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Driving Lessons Chapter 78 Please Don't Eat the Daisies
The next morning…
"BBC Scotland is not very good now."
These were words that England had been waiting for. He sat with his chipped Blackpool mug full of tea at the kitchen table. He had managed to make a tea by the use of fire. Fire that had unfortunately been started in his back garden by Russia. Who was now telling him about Hamish's news channel that was now 'rubbish' because apparently there was an American weatherman called 'Chad Vader' who had taken over from Brian the duck. This Chad Vader had took to finishing all the weather reports by telling everyone the ending of the latest Avengers movie. Russia didn't understand any of this and so did not understand why so many people were ringing up to complain. Russia just didn't like 'Chad Vader', who he suspected was Alfred but didn't really want to say so in case he was wrong and someone laughed at him.
Also Hamish had been sacked for several reasons - being drunk and incoherent on set and for calling England's Prime Minister a 'bawbag'. Russia had no idea what this was.
"Can you please please please pay ze bill?" France was on his knees in front of England.
"No! Perhaps you should pay it instead of buying all those bloody ridiculous clothes!" England was not in the mood for France's pleading. Although he was fairly cheerful having broken up with Belarus last night (actually she was the one who had broken up with him as he'd told France in what had become a midnight chat), he was a little hungover after drinking whisky when he'd got home. It wasn't pleasant.
France looked at his Fandango Pink shirt (with frills), fluffy boa and leopard-skin boots and shrugged. "Ridiculous? Zat is the problem avec you. You have no style."
Russia nodded, "No, he doesn't." He said and pulled his army coat around himself and adjusted his pink scarf with blue ducks around his neck. "So can you ring your brother and tell him to get this Chad Vader person off BBC Scotland?"
"I thought you'd said Hamish had been sacked?"
"He has but I think he might still have some say on the programme," Russia said. He seemed over-invested in the whole thing, England thought.
"Well I don't see what we can do," England said. He was just relieved that the 'Awesome Trio' had left his house. This electricity cut off had been the best thing to happen to him.
Russia put his battered Nokia in front of England. "Call him." He said.
"Who? I don't know anyone called Chad Vader," England said.
"Nyet. Your brother. And tell him to get the duck back on doing the weather."
England hesitated. Russia glared and pointed at his phone.
"How come you have your phone? Ze battery has run out on mine and I cannot live without Grindr," France exclaimed.
England gave him a look.
"Please I beg of you, for ze sake of ze child. For ze sake of my clothes washing. Please pay ze electricity bill!"
Russia nodded. "Mrs George next door said that she is going on holiday to somewhere called Skegness which is an exotic destination and that she was not giving me the spare key. So how am I going to find out who is the father of Tracey's child?"
France cocked an eyebrow quizzically.
"Coronation Street," England explained to France and then added, "Mrs George is Rosalind who married George IV who's actually dead."
"Da," Charlemagne agreed - much to France's and England's alarm. England decided there and then that Russia should not be used for any more babysitting.
Russia looked at England and then physically handed him his phone, "Mrs George has been very kind to let me charge my phone but obviously I cannot impose too much on her. She told me this. So you need to pay the electricity bill and then you need to ring your brother. In that order." Russia had obviously thought seriously about his priorities.
England thought 'Mrs George' was an amazingly brave woman. One of those breed of women who kept the home fires burning during the world wars and glared with indignation at Hitler's bombs. He was in awe. He'd clearly underestimated his next door neighbour. Although as she was a member of the local Neighbourhood Watch, the local Allotment Society and the Women's Institute he shouldn't really have been surprised.
"His English is very good isn't it?" France said to England.
"I don't have any money," England told Russia, ignoring France for the moment.
"Because you have been spending it all on pink shirts and feather boas!" Russia said, picking up one of the offending items between finger and thumb. "These won't be much good when the apocalypse arrives."
England and France exchanged startled looks. "Wh..wh…what?"
"Pay the bill."
"I will pay it!" France said, picking up Russia's phone.
"How? Since when did you have any money? Have you been selling your body?" England asked. He looked France up and down. "Not that you'd get much for it." He added and gave him the number to ring anyway.
He sat back and waited, ignoring Russia telling Charlemagne about Chad Vader telling everyone that the weather in Britain was 'totally rubbish' which was no use at all if you wanted to go out and invade Poland.
France flicked back his hair and put on his most seductive voice. "Hallo? Electric company?" He asked. "You should get ze new iPhone, it is very durable." He said in an aside to Russia, while holding Russia's Nokia between thumb and forefinger.
"Can it withstand a 50 tonne atomic bomb or a minus 50 degrees blizzard or even… an afternoon with my two sestras?" Russia asked.
France did not answer but was blithely giving the customer services person on the other end of the telephone line a credit card number that was not his own.
England frowned. "That's not your credit card. You don't have one."
France said into the mobile phone, "Excusez-moi mon cherie but my landlord here is interrupting," he turned to England, "Shut up!" He hissed. "It's Austria's card if you must know."
"You thieving little bugger!" England exclaimed.
Russia's eyes widened.
"I thought that Hungary had cleaned it out?" England whispered.
"There was a few hundred left. I checked," France said and nodded at the pile of pink shirts.
"Can you order me a new lead pipe and some wool for my knitting?" Russia asked him.
France nodded.
"I don't think we should be buying any more on Austria's credit card," England said in his most sanctimonious manner.
Russia growled at him.
The baby, who had been giggling, suddenly stopped and pointed at England and said, "Bad."
"Unless of course it's for wool and bathroom plumbing," England said hastily.
Over at the German Embassy…
"Is this the way to Amarillo? Every night I've been huggin' my pillow. Dreaming dreams of Amarillo and sweet Marie who waits for me!"
"Shut them up! Someone for the love of God! Anyone!" Germany yelled.
"Shalalalalala! Shalalalalala! Shalalalalala! And sweet Marie who waits for me!" The infernal voices for the pits of hell continued…
"I hate my life…" Germany said. His head in his hands, his morning routine of a hundred sit-ups, squats, press-ups, shower and shave and then healthy breakfast of oatmeal totally ruined by his brother and his moronic friend singing that deranged song up and down the Embassy.
He tried to ring England but the phone was dead. He then remembered the electricity was off over there. So he sent a barrage of text messages begging and pleading England to take the two back. He offered to pay the electricity bill himself. He knew England hated him but this was beyond hate. Who would possibly inflict these two on anyone unless they were your sworn enemy?
"Well I like them!" Italy said chirpily, making breakfast which consisted of something with pasta and onions and was totally un German and unhealthy.
"Really? You like them?"
"Yes and their song. Shalalalala…." Italy sang.
"This is intolerable. How is anyone supposed to do any work?" Germany yelled.
"Stop shouting Luddy. It's not good for your blood pressure. Here have some antipasto," Italy said, and began ladeling out a bowl of pasta.
"Pasta for breakfast?" Germany seemed to think this was the end of the world. "And will you get some pants on before the Ambassador comes down?"
They were sat in the kitchen. Germany had barely slept, whilst Italy had 'barely slept' for 10 hours.
"What is that awful row?" The German Ambassador asked as he stepped in. "Can't we get rid of your brother and his cretinous friend?"
Germany sighed. "I hate England."
Over at Austria's private psychotherapy practice (he was still smarting over Prussia's idea that Austria needed to 'practise') an ex driving instructor was shaking in a corner. "I can never get in a car again. He has totally ruined my career! My wife has left me. My children have left me. I have to sell my house. I'm a laughing stock. He has to be the most awful person I have ever met!"
Austria wrote in his notepad. He'd already guessed that the man was talking about a Nation. But it could be any one of them. It was only when the man told Austria that the 'man' had called him 'Lancelot' that Austria put two and two together. He knew of France's annoying habit of giving humans odd names.
"PTSD caused by France," Austria wrote. It was not the first time he had ever written this. His phone rang and normally he would not answer if he was with a client, but as this client was already suffering from low self-esteem Austria didn't see the problem. "Ja, Roderich Edelstein?"
It was Germany ranting about Prussia and Denmark who were apparently sliding down the bannisters at the Embassy and bothering the staff. This was, according to Germany, all England's fault. He asked Austria if he thought England could possibly hate him that much that he'd sent them to his house?
"Ja," Austria answered and then hung up before Germany could ask him if Prussia and that imbecilic moron Denmark could move in with him. This was of course unthinkable, especially after last time.
Later...
England was sat in his shed listening to the Archers on the radio. Everything was peaceful. For a time. He had a mug of tea, a bourbon cream and his copy of Gardeners World (France had checked it first to ensure it did not contain 'naughty ladies').
He could hear the neighbours next door cutting their lawns/hedges/herbaceous borders. Mr and Mrs George IV had gone to Skegness 'until further notice'. England had had to tell Russia that no, Skegness was not an exotic sunshine location. France was in the house with the baby and cooking up some Gallic mess on the stove (the Belorussian stew had been eaten but had given them both strange nightmares). It had been 16 hours, 36 minutes since Prussia and Denmark had left the house.
The electricity was back on, Russia had returned and seemed to have taken on the role of 'dad', eg sat on the sofa, reading England's newspapers and moaning about the state of the government, whilst France had weirdly taken on the job of 'mum' and was running around vacuuming, making strange meals and washing clothes. It had taken some time before they'd realised that the nappies they'd put on Charlemagne were not washable but disposable.
However, there was a line of washing which seemed to consist of England's Sex Pistols t-shirts, five Fandango pink shirts and two scarves belonging to Russia which had been white but were now also Fandango pink.
England sighed. He still had to get France out of the house, along with the child (or at least find out who the father was - he was still 90% sure it was France but wasn't 100%) and send Russia back to Moscow, but now Belarus had broken up with him and presumably would no longer be coming to his house, this would be more difficult.
And then just as he was dipping his bourbon cream into his mug for the third time, there was an almighty bash on his shed door and a horrid yell.
He jumped up and flung open the door.
"Tell Mrs George she has to give us our ball back!" Denmark yelled.
"What are you two doing back here?" England asked. "Damn! I've missed if Brian Archer got his potato crop in before the storm broke!" He stared at Prussia and Denmark.
"Germany kicked us out and then Denmark's Embassy wouldn't let us in and then the Swedish Embassy wouldn't let us in…"
"I'm not surprised. Neither of you are Swedish!" England said.
"We didn't know all the words to Dancing Queen," Prussia said. "So it's not because we're not Swedish."
"You can't play football here. Go elsewhere. Preferably Copenhagen."
"Mrs George the Fourth isn't answering her door," Denmark pointed out. "Shall we just go and get our ball?"
"How long have you been back?" England asked and glanced behind him to his sanctuary. He needed a lock on the door.
"Long enough for France to tell us to be back for tea-time and long enough for Russia to tell us to play elsewhere."
"Mr and Mrs George the Fourth as you two call them have left…"
"…The country?" Prussia asked. "Because honestly, if anyone were big-time drug dealers it's those two."
"You are talking about someone who is a member of the local Allotment Society!" England exclaimed, shocked.
"Exactly!"
"They've left for Skegness," England replied. "If you must know."
"Is that a real place? Because honestly, Finn and Swe used to make up places they had to go to just to get rid of me and they weren't as ridiculous as that."
"Of course it's a real place!" England shouted and then realised his phone was buzzing. It was Germany - and sixteen increasingly desperate text messages - all begging him to take these two morons back and that he would apparently pay England's electricity bill if he did. Interesting.
"Yes you can pay the bill, send me the money. £500." England typed furiously on his phone. And then added just in case the game was up and Germany realised that Prussia and Denmark had already arrived back. "Or I will never take them."
There was a yell as Denmark jumped over next door's hedge, got stuck and Prussia had to pull him out.
"Dinner time everyone!" France called from the door in his flowery apron. "Go and wash your hands. Arthur, tuck in your shirt…"
"For God's sake…" England huffed. He looked very put out by the posh soufflé in some fancy sauce. "What's this mess?"
"Don't you have any bacon?" Denmark asked. He got swiped around the head with a Blackpool tea towel.
"Do you not cook anything more substantial with more… red meat?" Russia asked. "And vodka?"
France ignored him but began dishing up.
"And less garlic?" England asked, holding his nose.
"No-one appreciates me around here. No-one!" France cried.
"I wonder where dude Alfred is?" Denmark said sadly.
"I dunno, but I bet he's having a great time," Prussia said.
Over at BBC Scotland...
"And the weather in Norwich is going to be…wet and windy with outbreaks of sunshine!" Alfred aka Chad Vader the weather man yelled at the camera. He stopped, listened to his earpiece where the producer, Hamish, was telling him not to tell viewers the weather of anywhere south of Berwick on Tweed which Hamish still thought of as belonging to Scotland (which it hadn't since 1482).
"And… the weather in Glasgow is going to be not much above ten degrees in centigrade because you guys don't do Fahrenheit. This country is always so damp and cold! Even in August! Even though it's not August! I was in Dumfries yesterday watching the latest Avengers movie and let me tell you that cinema was freezing and tiny! I could have fitted that cinema in my front room! Who'd have thought Dumfries had a cinema though? Eh?" (Alfred continued pronouncing Dumfries as Dum… fries instead of Dum-free.). "Anyway I gotta tell you that at the end I never thought that the Hulk would…" here his microphone suddenly went dead and Alfred carried on talking and the camera quickly switched to the anchorman who was actually a beleaguered looking Yorkshireman in a flat cap with a duck sat next to him.
The duck was the 'political editor' apparently after Hamish had been sacked for calling a variety of politicians including the Prime Minister a 'bawbag' which had so delighted and amazed Russia. Unfortunately Hamish was still in the studio under the news-desk - he shouted awful threats at anyone who tried to move him. He seemed to have taken up residence there with a bottle of Scotch and kept telling Yorkshire what to say. Yorkshire wished he'd stayed in his home county and kept tapping ANY NATION WHO IS WATCHING PLEASE RESCUE ME in Morse Code on the desk.
"Stop that infernal knockin' yer big eejit!" Scotland kept telling him.
"I miss your brother on the television," Russia told England as they gathered around the television. England did not.
"Hey! Do you reckon that tapping could be Morse Code?" Prussia suddenly said.
"Don't be ridiculous," England scoffed. "I really don't know why Yorkshire is on here. He's not Scottish," he said rather obviously.
Russia shook his head. "Your brother Hamish's efforts at reviving the old Evenki language were what made this programme."
"Say what now?" England said, putting down his mug of tea. Immediately, France handed him Charlemagne.
"Evenki. It is a very old language from Krasnoyarsk Krai." Russia said, looking at him as if this was obvious.
"What?" England asked and handed Charlemagne back to France.
"Ignore him, he can't even speak any Welsh and that's only 100 miles away," Prussia said.
Russia nodded. "You should educate yourself, England," he told Arthur.
England looked at France, "Am I the only one who's hearing this? My brother wasn't speaking some archaic Russian dialect language or whatever you said it was. He was talking English with a Scottish accent."
"I think you are wrong," Russia said.
"Da," Charlemagne said.
England was about to say something. Prussia and Denmark hurried upstairs.
France decided to suddenly take himself into the kitchen and 'fiddle with England's drawers'.
Russia glared at England and switched over the channel for Downton Abbey. England was about to point out that it was an old episode and that Lady Mary would not be marrying her second cousin, but then decided if he valued his life, he'd better not.
And then things got truly weird…
There was a knock on the door, France answered it, holding the baby. "I do everything around here!" He cried in his Fandango pink shirt, apron around his middle, and sparkly sandals. He actually thought he looked like a desperate housewife.
Two huge men filled the doorway and pushed France aside.
"Where is Alfred F Jones?" One of them said.
"Ah Americans… so uncouth," France said. "Arthur mon cher! There are some big men here to see Alfred." He turned to one of them. "We do not know where he is. Who are you?" France said. Taxmen, he assumed. Well, they wouldn't get any information out of him.
England entered and looked them up and down. "What's he done and more importantly who are you?"
"JJ Bittenbinder," one of them said.
England sniggered.
"Carlton Avery Ashwood Banks," the other one said.
"Dearie me," England said.
"I will call you," here France poked JJ Bittenbinder in the chest. "Florimund. And you," here he poked the other, "You will be Lucien." France turned to England with a raised eyebrow and whispered, "Taxmen." (He was wrong.)
England shook his head.
"Where is Alfred F Jones?" The one called Florimund asked again.
Americans. England sighed. "Are you CIA or something?" England asked. He was not to be intimidated. He lived with Russia, Prussia and Denmark.
"We aren't at liberty to tell you that, Sir."
"Then I take that as a yes. We don't know where he is."
"I do!" Came a voice from the living room.
"Apart from him," England said. "But I would go easy on him…"
The two men entered England's lounge.
"You know where Alfred F Jones is?" 'Florimund' asked. He tried to look big and intimidating. But he was asking Russia and trying to ignore France who was so obviously admiring his butt.
"Da!"
"Where?"
"You didn't say the magic word!" Russia answered.
"Please?'
"That is not the magic word," Russia answered.
"He probably means in Russian," England whispered to Lucien. "I wouldn't mess with him."
"Please Sir, can you just keep out of this?"
England didn't like these CIA men (it was obvious who they were), he preferred the old ones, even if they did call him 'Kirkland' and not 'Sir'.
"Leave this to us, Sir." Florimund said.
"You didn't say the magic word," Russia said, getting his bulk off the battered sofa. He looked annoyed. These men were disturbing Downton Abbey.
They consulted one another.
Prussia yelled down the stairs. "Пожалуйста*!" He instantly had a nosebleed. *Please in Russian.
The CIA man shook his head. He had seen service in Afghanistan, Iraq and various other places. He was not easily intimidated. He was not going to speak Russian to this huge man in the tatty beige coat and faded pink scarf with yellow ducks (knitted by Ukraine).
Russia cocked his head to one side and waited. He didn't wait long but got hold of the CIA man by the scruff of the neck and dragged him outside as if he were a doll.
Lucien followed and pulled his weapon.
England stepped back, "Woah there! Guns aren't exactly allowed here in Britain!"
France just squeaked and hid behind England, holding Charlemagne close to his chest.
"Dude's got a gun," Den told Prussia.
"Wow!" Prussia hurried down. "Russia doesn't like… oh…"
He was too late Russia had taken the gun from Lucien, bent the barrel and handed it back, he then got hold of him by the scruff of the neck and threw him outside to join his colleague.
"There," Russia said, rubbing his hands. "No guns around children." He said chirpily.
"Perhaps we should tell them he's in Glasgow?" England consulted with France and Russia.
"Nyet, we do not give up our friends to the enemy," Russia said.
"They're not Alfred's enemy though," England pointed out.
"Poor boy…" France said with tears in his gorgeous blue eyes.
"Shut up," England hissed.
The two CIA men came back in - covered in Leylandii leaves and twigs. They looked a lot less intimidating.
"There's always someone bigger in the schoolyard isn't there?" Prussia remarked to them gleefully.
Russia who did not usually agree with Prussia nodded. Although he had no idea what Prussia meant.
"He's in Glasgow on BBC Scotland apparently," England told them. "Go get him then." He rubbed his hands.
"So Chad Vader is America," Russia said, musing. He knew it. (What he was going to tell the CIA where America was is anyone's guess.)
"Firstly, the President would like to talk to you, Mr England." 'Lucien' said.
"Oh wonderful!" France exclaimed. "Emmanuel is gorgeous."
"No, the President of the United States," 'Lucien' said.
'Florimund' was staying in the doorway and eyeing Russia with trepidation.
"He is very funny. Like a cartoon," Russia said. Presumably he meant the President of the United States and not Florimund.
England gave him a look and turned to 'Lucien'. "Go on then. Is this call for me?"
'Lucien' nodded and spoke some words into the phone and then held it up, "The President of the United States," he announced and hit the FaceTime button.
This was a mistake as a visage filled the tiny screen.
They all stepped back (apart from Russia who grinned).
"No it's not!" England exclaimed.
"What?" 'Lucien' said.
The person on the phone continued to talk at them, obviously just not listening to any replies.
"Where's Obama?" England asked, confused.
"He's not President any more," Prussia muttered to England.
England was astounded at this news. He never really took any notice who was in charge of anywhere any more.
Denmark seemed mesmerised by the image of the talking man on the phone screen. Russia had a large delighted grin on his face.
France was shaking his head. "That hair… that tan…" He muttered.
Then it ended almost as soon as it had started. "Wow. I have no words," England said. "Was he speaking English? I only got the words 'tremendous' and 'huge'?"
"Mad," Charlemagne said from France's arms.
"Makeover," France said.
Denmark shook his head and said to Prussia, "I really need to lay off the weed."
"In short the President wants his Nation back," 'Lucien' told them.
"Well bye then," England said and proceeded to switch the kettle on as if he'd just dismissed them and that was the end of the conversation.
Russia nodded and pushed them out of the door.
'Lucien' shouted from behind the closed door. "But Mr Kirkland, er Sir? We need you to come with us and help us…"
England closed his eyes. He suspected as much.
"Aw does the big CIA men need their hands holding when they go and see Hamish and his kilt?" Prussia sneered.
Denmark nodded.
Russia went back into the lounge and replayed Downton Abbey from the beginning in annoyance.
"You are a hero," France breathed to England.
"Shut up. I suppose this means I've got to spend a day in… Glasgow…" he said this as if he were going into the very pits of hell.
"Oh yes! Can we come as well?" Denmark asked with his hand in the air.
"Oh bloody hell…"
Author's Note:
Obviously having heard the sad news, I had to name this chapter after a Doris Day song…
If anyone can answer where I got the names of the two CIA men from I will give them a cookie, or alternatively insert a character of their choice into the next chapter or the next chapter after that…