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Driving Lessons Chapter 84 - Do you Want to Build a Snowman?
England did wonder if the Battle of Borodino started off like this - with someone wishing they'd got their cagoules, or with the South London and Peckham Allotment and Recreational Society charging up a hill.
It was snowing. Heavily. England turned to Russia, whose eyes were bright purple and he was smiling. This was not a good sign. England thought about telling Russia's older sister about this but remembered that Ukraine had punched him the last time she'd seen him, so forego that idea.
He waited alongside the big Russian whilst the four representatives approached. He noted that they were wearing very warm looking padded jackets. He himself was only in his tweed jacket. He did not expect snow in June. If it was still June, he was still jet lagged.
"Shall I deal with this?" Russia asked him, taking out his lead pipe and handing over Charlemagne wrapped in a knitted pink blanket adorned with headless dogs. (Russia could not knit dogs very well.)
"I'll tell you what, I'll talk to them," England said, handing the child back.
Charlemagne seemed to agree and said, "Oui."
France skipped, literally skipped - in England's gardening gear no less - up to him. "Leave zis to me, mon ami. I can tell you zat the lady is hot for me."
"I doubt that very much. She's on the W.I.!" England exclaimed, horrified.
"Ah zat explains her sex appeal," France said and hurried off down the hill.
Russia went after him, apparently chatting to Charlemagne about how the battle of Borodino went.
England sighed and followed.
"I'm sure we can sort out whatever problems…" he began.
"You cannot lease out your allotment to anyone, least of all a Frenchman," Major Smythe-Bottomley began to tell England.
England tried to remember if the man in front of him with the massive handlebar moustache was a real major or not.
"Bonjour!" France cried.
"Can you lease it to Russians?" Russia asked.
"Your allotment licence has already been taken off you anyway after that debacle with the cake," another representative, who, if Englnad's memory served him correctly, was called something ridiculous like "Pym" or "Pie" or even "Pile". This one had a quite exuberant looking hat on his head with the words 'Arsenal FC' on it.
France translated this literally. "Arse nil?" He asked.
England hissed, "It's a footie team." He then said to the man with the unfortunate knitted hat, "I forgot about the cake. It was all sorted though. And I pay my dues on time."
"Napoleon took over the shed. It was not Arthur's fault," Russia said.
The woman, who was actually Den's Mrs Prune, but actually called Mrs Prunesquallor - an equally mad name - said, "Listen Kirkland, we've just about had enough of you. You squashed Colonel Smythe-Bottomley's prize cabbages…"
"He's a Colonel? Oh my God!" England exclaimed.
"Ahem. You squashed Colonel Smythe-Bottomley's cabbages, you've flouted the rules of using the water butt…"
"Hahahaha… butt!" France yelled, mincing around Mrs 'Prune' and batting his eyelashes.
"You have undertaken unauthorised baking on the premises… yes, we've heard about your restrictions. And you've in the past refused to turn down your radio when asked."
"It was playing Rule Britannia. BBC Proms," England explained.
Russia shook his head. "This is terrible. In my country you would be hated."
"Yes well I'm not in your country, am I?"
"In my country you would be celebrated as a god!" France said.
England suspected that France was very drunk.
"Therefore, Arthur George Edward Winston Ignatius Wellington Kirkland…"
Russia stared at England. "My full name," England explained.
"…You are hereby banned for life from having an allotment, an allotment shed or access to the allotment fields. We hereby take away your wheelbarrow and your spade."
"I don't care, I have my garden shed," England said.
"You disgust me," the other un-named Allotment Society man said.
"And me," Russia said.
"Hey!"
"Where will I broadcast my Ask France radio show?" France asked.
"And oh yes, illicit broadcasting," the woman added.
"And while you're saying all this utter tripe, a Frenchman is invading Penge," England told them.
"That is nothing to do with us. Our jurisdiction only allows for South London up to and including Peckham."
England pulled out the map that Napoleon had been drawing on and showed them. "Oh really?"
They went off to confer.
The snow fell even faster. Russia pulled his scarf closer around him and then tucked Charlemagne back inside his coat. The child said, "Bah."
"You are actually right, Kirkland," one of SLAPARSE said. "Penge is in our jurisdiction. You say this Frenchman…" here the man looked at France suspiciously, "…Is about to invade Penge?"
"Yes, with a lot of other lascivious Frenchmen. They will cause havoc and probably close down some hairdressing salons. It can't be allowed."
"There's an allotment there as well," Mrs Prunesquallor said.
There were mutterings.
"Do you have an umbrella?" France asked them. "My wine is getting wet."
"Penge High Street could be over-run as we speak!" Someone said.
"Yes it could and I think you should go and sort it out." Arthur said.
"Where did these Frenchmen come from?" Major/Colonel Smythe-Bottomley asked England.
"Good question."
"He summoned them. They are le Grand Armée," France replied.
"It better bloody not be," England said.
"It does not matter," Russia said, looking up at the sky. "Winter is coming."
"It's bloody June!"
Meanwhile...
"Do you think we should bring Steve the Yak in cos it's snowing? Do they like snow?" Den asked Prussia.
"Dunno, but this doesn't look good."
"What d'yer mean? We could build a snowman."
"I lived in Russia's house for years after the," (here Prussia took a deep breath) "War, and snow is bad."
But when Prussia looked around, Den was already outside building a snowman.
Pru followed him and that was the wisest thing he could have done because just as he stepped outside there was a boom and a plop and England's toilet exploded.
What happened next became known as the Battle of Penge - not the massive clean up operation at England's house but the actual battle at Penge High Street.
England, Russia and Charlemagne alongside the South London and Peckham Allotment Recreational Society versus the Emperor Napoleon (deceased) and his ghost army of frankly quite gay Frenchmen.
France himself who had started all this shenanigans was in TopMan or TipMan as England called it, picking out some new 'threads'.
Whilst further along the High Street a certain American was being interviewed for what he thinks is a modelling job in SpecSavers opticians.
"I can do this job because I have eyes," America told the interviewer.
"My little sestra has sent me a text," Russia told England and showed him the phone. As said text was in Russian England did not understand it.
Charlemagne seemed to and gurgled.
"Natalya asks why are you not at home?" Russia said and then texted her back. "He is with me. I am doing fighting." (Obviously in Russian.)
They were - almost. Facing down a ghost army on Penge High Street, shoppers walking around them and sometimes in the case of the army -through them.
Over at Trafalgar Gardens, Belarus slammed her car back down the road just in time to see Den and Pru, both stood with their mouths agape looking at the water streaming out into the street. It wasn't clean water. An unrecognisable Turkmenistan emerged from the house looking like something from a swamp. Pru and Den recoiled.
Belarus cursed the dodgy Chinese timer that she'd attached to the bomb and drove off. Revenge would have to wait.
But England would pay, oh yes he would.
"Will you pay for this, mon ami?" Francis asked England waving a horrid garish women's blouse at him.
"No. Go away we are going to give Shortie what for."
Russia nodded and waved his pipe back and forth. Behind them, SLAPARSE were also looking very determined. One of them wore garden gloves, another brandished a trowel. England could not work out how they could see the Emperor's army - all dead Frenchmen, numbering in their… dozens. But still, it was hardly the Grande Armée and it was nothing you could boast about but England wasn't prepared to have dozens of Frenchmen wandering up and down freely - dead or not. Neither it seemed did SLAPARSE.
The snow fell really thickly now and England wished he'd gone back to his home for mittens.
"Tally-ho!" Shouted Colonel or Major Smythingon-Bligh or whatever the hell his name was.
England was about to say they'd banned fox-hunting and a good thing too when Russia joined in the charge before England had a chance to get Charlemagne from him.
"I like the red, don't you?" France said, popping back out of TipMan and holding up a blouse to England.
England frowned. Russia's pipe was now magic and seemed to be actually causing the ghost soldiers distress. Mind you, it was causing him distress.
One of them had been hit so hard that it obviously hurt him in the afterlife and he was flung through an optician's shop window.
"And I wear glasses and erm…" America's attempted promotion interview from 'Person Who Opens Door' to 'Manager' was not going well. "And my twin brother also wears glasses and… hey Artie!" He suddenly added and then a dead French Napoleonic soldier came hurtling through the window and landed on the desk in front of him.
The SpecSavers manager stared at the body and then at America and then back again. "Wha… wha… wha…?"
"Yeah, zombie apocalypse!" America replied in explanation. He left then and joined 'Artie dude'. "So what's occurring?" He asked.
"World War Z," England replied. "I'm trying to get Charlemagne off Russia."
Another soldier landed in front of them. They could hear Charlemagne giggling demonically. Or perhaps Russia was.
"I'd ring his sister," America said.
"Whose? Charlemagne's?"
"Nah, big nut job Russia's. Artie, why is it snowing?"
"You know Miss Ukraine beat me up last time I saw her."
"Nah I mean the other one, the scary one."
"They're both scary." England said. "And I think that's why it's snowing." England pointed in horror at a man dressed in a tatty Red Army greatcoat, with grey hair and grey moustache. His arms were outstretched and snow was swirling around him.
"Isn't that Stalin?" America asked.
England sighed. "I think it's General Winter."
"Wow. Is that his actual name?" America asked.
"What about this one?" France yelled, stepping out of the menswear shop wearing such a combination of clothes that he looked as if he'd just rolled around on an LSD-popping teenager's bedroom floor.
"Dear God, you look bloody awful," England said.
"Aaaargh!" France screamed when he saw General Winter and ran back inside, pulling the doors close behind him and no doubt hiding in the changing cubicles.
"Ta bud," America said to General Winter.
"You don't call General Winter 'bud'," England hissed.
A snowstorm engulfed them. "I wish I'd got my Aviator jacket on. I'm freezing," America said.
"Must. Rescue. Charlie." England said and, with epicness that he thought made him look like James Bond or a stiff upper-lipped English film hero, plunged into the snow to save the child. Someone had too.
Only his phone, ringing with the BBC Cricket theme tune halted him. "Yes?" He answered. He was disappointed to find it was Denmark.
"Hallo England. We thought we'd better tell you that someone and it wasn't us, has exploded your toilet."
"WHAT?"
"Yeah bye then." Den hung up.
"Is this some kind of joke?" England shouted into the phone with futility.
"Who was it?" America asked him and then said "Woah! Look at that! It's like being in World of Warfare but without the tanks and the guns and blood and weapons…"
"My toilet has exploded," England told America. He felt most odd.
America looked him up and down. "Yeah well."
France meanwhile was stuck in a changing cubicle with two dead Napoleonic soldiers. They were obviously dead and, more importantly, in France's eyes, had blood on them (not real blood - dead blood). So he fainted. In very very tight jeans and a woman's blouse. They were hiding. With good reason.
Outside Russia and General Winter were causing carnage.
Napoleon Bonaparte, Emperor of the French, 'Shortie' was enraged and yelled orders at his zombie army.
England was trying to work out how on earth the little shit had managed to summon up a dead army and whether Denmark was joking or not.
"I think you must have left your wand lying around," America told him as a grinning skull fell at their feet.
Russia yelled, "Vodka!" And charged at the incoming zombies, swinging his pipe left and right. Beside him General Winter flung ice literally at the soldiers freezing them in their steps.
Around them shoppers went about their business pretty much unawares.
Mrs Prunesquallor had stabbed an already dead soldier with her umbrella and then yelled, "For the Queen!"
England shook his head. It was never good if the Allotment Society got involved in anything. He remembered when he'd gone along to an official Christmas Lights Switching On Ceremony and some poor unknown pop star who was supposed to pull the switch had been harangued disgracefully by the said SLAPARSE committee because they were wearing the wrong colour before Advent or some such.
"Wow!" America said.
"I know," England said sadly. He caught up with Russia and said, pointing at Charlemagne. "Shall I take him off you?" But was handed a dead Frenchman's head which wasn't something England was pleased about.
"I meant Charlemagne or Charlie or whatever." He seethed.
"Da!" Russia dug inside his coat (now covered in an inch of snow) and handed the child to England. England could have sworn that the child looked more Russian than normally. He held him at arms' length and then gave him to America and then snatched him back when America began telling him about how horrible George III was.
"Do you think England will notice?" Denmark asked Prussia as they surveyed the damage to the bathroom. They had finally located the stopcock after much yelling, shouting and generally messing about and turned off the gushing water. The sodden carpets, wallpaper (which was rubbish anyway in Prussia's eyes) and the water flooding through a new hole in the ceiling still did not prepare one for the toilet smashed to smithereens. They couldn't even blame Russia for this.
"It was Miss Belarus. Perhaps if we get a mop and employ a plasterer and a plumber and get decorating…" The mysterious sodden person stood next to them began to say.
"Who's this clown?" Prussia said, cocking a thumb at him.
"Canada?" Denmark asked.
"I'm Turkmenistan," Turkmenistan said. "I was left here by my brothers."
They both stepped back. "Jeez. A Stan! If England finds out, we're dead."
"As I was saying if we get a mop and bucket and make a start…"
Prussia looked him up and down, dug out a dustpan and brush, gave it to Turkmenistan and left.
"Where are you going, dude?" Denmark asked, running after him.
"Next door."
"What about the yak and the goat?" Denmark had a point, they were still stood on the remains of England's lawn.
"We can take them with us!"
"Oh ja! We could ruin their lawn as well."
"Mr and Mrs George the Fourth are in Mablethorpe aren't they?"
"I don't think that's a real place," Den said, following Prussia. The cats followed - all six of them. Even Franklin who really was the cleverest 'person' in the whole household.
"Do they have Netflix?" Denmark asked as they sauntered in through the door (Russia had a spare key that he'd put under the mat).
"Sure do."
"Lead on."
But in the kitchen was someone waiting for them, sat on the kitchen table eating the remains of a cake someone had baked for Mr and Mrs George IV's return.
"Quack!"
"Oh bloody hell!"
France's trousers were so tight England could read the washing instructions on his underpants.
"What in the name of all that's custard are you wearing?" England asked the Frenchmen who stood shaking beside him.
"Zere are dead soldiers in ze changing room," France said to England as if this was an explanation.
Russia and General Winter marched down the High Street alongside the Allotment Society Committee members beating a swathe through the zombie army. Napoleon was behind the front line and shouting at his dead men.
"Allez! Allez!" the shortie shouted.
"Poor Napoleon. He was so hopeful. You know ze zombies said zay did not like mon pantaloons?"
"Here, take your son. I'm going to put a stop to this," England said.
"You are very forceful, mon cher," France simpered.
"Do you know what time the number 9 bus leaves?" A brave (in England's eyes) old lady asked Russia.
Russia, who had hold of a zombie Frenchman, hesitated and then said confidently, "3.30 pm." Before throwing the zombie into a shop window.
England decided to take matters in his own hands and approached Napoleon aka Shortarse, "Listen, if you withdraw your troops and bugger off to another century I would be most grateful. After all, Russia and General Winter are going to do to you what they did in 1812 and your chaps are all going to end up like frozen popsicles."
General Winter threw a large chunk of ice at Napoleon, who deftly ducked. "I zink not," the Emperor said and pulled his rather comical hat further over his eyes. "I will win this time."
"Moron." England said.
At King George IV's house, Prussia and Denmark were also in a battle but with an enraged show duck. Why Brian the Duck was there is anyone's guess. But Turkmenistan, stinking, and holding a bucket, did guess.
"I think he's a homing duck," he said.
"A what duck?" Den asked while fending off Brian with one of Mrs George IV's best cake slices.
"Who is this joker?" Prussia asked Den.
The doorbell rang then and everyone stopped in their tracks (including Brian).
Prussia looked around, "I'll answer it then, shall I?"
"I have to do everything around here…" he said unreasonably as he answered the door.
"Can you take in a parcel for next door?" The postman said.
"Me?"
"Yes."
"For George IV?"
"What?"
"What?"
"For Arthur Kirkland."
"Oh him. Yeah why not. What's he ordered? A new teapot cosy? An 18th Century salt stirrer? A set of bedpans? A new set of floral curtains because those in the guest bedroom are a state?"
"No, I'm afraid not. It's his suitcase sent over by the airline."
"Boring," Prussia said but signed his name anyway - 'Gilbert Frederich Otto Leopold Beilschmidt'.
"Ace name, man," Den said.
"I know, man. It bloody is. I don't use all of them, just the first cos it's awesome."
But the postman had already left.
"So open the suitcase and let's take a look at England's dire clothing taste," said Den, who was wearing his habitual long black coat and ridiculous cocked hat that made him look like an airline steward (according to Prussia).
"I'm going to try and clean up Arthur's house before he gets back," said Turkmenistan in the voice of one who is used to unsurmountable odds and left.
They ignored him. "Do you think his Clash t-shirt is in there? I wouldn't mind that. It's classic," Prussia said.
Denmark shrugged. "It's locked. Oh well."
Prussia pulled out a very old WW1 revolver hiding in his very old uniform, and very dramatically (Den thought) lined it up, peering through one eye and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.
"Well." Denmark said. He didn't like guns. He preferred axes.
Prussia frowned, shook the revolver and promptly shot himself in the foot. "Scheisse" He swore.
Denmark shook his head, pulled out an axe and hit the lock very very hard.
Whilst Prussia was jumping up and down with a very disturbed duck on his head, Den opened the suitcase.
"I didn't know England was going to enter the prize vegetable competition again?" He said.
Prussia who was hopping about holding one foot, yelled, "Well isn't he a prize vegetable?"
"Look."
Prussia stopped hopping and looked, as did 'Brian'.
"Interesting."
The suitcase was full of tomatoes.
"Who's making that awful racket and why is there duck poo on my trousers?" Came a very Austrian voice from under the table.