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Driving Lessons Chapter 82 The Trooper
"O.M.G.!" Poland said to Lithuania and then before Lithuania could say anything, the Pole had put down his nail varnish and was texting France.
"Have you got BBC World News on? Whose man is that?" He texted as he watched, open-mouthed at England's diatribe at the Women's March in Washington DC.
"Can't text too busy," France texted back weirdly.
Poland showed Lithuania this. "Have you seen this, hun? Really?" He texted back, "Arthur is on TV right now talking about tea."
"I have Napoleon." France texted back.
Poland shook his head. Lithuania looked at the text, his mouth open. "Russia won't like that," he said.
Poland shrugged, "Who cares?" He said. "France has always had a bit of a Napoleon complex."
"I don't think he means that," Lithuania said quietly.
"Oh Liet, like, switch it over to Love Island," Poland replied.
But Liet, like, was right.
England would care if he knew who was in his house. He was on a plane on his way back to his beloved green and pleasant land. Or Heathrow to be precise. He had been picked up on Constitution Avenue by two huge men in black wearing sunglasses (they were, not him) and pretty much marched into the departure lounge at Dulles Airport.
"I have left my luggage in the hotel," England told them. "I'm jetlagged and really need to refresh myself before I get back on a bloody plane for another 8 hours flight."
But one of the men had shoved him in the back of the van and said, "Nobody cares about yo ass, so sit yo ass down and shut yo mouth."
"I say!" England had said and allowed himself to be transported. He was not happy. First, that he seemed to be being blamed for Alfred not returning and secondly for the unceremonious dumping onto a plane. Granted he was rushed through security by the security whilst he was saying 'sorry' to all those stood in the queue (he wasn't sorry) and shoved into a seat whilst the CIA men. He'd assumed they were CIA and when he'd attempted to grant them French names such as Pierre or Jacques (he pronounced this Jack) it had not worked in the same way.
He thus found himself sat unfortunately wedged between two Americans at the front of the plane near the air stewardesses who seemed to be under the impression that he was some kind of high-ranking diplomat. But that was only because the CIA men had called him 'Kirkland' and then 'Sir'.
Unbeknownst to him, he had become a YouTube star where his diatribe about tea being important for everyone had become viral around the world. Various Nations watched with a mixture of amusement (Poland), disbelief (Germany), joy (Italy - who didn't really understand what was going on) and academic interest (Austria who was making notes for a paper he was going to submit to the European Congress of Psychiatry).
Over at England's house, things were looking pretty bad. Whilst the Stans - or most of them - had left, there was a crater the size of Francis in the back garden, the front room rug was indescribable, a hole in England's ceiling (although to be fair that wasn't the Stans' fault), his herbaceous border had burnt down, oh and a yak in the back garden.
The Stan left behind was Turkmenistan, ostensibly Turkey's little brother (as he called himself) and he'd been in the toilet when his 'brothers' had left him. His bigger brother, Uzbekistan, had left a rambling love letter to Belarus (which gave some indication as to how drunk they were) whilst Azi (Azerbaijan) had left his business card proclaiming that he was an oil 'typhoon' and 'call me' on the back which France immediately said he would.
Russia had broken into Mr and Mrs George IV's house next door and taken up residence there. But not before he'd made a phone call to someone he decided could be an ally in getting rid of the person now strutting around England's house as if he was Emperor of the World.
Den and Gil found themselves conscripted into an army of three (one of the three was Francis even though he said his pantalons were too fine for fighting). They would have included Charlemagne but he was asleep in America's car bed. On the top bunk in America's room Turkmenistan hid - he'd heard who the tyrant was downstairs and expected 'big brother Russia' to charge in at any moment to disperse the 'army' downstairs. (Turkmenistan only heard the word army and imagined France's visitor had in fact brought an army - he wouldn't have put it past the short hat-wearing person to do this.). With Turkmenistan was the cats - the Emperor had decreed he did not like cats as they left hair on his uniform.
On what remained of the lounge wall, just above England's favourite chintz armchair (which had lost its antimacassars) was a map of London City now marked into squares and circles by a sharpie. There were also little flags stuck on it - labelled 'Grand Armée'. It looked to all the world like an invasion map. Which it was.
The troops had been told they were going to 'take' Chigwell in the morning before marching onto the Palace by teatime.
Gilbert and Den seriously doubted that - in fact they had said 'nah man'. But the Emperor of all the French had insisted - with France stood beside him in bright yellow bellbottom dungarees.
England practically kissed the tarmac when he landed. The large American who had been sat beside him the whole time who England had thought was a CIA agent told him he was an 'ass' and strode off to his waiting taxi.
England decided it must have been because he'd complained bitterly about the plastic teaspoons.
England stood forlornly waiting for his luggage. His head hurt, he needed a hot beverage and it looked as if his suitcase had gone to Rio. It was some time before he remembered that actually the rather brusque CIA agents had told him that his luggage would be sent on.
There was no waiting taxi for England. There was something, in his eyes, worse.
America, in his Star Wars hoodie was waiting for him at Arrivals holding up a huge cardboard sign that read in Sharpie (the same Sharpie the Emperor had used to deface the London map) 'ARTIE DUDE' as if England wouldn't recognise America.
"You should have been on that bloody plane," England told him, cuffing him around the head.
"Ow! Why would I get on a plane to come back here?" America asked.
"You should have been on the bloody plane going out! Where the bloody hell were you? And stop waving that bloody sign around!" England shouted.
"We missed you. You shouldn't go away like that," America told him. "Where's your suitcase?" He said finally.
"Go away like that? You were supposed to be going with me you bloody oaf!"
"Oh yeah."
"My luggage is being sent on. Apparently." England said. He was trying to calm down. He'd just been thrown out of America. Him! Of all people! He'd brought that bloody country up. He'd pretty much raised the bloody Nation - introduced him to tea (that hadn't gone down that well really) and fish and chips. Bloody cheek.
"Come on, dude, let's go home."
"It's not your bloody home!" England said. He realised people were staring but he didn't care. America was talking to him as he were a geriatric.
"I bloody hope the Stans aren't still in my house," England warned him.
"About that…"
"Because I'm really very cross," England continued.
America raised an eyebrow. It was never good if England was 'cross' or even 'really very cross'. Like Defcon 4 or something. "Nah, they've gone," America told him.
"Well that's good then," England said. Honestly if he didn't get a tea soon he was going to die. "Where's the taxi?' He asked America as they reached Outside. 'Outside' in initial capitals as that is how it seemed to England. He blinked as if he'd never seen daylight before. He had no idea what time it was or what day it was. "How did you get here? I can't imagine you coming by Tube."
Suddenly England's Bentley flung itself around the corner and mounted the pavement in front of them at the 'dropping off zone' and a rear door was flung open.
England assumed his Bentley (still adorned with a Welsh dragon on its roof) had not turned into 'Christine'* but was being illegally (in his eyes anyway) driven by some reprobate Nation. He prepared himself to yell indignantly. (*This refers to the car in the Stephen King novel which has a life of its own.)
It was Russia.
The words "What imbecile is driving my car?" Died on Arthur's lips.
"Get in the car," Russia told him.
"I call shotgun!" America yelled and jumped in the front passenger seat.
"Erm what's going on?"
"It's a serious situation," Austria told him.
"Bloody hell! What in Wellington's name are you doing here?" England yelled as he got in the back seat.
Austria, sat beside him, looked very serious so obviously it was a serious situation. Although to be fair to England's haggled brain, Austria always looked serious. He was hardly the most carefree of Nations.
"I'm glad you mentioned Wellington," Russia said and flung the car into gear and 'drove' off.
Russia didn't really drive, he just aimed.
"He says he is going to invade Chigwell," Russia told England.
"Who? Wellington?" England asked. "And why are you here?" He asked Austria.
Austria was scribbling in a notebook. "I find you interesting from a clinical standpoint," Austria said.
England frowned. "Is that notebook entitled 'why I'm better than England?'" He asked.
Austria shook his head.
"He is here as my ally," Russia said.
"No way!" England replied. "And who's going to invade Chigwell?"
"Napoleon," America said. He was kind of enjoying all this. Europeans fighting each other always amused him.
"I have begun fortifications to contain him but I do not know if it's enough," Russia continued as he aimed the car at a Tesco van which honked its horn at them.
"The guys a complete nutcase," America said. He sounded in awe.
"He's the bloody personification of Corsica. That's all," England said. "For heavens sake. Get a blood grip."
"I have a grip," Russia said ominously.
"He broke your second best teapot," America told England. "And I think it's the real Napoleon."
England looked utterly appalled. He was angry now. "Right that's it. Take me home and I'll bloody sort him out."
Russia nodded. "You can be part of our grand alliance," he said.
Austria also nodded.
"We will push him right back to Paris," Russia continued.
"Is this going to cost me money?" Austria asked.
Nobody answered him.
"I still don't know what happened in DC," England said to America.
"Nobody does man. But Poland thought it was great. You're all over YouTube."
"I should drive," England said as Russia took the car over a roundabout instead of around it as if he were driving a tank.
But he felt too fuzzy headed. He'd had no sleep on the plane and was severely jet lagged which he always thought was the foreigners' way of saying they'd drunk too much.
England would have screamed if he'd had the energy, instead he kind of slumped against Austria who looked disgusted.
"Little dude's got Gil and Den in his army," America moaned. "He's paying them in beer."
"I'm surprised at Prussia. It was Blucher who saw him off with Wellington last time," England said groggily from Austria's shoulder.
"And me," Russia rumbled as they slid down England's road. Russia could drive in snow and ice but ordinary tarmac flummoxed him.
"And you, yes," England agreed sleepily.
"We've tried everything," America said. "And even worse is France is loving it."
But England was snoozing.
"We haven't tried everything," Russia said ominously.
England suddenly jerked awake, "No, we're not having General Winter turning up in June in Peckham," England said. "I won't have it."
"He wouldn't stay," Russia said as he swerved onto the pavement and parked three doors down from England's house.
England fell off Austria's shoulder as the Austrian opened the door and got out shakily. "We need Deutchsland," Austria said.
Russia growled at this as he marched up the neighbour's drive.
"You're going to the wrong house!" America shouted.
"Nyet, I am not. I am staying at George IV's house," Russia said. "They have Netflix."
"Cool."
England staggered out of the car and blinked up at his house. "What time is it?" He asked Austria.
Austria took off his glasses, cleaned them and put them back on. "It is about time I called Ludwig."
England shook his head. "I'm going to bed," he answered. He couldn't cope with two bloody know-it-alls.
He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the Emperor. He now understood clearly what was going on. It wasn't the personification of Corsica (who did indeed have a Napoleon complex and was very annoying) it was Napoleon. The jumped up little Corsican idiot himself. The Emperor. No wonder Russia hadn't punched him. He couldn't. His fist had gone right through him. And no wonder there was no sign of Henry VI and it was a good job George IV had gone to Skegness on holiday.
"I have requisitioned this house in the name of the Empire!" Napoleon told him.
England stomped past him. "Bloody idiot," he mumbled, stopped, glared at the hole in his ceiling, the missing antimacassars from his armchair, declared that they were all 'animals' and went upstairs to bed.
Turkmenistan, who was just about to go to the toilet, dodged back into America's bedroom when he saw the befuddled Englishman. England, in his jet lagged state did not see him.
"But mon ami! Your cup of tea!" France called up.
"He is the enemy now, France. Leave him," Napoleon said.
"He didn't even say hello or bugger off to me," France said dramatically. He sounded distraught.
"Bugger off!" England shouted and flung himself onto his bed.
France smiled to himself. "Ah he still loves me," he said.
When England woke some hours later. He had no idea if it was Wednesday, Thursday or Sunday, evening or afternoon. It could be the middle of the night. It was eerily quiet. Until he heard the sounds of 'un, deux, trois'. He leapt out of bed. It was bad enough to be woken up, but to be woken and hearing French was the pits.
"Keep it down!" He yelled. "Someone's trying to sleep up here!"
He heard a cacophony of French and then the door burst open.
Napoleon, Emperor of all the French stood there in his uniform and shouted at him in French.
England, who thought he was a insufferable little squirt (as did all the Nations bar France) glared at him and shouted back in very very bad French - which to England was of course English in a bad French accent interspersed with some French words he'd learned.
"Zis is my house, mon maison," here England pointed at himself. "And et you - vous - can just bugger off… leave… allez to Paris or something."
France rushed in with Charlemagne at that moment, "Oh mon cher! You should not talk to ze Emperor like that!" He said. Charlemagne gurgled something which sounded like 'da'.
The Emperor turned to France and said something in French. France waved a hand around the room and said something about the decoration being 'abysmal' and apologised profusely for the substandard accommodation that the Emperor of all the French had to put up with. Especially the lack of serviettes.
"What time is it?" England asked wearily and without waiting for answer walked through the Emperor in lieu of shoving him out of the way, "You're shorter than I remember," he said.
"It's 4," France told him. "Isn't it wonderful?"
"4? 4 what?"
"For what?"
"Four pm or four am, you utter twit? And why is he bloody here?"
"I called him to get rid of ze Stans, mon cher," France whispered. He seemed in complete awe and not a little fear of the Emperor.
"Stans?" Napoleon suddenly picked up this word and drew his sword.
"Mind my wallpaper!" England exclaimed and went downstairs in search of a cup of tea.
It appeared to be 4 in the afternoon as it was daylight. England switched on the kettle and threw a teabag into a Manchester United mug (unchipped), eschewing the I love Blackpool mug which did have a chip.
"They ruined your lawn!" America yelled as he came into the kitchen.
"Who's this 'they'?" England asked.
"The Stans. Mind you it was a great party. You should have been there. Although I wasn't. I was in the airport buying duty free."
"What did they do?" England asked wearily filling his cup with milk and then realising his mistake, emptying it, pouring hot water over his hand and then yelping with pain.
"Fire-eating, France says. Or something."
"You should have been with me on the plane," England said through gritted teeth as he held his hand under running water.
"How?"
"What do you mean how?"
"How could I do that? You were coming back to Heathrow and I was in Heathrow."
England closed his eyes. He'd already had this bloody conversation. "You need to get a job."
"Actually I was just coming to that. I've got a job!"
"Please tell me it's far away. In Washington."
"Washington, Tyne and Wear?"
"Washington DC, you oaf."
"Nah it's in London at Specsavers as a model."
"Dear God."
There was a cacophony of French behind them.
"Gotta go," America said suddenly and vanished out of the door.
England had to admit it was one advantage of having Napoleon visiting - he seemed to have gotten rid of a few extra Nations. They all found him so annoying they couldn't stand the sight of him.
Napoleon pointed at him and shouted something in French.
England ignored him and turned to France with a raised eyebrow.
"He says zat you can stay as you have provided zis hovel for his headquarters."
"He can't stay, Francis. Tell him to pack up his hats and white breeches and bugger off."
Francis put on his puppy-dog eyes and a tear slithered down his cheek. "But mon ami. He is ze Emperor!"
"He's a little douchebag. He goes by 6 pm tonight or my name's not Wellington."
At the name of Wellington, the Emperor raised himself to his full five feet five inches and glared up at England (who was only a few inches taller) and said something rude in French.
"5 pm," England amended.
"It's not that easy. We tried," came a voice from the kitchen window.
England looked up to see the rest of the Grate Alliance or whatever they called themselves. Austria and Russia were staring in at him. "He has no idea does he, Russia?" Austria said.
"Nyet. It will take far stronger forces to rid ourselves of him. I have tried. He does not understand my threats," Russia rumbled. "Even Belarus has texted him but when we showed him the text, he called Austria's phone a thing of the devil and flung it in the fishpond."
"What fishpond? I don't have a fishpond?" England asked.
He went outside to find his lawn was as indescribable as America had said. Also that there was a huge hole in the ground which had subsequently filled with rainwater. "Who has done this to my prized lawn? I was in the running for Best Lawn in SE10!" He yelled.
"Monsters!" Austria said, shaking his head.
"It wasn't us," Gilbert said.
"Why are you dressed like that?" England asked him.
Prussia was dressed like an absolute idiot.
"He is a traitor," Austria said.
"Beer." Prussia said simply.
"He pays us in beer," Denmark explained and pointed at Napoleon.
They both looked as if they had raided someone's dressing-up box (actually France's) and were dressed in Napoleonic uniform.
"We do look like complete tits," Prussia agreed, looking at the Dane.
Denmark nodded and glugged another beer.
"So this is your Grand Armée, is it?" England said to France.
"I will recruit more. There is the large scaly beast." Napoleon said.
France was juggling Charlemagne in his arms and gave up and handed him to Austria who held him as if he were an unexploded bomb.
"What large scaly beast?" England asked but then looked up and saw Idris looming over them. "Oh no."
Steve the yak mooed softly and Idris grinned showing a lot of teeth.
Author's Notes:
The title for this chapter is from the Iron Maiden song 'The Trooper' - which is supposed to be about the Crimean war, but I thought it was still appropriate. The next chapter title will be a bit obvious.