Acknowledgements: Thank you to The-Macer-of-Dale, Blackdevil Nightheart, Mely-Val, IrishMaid, B-The-Geek, Pedro-IS-Madi12, Percabeth is Awsome, cullinane, Go LilixIcy, Missmanda, Einsam-Schatten,, Becky 999, Kate Marley, Typewriting Fangirl, fishstick1999, Envie Rouge, Laughinthefaceofdanger, Missflutterpie, abbydobbie, saraholly, Draskar, julyza, Deefangirl, Pandoala, Hintori-time, Senor Tree, Wandering Authoress for the reviews, PMs, faves and alerts and of course all my other readers. (If I've missed anyone please tell me.)
White Wedding
Epilogue
On a beach in Bournemouth:
"This is so wonderful, Arthur," Mrs Natalya Kirkland said, sipping her tea. She was laid on a sunbed, reading Knives Weekly. Beside her lay her new husband of just two days.
"I know. It's really hot isn't it?"
It was 15 degree centigrade. But for Britain, this was a heatwave.
He was wearing shorts and a t-shirt that read 'Newly Married'. He was also sipping tea, and reading 'Campervan Weekly' - bizarrely, given to him by Russia.
He assumed it was some kind of Slavic joke.
The wedding presents they'd received had surely been jokes.
Toiletries, towels and a kettle all stolen from the hotel, a teabag from Austria, a chicken egg from Ukraine with instructions to keep it warm until it hatched, a cookery book from France ('Simple one dish recipes'), a book titled 'How to do your own Exorcism' from the Baltics (England had been annoyed that they'd received a collective one from them and not three separate presents) and a packet of hair dye from Poland.
"I love you, sweetie-pie," England hummed.
"And I love you, honey-scone," Belarus said.
"It's just honey or honey-bun, there isn't a honey-scone," England replied.
Belarus growled and was about to say something when a shadow fell over them and came between them.
"Britain, what are ya doin'?"
"What in God's name?"
"I know! What a crapsack place! When are we going to Disneyland?" It was America.
"Why are you here on my honeymoon?" England spluttered, spilling his tea.
"You can't go on holiday without me! Shuffle up, Mrs Belarus person…" America cocked his thumb at Belarus as he shoved her over on the sunbed, "Rude eh? I mean honestly…"
"You are not bloody living with us, Alfred, now I'm married."
"You've gotta be kidding me, man! I got my bedroom there and everything!" America yelled.
"Yes, about that. We need to clear it out," England told him.
"What for?"
"The baby."
"What baby?"
"Our bloody baby, you fool and besides don't you have your own baby to look after soon?"
"Oh yeah… but babies don't take up much room. I'll share with him."
"He might be a her," Natalya said with a mysterious air, trying, unsuccessfully to shove America off her sunbed. She gave up.
"Yeah sure. Does that make me an older sister?"
"No, an idiot."
At Doverham School
The Headteacher sat in his office, trying to ignore the sound of workmen trying to fix his sports hall. God knows how much the work would cost his school. God knows how he'd kept his job. Thankfully, someone had managed to keep the whole thing out of the National newspapers. The Teaching Agency had denied all knowledge of Beilschmidt and Kohler and then had refused to send anyone else when he'd shouted at them. The very names made him shiver and tremble. He'd developed a nasty tic and his doctor had prescribed blood pressure tablets and anti-depressants.
But things may be looking up. His staff shortage problem had been solved miraculously by the arrival of some people that morning. They'd turned up out of the blue and told him they were teachers, they even had the paperwork to prove it - albeit foreign paperwork. Despite, his misgivings, the school was quiet, there were no battles in the sports hall, no gushing water and no unconscious members of staff.
In one lesson at the back of school, pupils were getting a serious lesson. In taxation and VAT.
"Sixteen per cent of one thousand, two hundred and sixty… anyone?" one of the new teachers asked the class.
There was a stunned silence. This was supposed to be a maths lesson and they were supposed to be learning about trigonometry. The teacher, a Mr Zwingli, had told them that this was rubbish and he would teach them how to do a tax return and fill in an expenses form.
"Er Sir? We don't have our calculators…"
"Calculators? You should be able to work this out in your heads! This is appalling. How will you ever be successful Nations… I mean er… businessmen if you don't learn? You will turn out like some frivolous little Italian or Frenchman!"
"Sir? I don't think this is relevant to us. It's not in our GCSE," one pupil said.
Switzerland, for it was he, ignored this but scribbled a series of sums on the board. There was a scribbled portrait of a man in glasses on the board. The portrait had a grumpy expression, an exaggerated mole on the side of his cheek and a curl on his head. An arrow pointed to him with a speech bubble saying 'MISER'.
"Who is that man on the board?" someone asked.
"Don't interrupt me!"
"You weren't even talking, Mr Zwingli!"
"Well now I am. If you don't behave, I shall send you next door to Mr Braginski's class."
A chill ran through the classroom. No-one wanted this. Rumours had abound about the mysterious, big Russian teacher who had turned up along with 'Mr Zwingli', the 'Signors Vargas' and 'Mr Bonnefoy'.
In the next classroom. There were no questions. There was no talking. No-one even moved. The temperature had dropped to around minus 2 degrees. The pupils had all put their coats on - at the teacher's insistence, who had also tutted that none of them had scarves.
The only talking was done by the teacher himself.
This was supposed to be a science lesson, but Russia had dispensed with this and told them he was going to teach them all about 'Russia'.
He pulled out a huge map of the world. He attached this to the blackboard with a knife at each corner. As each knife went in there was a thud and the connecting wall shook, A voice next door shouted, "Mon dieu!"
Mr Braginski pointed to Russia on the map and said, "This is Russia… Soviet Russia…" He smiled at the pupils, "This is good."
The pupils glanced at each other nervously.
Russia pointed to England and frowned, "This is Britain. This is not Russia. This is bad." He then pointed to France, "This is France, this also is not Russia. This also is bad." He said this as if it were the worst thing ever.
He then took a ruler and pointed to America, "This is America, it is home to Disney and silly cowboys," he said this with a grimace, "It is also not Russia. This is very very bad."
"But one day," here Russia waved at the whole map and said, "Everywhere will be Russia and that will be very very good!".
Goosebumps broke out on every pupil in the classroom. Someone sobbed.
Mr Braginski paused and rooted around in his pockets in his long beige coat. He pulled out a long piece of piping, a whole cheese and a hip flask. He took a big gulp of clear liquid from the bottle, turned back to his class and smiled. "And now we will all learn a very old Russian folk tune."
The pupils looked at each other, perhaps this wasn't going to be too bad?
"… It is about a spirit who lives in the Siberian forest who eats the souls of bad children…Everyone sing along…"
In the next classroom…
The pupils were having a French lesson.
Certainly, the teacher was French and knew he was teaching French and decided that was what he was going to do. Which was an improvement on the previous teachers mentioned. That is where his efforts as a teacher ended.
'Francis Louis de Chevalier Bonaparte Bonnefoy' was scrawled across the blackboard. Monsieur Bonnefoy had told the children that 'every wall should have this across it'. This was all the English he spoke. The rest was in French.
In fact, the pupils could be forgiven for thinking that they had wandered into a bad French play. Monsieur Bonnefoy 'taught' French by sprawling on his chair, with his feet up on the desk, drinking wine and smoking French cigarettes moodily while giving a long, unceasing monologue in French.
He was not surprised that they did not make notes. He did not expect them to. Surely, his words would be imprinted on their minds for all eternity?
"Ah l'amour!" he said, again, for the thousandth time, took a sip of wine and carried on.
"Are you getting any of this?" one pupil said to another.
"Nah. I'm doing my homework."
At the back of the class, four pupils were playing poker.
Another was hanging out of the window and holding a lengthy conversation with another pupil who was evidently skipping lessons.
It was the best lesson many of the pupils had ever had.
It was a shame, they decided, when the bell rang, that it ever had to finish.
"Aww…"
"I know, mon enfants… perhaps next time I will finish ze story of myself, Napoleon and Josephine…"
In the cookery classroom, things were not so calm and serene.
It had all started so well.
"We will make pizza!" One of the Signore Vargas' had announced.
"Pizza bases first!" the other had said.
They counted the pupils in the class.
Then argued as to how many there were.
"Thirty-three."
"Thirty-four, fratello."
"You're wrong, fratello."
Feliciano had decided to stand up to his brother for once, "No, fratello, you are wrong."
Romano looked as if he were going to go into one of his famous rages until somebody pointed out that really they were both (kind of) correct as a pupil had left the classroom to go to the toilet and returned.
The lesson resumed.
"Pizza bases! Yay!"
"Calm down, Feli, we are the teachers and we should be in charge!"
But Feliciano ran up and down the benches like a madman shouting and waving his arms around, alternately hugging the children (which the head teacher would have had kittens over) and telling them how 'brilliant' they were.
"It's just pizza dough, fratello."
"They're just brilliant!"
The problem had arisen when the dough had been put in the ovens and, for some utterly incomprehensible reason, the Vargas brothers had not set a timer but instead taught an impromptu Italian lesson. This had seemed to include them teaching the children to say 'Si', 'Ciao' and 'Grazie'.
When Feliciano had tried to teach more complex sentences, Romano began to argue, "Hey! We are not paid to do this, fratello!"
"But they have been so good!"
"You are too soft!"
"They are just children! I like children! One day Luddy and I will have children."
"You can't! You're a man!"
"You take that back!"
"Take what back? You're a man! You can't get pregnant!"
"You're just jealous about me and Luddy."
"Jealousy has nothing to do with it…" Romano continued. He ignored the pupil stood next to him trying to get his attention.
"Sir! Sir!"
By now many of the pupils were pointing and gesticulating.
"What is wrong with them?"
Feliciano realised soon enough, as smoke billowed from the ovens. "Aaaargh!" he yelled. "Someone! Anyone! Call a fire person man!"
"Idiot! Pull yourself together!" Romano said, and slapped him.
But then he screamed as flames erupted from not one of the ovens but all four.
The two Italians ran backwards and forwards between the door and the ovens in a state of flux - neither knowing what to do.
They met in the middle and yelled at each other as smoke billowed around them, "What shall we do?" they screamed at each other.
The pupils all filed out, someone set off a smoke alarm and another pulled out a fire extinguisher and extinguished the flames.
The school was saved.
Pinewood Studios, England
"Can we bring in more snow, please?" the director called.
"This is ridiculous, I can't work in these conditions," the star of the commercial said and flounced off.
"Mr Kumajiro… please just give us a few hours…" the director pleaded.
Mr Kumajiro wasn't listening. He stomped off back to his dressing room where he'd insisted on a dish of red jelly-babies, a jacuzzi, a 48 inch screen television and a chest freezer full of ice cream.
"Can you please have a word with him? We're sorry the snow has melted but he held up filming for two hours because his fur wasn't right. And we can't have him talking during the commercial. We're trying to sell yoghurt here, and all he talks about is global warming." The director was talking to Mr Kumijiro's manager, a man who had 'discovered' the talking polar bear in the service station and then kidnapped him.
At first, the man had thought he'd struck gold. A talking bear. A bear who could dance, sing (kind of) and act. But it came with a hefty price. The bear, although looking cute and cuddly, was not. He had very definite views, was a prima-donna, had only agreed to do the commercial on condition that the next role was in a big budget blockbuster with Tom Cruise and also he swore like a trooper.
This was one of the reasons they'd decided not to give him a speaking part.
In short, the golden goose laying a golden egg was not coming home to roost. It was making a huge mess in the TV talent scout's life.
Also, there was the question of a quiet-looking but determined Canadian who insisted on turning up. Matthew Williams had tracked them down from the car registration number that had whisked off with the bear and claimed the bear belonged to him.
The agent had wanted to shorten Mr Kumajiro's name to 'Kuma' ("It's more commercial," he'd said) or 'Neva'.
"Neva is Spanish for snow," the agent had said.
"You're not shortening my fucking name!" Mr Kumajiro had yelled at them and thrown a can of soda. "And I'm not fucking Spanish so don't give me a fucking Spanish name!" he'd also said.
Matthew had tried to reason with them, "You can't keep him. He's the emblem of Nunavut and one day he will grow to be 2 metres tall."
"Listen Mr Williams. We understand he's probably your pet…"
"He's not really my pet… I just live with him…" Canada had answered carefully.
"Well okay, but we'll pay good money. He obviously knows you and…"
But they'd been interrupted by the bear who slammed open his dressing room door and yelled, "I can hear you! I don't belong to anyone!"
"I told you… he can be a bit of a nightmare," Canada said nervously, wiping his glasses. "Just let him come home with me."
"Oh you'd like that, wouldn't you? I will be a big star someday! I will make millions. I am cute and fluffy… you are all just amateurs. Don't call me anything but Mr Kumajiro and I want 20 per cent of any royalties to go to Greenpeace!" with that last edict, Mr Kumajiro slammed the door shut.
The final straw had come when the snow was late and when it did arrive, it was the 'wrong sort' as Mr Kumajiro stated.
"What's wrong with it?"
"It's not Arctic! Do you know nothing?" the polar bear yelled and jumped down from the corrugated 'iceberg' he was stood on. He flung the yoghurt on the floor, took off the hat he had been told to wear (but not the scarf which he liked) and stomped back to his dressing room.
"This is costing us thousands each minute he's wasting…" someone muttered.
"We could have done CGI for this."
"Yes, but he can tap-dance!"
"So can CGI."
"There's a contact I have in a zoo with penguins - they'll do it."
"Mr Williams? Will you talk to him?"
"I'll try…" Canada had said.
But Mr Kumajiro's dressing room was a disaster area. The 48 inch flat screen plasma wall-mounted television was on the floor in smithereens.
"Attenborough was on again," Kumajiro told Canada.
The ice freezer had been tipped over and the ice had melted on the plush carpet Kumajiro had insisted be laid specially for him.
He'd even trashed the bowl of jelly-babies.
"Do you want to come home with me?" Canada said quietly, surveying the destruction.
"Not really… but they're going to make me pay for damages aren't they?" the polar bear asked sadly.
"Not if we do a runner," Canada said.
"Let's do it, they'll have to get someone else to go on the Today Show. And there's always next year to host the Oscars."
"Yes… well… one day at a time eh?"
Mr Kumajiro nodded and let Canada lift him up so he could climb out of the window, "That film offer with Tom Cruise wouldn't be any fun. He can't act like me and I'd just show him up…" the bear said as he opened the window and snuck through.
"That wasn't an offer… they just agreed they'd try to do it… oh what's the point?" Canada sighed.
"I'd much prefer to play opposite Harrison Ford…"
"You're not going to be in the new Star Wars movie!" Canada said dropping down from the window next to him.
"I'm sure Mr Spielberg will be on the phone to me quite soon… Where's your car, Canadia?" Mr Kumajiro asked.
"It's Canada…" Canada said and took the bear's paw and led him away. "Honestly, perhaps I should have just left you to shoot crappy commercials for the rest of your life. You'd have ended up in a circus…" he muttered.
"Who are you?"
Conversely, laid on a sunbed in sizzling tropical sunshine under a palm tree, sipping leisurely from a tall refreshing glass, Pierre, once a nervous, twitching diplomat with the French Overseas Service, was retired.
Seychelles - not a retirement home he had previously thought of. But the persuasive Estonian, Mr Eduard Von Bock had been very personable and reassuringly business-like in helping him with his retirement plan. He'd been amazed at how much his pension was worth and had sold his home in the south of Paris, his car, practically all his possessions and moved his family out here.
But finally handing in his notice with the French Embassy in London and telling them that from now on they would have to find someone else to deal with Francis Bonnefoy, his odd adventures and 'peccadilloes'.
This news had been met with some dismay and quite a bit of disruption and rushed meetings. Interviews had been held to find a suitable replacement. Pierre would have liked to stay around to see who got the job. He had, being a kindly soul, left a large stash of valium and wine in his desk drawer for his successor.
He lifted his glass to be refilled by a waiter, this was the life, he thought. Never again would he be at the beck and call of his Nation…
***The End***
Author's Note:
I thought I would give poor Pierre (who gets some stick in my stories) a happy ending.
Also I thought Mr Kumajiro would make a brilliant diva.
As always, thank you for reading!