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Driving Lessons Chapter 86 - Ticket To Ride
Darren had only been an assistant to the assistant manager at the DFS store for four weeks but already he thought he was on the up and up on the management scale. Until today. When his immediate boss, the assistant manger who wasn't an assistant to the manager but an actual assistant manager, told him to go down into the basement and find out what was going on.
Darren, his new DFS uniform shirt too big for him and his shoes squeaking with fear (or maybe it was him) got into the lift and was about to press the button marked 'B'. Linda the cleaner with pink hair who chewed gum as if it were going out of fashion, told him that it was probably just rats and that they should get a pest controller out.
This did not reassure him. He wasn't to know that he was about to meet his doom. Or certainly somebody very very weird. And quite possibly end up losing his memory and becoming the pet of a mad Hungarian Nation.
The lift was not working. That was a relief and a curse. He stepped back out and Big Geoff, the Warehouse Supervisor told him to 'get his backside down the stairs instead, soft lad'.
Darren noted that the Big Geoff wasn't going down the stairs himself.
By the fourth step down, he knew something was very wrong. The bottom of the steps seemed bottomless. There was a purple haze swirling around as if from an 80s disco. A strange chanting (actually Russian peasant songs) could be heard from down there. A strange chill also emanated from the gloom. A sense of fear so strong hit him like a wet cod around the back of the head. His hair stood up on end.
"Privet little human!" Came a strange voice in a Russian accent.
England was on the number 9 bus and found himself, not for the first time, enjoying female attention. Usually the type of female attention England got was from irate female Nations and irate female bosses. This time though, female humans were actually cooing over him and the child Charlemagne. England decided not to admit that the child wasn't his. Mainly because the child could be his. After all, wasn't the child enjoying its bottle of Earl Grey tea and digestive biscuit (England had filled up the child's bottle in the tea shop before being magnanimously thrown out)? Also the child did have blue eyes and blond hair (England ignored the fact that he himself had green eyes) and looked like Sealand (actually Charlemagne looked nothing like Peter Kirkland).
So it was with these idiotic ideas that England announced to the two ladies opposite him that yes the child was his and was called 'Charlie'.
Charlemagne said, "Da."
"He means Dad," England said with a wince.
Charlemagne then babbled something in a mixture of Russian, Danish and French.
"He's trilingual," England said. Obviously the child could be his. England's memory was so bad, particularly after drinking, he could have had sex at some stage couldn't he in the last year or so?
"Da," Charlemagne said. The child was obviously high on caffeine from the Earl Grey, so England snatched the bottle from him.
"He's such a funny child," England told 'Sharon and Karen' sat on the seats opposite him.
"He's so cute," one of the women said, then turned to her friend and said in a quieter voice. "It's so hard to find a family man these days. All the decent men are snapped up and you're just left with men who want to discuss leaving the European Union or Manchester United. Yes I know he's weird looking but you can't have everything."
England decided not to hear this part but tried to be all fatherly to Charlemagne until Charlemagne bit his finger.
"Ow! You little toad!" England exclaimed. "Blood hell!" He then hurriedly changed this to: "Oh Charlie, you little scamp!"
Charlemagne looked back at him in amazement. The child was not used to England spending so much time with him and was wondering where Denmark/Russia/France was. "Pap?" The child asked in a tremulous voice and then burst into tears.
"There there don't cry." England told the child and rocked him in his arms. "Rock a bye baby on the tree top…" he began to sing.
The women had already got off the bus and when England looked up there was an old lady looking at him with a cynical eye.
"This is my child," England told her as if he'd been accused of child abduction.
"Nyet," Charlemagne said in between sobs.
"I bloody am!" England argued. He then decided that perhaps he'd better just get off the bus. Particularly when three teenage schoolgirls began giggling at him and one was holding her mobile telephone device up and seemed to be filming him. He hoped it wasn't going to end up on YouTube.
Outside the German Embassy, a crowd had gathered to listen to the spokesman tell the awaiting news agencies that the asylum seeker within definitely wasn't a whistleblower, definitely wasn't from the Ecuadorian Embassy and definitely wasn't a polar bear cub despite the rumours.
Within the Embassy, a short shadowy figure, wearing a raincoat and fedora silhouetted against the curtains…
Mr Kumajiro shouted at one of his lackeys to bring him another latte and to be quick about it. He wondered how on earth his mysterious benefactor had wangled this stay with the German Ambassador. All he'd heard was that somebody had said something like "If I hear 'Is This the Way to Amarillo?' again I'm going to kill someone" which made no sense at all.
At England's house an actual real human plumber person was trying to sort out the exploded toilet.
"You're going to need a new toilet," the plumber told Denmark.
Denmark looked him up and down and then looked at the remains of the toilet and then back at him.
"Are you the homeowner?" The man said.
"Me? I've never owned a home in my life. I usually live in people's cellars." Denmark said honestly. "Are you a real person?" He added.
"I'm the homeowner," Prussia said. He was on crutches and blamed his wounded foot on England (despite England not being there). After all, if England's toilet had not been blown up by Belarus (they'd finally worked this out), they wouldn't have been round at Mr and Mrs George IV's house where they wouldn't have run into Austria who wouldn't have forced Prussia to shoot himself in the foot. (Or that was the story Prussia told the stunned nurse who picked out the bullet and bound up his foot in a swathe of bandages.). The crutches were actually not really needed but Prussia liked them and was hoping to later get a parrot and an eyepatch.
The plumber, named Alf - much to the Nations' amazement - looked him up and down. "Really?" Obviously Prussia did not look the sort of citizen who would own a Victorian semi in this part of London.
"Kind of."
"Well you need a new toilet," the man said.
"That's a bit obvious."
"And new piping, new cistern and new floor. Also your piping beneath your bath is gone."
"We had a Russian plumber in who buggered it up," Den said.
The plumber ignored him and addressed Prussia. "It's going to cost you."
"I have precisely ten pounds, fifteen pence and a World War One bullet."
"That's a bit short," the plumber told him.
Prussia shrugged.
Denmark fumbled in his pockets and came up with a car key. They all looked at it in wonder.
"Is that what I think it is?" Prussia asked.
"A car key?" Denmark replied.
"BMW," Prussia replied.
"I got it from your bruder's place," Denmark replied.
"Bruder's car."
"Do you take cars as payment?" Denmark asked the plumber.
"Are you mad?"
"Probably."
Downstairs, Scotland drunk on whisky and power was directing Turkmenistan in redecorating the living room with tartan wallpaper.
"Up a bit, down a bit, no to the left… there!" Scotland slurred, sat in England's best chintzy armchair while Turkmenistan stood on step ladders holding up the offending wallpaper liberally covered in paste. The hole in the ceiling had already been papered over - which would soon prove to be a disaster waiting to happen.
"But it's not straight!" Turkmenistan protested.
"Aye an' that!" Scotland said incomprehensibly and poured more whisky into his Dundee United mug.
Darren wondered where in the training for his job it had mentioned anything about being held hostage by a mad Russian who thought they were at the Battle of Borodino. It had also never said anything in the staff handbook about eating boiled rat.
Actually what Russia had handed to Darren was not boiled rat but a MacDonalds Big Mac taken out of its packaging. But it was the same thing in Russia's crazed mind. He had given Darren a Red Army greatcoat and a spare 'rifle' which was actually a table leg and told him to watch out for Frenchmen.
Darren had no idea what he meant and was even more alarmed to find that the big Russian kept talking to someone called 'General Winter' and 'Tinks' - the latter who seemed to live in the Russian's coat pocket.
It was also snowing - indoors.
"I need to borrow your car," Denmark told Germany.
Germany wasn't listening. He was berating some poor news journalist who seemed to think that the German Embassy was keeping a polar bear within the building. "There is no polar bear in this building!" Germany yelled. (This was Germany's idea of a press conference.)
"Okay then," Denmark said and wandered out. Driving England's Bentley to the German Embassy and picking up Germany's car had been actually quite easy. He'd even managed to steal a few bottles of beer from the fridge and change all the alphabet letters on the fridge to read 'LUDDY SMELLS' which cheered him up no end. He then ambled out of the door, headed for Germany's brand new BMW Series 9 and prepared to do some carjacking.
England realised he was several streets away from his own street as he hurried past the local library (from which he was still banned after forgetting to take back several library books - 'Improve your Memory' being one and 'Organising your Time' being the other). "Damn and blast," he told Charlemagne, who grinned back at him. The perambulator was a revelation. England found that after visiting the Co-op he could fit a whole load of shopping inside it. Including his week's supply of teabags. Of course he had to hold the child as there was no room for anything else alongside the packets of custard creams, nappies and formula milk.
"Bugger," Charlemagne agreed.
England was really worried now. The child had said a few English words such as 'cripes', 'damn' and 'blast' in the last hour that England was wondering if he had overestimated France's sex drive and actually he was the father. It didn't bear thinking about. Maybe he had actually had sex in the last year or two? Perhaps there was that time he met that woman in the pub who he'd previously bumped into in the post office and then he'd got very drunk after winning that pub quiz? He couldn't remember actually getting home. Or that time he went to that Embassy dinner and sat next to the Prime Minister who told him he was a disgrace after he'd spilled some Godawful French wine on the tablecloth and then he'd got legless with the Italian Ambassador? Never mind, surely a DNA test could sort it out.
Anyway there was his house now and oh God, surely what was that? No, surely not. Not a bloody Stan? And a plumber's van parked outside. And Germany's brand new BMW Series 9. And where was his beloved Bentley?
He slammed the pram down the drive, taking a line of paint off Germany's car as he did so.
"Why is there a Stan in my house?" he asked as soon as he walked in. He stopped dead when he saw the drenched carpet.
"I'm trying to mop up," Turkmenistan said.
"He's been here since the party," Den said. "Who knew?"
England dumped Charlemagne on Den who said, "Hey little feller where you been? Have you been out with grumpy Uncle Arthur eh? Eh? Eh?" He continued as if Charlemagne would tell him.
Charlemagne did in a series of gabbles and waving his little arms about.
England glared at him. "I have no idea what happened to France and that ridiculous Napoleon. I'm assuming nothing good. I don't know where America is either," he said.
"America - I went there with the missus," the plumber said, wiping his hands on his overall.
"Hello my good man and you are?" England held out his hand to find it being shaken by a very strong rough calloused hand belonging to a human male in overalls brandishing a wrench.
England hoped he was a real plumber as opposed to Russia who thought he was a plumber. "What has happened here?"
"Are you the home owner?" Alf the plumber asked.
"Yes I am."
Turkmenistan nodded, "He is," he confirmed as if there had been any doubt.
"Well this job is going to cost you, but I see that your friends have come up with an alternative," the plumber said.
"My friends?" England asked. He was confused now.
Den slapped him on the back and said, "Ja! We sorted it." The Dane then gave Alf the plumber the keys to the brand new (albeit with a scrape down the side of it) BMW.
"Oh okay," England said and then added almost absentmindedly, "By the way is Germany here?"
"Nein," Den said. "Although I have seen him today. He's angry at a bear or something."
England shuddered.
From the chintzy armchair came a Scottish accent, "Ahm here to live wi' yer Arthur, it's in the conditions of my bail."
"Oh bloody buggering hell."
"If you see a Frenchman in a fancy uniform shoot him," Russia told Darren and then told General Winter to stop the snowing.
Darren was trembling, partly from being taken hostage by a complete fruitcake and partly from the cold.
A telephone then rang somewhere.
"Shall I answer it?" Darren asked, his teeth chattering.
"If it is any of my sestras, tell them I am busy," Russia told him.
Darren nodded and answered the phone which stood on a desk emblazoned 'customer complaints'. "Erm cust…cust…customer complaints," he stuttered.
"This is Inspector Biggins-Smythe of Special Branch. Are you safe?"
"No," Darren admitted. "I don't think so."
"Is there a large Russian man in there with you?"
"Yes."
"Damn…" Darren could then hear the man say something like 'Yes, Russia's in there, yes we thought Kirkland was with him… I don't know I suppose we could ring one of the sisters…' and then the Inspector came back on the line. "We understand you're a hostage…."
"I am?" Darren felt his stomach turn to water. The big Russian was looking at him suspiciously. Darren felt his life flash before his eyes. It wasn't very exciting.
"Is that my sestra?" Russia rumbled.
"No," Darren squeaked. "It's head office." He lied.
"Tell them that I do not like their new range of sofas," Russia said. "Although they do make good barricades."
"He says the new range of sofas make good barricades," Darren squeaked into the phone.
"Do not under any circumstance discuss the Second World War, Germans, President Putin, Prussia, sisters, Napoleon…"
"Napoleon?" Darren exclaimed. He was wondering actually if he was the victim of an elaborate prank.
Russia looked up like a wolf that had smelled prey. "Wut?" He asked.
"What?"
"Just to be sure is there an Arthur Kirkland in there?" The Inspector asked Darren.
"No, just me and…"
"Right…" then the Inspector could be heard saying 'no Kirkland, repeat no Kirkland, we have a Kirkland wandering around' and then "Okay, son, don't worry we'll have you out of there as soon as we can find some decent vodka."
But Darren didn't hear the rest as Russia ripped the telephone out of the wall.
Kirkland was indeed free or as free as someone could be when he realised that Germany's car would be used to pay for a full repair job on his house. At the moment though he was asking Prussia why the Prussian was on crutches and why there were balloons floating around his house with the words 'It's a Girl!' on them.
"Firstly, wet-pants," (England winced at this nickname) "I shot myself in the foot with a World War One pistol and then the balloons were in the hospital gift shop and because why not?"
"I see… so your usual lunacy then?" England then turned to Turkmenistan, "And why are you still here?"
"I was left behind by my brothers," Turkmenistan answered.
"There's a yak in my garden."
"Yes."
"Why is there a yak in my garden?"
"That's Steve that is," Den interrupted.
England then turned to Hamish, thought about something and then gave up. "That tartan monstrosity of a wallpaper can come down as well," he told Turkmenistan.
Turkmenistan nodded.
"Touch that wallpaper and I'm going to play ma Proclaimers records all day," Scotland said.
"You wouldn't?"
"Ah would and yer know it."
"Do it," Prussia said.
When the taxi pulled up outside the house and disgorged its occupants (two Frenchmen - one in a TopShop women's blouse and very very very tight pink jeans and the other in a suit) England had been brought fully up to date with his elder brother's bail conditions being that some madman had decided that he should live with Arthur and that there was an enraged show duck living in the bathroom upstairs.
Arthur had waved off Alf the plumber - the only normal person in the house - and was greatly upset to see the two Frenchmen now walking down the driveway.
In Arthur's eyes one Frenchman was one too many. Now there were two.
"Bonjour Monsieur Kirkland, I zink zat you know me, non?" Pierre, the other human Frenchman said.
The other Frenchman, the non-human Frenchman, the perverse French Nation - had already slinked into the house.
"Oh bloody hell, Pierre. I can't believe you're still babysitting Francis. What's he done?"
Pierre, the French Government's 'special envoy' really Francis' babysitter aka the person who usually smoothed over the French Nation's arrests in various countries, paying off husbands, posting bail in Peru, apologising to Heads of State, was a man aged before his time. His hair was white, yet he was merely 30 years of age. He was the latest in a long line of 'Pierres' - France could not be bothered to learn their individual names so that was the name they went by. They all looked identical and all had an identical Valium addiction.
"I have to stay with him now," Pierre told England. "He is not allowed out at all by himself. We did hope zat ze anklet he had been wearing would keep him under ze house arrest but alas zis did not work and somebody had broken it off with their teeth."
"Monsters."
"Oui."
"I'm not having another bloody Frenchman staying here. You'll have to stay elsewhere. The house is full."
"Ah but my Government has offered to pay for his full board zis time."
"Pay? There can be no amount of money that can make up for him and his proclivities." England said.
"I hear zat you owe Monsieur Allemagne several thousand pounds?" Pierre asked. His left eyelid twitched. The poor man evidently did not want to spend the rest of his time in London in a hotel with Francis. Francis plus hotels did not mix well. The visit usually ended up with Interpol or the local Vice Squad interceding. After one particular rambunctious party the Ritz Hotel in Belgrade had had to be completely refurbished. No Stans had been involved either.
"No way. I will not be moved on this," England said, his arms crossed.
"Presidente Macron will give you enough money to never have to worry about holes in ze ceiling or Scottish brothers ever again," Pierre begged.
"No."
"We can replace your Bentley."
"My Bentley? Where is my Bentley?"
"Now calm down, dude. It's at Germany's place," Den said.
"My baby…"
"You need to calm down. Den did you a favour. Without him that plumber person human wouldn't be able to fix your toilet and bathroom," Prussia said, still fighting off an angry duck.
"That was your fault! Without you, that toilet would still be there!" England yelled.
"Actually that was Belarus."
"What?"
"I can make them all go away…" Pierre whispered to England. "My Government can make them go away. Just please don't send myself and Francis to a hotel."
In the end it wasn't Pierre and Francis who were in a hotel (they ended up in the spare attic bedroom with the cobwebs and back issues of Gardeners World), it was Prussia and Denmark who were now living it up at a hotel which happened to be directly opposite the German Embassy - all paid for by Pierre's government credit card.
Prussia laid on the king-sized bed with an assortment of miniature bottles of spirits from the bar and a family size bag of Wotsits. Brian the duck was with them. This had not been planned. Brian had concealed himself in Denmark's overnight bag (which had consisted of beer, underpants and an axe) and then launched himself out when they'd opened the door to the room. The duck seemed to have a fixation on Prussia.
Denmark was stood at the window and watching the German Embassy opposite through England's birdwatching binoculars.
"Honestly, I'm sure I can see a polar bear cub at the window."
"You're as obsessed as Arthur," Prussia said, feeding Brian some gin-soaked Wotsits. "Why would a polar bear be living at Ludwig's place?"
"Dunno. But it said on the news about an asylum seeker at the Embassy. I didn't see Germany, he was shouting at some news crews."
Prussia wasn't listening but instead he was trying to bond with Brian. "I reckon we could make money off this duck," he told Denmark.
"I think it's Mr Kumajiro!" Denmark exclaimed.
"Quack!" Brian agreed.
"Well this is our best selling mattress. It sells for £200 and has 200 springs per square metre," Darren was telling Russia.
Russia laid on the said mattress. "It is very good. I will take one. Do you also sell wardrobes?"
Darren, still trembling, nodded. "We sell single, double and even triple wardrobes in solid oak." This was weirdest sale he had ever made. The weird Russian man seemed to have forgotten for a little while that they were in the middle of a battle apparently. Darren listened intently for the possibility of the police breaking in. But for now, the Police outside were still trying to work out how to negotiate past the news crews which had appeared.
"Erm what size wardrobe do you think you'd need, Sir?" Darren asked.
"General," Russia corrected.
"General Sir."
"No just General. General Braginski."
"Erm General Braginski."
"Just a minute," Russia said and took out a battered Nokia that looked as if it had ketchup stains on it (Darren hoped it was ketchup). There then came a smattering of Russian and then Russia turned to Darren. "My friend Toris says it needs to be at least 3 foot wide and six foot tall to cover the portal to hell in my spare bedroom."
Darren gulped and took out his special Assistant Manager tape measure.
Russia hung up. "Toris was my best friend."
"Was?"
"Da, until he and the other Baltics left me. He is still my friend. But I think he loves my sestra. My little sestra. But she is married to my landlord, Arthur. He does not know this." Russia said mysteriously.
"Who doesn't? Toris?"
"Hahaha you are very funny," Russia said and hit the boy so hard on his back he fell over. "Nyet, I mean Arthur or maybe he does. I do not know. But he is my landlord."
Arthur shivered. "I felt as if someone just walked over my grave," he said and then added, "Has anyone seen Alfred? Blimey I really hope he isn't still in MacDonalds."
Over at what remained of Penge High Street, Alfred was starting his new job at the opticians… Unfortunately it was not to last very long when, just as he was telling a customer his glasses had been admired by Abraham Lincoln no less, a van driven by a crazy Italian bumped up the kerb and came to a halt outside.
Romano had finally (after having several naps, a few phone calls with his boss, made some pizza, ate some pizza, left some insulting messages on Germany's voicemail and consulted with an Austrian psychiatrist) decided to take his revenge on the 'Awesome Trio' for stealing his beloved van.