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Driving Lessons Chapter 85 - Lost in the Supermarket
"Bob into that shop there and get me a waterproof mac would you?" England asked America.
"I don't know what you mean."
"Bob. Into. That. Shop. And. Get. Me. A. Waterproof. Mac."
America just stared at him.
England gave him £20.
"Wow thanks." America loped off and returned with a Big Mac.
"That's not what I meant. How am I supposed to wear that?"
"What?"
"Oh for God's sake."
They stood in the middle of Penge High Street looking around them at the carnage wrought on this once bustling shopping street.
There were dead or very very dead French soldiers everywhere. The zombie apocalypse had certainly hit town.
"Bugger," England said.
Russia now had Napoleon surrounded. He didn't need anyone else to surround anyone, just himself.
"Pap!" Charlemagne said.
"Yes you need changing," England said. He handed him to America, who gave him a bucket of 'fries' in exchange. "Change this child."
"Into a waterproof Mac?"
"You're an idiot, but blimey you have a point though it's cold," England said.
"Is it all over then?" America asked.
"Yes, I rather think it is, old chap. War is a terrible thing. It's just a case of the stronger person beating down on the camp gay Frenchmen in their fancy uniforms. As Russia has just taken hold of Napoleon and is holding him upside down and shaking him vigorously, I rather think that's the end of the old dead Shortarse. I really hope he doesn't come back. I suppose one should tell one's boss that the snow is all down to an anomaly."
"No, I mean the fries. Have you eaten them all?"
England looked down at the bucket in his hands. In his soliloquy about war he had eaten all the chips. Or fries.
"Damn."
"What's an amonally?" America asked.
"Amorally?" France butted in. He didn't seem concerned that Napoleon was cornered.
"I think he means… Why isn't General Winter buggering off?" England asked.
"Dunno man but somebody needs to change their nappy," America said, holding Charlemagne's behind up to his nose.
"He needs changing. And feeding."
"I ain't lactating at the moment," America said.
"Pity." England said, not listening.
"And you promise me you will go back to where you came from and be a good Frenchman and never come back?" Russia asked, shaking Napoleon upside down - the Emperor's head banging on the pavement after each word.
"He cannot speak, Rossiya," General Winter said sadly. It was still snowing and this was a problem England wanted to highlight with the old man as soon as he'd sorted out the child's bottom.
He looked around and spied a good old English cafe which would surely have a child changing area? He hurried in with Charlemagne smelling cheerfully under his arm.
"Excuse I don't suppose you have a baby changing room?" England said in a desperate voice and looking desperate as he stepped into the cafe to the woman with a startling hairdo behind the counter.
"We have a parent and baby room."
"Isn't that the same thing?"
"Are you a parent?"
"Well yes I am. I have a son called Peter who actually should be in school but really I have no idea where he is at the moment. He's probably causing a stock market crash as we speak."
"No, I mean the baby."
"God no! This isn't mine. I don't know whose it is." (England's insistence of calling the baby 'it' was not lost on the woman.)
The woman behind the counter began to call the police.
"I just need to change his napkin." England said, meaning nappy but using the very proper English upper class term. He certainly wasn't going to call it a diaper.
"Tell him to stay there, Brenda," the woman behind the counter said to her colleague and then said into the telephone, "Hello? Police? We have a strange man here in Brenda's Tea Shop, Penge High Street, with a baby that isn't his. Yes, he looks peculiar…."
England looked down at himself and was startled to see he was still wearing his stripy pyjamas and burgundy dressing gown. No wonder he'd been cold. "I'm so sorry. I'm a little jetlagged and then I was trying to get rid of Napoleon."
Just at that moment the door flew open and the said Emperor came flying through and landed on the cake trolley.
Someone screamed.
Arthur realised it was him who screamed. "Oh my God! That Victoria sponge!" He said and realised afterwards that he sounded utterly mad.
"The police are on their way," the woman said. Whether this was because of the sponge cake or England or a man dressed as Napoleon falling on her sponge cake is not really known.
Napoleon slowly and with the greatest of dignity, wiped the sponge from his uniform.
England stared at him. He couldn't work out why 'Brenda' and 'Stella' (apparently) could see the Frenchman. Presumably they were a bit French.
"Are you a bit French?" He asked but regretted this as he and Charlemagne were thrown out into the snowy street.
Russia was waiting for him like a huge polar bear stalking its prey. "Is Napoleon in there?" He asked.
"No," England lied and hurried off before the police could arrive.
Meanwhile in Mr and Mrs George IV's house…
"Get your hands off that cake!" Austria yelled at them.
"Oh Gott, not him," Prussia moaned. "Anyone but him."
"And you!" Austria rounded on him. "What did you do with my credit card?"
"That was Hungary, man." Denmark said.
"Hungry man? What on earth are you talking about?"
The duck meanwhile was still attacking Prussia. "Can someone get this duck off me and take me to hospital?"
"Yes, you would shoot yourself in the foot wouldn't you? Without Ludwig you'd be nothing."
"Hey I'm nothing without a lot of people not just Ludwig!" Prussia yelled. "I'm awesome I am."
"That makes no sense," Denmark muttered. Den was right.
"And whose are those tomatoes?" Austria asked. It was amazing really that Austria. Having passed out previously from a drink of vodka could be so lucid so quickly.
"Hola!" Came a voice.
"Oh God, not him," Denmark said. "I love him but he's not in the Awesome Trio, he's in the Bad Friends Trio and I'm not. Not that I want to be and no, I don't need a note from Norge." Denmark said to no-one in particular.
Everybody looked at him after this rant and then proceeded to ignore him.
"I've got Arthur's suitcase and I think he's got my tomatoes!" Spain said happily. "Is Arthur in? I know when I last saw him he was going to see Scotland."
"He went to BBC Scotland to get America," Prussia said impatiently. "But now he's sorting out Napoleon."
Spain thought about this.
"You're not joining our Trio," Denmark said to Spain, looking him up and down.
"Okay!" Spain said cheerily.
"I should think not. What a bunch of hooligans," Austria sniffed.
"Aw shut up, wet pants," Prussia retorted. "No-one asked you."
"He's shot himself," Austria told Spain.
Spain looked at Prussia. "But he looks okay. He's not dead is it?"
"In the foot," Austria explained.
"But why?"
Prussia held up his bleeding foot for inspection.
Spain looked at it and then at Prussia, "Why did you do that?"
"I didn't do it on purpose," Prussia yelled. "Now someone take me to hospital."
"Why are you hopping?" Spain asked dimly.
"Because of my foot!" Prussia yelled.
"Ah si," Spain said.
"Just get out and go back to England's house," Austria shouted.
"We can't."
"Why?"
"We kind of ruined it."
"I knew it." Austria said. "Honestly, you can't be trusted anywhere. I remember what you did to Emperor Joseph's summer palace."
"Oh ja, that was fun. He went absolutely mad." Prussia smiled.
"What did you do?" Austria asked. He was writing in his notebook.
"It was nothing to do with us really," Denmark butted in. "His toilet just exploded." Denmark added as if toilets exploded every day.
"Yeah I think it was something to do with that Stan," Prussia said, who still wasn't sure which Stan was left in England's house.
"A Stan? Did you say there was a Stan left in England's house?" Austria asked. He suddenly looked very nervous and this was not because there was a duck chewing his trousers.
At this news, Spain said, "Right I have somewhere I have to be," and hurried out. Austria hurried after him.
"Well there goes the romance of the century," Prussia said.
"Come on, Gil, I'll take you to hospital," Den said and actually picked up the limping Prussian and carried him out to the car.
In actual fact it was Arthur's beloved Bentley - still with the Welsh flag adorned on its roof. But where were the keys?
Denmark ran through the sodden house, tripped over Turkmenistan with his mop and rummaged through England's underwear drawer - throwing Union Jack underpants over his shoulder, stopping, pulling off his own trousers, putting England's underpants on, pulling on his trousers again, throwing a very old sword over his shoulder, a bag of marbles and a book of French insults. No keys. He ran back downstairs, rummaged through England's under sink cupboard throwing out a half bottle of bleach, a packet of dishcloths and a plunger. No keys.
"Yo Turkman thingy?"
"Yes?" Turkmenistan stopped mopping and looked up. The poor man looked stressed.
"Did England say where his keys were?"
"I don't know. He doesn't know I'm here."
"Oh ja."
"Have you looked in the shed? That's where Turkey keeps his keys to stop me and my brothers from going over and trashing his house when he's on holiday."
"Turkey has a shed?" Den asked. His eyes wide. To be fair, Denmark really didn't have a lot to do with the Stans or Turkey, he thought they were a bit crackers - particularly the Stans. And Turkey, since the whole Ottoman thing.
Turkmenistan leaned on his mop. "Yes but don't tell him I told you. Kaz, Aji, Kryg and Tajik all held an Elvis film day at his house once and the roof fell in. He still doesn't know it was them."
"Wow. They are true legends." Den said.
"Key," Turkmenistan reminded him when Den was still stood looking at him in wonder five minutes later.
"Ja!" Den said and sped off.
Meanwhile at Penge High Street
Napoleon had not been thrown through the door of the cafe by Russia but by Mrs Prunesquallor and England would only learn this later.
But Russia was deeply deeply ashamed that he'd not been the one to vanquish the Emperor with or without a Victoria sponge and he had now gone rogue and had holed himself up in the lower basement of the local DFS*. He was now in combat mode, camouflage on his cheeks, his lead pipe in his hands, he had barricaded himself behind two futons and a pair of bunk beds.
*DFS is a furniture store chain in Britain.
All the store employees knew was that the lift was out of action (he had disabled the buttons by smashing them) and the stairwell was blocked by orthopaedic mattresses. The electric was out and there was a strange purple haze in the air. Nobody dare go down there and so the store was closed.
In a parent and baby changing room situated in a Mothercare store, England was attempting to change Charlemagne's nappy. It had been a long time since he'd changed a nappy. And he certainly had never changed a disposable nappy. He was lost as he stared at the sticky tabs and could not work out which way was front. Charlemagne looked back at him and said, "Den."
England assumed the child meant Denmark who was the usual Chief Nappy Changer.
"Where are the instructions?" England asked the child. Honestly, it was absolutely appalling that there were no instructions for the wretched things.
He dug out his phone, was appalled to see he had six missed calls - all from France (who was named 'Gorgeous Sexy Pants' in his contacts list - by France, not England). "Bugger."
A woman came in, looking harassed with a small child of her own and an inquisitive looking toddler who pointed at England and declared him to be a 'strange man'.
"I say, my dear," England ventured, "Could you help me with this nappy?"
"Do I look like your nanny?" She replied, hefting her own child onto the changing table next to Charlemagne who grinned gummily at her.
"Actually I never had a nanny," England replied.
The toddler took England's phone from him and pressed some buttons with its sticky sausage like fingers, then handed it back when England was about to remonstrate.
He found he had now 'found a Pokemon' but he was no further forward in the mystery of nappy changing.
"Does this go on like this?" He asked the woman as he laid Charlemagne on the nappy and pressed the tabs close.
She stared at him, "You're a crap father aren't you if you can't even change a nappy?" She said.
England was about to say, "You have no bloody idea." But didn't, instead he said, "Yes my son's at school at the moment." (He prayed Sealand was at school in Maths and not trying to sell off an obscure island to one of the more belligerent Nations.)
"This one isn't mine," England said. "I'm not really sure whose it is."
The woman backed away and took her baby and toddler (who was now pulling faces at England) with her. She pulled out her phone and began ringing the police.
England was alarmed to see he had 'hatched' a Pokemon egg and that his phone was ringing. This time it was his brother. The contact saying 'Hamish McMad of MadTown'.
"Hallo Arthur yer big boob? I've got oot of prison and I'm gooing to live with yer and yer yon idiots. But yer know your house is a big mess…"
England cut him off. His brother was always telling him his house was a mess. Just because his biscuit tin wasn't filled with shortbread and that there were no tartan curtains. "Come on Charlie, Charlemagne old boy, let's go…" he said and hefted Charlemagne over his shoulder, whereupon the child disgorged his last meal down England's back.
"I really miss Carl dude," Den told Prussia.
"Do you know what?"
"What?"
"I don't care," Prussia told him.
They were sat in the local Accident & Emergency Unit having driven erratically there in England's Bentley - leaving said vehicle dumped half on the kerb at the A&E bay in front of some ambulances.
Denmark was reading a Woman's Weekly and seemed overly interested in the 'when to wean your child' article.
Prussia was sat with his injured foot up on a nearby chair and glaring at a child who was glaring back at him. The said child had asked him if he'd been shot in the foot. Prussia had answered yes and that no he wasn't a bank robber.
The actual conversation with the receptionist had gone like this:
"My friend has shot himself in the foot," Denmark had said as Prussia had hopped in, using England's golf umbrella as a crutch (England never played golf).
When Prussia had hissed something at him and remembering that the British were cagey about gunshot wounds, Denmark had then amended this to: "A bullet went into my friend's foot but we don't know how."
Prussia had then lifted his leg with remarkable suppleness and placed his foot on the receptionist's desk for her perusal.
"You need to take a number," the receptionist said.
"A telephone number?" Denmark asked, thinking the woman was flirting with him. And why shouldn't she?
The woman shook her head, pointed at the number counter above her head and then at what appeared to be raffle tickets in front of her.
The number above her head said '2', the number Denmark took was '231'. He sighed. "Do we win a prize?" He asked hopefully. She pointed to a chair in the waiting room where they sat next to a very worn out looking woman with a child on her knee who had a saucepan stuck on his head.
"It says here that that Princess thingy is going to get married soon," Den said, and held up the magazine and showed Prussia. It was the Princess at whom France had sworn undying love and had then buggered off with England (France did, not the Princess).
"Says she has a secret French lover," Den continued.
Prussia stuck his tongue out at a child. "Francis gets about doesn't he?"
"How are you coping with the pain?" Den asked.
"Pain? I don't care what he does. He ain't my boyfriend. He can do what he likes. Those days when I used to go on nights out in drag with him are long gone, man. If he wants to shack up with a princess…"
"Nah not France, I mean your foot."
"Oh right. Ja. It's okay. I'm tough."
"Right," Den continued to read the horoscopes. "Says here, Arthur, isn't he an Aries - is going to have an interesting fast-paced day when he will meet a long-lost relative."
"I mean you could get hold a bloody nurse, man." Prussia said in a huff.
Denmark wasn't listening but was reading with interest about the top ten best hosiery.
"I say does this have brakes?" England asked the store person.
"Erm yes Sir. Are you wishing to purchase?"
"Well actually yes. I need a perambulator for my erm…" here England looked at Charlemagne/Charlie and then back at the pushchair. He was frankly fed up of carrying the child under his arm like Russia did and he didn't have the baby sling - Russia did. The child weighed an absolute tonne.
England wheeled the pushchair up and down the store and then plonked Charlie in it. "Do you have any cots as well?" He asked.
"Yes Sir, we do."
England thought about it. "I'll take one of those as well. Do they have lids and do you take Bank of Austria credit cards?"
The woman frowned but began packing the said cot and pushchair.
"I'll take the pushchair now and put the little rapscallion in it. You can send the cot to my house," England told her, handing her a Bank of Austria credit card. He'd been shocked to find it in Charlemagne's changing bag. Either the child was a master criminal or France was a thieving bugger. He then cocked his ear as he heard the familiar wail of police sirens.
He had not seen Napoleon for some time, or France, or Russia or even Henry VI and so he quickly shoved Charlemagne in the pushchair, gave him a Farleys rusk, ate one himself and then ran out of the shop before he was asked questions.
Russia would have wondered why he was still wearing a baby sling if he was in his right mind. He was not in his right mind. He was back in Moscow 1812 defending his city from idiot Frenchmen in loud uniforms.
Tinkerbell, ever the troublemaker was telling him that the Tsar and his family needed defending.
Russia nodded at this. The small fairy had left Hungary's employ as Hungary was still in Australia getting a tan and had taken up residence in his left coat pocket (the fairy, not Hungary). She was telling him that the French army was coming…
In fact, it wasn't. The French zombie army had dissipated after its leader, Napoleon, covered in Victoria sponge and utterly defeated by SLAPARSE, promptly announced to the world (or Penge High Street and France) that he was going to visit Paris and then disappeared. France wondered if the Emperor was going to visit the current President, but then gave a gallic shrug as if none of this was his fault.
Then the police arrested him.
England meanwhile was running down the road with a pushchair after the number 9 bus.
At the hospital, Denmark was chatting up an overworked, underpaid nurse.
At Arthur's house, Hamish stood looking at the destruction with real happiness in his eyes. Turkmenistan joined him, leaning on his mop.
"Who did this?" Scotland asked.
"I think it was Miss Belarus," Turkmenistan replied. "She was dressed as a male plumber, but I couldn't mistake those tresses, that wonderful perfume, her blue eyes…"
"Aye well I think she's marvellous an' all that" (Hamish was actually like the others and terrified of her) "But this was my job to do this…" he said. He flung his tartan suitcase, his complete collection of Scottish folk tunes and a crate of Scotch Whisky down on the mat and rubbed his hands. "Let's get to work," he said.
Turkmenistan looked worried - as well he might.