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Crowley stood on the back door step, looking out at the garden behind the cottage, and sighed resignedly. Two weeks! Only two weeks, and look at it! The Tuesday before last, he’d spent over two hours weeding and pruning, and now you’d never know he’d even tried. The thing that really irritated him, though, wasn’t the fact that the garden needed weeding and tidying – that was only to be expected – but the fact that most of the weeds and assorted other greenery that he was having to hack back regularly weren’t even theirs! Their own plants knew far better than to become unruly – Crowley had made sure of that within a very short space of time of him and Aziraphale moving in to the cottage. No, it was the plants from their neighbours’ gardens than seemed intent on colonising their little slice of Eden here on the South Downs, and Crowley was getting sick of it.
He sighed again. It was hard to feel cross with Peggy and Rosa, their neighbours on the left hand side. The two sisters were both well into their eighties and, although they were doing their best to grow old disgracefully, as they put it, were unfortunately not as sprightly as they once were, much to their annoyance. They’d been more than welcoming when he and Aziraphale had moved in, going out of their way to make them both feel at home, with kind words and gifts of baking and home-made jam and chutney. They’d also, without enquiring too much about the nature of Crowley and Aziraphale’s relationship, subtly dropped a few hints about certain other villagers who might feel it was their place to make comment on two men (as they supposed they were) living together, but Peggy had also made sure she provided enough details about her own life to make it clear that they had no fear of judgement from her.
She’d told them how, in her late teens, she’d come to the realisation that she had no interest in a romantic or physical relationship with anyone – of either sex – and absolutely no interest in ‘settling down and starting a family’, as was expected of most women at the time. Tired of the increasing pointedness of the hints and comments directed towards her as she’d got older, she’d eventually met George, a man slightly older than herself, who similarly had no interest in marrying, though for different reasons. As they’d grown to become friends and confidants, George had told her about his very good friend Clive, whom he’d known for several years. Realising they could find a mutually beneficial solution to their respective situations, Peggy and George had married, and Clive had moved in with them as their ‘lodger’ a few weeks afterwards. The three had lived together very happily ever since, Peggy as the independent woman that she wanted to be, and George and Clive as the couple they wanted to be, until George had sadly passed away a few years ago. Clive had continued to live with Peggy as friends for another couple of years after that, until increasing frailty had prompted him to move to be closer to his family, where they could care for him, and he could help his great niece with childcare for her two young children. It was at that point that Rosa, recently widowed herself, had moved in with Peggy so that the two sisters could take care of each other and keep each other company. Crowley quite liked the pair of them. They were quick-witted, more than a little bit cheeky, had a wicked sense of humour, and didn’t give a fig what anyone thought about them. They also weren’t above a bit of mischief, which Crowley very much approved of.
They’d recently taken on Gerald, a chap who lived in the village, as a gardener, but Crowley suspected that if anything, Gerald was older than the sisters, and that they’d taken him on mainly to feed him tea and cakes twice a week and make sure he wasn’t lonely. Gerald managed to keep on top of the lawn, and the flower beds always looked beautiful, but hacking into the shrubbery around the edges of the garden was a bit beyond him. Crowley couldn’t find it in his heart to complain to the sisters, so every so often he set to with the secateurs, loppers and pruning saw, attacking the plants that were making a bid for freedom on their side of the garden wall.
Then there were Bill and Sheila, their neighbours at the back. They were both keen gardeners and most of their garden was well-kept and tidy. But the very end of it, beyond their large nature pond, was what they called ‘the wilderness’, which they left wild to try and provide a haven for local wildlife. It worked; there were always bees and a variety other insects buzzing and flitting around, frogs in the pond, and birds of all kinds, which Aziraphale enjoyed watching through binoculars (not that he needed them) from the cottage windows. They occasionally got a glimpse of a hedgehog, which Crowley had, imaginatively enough, decided to name Spike, and sometimes foxes and even badgers made an appearance. But unfortunately, the wilderness was rather too successful, and had grown to the extent that neither Bill nor Sheila were able to get to the very back of it to prune it any more. They were able to keep ‘their side’ of it in check, but the side against the garden wall was practically impenetrable, at least to humans. They’d graciously told Crowley to feel free to cut back anything that was causing a problem, but weren’t really able to do much more than that.
Finally there were the couple on the right hand side, whose names they didn’t know, seeing as they’d never attempted to introduce themselves, and had never been in whenever Aziraphale had tried to be neighbourly and call on them. They were younger, career-focussed types, all flash cars and mod cons, working in the city during the week and retreating to their ‘country home’ for weekends and holidays. Aziraphale was less than impressed with their lack of interest in their community, and Crowley was less than impressed with their lack of interest in their garden. They’d had landscapers in not long after they’d arrived, to create an ‘outdoor room’ for entertaining in the part of the garden immediately next to the house, but then had put up a fence at the edge of that and completely ignored the not inconsiderable remaining portion of the garden, save for occasionally dumping stuff in it that they didn’t have a need for any more.
Every so often they got a company in to deploy ‘slash and burn’ tactics – pretty literally. Aziraphale had not been happy they day they’d come home from a drive in the Bentley to find a huge bonfire next door, and all their clean washing, which had been drying on the line, smelling of smoke. The angel had never admitted anything, of course, but Crowley suspected that the frequency with which the local bird population needed to relive itself when flying over their neighbours’ cars might not be entirely…accidental. The Bentley, of course, remained spotless, even when it was parked outside rather than in the garage.
Deciding there was no point in procrastinating, Crowley picked up his tools and set off over to the side of the garden next to the sisters’. His first target was the Creeping Jenny that was carpeting the flower bed on this side. He began hauling handfuls of it out, chucking it into a pile on the lawn to clear up later. Every handful he pulled out revealed an assortment very large, very slimy looking slugs, ranging in colour from a fairly garish orange, through various shades of brown, all the way to black. There was no wonder some of the plants that they did want were struggling to survive with such a healthy slug population living rent-free in their border. Crowley glared at the slugs, and then slowly grinned wickedly to himself as he thought of an idea. He could picture it now – a gazebo at the village fête, a barbecue, bread rolls, and a sign reading “Escargots sans Maisons”. Give something a fancy French name and everyone was bound to think it was some sort of delicacy. He entertained himself for a moment thinking of some of the local busy-bodies – especially the ones who’d though it their place to comment on his and Aziraphale’s relationship – tucking into a nice, fresh, juicy, slug hot dog. If he played it right he could probably even charge nearly as much for the ketchup. But he wasn’t sure what effect eating slug would have on a human, and he was pretty sure Aziraphale wouldn’t be happy if he actually harmed them, so he reluctantly pushed that idea to the side.
Time for plan B. He put on his most menacing tone.
“Right, you lot, listen up,” he growled. “Unless you want me to build a hedgehog superhighway to help Spike find his way over to this little all-night buffet, you’re going to play by my rules.”
Some of the slugs seemed to be slowly turning in his direction. He took that to mean they were paying attention.
“You can eat as much of the rhododendron, Creeping Jenny and all the other weeds as you like – free, gratis, on the house. The more of those you eat, the better we’ll get on. But,” he added, pausing threateningly, “Aziraphale’s flower beds, and our veg patch, are out of bounds. And Gerald’s flowers are off the menu too. Any sign of damage to any of those, and we’ll be seeing if Spikey can bring some of his friends along with him…”
He wasn’t sure if slugs could look contrite, but he got the impression this lot might be trying.
“And if you play by the rules,” he told them, “then I’ll make sure that all the good stuff – the outside lettuce leaves, the tops of the celery stalks, the strawberry hulls, the half a cucumber that’s turned into a green mushy mess in the bottom of the fridge despite being perfectly fine only the day before – make it over this way rather than going in the compost heap. Deal?”
One particularly large, black slug had slunk its front half up on to a stone and Crowley thought it might have been making an attempt at nodding. He decided to take that as a yes.
“Good,” he said. “Just see that you stick to it.”
He picked up his tools and moved along to his next target. Towards the end of the sisters’ garden was the stump of a tree that had succumbed to a storm a few years previously. The trunk had been cut off at about the height of the top of the garden wall – providing a perfect launch pad for the Virginia creeper that was completely covering it to cascade over the wall into Crowley’s rose bushes. The stuff grew like wild fire, and it didn’t matter how much Crowley hacked it back, it just kept coming! Time for a different tactic. He took hold of a couple of stems and paused, before pushing forth a little demonic power into the plant. He kept pushing, feeling his influence spread along the stems he was holding and out into others. Not enough to kill the plant, but certainly enough to slow it down and teach it who was boss.
“You’re getting off lightly,” he told the creeper. “Keep attacking my rose bushes, and next time I’ll hit you with the full effect. You won’t enjoy that; definitely won’t enjoy what comes after. So grow worse!” The creeper wilted a little in his hands, and he pushed the stems back over the wall to the side they came from.
His next stop was the end of the garden, to deal with the overgrowth of Bill and Sheila’s wilderness. The rhododendrons always looked pretty when they flowered, so he contented himself with cutting those back thoroughly. Intertwined with them, though, were thickets of brambles, some of the longer briars arching down over the wall and trying to take root.
“You can fuck off,” he grumbled, cutting back the briars with his secateurs. “I don’t want a blasted bramble patch on this side, thank you very much.”
He was about to start on some of the other briars when he realised they were laden with flowers, which he knew would produce fruit later in the year. Aziraphale liked brambles, and would probably use them in baking, or maybe even to make bramble and apple jelly if there were enough, along with the apples from their tree. He sighed.
“Alright,” he said, reluctantly. “You get a reprieve this time. But only because Aziraphale likes brambles, so there’d better be plenty of fruit! You’ve been warned!”
The bramble stems quivered. Crowley wasn’t sure if they were nodding or shaking in fear. Either way, he figured he’d made his point.
Lastly, he made his way over to the other side of the garden, and surveyed the jungle beyond the wall. It was a while since their neighbours had had anyone in to deal with things, and bindweed and Japanese knotweed were running rampant among the knee-high grass and other weeds. The bindweed was already starting to encroach into their garden, sinisterly winding its way up the bean poles, and Crowley really didn’t want that taking over. He certainly couldn’t be doing with the hassle of dealing with the knotweed if that spread to their land, too. Oh well, desperate times…
He looked around surreptitiously to make sure nobody was watching. The coast appeared to be clear. He planted his feet shoulder width apart to brace himself and flexed his fingers down at his sides. He concentrated hard, summoning his powers, and feeling the demonic energy flowing into him, coursing through his body. When it got to the point where he didn’t think he could hold any more, he raised his hands towards his targets and watched with satisfaction as crackling bolts of lightning shot out and struck them, withering them to a crisp almost instantly. He didn’t stop until he was sure he’d got all of the offending plants, leaving just a few wisps of smoke trailing up from the blackened stems.
He smiled to himself and sighed with satisfaction. A thorough demonic smiting always felt good, like being able to let rip with a really good fart that had been brewing for a while. Aziraphale tended not to approve of either, but Aziraphale was out this afternoon, visiting Mrs Attwood in the village, so Crowley was pretty sure he was safe on this occasion. And best of all, the bindweed and knotweed wouldn’t be bothering them again for a long time.
He was back at the end of the garden, gathering the rhododendron prunings into a heap, when he heard the back door open and looked up to see Aziraphale coming out into the garden. The angel greeted him with a kiss and looked around at the evidence of Crowley’s work.
“Busy afternoon, darling?” he asked.
Crowley shrugged. “So so. I don’t think some of the weeds will be bothering us for a while, and your flower garden should be safe from the slugs too.”
Aziraphale, wisely, decided not to ask for further details. Crowley carried on heaping up the prunings.
“Here, let me do that, dear,” the angel said, and with a wave of his hand, the prunings and weeds were banished to the compost heap in the corner of the garden.
“Thanks, Angel,” Crowley said, smiling. “That reminds me, though. I promised the salad trimmings and veg peelings to the slugs in exchange for leaving the flowers and veg alone. We can dump them over on that side rather than in the compost bin. And there should be plenty of brambles for you in a few weeks if you want them.”
“Oh lovely! That’ll be something to look forward to.”
“How was Mrs Attwood?” Crowley asked.
“Oh, not too bad. Her MS is bothering her, but you know how she refuses to let it slow her down. And she’s an absolute demon on that mobility scooter she’s got. I gather she got her grandson to do something or other to it to make it go faster – and is determined to get him to show her how to do wheelies to make getting up the kerbs easier!”
Crowley laughed. “She’s got spirit, that one.”
“She certainly has,” agreed Aziraphale. “And visiting her is always enjoyable. But now I think I could do with a nice cup of tea, a sit down, and maybe a cuddle with my husband. Can I tempt you?” he asked, eyes twinkling.
Crowley smirked at him. “Temptation accomplished,” he said, and followed his husband back into their cottage.