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The Last Chapter - The Never Ending Story
The Funeral
St Jude The Obscure's Church for Unhallowed Souls in Peckham was not on the tourist trail and never would be. But today it was the location for an event not usually seen by the Nations. A Nation's funeral.
"He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong."
France finished the poem and then burst into tears. He had to be helped from the lectern, and gave the vicars bum a crafty tweak as he went past.
France was dressed bizarrely in widow's weeds and looking, even if he thought so himself (nobody else did) scrumptious. Black certainly suited him, he felt. He was going to continue wearing this even after the suitable term of mourning had ended.
Most of the Nations were in attendance, well when we say most it was mostly the ones who tolerated Arthur, certainly India, Peru and Ethiopia were among those who didn't attend. Probably because they were too sensible.
On top of the coffin was a Union Jack flag and a flower arrangement that read 'ARTDUDE' which everyone agreed would enrage England.
The next to read a eulogy was Germany. His eulogy did not make anyone cry. On the contrary, reading from his book 'Why I'm Better Than England' caused Denmark and Prussia to leap on him with cries of disgust. Germany was convinced, utterly convinced, that England had faked his death to get out of paying him his money.
Italy then read his eulogy, in between sobs, which basically was about how England was his bestest friend in the whole world and that he had played Cards Against Humanity against an American called Mike Pence.
Scotland read the next eulogy. This seemed to be an extensive lecture on the Battle of Bannockburn, he then stepped back to allow Yorkshire's duck Brian to do the last one which mainly seemed to involve a lot of quacking.
Austria made notes in a book hoping to publish at a prestigious conference about personality disorders. Wales ranted to anyone who would listen about the damages to his caravan and his cottage and the fact that he'd seen someone matching Arthur's description in a bad disguise complaining about being short-changed at Newton Pagnell Service Station. Russia sat between Belarus (who seemed to do a lot of crying which made him nervous) and Ukraine who did a lot of tutting. Hungary was sat with her new pet human - Darren who had never returned to his job at DFS (Russia thought this was code for an intelligence service). The UK Prime Minister was sat next to America and kept saying 'what a glorious day out!' America who thought this sounded just like 'piffle waffle waffle' just nodded, but he was used to demented world leaders now. Turkmenistan along with his brother Stans were not in attendance - they had been given a full military escort back to their home countries and banned from travel.
Stood at the back of the church were representatives from SLAPARSE, North Peckham Library and the local Neighbourhood Watch Society. All of whom seemed to have 'unfinished business' with England as Romano quite profoundly put it. There was also another shadowy small person stood at the back dressed in a beige Macintosh and wearing a fedora. Bears were not usually allowed in churches but nobody paid him any attention.
When the duck finally stopped quacking (someone said 'Ah lovely, what a way with words!') they moved outside to the actual burial.
France dramatically leaned on Germany. "I will always miss him!" He told Germany who swiped France's hand from his bottom.
"I bet he won't miss you though eh?" Alfred asked. He was scratching his head. He would miss England, but then again, like most of the other Nations, he didn't really believe the old bugger was dead.
The headstone at the graveside read: 'Here lies Arthur Ignatius Wellington Kirkland' and beneath this were the words 'Englishman, gentleman and fiend' - presumably the latter word was mis-spelled and should be read as 'friend' but the stonemason had followed the instructions to the letter. Underneath it said 'I had a dreem which was not a dreem'. This was added by America and was presumably mis-spelled also.
An array of flower arrangements met the Nations. One said 'CONDIMENTS' which they all whispered about in confusion. America had to explain that it meant 'Condolences', whilst another read 'GONE TOO SOON' which America thought was particularly amazing seeing as England had been approximately ten centuries old at his death.
One member of the Royal Family was in attendance on behalf of the Queen - some obscure Countess no-one had heard of who France attempted to seduce ("It's what he would have wanted!" France cried.) The funeral itself although bearing all the hallmarks of America's illiteracy was actually arranged by somebody called Major-General Witherington-Crowley with all the precision of a military funeral. France had opined that England would be furious that it wasn't taking place at Westminster Abbey as a full state funeral.
The vicar, a nervous-looking man in full surplice ('dress' as America called it) read a sermon at the graveside but before the poor man had even finished saying 'Ashes to ashes', France had already thrown a solitary red rose onto the coffin and Hamish began playing Flowers of Scotland on his bagpipes.
America leaned in to Belarus and said to her, "It's all your fault."
Russia nodded. "He was a good landlord. A good friend. Or fiend. Maybe both. I wonder if he left me his collection of Dr Who magazines?"
"I will miss him!" Italy wailed on Germany's shoulder.
Germany decided that he would definitely not miss England, until of course Prussia and Denmark announced that they would be going to live with him.
Peter Kirkland shook his head as the soil went in over the coffin. "What a loser!" He said, but buried his head in Sweden's side to hide some surprising tears and then counted up how much land he might get in any will England might have left. He did not think for one minute that England was dead. He assumed that this was just another excuse to get out of contact weekend like going on an SAS weekend or training dragons.
Everyone agreed with this sentiment and they ruminated on this as they walked away.
Germany vowed to himself, "I will look for him, I will find him and he will pay me."
The Wake
The Red Lion Public House's proprietor held a chronic dislike of England and all his fellow Nations and so it was something of a surprise but also probably appropriate that they held the wake there.
"He was the best landlord we ever had," Den sniffed.
"Ja," Prussia agreed.
Scotland, told everyone that he was now 'Britain', began playing the bagpipes until he was ceremoniously thrown out by the landlord.
The rumours of England's demise was being discussed:
"He'll be back soon. I bet he's faked it," someone at the bar said.
"Honestly, the person I saw was wearing a terrible disguise and eating a 99 ice cream cone. I'm sure it was him," someone else said.
Another rumour originated from Yorkshire who had quoted from of all things the Framlington Examiner whereby an irate Englishman with 'sticky-up hair' had apparently caused a commotion in a kitchen appliances shop by buying a whole host of baking equipment and, according to the newspaper had to be escorted from the premises when he insisted on trying out the whisk and the cake mixer before buying and saying that he'd once auditioned for Great British Bake Off but had been turned down due to psychological issues. Yorkshire pointed out that this could only be England as he was 'a mad bugger'. (Amazingly, it wasn't England this time - Britain as a country was full of 'mad buggers'.)
"Wherever he is, he is at peace," Russia said.
They doubted this.
After two hours of drinking copious amounts of beer and tea and annoying the rest of the clientele, they prepared to leave. France actually left first, stealing out of the door in a swish of black lace.
Prussia said to Denmark, "Do you think we should go with him? He looked dead upset. Even more upset than that time I swapped his shampoo for WD-40."
Denmark shrugged. His eyes reddened from surreptitious crying.
Russia stole a packet of custard creams ("It's what England would have wanted," he said) and left quickly before Belarus caught him.
Although the Russian was grievously upset about losing his 'good friend', he had already decided to move in with Latvia (Latvia did not know this yet) along with his DVD box set of Downton Abbey. As he dropped down from the men's toilet window to the ground he saw France getting into a large black car. He frowned, thought about calling up the FSB who were following him to follow France but then thought better of it and ambled away crunching on custard creams.
The Plan
"Ah it was so touching. Such a beautiful service," France said as he settled into the back seat of the car.
The driver said into a mouthpiece, ignoring him, "Confirm Codename PG Tips is good to go. We have a green light. We have France and will meet you at the rendezvous point."
"Ah oui, you do," France purred, spreading himself over the back seat. "It was so wonderful. We all lamented his passing. Apart from Allemagne. But I think it will hit him later. He is suffering from delayed grief I think. And America who stood eating burgers. And Prussia who just made stupid remarks. And Denmark who was drunk and was stood with his mouth open all the time. And Austria who just made notes in his little book. And of course Italy who had walked away with Angleterre's second best tea spoon as a memento…"
"That teaspoon! The thieving little bugger! They can't bloody keep their thieving hands off anything can they? Did anyone bloody cry?" England yelled from the front passenger seat.
"Ah, you are very grumpy, mon cher."
"You'd be bloody grumpy if you were dead."
"I zink zat it suits you. Zat new facial profiling is certainly an improvement."
'THIS IS MY BLOODY FACE YOU ABSOLUTE GOON!"
"Ah." France shrugged. "Do you think my widow's weeds become me?"
"No. You look a right loon. And you're not my widow."
"Neither is Belarus and yet she wore zem."
"Did she cry?"
"How can I say zis? She looked more angry than sad."
"Well did anyone bloody cry?"
"Italy. But I think he didn't realise you are not dead."
"They all should think I'm dead."
"Ah." France considered this.
"Where's Charlie anyway?" England asked the man driving.
"He's at the location, Kirkland," the man replied. England was still annoyed that the bloody security services still wouldn't call him 'sir'. Even in death he couldn't get any respect. "His father is with him." The man added as he drove.
"I am his père!" France cried.
"Bloody Canada. Where is he bloody going now anyway? Why have we got the kid? Is it bad enough that I'm supposed to be dead that I also have to live with a bloody moron."
"Charlemagne is not a moron!" France said.
"I wasn't talking about him." England said pointedly.
"Ah mon cher! They said that I fitted ze profile of ze perfect companion for you to spend ze witness protection programme with."
"Oh God. Please tell me this isn't happening?" He said.
"It's not happening," France said. He looked inordinately pleased with himself. But then again England thought the bloody Frenchman didn't care that he was going to live in a 2 bedroomed flat as long as he had an unlimited amount of wine. The man was so obviously without any ambition or dignity whatsoever.
But this was what came of having such people as Mr Kumajiro, Belarus, SLAPARSE and North Peckham Library after you. You can't go upsetting these people and get away with it. Therefore, faking his own death had been the only answer. As long as the question was pretty stupid.
The Reading of the Will
"I Arthur Ignatius Wellington Kirkland…" Albert Gump began and peered over his over-moon spectacles at the throng in front of him crowded into his office.
And it was quite a throng. Nations who thought they should be in the will were there and Nations who thought this was all just a laugh were there.
"Who are you anyway?" Prussia asked belligerently.
"Solicitor to Arthur Kirkland," Mr Gump answered.
"Oh bloody hell! Get on with it! Who gets the Bentley?" America said. He was lounging against the window and clutching an Action Man head (one of the only bits of toys that had survived the fire).
"Ja!" Denmark said.
There was a commotion as a small Italian man tried to sit on a German's lap and was pushed off. There were only three chairs in the office besides the solicitor's behind his desk (and he used the desk as a barrier in this case). These were occupied by a grumpy looking German, a large Russian and a Frenchman in extremely tight leather pants and wearing a large fedora.
Albert Gump waited for silence and then carried on, "Being of sound mind…"
"Ha well that's a laugh." America said.
The German nodded.
"…Direct my executor Albert Gump..."
"What?" America burst out. "You've executed him?"
"I'm the executor of his will. That's me," the solicitor explained and continued. "To pay my enforceable unsecured debts…"
"Right!" Germany leaned forward.
"However, I have to warn you," the lawyer said. "That as the house burned down to the ground along with most of Mr Kirkland's possessions…"
"You've got to be kidding me!" The German replied. "This is utterly intolerable!"
"…And as my client did not have any insurance…"
"Typical!"
"Hard luck, Ludwig," America said, grinning.
Germany frowned.
Russia smiled.
"Then I only have the following valuables to bequeath as per his wishes." Mr Gump said the word 'valuables' as if it were a dirty word.
"Here we go…" America rubbed his hands, putting the Action Man head in his pocket. Nobody was having that, he decided.
Germany raised an eyebrow.
"…my Princess Diana commemorative tea towel is to go to Feliciano Vargas."
"What?" Italy looked a little upset and also half delighted.
The solicitor passed Italy half a tea towel. (The rest had burned in the fire.)
"My second best tea pot to Francis Bonnefoy so that he will make decent cups of tea."
"I will treasure it always." France said languorously.
"It did not survive the fire," the solicitor said.
"Ahh!" France looked utterly distraught.
"My wand to my son… Peter Kirkland."
"He's at school." Denmark said. "But I'll look after it."
"I wanted that!" Prussia yelled.
"Oh! It's not in the box?" The solicitor said, rummaging around in a cardboard box that had scrawled on it in America's childish handwriting 'Artie's stuff'. This contained the only things that had survived the fire.
France smiled. The wand had wended its way to England just after the events of that evening.
The solicitor shrugged. "My wheelbarrow to Mrs Glockenspiel of SLAPARSE as I believe I borrowed it from her and she should have it back."
"Thieving bugger." Someone said.
"My sword Excalibur to my dear brother Wales."
"He's not even here. So as I am the biggest I should get it," Russia said.
"It's a magic sword that will summon King Arthur though," Prussia explained.
"I know that." Russia replied.
The man reached into the box and pulled out the sword. Russia took it from him. "I'll look after this," he said, grinning.
"I thought it had gone back in that pond with that lady," America pitched in.
The solicitor looked at them all over the tops of his spectacles and they all shut up.
"My World Cup 1966 mug to Ludwig Beilschmidt." The solicitor continued, handing the mug (minus its handle) to the German.
"Preposterous! Outrageous!" Germany shouted and promptly left the room without the mug.
"The rest of my belongings shall be donated in equal share to the Old Seadogs' Alcoholic Association and the Anti-French League."
"Poo!" France said.
"Well that was a colossal waste of time," Alfred told Russia they left the building. Russia swished the sword around happily.
"By the way does anyone know what happened to my medical skeleton? I lost it in the fire. I used to dress it in Artie's suits. I used to scare Italy with it. It was a blast." America said. Everyone pretended they hadn't heard...
The Hideout
One month later in a small (much smaller than the security services had told them it was) 2 bedroom flat - Flat 3B, 262 Roger Federer Boulevard, Milton Keynes...
"Francis will you bloody well turn that over to bloody BBC1, I want to watch Antiques Roadshow and bloody change Charlie's nappy will you? And while you're at it ring that bloody Canada and ask him when it's his turn to take this kid."
"He says he is on tour with President Trudeau. Can we have Netflix, non?" France replied, wearing his apron that depicted a strangely muscular male torso and waving a spatula.
There was a knock on the door. "Get the door!" England yelled.
"It's America!" France said to England so that he didn't have to hide under the bed/in a wardrobe in order to evade SLAPARSE/Belarus/representatives from North Peckham Library, who may have finally found their quarry.
"Yo dude where's the dead guy?" America said, entering the tiny flat and immediately filling it with his voice as only an American can do.
"He's not really dead."
"You sure? He looked dead?"
"I am sure. He shouts too much to be dead."
"Oh well if you're sure. I thought he was like King Henry and a ghost." America said and then said to England. "Yo Artie! You look kinda mad."
England was sat in a playpen with a mug of tea whilst Charlemagne roamed the flat.
"Can you take this kid off our hands? He is your bloody nephew." England told America.
"You're really grumpy since you died," America said, picking up Charlemagne. "Why are you sat in there?"
"I'm sat in here to get some bloody peace," England replied. "That kid is like Usain Bolt. This is the only way I can drink my tea without being bothered." The cats climbed all over him as he said this. "And you can take some of these felines away with you."
"Where's King Henry anyway?" America asked, shoving a lollipop into Charlemagne's mouth ensuring the child would have a sugar high.
"He works at Eton College now as a History teacher." France said.
"Ah good times. I loved that job."
"You did it for ten minutes," England pointed out.
"Yeah…" America grinned at that. "So what are you two doing?"
"We don't live together!" England said quickly. "We live together but we're not together."
"Yeah okay." America said. He looked disbelieving.
"Ah eet eez true!" France said dramatically.
"I meant for money. Your PM told me that he's not going to pay you any more." America said.
"Oh yes about that. Well, France has a job in a hairdressers ruining people's hair." England said.
"Do you have job?" America asked him.
"Me? Of course not. I am a wanted man."
France harrumphed. "He is on the waiting list for an allotment. I am hoping to get rid of him there. He spends too much time messing around with plants that die and he's begun baking again."
"Jeez. That's terrible."
"I'm at number 343 on the waiting list at the Milton Keynes Allotment District Society." England said.
"MADS," France said.
"What?" America said.
"That's what they are called. MADS." France pulled America into the kitchen and turned down the stove on which some sauce was bubbling. "I fear for him, mon cher." He said quietly.
America did not like being called 'mon cher', but waited patiently for the idiot Frenchman to say his piece.
"I fear he will become embroiled with another terrible bunch of gardeners. Also he has joined…" here France leaned into America and whispered conspiratorially, "… a Book Club!"
"Doesn't he have books?" America asked and then thought about it. "Ah yes they burnt in the fire."
"He joined a library." France said as if this was the worst thing ever.
"Ah right. He's going to end up with a huge fine again isn't he?"
"I fear for his safety."
"Ah well never mind eh." America said. Totally unbothered. "He needs to get a job." (America had never held a job for longer than two days.)
"He cannot leave zis apartment."
"Why? Have you hidden the key?"
"Ze risk is too great. Can you imagine if Germany were to see him? Or Denmark and Prussia? Zay would be back here to live avec nous. Well, obviously not Germany as he hates him."
"Yeah true. I think I might have let slip something though…" America said thoughtfully as Charlemagne sucked noisily on his lollipop.
"What? Let slip what?"
"I might have told them last week when I helped them move furniture at Germany's place that Artie dude might not be really dead."
"Zis is terrible!" France said, hitting America with a spatula. "But I can take comfort in the fact zat Russia doesn't know." France added. "I do not want him living here. It would be too much. We do not have a DVD player."
"Yeah he knows. Prussia told Austria who told Poland who told Lithuania who told Russia."
"Ah. Is there anyone who doesn't know?" France asked wearily sitting at the kitchen table and picking at the formica in a desultory way.
"I think the Stans don't know. And Belarus. But that's only because nobody talks to her. Also Romania because he won't talk to anyone."
"Death seems to have made him depressed," France said (ignoring the fact that it wasn't his faked death that had made England depressed it was actually living with him). "I zink I should book him in for another counselling session with Austria."
"Honestly, that last session was for people whose lives had been ruined by you, mate." America said.
France wasn't listening. "And after you've left can you go into a joke shop and get him another disguise? Zat false nose and moustache you got him last time did nothing for his looks," he said. "Not that much would." He added.
"Yeah whatever," America said jiggling the child about. "By the way are you going to the wedding?"
France dropped a plate which prompted a yell from the living room.
"Francis! Have you dropped my third best teapot?" England yelled. There was a bang on the ceiling from the upstairs flat. Already England and France had managed to upset the neighbours and the Housing Management Committee so much they were attempting to get them evicted after just one month.
"Non mon cher!" France yelled back and turned to America. "Do not speak of ze wedding. I have not told him. He will be sorely grieved."
"Why? Was he going to marry one of them?"
"Of course not! A Nation marrying a dragon! Who heard of such a thing! I mean that his nemesis Mr Ping has found love with Steve ze yak." France said to him. "He is much afraid that Mr Ping will find him. He is afraid of dragons now. We cannot watch Harry Potter films."
America thought about that. "Yeah I suppose it makes sense," America said and put the child down who then scampered off to 'Gumpy' as the child called England (presumably he'd heard France call him 'grumpy'). (He called France 'Fancy' which pleased Francis enormously.)
"Right I'm off then," America said. "Bye!" He yelled to England which elicited banging from the flat above.
England didn't answer. He was busy embroidering his latest cross-stitch tapestry which would eventually say 'I HATE FRANCE' in three foot lettering for the living room wall.
The witness protection service had given him two options: this flat in Milton Keynes with this mad Frenchman or solitary confinement in a home for the mentally unstable. He now wished he chosen the latter.
"France, will you bloody well pick up this kid!" He yelled as the child climbed into the playpen and stuck his finger into the cold mug of tea and then in his ear.
America whistled as he left, slamming the door behind him. He failed to see the piece of paper speared to the door by a knife. The note read 'I HAVE FOUND YOU'.
Author's Notes:
Thanks everyone for staying the course on this.
A few 'out-takes' to follow - chapters that didn't quite make it as chapters and scenes that didn't quite make it in the 'plot' such as it was.
I hope you all enjoyed reading this.