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Driving Lessons Chapter 81 Letter From America
Heathrow Airport…
A last call for boarding the flight to DC came over the intercom just as England was about to get to the front of the line and order his cup of tea. "Bloody bugger!" He exclaimed, startling the cashier and several other patrons. "So sorry," he added, and beat a hasty retreat back to his gate. Everyone was already standing in line, save for a tall man with a coat over his head who had somehow managed to contort himself to sleep across three seats. England shook his head, "Bloody vagrants," he thought.
Fighting with his hand luggage (one of the wheels was refusing to spin), England managed to join the back of the queue, at which point he felt much more relaxed. He could see America's blonde head several metres in front of him, and thought about calling to the boy, but as they had separate tickets the flight attendants likely wouldn't let them board together. They were seated nine rows apart, anyway.
Besides that, England knew better than to interfere with the sanctity of the queue. He instead watched impatiently as people seemed to take several years to scan their boarding passes, ran over an old lady's foot with his suitcase ("So sorry," he said, only to get a filthy look in return), and finally smiled charmingly at the flight attendant who scanned his boarding pass.
"You'll need to check that bag," was all she said to him as she handed his documents back.
"Excuse me?" England said.
"The plane's full. You'll need to check your bag," she said again, as if talking to a child.
"Bugger. And how bloody much does that cost?"
"Yes," she said with a nod, and took England's suitcase from him, wrapping a virulently pink ticket around the handle. "You'll need to come and get this at baggage claim at your final destination. Enjoy your flight."
"But why is this happening to me? How much does this cost? Why am I having my belongings taken away from me? Hellooooooo?" All of England's questions were ignored as the woman, and his bag, disappeared. Ah well. At least he didn't have to attempt to cram his bag into the overhead compartments, always a humiliating venture and there had been that one time those things France had slipped into his suitcase had fallen out.
Simmering a bit, England boarded the plane, an improbably cheery young man directing him to his seat - right next to the toilets. "At least you'll be able to see if they're vacant!" The man said, flashing annoyingly perfect teeth.
England just grumbled, tripped over someone's foot (another "so so sorry," though England wondered who in their right mind put their feet into the aisle of a full plane), and flung himself into his seat - an aisle seat, thank goodness. A woman was fast asleep in the window seat, and a small boy was playing a loud game on some kind of mobile device in the middle seat. England rested his head against the back of his seat. His headache tablets had been in his suitcase.
His headache was about to get worse. Much much worse…
His phone beeped.
"You're not supposed to have your phone on when the plane is taking off," the kid next to him told him, while killing an alien on his game device.
England hesitated, quickly checked his phone and found a text which upset him:
From France: "Denmark won't let me have the remote control."
England switched off his phone and ruminated. He was disturbed that Denmark and Prussia were actually back in his house. He'd hoped he'd seen the last of them. The last he'd heard they'd been arrested.
What had actually happened was this:
Prussia had bailed himself and Denmark out of the police cell using Austria's much abused credit card but had left Scotland there. Scotland was under arrest for extra charges - a public order act for 'aggressive nudity' and 'resisting arrest' and also 'violent disorder and affray'. He and Den had not been naked and so 'only' were charged with 'affray' this was for wrecking a public house. The CIA agents, unfortunately having been unclothed were charged with 'Outraging public decency'. Prussia could understand that as the men had tried to get their clothes back but had only succeeded in getting a Tam O'Shanter and a kilt.
(Prussia expected an irate phone call any minute from Austria but felt blasé about the whole thing.)
The plane was now in the air and England was drinking tea. Not good tea - it seemed to have only had a passing acquaintance with a teabag. But it was better than nothing.
He switched on his phone with trepidation.
A spate of texts from France confronted him:
"Russia has gone out to next door to borrow some sugar"
"Prussia keeps watching a silly video on Youtube and won't stop"
"Russia has come back inside" (England wasn't surprised at this - Mr and Mrs George IV were on holiday in Skegness.)
"Charlemagne has said 'da'"
"You should come home"
England texted back 'NO' to this one in capital letters and then regretted this as this would mean France knew he had seen the text messages.
"Denmark has got his head stuck behind the toilet"
"I have rung for the police"
"I am told the police will not come"
"Russia has freed Denmark from behind the toilet"
"I have rung for a plumber"
This time England answered: "What?! If my house is damaged I will end you all." (England always used full stops and full grammar in his text messages.)
France continued:
"Facetime me"
"No."
"Facetime me"
"No."
Just as England was falling asleep (he'd had no sleep at all the night before having spent it driving back from Glasgow and then packing America's things) his phone buzzed in his pocket and it was France - Facetiming him.
"Bonjour mon cher!" France looked positively glowing. England hated him.
"He's not my boyfriend," England told the woman on the other side of the aisle who just raised her eyebrows.
"I am ze love of his life," France said.
"He's really not." England said for anyone to hear.
The boy in the seat next to him, paused from his games console and nudged the woman next to him. "Mummy, that man's gay." He whispered.
"I'm really not," England said.
The woman at the other side said "Your boyfriend is very handsome."
"Merci," France said. He was wearing one of England's Fandango pink shirts. Behind him there appeared to be chaos.
A torrent of water cascaded from the ceiling. Denmark was stood underneath it with a bucket of water. Prussia was holding a mop.
Suddenly Russia's head appeared through a hole in the ceiling and said, "I think I've found the source of the leak."
"Yes you!" England shouted. He was shushed by various people on the plane.
Russia could not hear him. "My pipe will sort this out."
"He ain't no plumber if my name's not Frederick." Prussia could be heard saying.
"Your name is not Frederick," Denmark pointed out.
Whilst all the above went on, France was prattling on about everything being alright and that Charlemagne had eaten his first rusk.
It was not breaking news for England. He closed his eyes. This was the second all out leak from his bathroom in as many months, thanks to Prussia/Russia.
"I see you are in a state of agitation," France said finally. "I know you do not like flying."
"I'm in a state of bloody agitation because my house is falling to bits."
Charlemagne waved at him and England waved back. "He's not my child," he explained to the woman to the left of him. She obviously was not interested and furiously read her inflight magazine instead.
England hung up and considered his fate. He cursed America and glared with furious intensity at the back of the American's head three rows in front of him. The bugger had even managed to get a seat next to the emergency doors which meant that the lucky sod had extra leg room.
England had just had his third cup of tea - a disappointing cup it had to be said, much too weak and using UHT milk - when his phone rang again. He pressed, with trepidation the answer button. It was another blasted FaceTime event.
He sighed.
"What now?"
This time there was darkness and shadows. France's voice came through, shaky and disturbed. "Mon ami. You have to come home!"
England said clearly, "NO. Nyet. Non. Nein. There."
"No you have to."
England peered at the screen. "Are you in my shed?"
"Oui." Behind France England could see his favourite spade, his transistor radio, his kettle and stash of teabags and an overstuffed armchair that was once in Winston Churchill's shed.
"Why?"
Charlemagne he could see now was fast asleep in the wheelbarrow. Behind France were Prussia and Denmark drinking beer and being suspiciously quiet. It had to be bad England thought for those two to be hiding out.
"What's going on?" He asked suspiciously.
"Now I hope that you do not freak out on me," France said.
"What's going on? Please don't tell me you've invited Belarus?"
"It is worse than that."
"Worse than Belarus?"
"Besides she is not a plumber."
"Wut?"
"Wut?"
"What's happening?" England demanded.
France opened the door to the shed and approached the house. England felt slightly queasy as the camera on the phone jiggled up and down, his garden path he noted, needed weeding badly. (It badly needed weeding not that it needed doing badly.)
France held the camera up to the kitchen window. Inside, England could see just Russia sat at the kitchen table drinking vodka. "I don't see anybody but Russia?" England said.
"Ah…" France said and moved around the side of the house. HIs anklet bleeped a little but France ignored it. He put the camera up against the lounge window. England was dismayed to see that his net curtains had been torn down. And then he saw what France had been talking about but could not voice. "Catastrophic!" The Frenchman said. It was. For once the idiot Frenchman was not being over-dramatique. Inside his lounge were five men cossack-dancing. He could see that he could say goodbye to his Indian rug.
"The Stans!" He gasped. Far too loudly as many people on the plane turned to look at him. Someone shushed him.
"Don't you shush me," he said. "There are five Stans in my home!"
"Six, mon ami. Tajikistan is outside with his yak."
England put his head against the head-rest in front and banged it several times. He hoped against all hope that he was hallucinating. He wasn't.
All the Stans, bar one, were dressed in Elvis costumes. According to France they had attended an Elvis Impersonators' Convention in London. They had seen France's declaration that he was alone in England's house and decided to visit (he didn't tell England this golden nugget of information).
France took the phone back outside and showed England the yak (called improbably 'Steve').
"How did they get it through animal control?" England hissed.
"Mon cher, I do not know. Can you come home? I worry about your lawn," France said. He'd never worried about England's lawn before.
"Can't you get Russia to send them home?"
"He is not happy, but they are drunk so they are not afraid of him." France shrugged in his annoying Gallic way.
"Oh for heaven's sake! Can't you ring someone who they are afraid of? Germany?"
"Ha! Allemagne does not scare them!"
"What about Hungary?"
"She's in Australia remember?"
"Oh yes. How about…"
"I have an idea… " France said suddenly, his blue eyes shining. "I will save the day!" He then hung up.
England wasn't sure what this idea was. He hoped it wasn't something to do with strippers. He would get America back home, and then turn straight back round and go home and turf the Stans out of his house and most probably deal with the insurance investigators. Or he could change his name and go and live in a flat in Milton Keynes.
The flight passed mostly uneventfully. England was given another sub-par, lukewarm cup of tea with no sugar, and then the lights were unceremoniously turned out. Unable to sleep due to his headache, England stared at a blonde head three rows ahead of him - America, and by the looks of it he was chatting to some unfortunate girl. England sighed.
Some hours later, the intercom gave a long bleep, followed by a cough. "Ahem, sorry about that," the pilot said in an American accent - something that did not inspire confidence in England. "Just to let you all know we're going to be landing at Washington Dulles Airport in about twenty minutes."
England cheered. He was alone in this as several people gave him strange looks. He rested his forehead against the seat in front of him. "Local time is 9:03am, outside temperature 77 degrees Fahrenheit."
This meant nothing to England.
"We hope you have enjoyed your flight. Welcome to Washington." The announcement cut out with a crash.
Twenty minutes later, the plane did indeed land. It was not the only thing to do so. England's leftover tea, forgotten on the tray table, dumped itself in his lap. "Argh!" He screamed, and several people around him followed suit. At least the tea wasn't hot, he mused as a flight attendant handed him some paper towels, wrinkling her nose at him.
Then there was the usual ten minutes of people standing up, then sitting down, as the plane showed no signs of moving or opening its doors. England kept his eye on America, who had stood up, removed a duffel bag and a ladies' handbag from the compartment above his seat, and was now standing in the aisle with his arm around a girl with dark hair. America's hair seemed to have flattened itself down. England supposed it was from sleeping on the flight. He did find it strange that he hadn't heard America's voice, or been bothered by the boy at any point. He had been expecting, at any moment, America to appear and ask for a mint, or complain that his ears were popping, or complain that the flight attendants charged for coca-cola, or ask England to arbitrate a dispute between himself and a seven-year-old boy about whether Batman or Superman would win in a fight.
Yet none of this had happened. It was most curious, but England - for once - wasn't complaining as he made his way down the aisle among the rest of the passengers, periodically being elbowed, cut in front of, and generally disrespected. He was simmering again as he ran to catch up to America, grabbing the boy by the shoulder. "Alfred!" He exclaimed. "I say, were you just going to go off without me?"
America turned around, a confused expression on his face. His hair really was very flat. "Papa? What are you doing here?" His voice was quieter than usual, his accent softer.
"This is your dad?" The girl asked, looking England up and down.
"What are you talking about? Did you forget to take your meds again? We flew here together, I'm taking you home, remember?" England said.
America just blinked at him, his face blank. "I don't know what you're doing here, but I'm here for the march, as I was telling Alice here." He tightened his arm around the girl, who blushed. "We met on the plane - it's so romantic!"
"What?" England said. It was his turn to just stare at America, confused. The boy was never this good with girls - he was charming, but he had inherited England's bashful clumsiness and most women assumed that his attempts to 'dress up' with them, usually as superheroes, were part of some strange sexual roleplay. A particular incident, when England had encountered a Wonder Woman trying to climb out of America's bedroom window in the middle of the night, was still burned into his brain; as was the image of America, dressed as Batman in some catastrophically tight underpants, yelling something about protecting her from Lex Luthor. From then on England was careful to check that the coast was clear before he went to pour himself a midnight Horlicks.
America sighed. "I think I know what's going on here. You were supposed to fly here with Alfred, weren't you? I'm Matthew. Easy mistake to make I suppose. You've only had our whole lives to learn to tell us apart."
England snapped his fingers. Ah, it was Canada! "Ah yes, I see it now! Sorry old chap. I don't suppose you've seen your brother? I need to take him back to the White House basement - the human girl, Alice, raised her eyebrows at this, and he remembered this was not a normal thing to say, "Where he is an intern." He leaned in to whisper to Canada. "That's a thing, isn't it?"
Canada just shook his head. "I saw him in the airport fast asleep. He looked like a vagrant." Canada said. "I didn't like to interfere, I assumed you'd kicked him out."
His people-pleasing instincts kicking in as he leaned closer to England, conspiratorially. "I had a hotel booked so I could go to the march and celebrate bisexual pride, you know."
England decided it was better not to comment on this, or think about it too much. "But Alice has asked me back to her hotel. So you may as well take my hotel room, since it'll just be vacant otherwise. You can call Alfred from there, leave him a message to come and meet you. I'll call you a taxi; it's the Marriott on 9th street." Canada continued.
"You're a good son," England said, tears welling up in his eyes, and unexpectedly hugged Canada. The boy awkwardly patted England's shoulder.
"You'd do the same for me," Canada said, though this likely wasn't true. He let England go, wiped down his suit (how England had mistaken Canada for his brother, he now wasn't sure; America had shown up to the airport in a Star Wars hoodie and jeans), and pulled Alice into his arms for a quick kiss. "I'll be back in a moment, dear, I just have to make a few calls," Canada said.
"Okay," England called after him.
He and Alice smiled nervously at each other, the girl edging away from him. "So what brings you to Washington?" England asked awkwardly.
The taxi ride was supremely awkward. Alice and Canada were all over each other in the back seat; England, in the front seat, stared rigidly ahead and made small-talk with the driver, all the while having the vague feeling that he had forgotten something very important. The important thing he'd forgotten was actually America and this annoyed him greatly.
"This one is his stop," Canada pried his lips from Alice's neck for long enough to tell the taxi driver, and slide him a tip. "Thank you very much."
England clambered out of the taxi relieved, his legs still sore as he hadn't yet had chance to stretch them properly after the flight. He made a mental note of where his hotel was - a tall building on the corner - and decided to take a quick walk down the road. He would then as soon as he could, book his flight back home. Although having seen just a hint of the destruction in his home he didn't feel he was in a hurry.
He strolled along Constitution Avenue, of which he totally approved as it wasn't a numbered street. He would pinpoint when he looked back, this was where it all started to go swiftly downhill.
Over in England's house the doorbell rang and France just about danced to answer it. The Stans, now cossacking around the garden suddenly stopped. The garden looked like the Somme and England's privet hedge, prized gardenias and turnip patch were but a memory.
"Come in and stay!" France said to the visitor. "I'm so pleased you've arrived!"
The Stans took one look at the visitor and, without taking 'Steve' packed up their ghetto blaster which had been playing old Slavic folk tunes and 'scarpered' as England would say.
England himself was in a predicament. Or more precisely, he was in the middle of a 'Me Too' march. As someone shouted 'LGBT rights!' England mistakenly thought they were shouting about 'tea rights' although why on earth anyone would shout this is not explained.
"I honestly thing it's about time everyone did what they wanted," England told a reporter while a woman in a startling pink hat nodded behind him waving a placard. "We all have rights. Even Americans. And I say that as someone whose life has been completely distressed by an American… and a Frenchman. Particularly the Frenchman." England said and the women behind him lowered their placards and shrugged at each other. "But we should all be able to have whatever beverage we wanted."
"What?"
"Beverage. In whatever receptacle we wish."
"Well I've never heard that before."
"You've never been to Harrogate then. You should visit Aunt Florrie's Tea Shop," England told them.
"What?"
"Tea. We should all be able to drink whatever tea we like," England told them.
The first part of this message was now beamed around the world to various audiences with various reactions….
To be continued…