred a memory in his brain so he drove on.
"I don't think I'm in London any more," he said to himself in French.
He drove down a lane which loftily described itself as an A road, which France would have disagreed with. At a village further on (literally two houses and a shop), France assumed was the 'Mumbles', the satnav, who sounded as if she were laughing at him, told him to go left. He did so, a B road this time which had so many potholes it looked as if it had been bombed. He stopped suddenly at a sign that said 'Slack Bottom'.
"I do not!" He said indignantly. He turned up the CD player and Charles Aznavour sang 'You've let yourself go'. France turned the CD player off and drove down the lane.
Something - a feathery demon with wild eyes - flew at his windscreen and France swerved to try to avoid it. He accidentally slammed his foot on the accelerator instead of brake and came to a stop with a loud bang. Against a wall. Smoke issued from the front of the car.
He jumped out and looked in dismay at the crumpled fender. "Mon dieu! Damned demon!" He shouted into the sky.
The 'demon' approached him and quacked.
"Duck à l'orange," France said to it. It hurried off to who knows where. (France was to find out where in short while.)
"What the bloody hell are you doing here and what have you done to my duck?" Came a very angry, very broad accent voice.
France looked up from attempting to ring a breakdown service (he felt he was having a breakdown). "Oh, Yorkshire…" he said. "Are you visiting England as well?"
"Yer what?"
"Arthur. You're visiting Arthur?"
"Me dad?"
France, who had problems at the best of times with communicating with England's son Yorkshire, cocked his head to one side.
"What yer doin' here?" Yorkshire asked him. For it was he, England's eldest son.
"Am I not in London?"
"Are you bloody stupid?"
France thought about that. He didn't think he was actually. He thought he was quite clever. It was often a question England asked him though.
"What did yer do to ma duck?"
"Your duck?"
"Yes, Brian's a rare breed. I was going to show him at the Southern England Duck Fanciers Show tomorrow, but he's looking upset now."
France wondered if the lack of sleep had made him hallucinate. He followed Bob into the small thatched cottage (France could not understand how backward Britain could be - why have grass as your roof?) and sat down at the table.
Bob switched on the kettle. "Coffee?"
France nodded.
"I only have tea. Yorkshire tea," Bob told him.
France thought about this and wondered why Yorkshire had offered coffee. "Wine?"
"Do I look gay?"
France looked at him. Yorkshire was wearing stripy pyjamas like his father, wellington boots and a cagoule. He was as sartorially inept as his father.
"No," France said honestly.
It was to be the start of a beautiful friendship. Lasting approximately five hours…
"Get in the bloody car," Yorkshire told France.
Just an hour later and Yorkshire was revving up his battered Land Rover. There were two small circles on the windscreen that were not covered in mud that Yorkshire could look through. France looked at the vehicle in dismay.
He had borrowed a pair of Yorkshire's stout wellington boots, had consumed a mug of tea, had shown the Region his wrecked car, cried and now as expected, despite suffering from such trauma, expected to climb into this mud-covered heap.
"I'll drive thee to my dad's," Yorkshire said. "But you'll have to hold Brian. He gets nervous."
France considered instead travelling by public transport - it was really that bad. But as he had no money (he had lost his handbag) and he doubted Yorkshire would lend him any, he had no choice.
He closed his eyes and clambered into the vehicle. He prayed nobody he knew would see him.
The next morning, England woke with America staring down at him holding what would prove to be a disappointing cup of tea. He was also holding a baby.
Saying it was morning was a misnomer really it was barely morning. It was only just dawn. Unknown to him France and Yorkshire were barrelling down the M1 motorway with an angry duck.
"What?" England said, dragging himself to a sitting position and cursing the United States.
"Did you get formula? Cos Hamilton here has already had the last bottle that was in the basket."
"Yes," England replied. He took the tea from America and blew on it. It did not look very hot.
America stood looking at him. The baby, clearly an eating machine so could very easily be American, England thought, was starting to grizzle.
"Why did you name it?" England asked, sipping the tea. "Did you put milk in first?" He asked referring to the tea, it tasted like dishwater. He wondered how many centuries it would take before the boy could make a respectable cup of tea.
"In the baby? Yes, of course I put milk in the baby. And why shouldn't I name him? We can't call him 'it'."
England was going to argue this but America interrupted him. "There's a dude at the door says he's a Prince or something. I doubt it very much to be honest. I told him we don't accept selling door to door but he's very insistent."
"Oh my God! The tiara!" England yelled and leapt out of bed and ran downstairs in his pyjamas.
"Your Highness…" England said and bowed.
"Arthur… you ruined my wedding!" The royal Prince of the realm told him. "You traumatised my beloved, stole her veil, the tiara is gone and Grandmama wants your blood…"
"Oh, was it your wedding?" America asked.
"Yes, you were there, remember?" England hissed.
"I thought you were trying to sell vacuum cleaner parts," America said. He was jigging the baby up and down too vigorously, England thought and this could be a VERY BAD THING.
The Prince bent down, handed them a basket. "Here, they ruined my wedding night. Your prank of putting them in our wedding suite was not funny. We barely slept."
The baby promptly threw up on the Prince and then plethora of kittens jumped out of the basket.
"Hammy! George! Franklin!" America gave the child to England and scooped up the kittens.
Prince Harry looked down at his ruined suit. "Superintendent Watkins-Smythe of Scotland Yard is on his way to arrest you, Arthur," he said. He gave England the same look he gave the vomit on his clothes.
"For letting a child puke on you?" England asked.
Before he could say anything else. Denmark entered the kitchen, his hair stuck up on end. "Hey that Meghan person who married your loser dude prince is sat in a car outside looking really angry!" He shouted.
England sighed.
Prince Harry glared at England.
"If I return the tiara will I avoid arrest?" He asked the Prince.
The Prince, remembering England buying him an ice cream, helping him build a fort and giving him his first wooden sword "to kill the French with", smiled with nostalgia. "Maybe," he said and turned abruptly and left.
"I bet she wishes she'd married me." Denmark told them.
"So, who was that?" America asked England.
England had had an idea. A crazy idea, sure, but still an idea to avoid arrest. He ran upstairs, ran back down, gave the baby to America, ran back up, took out his wand and waved it over the tiara.
He closed his eyes and summoned up the spell needed, waving his wand over the broken tiara. "Alfred, Edward, Ælfweard and Stan…" (England forgot it was Æelstan who was the fourth King) "…Erm Scooby and Shaggy too… I call upon thee to repair this jewel… erm…" (he was making this up as he went along as needs must) "…so I can go for a brew!" He finished and held up the tiara hopefully.
A burst of glittering silver stars encircled the priceless headpiece, England had to close his eyes it was so bright. After what seemed an age he opened one eye hopefully and then the other and stared in horror. He had actually just made things a whole lot worse. But at least he wouldn't be arrested for stealing the Queen Mary tiara. Instead in his hands he held the Imperial State Crown.
"Oh buggery-boo."