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Birds and Bees
June, 1982.
It was a hot and sunny day.
This wasn’t what one would normally expect the weather to be like in England, more specifically in London, at any particular day of the year. But coincidences do happen, and this was one of them.
Two figures were sitting on a blanket in Greenwich Park, apparently having a picnic, although it was still quite early in the day. One of them, the taller one dressed in black, was sporting a rather daring haircut and a pair of aviator sunglasses. He had managed to combine the punk and business looks in a way that made him look incredibly cool.
The other one, dressed in light colours, appeared to have missed a few decades of fashion evolution. He was wearing a bow tie, waistcoat, and jacket, that seemed totally out of time. And yet there was a timeless elegance to it.
Neither of their outfits were appropriate for the temperature, but that did not appear to bother them. And appearances can be deceptive. For example, they did not appear to be an angel and a demon, but this is exactly what they were. They were the demon Crowley and the angel Aziraphale. And they should have been bothered about being seen socializing, but they weren’t. Not any more. They had gotten away with it for nearly 6000 years.
Crowley had meticulously planned this day for over a decade. About five years ago he had finally dared to hint to Aziraphale that he might have found a nice place for a picnic. Over the next few years, he had occasionally dropped some careful placed remarks on the subject – pointing out food that would be perfect for a picnic, praising the advantages of having picnics in general, things like that. A year and a half ago he had eventually suggested to actually go for a picnic, reminding Aziraphale of the promise he had made in 1967. He was aware, of course, that this was a bit of an exaggeration. It hadn’t really been a promise, but Aziraphale had agreed to it anyway. Relieved that his bold request had been excepted, the demon had then hoped they could have their picnic on one of the first fine days of spring that were soon to come. After all, he had everything planned out already. But Aziraphale suddenly had some very specific ideas of his own. For example, the angel wanted to go to Hempstead and it was quite an effort to convince him to go to Greenwich instead. He only achieved it by pointing out that his eyes were very sensitive to sunlight, and on Hempstead Heath they would most likely sit facing south, for the view, whereas in Greenwich Park they would face north. He knew the angel’s soft spot, all right, but felt slightly bad for lying to him.
Crowley had insisted that all food and drink would be on him, but he couldn’t talk Aziraphale out of bringing a table and two chairs (“How do you want get a table up there? It won’t even fit into the car!” – “Oh, you know very well that the Bentley is bigger on the inside if we need it to be.”), as well as his own set of picnic china (“There is a special kind of china for picnics?” – “Of course there is!”). By the time they had sorted everything out it was well into the last weeks of summer. And due to Aziraphale wanting some strawberries, apparently because of something he had read in a book, he had to wait for another nine months.
Now the glorious day of the picnic had finally arrived.
In the morning, they loaded the Bentley with a table, two chairs, a tartan table cloth, an elaborate wicker basket containing the picnic china and cutlery, and a less impressive wicker basked filled with an assortment of very exquisite food and drink, including the most luscious – but also strangely frightened – strawberries ever to be grown in England.
Upon arriving in Greenwich Park, Aziraphale was disappointed that they couldn’t drive the car right up onto the lawn, and therefore couldn’t bring the table and chairs unless they were to carry them. He suggested staying close to the car, but Crowley pointed out that the view was really so much better further down. Not quite willing to give up the table, the angel proposed driving the Bentley down the footpath towards the lawn. But Crowley point-blank refused this and would not argue about it. In the end, Aziraphale had no choice but to give in and they went on foot, taking only the two baskets and the tablecloth, now degraded to serve as a picnic blanket.
Crowley led the way, taking uncommonly large strides with a peculiar spring in his step. He seemed eager to get to the lawn, as if afraid that someone else would snatch the perfect spot away from them in the last minute. And he was. He had come to Greenwich a few nights ago, carefully measuring and marking the spot where he wanted them to sit. Everything had to be perfect. Aziraphale followed reluctantly, and couldn’t find anything special about the square of grass where Crowley was just carefully adjusting the blanket which had been his favourite table cloth not too long ago. Longingly, he glanced to the side of the lawn, where some trees offered a little shade and a bench promised to be much more comfortable than the lawn. It was currently occupied by a group of punks, but that could easily be taken care of. However, one quick look at the demon made it clear that he better not suggest relocating.
Eventually, Crowley was happy with the placement of their blanket and started unpacking the picnic basket. Aziraphale had to admit it was a rather good choice of delicacies, waiting to be relished. With a sigh he sat down on the table cloth and began producing two elaborate place settings from his basket. Crowley had been curious about the picnic china since Aziraphale first mentioned it, and even more so after seeing the impressive wicker basket earlier that morning. He was a little disappointed that it was just normal china, decorated with a floral pattern. And it clashed with the tartan table cloth. He was amazed, however, that the basket seemed to contain everything needed to set a table for two persons having an eight-course-menu. He politely complimented Aziraphale on it, who blushed slightly and praised Crowley’s choice of food and drink in return. After that, they sat in awkward silence, each pretending to enjoy the view.
After a while, the awkward silence became a more comfortable one. They had been enemies for long enough to feel a certain ease whenever they were in each other’s company. Crowley reached for the champaign and poured two glasses, handing one to Aziraphale.
“Well, here’s to… erm,” he began. He had wanted to say to us, but was afraid the angel would reproach him again for going to fast. “…having a picnic,” he finished lamely. “Strawberry?”
Aziraphale reached for the proffered fruit and purposefully placed it into his mouth. He closed his eyes, and slowly and deliberately started to chew. Crowley loved watching the angel eat, seeing the delight on his face. He couldn’t help but perceive it as a small personal triumph, and a warm wave of satisfaction washed over him. He had planned this day for fifteen years, but it promised to be worth the wait.
“See that building over there?” Crowley asked after a while, nodding his head towards the top of the hill. “Know what it is?”
“Um, it’s the Royal Observatory, isn’t it?”
“Right. Well, almost. It was the Royal Obervatory. It’s a museum now, the observatory was moved to East Sussex.”
Trivia? Aziraphale wondered. That was rather unlike Crowley.
“Oh, was it indeed?” he answered politely. “I think I missed that. Why?”
Crowley shrugged. “Light pollution, or something.”
“But,” he continued, following up on the point he had wanted to make, “it was the Royal Observatory, and you know what that means?”
Aziraphale looked around, trying to find some clue as to why this place was so special. He didn’t find any. What was the demon aiming for. Star gazing? Only then they wouldn’t have a picnic in broad daylight, in summer, but would have come here on a long and clear winter night. He noticed Crowley staring at him expectantly, even forgetting to blink, which was a telltale sign that the demon was exited about something. Most likely some clever scheme he had plotted, and probably also the reason why he had been so keen on going to Greenwich.
“No,” Aziraphale admitted, “I haven’t got the faintest idea. But I assume you are about to enlighten me.”
“It means, we’re sitting right on top of the Prime Meridian!” Crowley couldn’t suppress a grin.
“Ah, of course." Aziraphale pretended that this explained anything, especially why they were sitting on a dry lawn in the hot sun.
“More precisely, the Prime Meridian is passing right between us. You are currently sitting in the Eastern Hemisphere and I’m in the Western Hemisphere!”
Aha, so this is what it's all about, Aziraphale thought. Yes, that was the kind of thing that would amuse Crowley. And he had hardly ever seen him so enthusiastic about anything. Not in a while, anyway. It reminded him of a certain angel he had met a very, very long time ago. It was nice to see his friend – his enemy, he corrected himself – happy. He smiled.
“You mean to say, we’re on different sides?” he asked in a teasing tone.
“In a way, yeah. But this proves, again, that there isn’t much of a difference between sides, is there?”
“Well,” Aziraphale lifted his glass, “to the Prime Meridian, and the lucky circumstance that the Hemispheres should be so close together.”
Their glasses met with a pleasant pling, and they each took a sip, acknowledging the superb taste of the Moët. Aziraphale reached for another strawberry, when a thought crossed his mind. He tried to keep his voice calm and casual.
“What a strange coincidence, that the Prime Meridian should be right here, in London.”
“Yeah. Funny, isn’t it.”
The smirk on Crowley’s face confirmed his suspicion. The demon did have something to do with it. He considered asking, but refrained from it. Crowley wasn’t one to tell stories. He preferred to drop a few hints, but keep the actual story a mystery, even when asked directly. Aziraphale smiled to himself and put the strawberry in his mouth. It was heavenly.
Crowley, meanwhile, was very pleased with himself. It was a credit to his ingenuity that the Prime Meridian was passing through London, defined by the location of the Observatory. He had been more involved with the Observatory than he would ever admit towards Aziraphale. He had long since figured out that the most efficient way to do his job was to not do it, and usually whiled away his time doing whatever he found interesting. The Observatory was interesting. It meant progress, and Crowley liked progress, it usually made life easier. All he had to do, was to casually suggest something to the right person, nudge a scientist into the right direction, and progress would happen. He left it to humanity to eventually use the progress the made to their own disadvantage, and restricted himself to sending the occasional note below, informing head office about his successes.
When the Obervatory was set up in the late 17th century, he had followed the proceedings with interest, and with time had become well known and highly esteemed guest. When it finlly came to electing a global Prime Meridian nearly a hundred years ago, he was a member of the British delegation at the conference in Washington, DC. He had personally convinced several of the other forty delegates to vote for Greenwich. If he hadn’t, the Prime Meridian would now go through Paris, instead. He had had no particular reason to promote Greenwich, other that the fact that he liked being where important things were – or, more precisely, he liked important things to be where he was. And the Prime Meridian, the basic reference for all when and where on earth, certainly qualified as something important.
Crowley flashed a mysterious smile at the angel. Aziraphale, however, was not tempted to ask any questions about it. He had been happily munching away on the strawberries for the last quarter of an hour, and was just taking the last one. They were truly delicious.
---
The sun was high in the sky by now, the air was hot, and the park had filled up with Londoners and tourists alike. Not far from Crowley and Aziraphale some younger folks, showing off their fashionable athletic wear, were lingering lazily on the lawn. The punks had left, and the bench under the trees was now occupied by a middle-aged couple opting for the preppy style, the collars of their polos upturned.
Crowley and Aziraphale were by now halfway through a bottle of very good white wine, that, despite the heat, had miraculously maintained the perfect drinking temperature. A careful observer might also have noticed that their wine glasses were standing perfectly upright on the uneven, sloping lawn, defying gravity in an outragious manner. No one did observe them closely, however.
They were completely at ease now, engaged in light conversation about nothing important, watching the people in the park. Even after 6000 years on Earth they still didn't fully understand humans and were frequently surprised and sometimes mystified by them. Their current conversation revolved around one of the most elusive aspects of human behaviour.
“Birds and bees?” Crowley asked.
“Yes. You know, there’s birds and bees and then the female gets pregnant and nine months later they have a baby. That’s how they breed.” The angel seemed very confident about it. Crowley was still doubtful.
“No, that can’t be how they do it.”
“Yes!”
“But why birds and bees?”
“Well, I don’t know the particulars, obviously,” Aziraphale blushed slightly, “but you must be aware that birds and bees play an important role in the human mating process.”
“Nah, sounds unlikely.”
“It is true, though. I’ve heard humans refer to it many a time.” He took another sip from his wine.
Crowley thought about it for a while. He was slightly impressed. “I didn’t know it involved interspecific interaction.” In front of his inner eye the image of a breeding human couple emerged. The scene was set in an exotic forest, not unlike the Garden of Eden. An unseen narrator that sounded remarkably like David Attenborough explained the proceedings to the imaginary viewer. ‘Now that the male has successfully courted the female the pair prepares for mating. The female starts the ritual by vocalizing a series of calls to attract the necessary flock of birds. And look, the first specimen of our feathered friends are already arriving, still careful as they approach.’ The camera switches between closeups of the birds and the calling human female. Soon, the couple is surrounded by a considerable number of small, colourful birds. ‘When enough birds have gathered, both, the male and the female, fall into a trance-like state, that is intensified by the deep humming of the male. He accompanies the humming with a series of complex movements that are mirrored by his partner. It almost resembles a carefully choreographed dance.’
Crowley helped himself to some more wine, feeling the need for some support.
‘The knowledge of this dance is instinctive, welded deeply into the human genome, and the dance is almost identical anywhere around the world. In contrast, the call to attract the birds it taught to the females by their mothers, and there are very distinct variations of the call between populations and families. Some experts can even distinguish individual females by their call. As to why so many versions exist, that is still under debate. For many years it was believed that it was an adjustment to different bird species dominating different habitats. However, a recent study led by scientists from the University of Bristol suggests, that the primary driver for diversification was to avoid competition between families within the same population and habitat.’
By now, the happy couple in Crowley’s head was surrounded not only by birds, but also a swarm of very sedulous bees. ‘And finally the mating can commence,’ the voice-over concludes, while the camera zooms out and the scene fades.
Absentmindedly, Crowley watched a bumble bee collecting nectar from a clover flower, vaguely wondering if it had to be honey bees or if bumble bees would work as well. Meanwhile, his vivid imagination continued with the documentary.
The scene had changed, a different human couple came into view. ‘This young pair,’ David Attenborough’s voice went on, ‘was less lucky. The inexperienced female has accidentally summoned some bee eaters with her call, which are now wreaking havoc among the bees.’ The image in Crowley’s mind turned into a massacre of killer birds attacking the bees, and angry bees attacking birds and humans alike in a desperate act of self-defence. The frightened couple tried to get away as fast as they could, still chased by some bees, while the narrator, unfazed by the cruelty of the situation, continued his tale, ‘But let’s get back to our first couple. Autumn approaches, and the pair…’
At that point, Crowley violently shook his head, trying to rid himself of the images his overactive mind had produced. He grimaced as the pain of imaginary bee stings slowly passed away and took a big mouthful of wine. Turning towards Aziraphale he said, “That seems awfully complicated.”
“Hm?” Aziraphale, whose thoughts had drifted into a different direction, gave him a blank look.
“The thing with the birds and the bees. I mean, it’s a miracle they managed to build a population of – what? 4.5 milliards? – within a few thousand years, with just Adam and Eve to start from.”
Aziraphale gave this some consideration, albeit much less imaginative that Crowley’s had been. Eventually, he agreed and added, “Just think what the population would be if it didn’t involve the birds and bees.”
Another bumble bee flew by and this time the arising question made it to the conscious part of Crowley’s mind.
"Do bumble bees work as well? I mean, are they even bees?"
"Gosh, I have no idea! They must, I suppose."
Aziraphale paused, and then added brightly, "Maybe this is how the chubby babies are made."
"Hm. Yeah, could be."
They both watched the bumble bee, which, in turn, was totally unaware of the attention as well as the role it was assigned to play in human procreation. It was much more concerned with the survival of its own species.
---
The sun continued to move over Greenwich Park, the shadows grew longer, and Aziraphale and Crowley were heading towards another uncomfortable silence. They had run out of inconsequential topics to converse about, and each was quietly reflecting on the experience of having a picnic.
Aziraphale glanced at the blanket again. He had almost forgotten about it but now was hit again by the fact that his favourite table cloth was probably irreversibly ruined. In addition, he was increasingly aware of the hardness of the ground and frequently shifted his position in futile attempts to find a more comfortable one. It was still hot and he was close to developing a headache, which he accounted to sitting in the burning sun all day. The alcohol didn’t help, either, but he considered it impolite to sober up in front of Crowley. On the other hand, the food had been really good, and Crowley had obviously put a lot of thought and maybe even a little heart into planning it all. Aziraphale couldn’t find it inside him to resent the day, however uncomfortable he might be. He peered over to Crowley, who was deep into some thoughts of his own, and let out an involuntary sigh.
Crowley’s recap of the day was of equally mixed feelings. Objectively, it had been a nice picnic. Nice, he thought, that could mean anything. He snorted. The weather was nice, the view was nice, the company certainly was, and the food had been… Well, at least Aziraphale seemed to have approved of it. But Crowley had the nagging feeling that the Angel did not enjoy it. Not properly. Surely, he was disappointed. He had to be. Disappointed…
Slowly it dawned to him, that he himself was disappointed. He hated disappointments. Only, he didn’t understand why he felt that way. He had meticulously planned this day, and had carried out his plan almost to the last detail. He should feel satisfied. Sure, planning something for fifteen years might raise one’s expectations, but what are fifteen years when you have eternity? And if this day did not meet his expectation, then what was it that he had expected?
A sigh from Aziraphale pulled him out of his brooding, and he looked up. To his surprise the Angel smiled at him, a very soft expression in his eyes. Maybe he had been wrong. Maybe Aziraphale had enjoyed the picnic after all. He forced himself to smile back, but only managed a grimace, and quickly gave up the attempt.
“Er, do you think we should pack up and call it a day, then?” Crowley asked.
“Ah, yes, I rather think we should,” Aziraphale’s respond came almost too quickly. Crowley even believed he had heard a relieved undertone, and his heart dropped again.
Aziraphale began to pack he china, that was suddenly as clean as if it had never been used, back into it’s wicker basket. Crowley collected the remains of the picnic, mainly wrapping paper and empty bottles, and soon they were back in the Bentley driving towards Soho. They would have put on some music, but neither of them felt they could bear a Bach cantata sung by Freddie Mercury.
At length — Crowley had resisted the urge to drive at more than forty miles per hour – they arrived at the bookshop. They had been quiet in the car, but now social conventions required them to talk again.
“Well, that was a lovely picnic,” Aziraphale started the conversation.
“Yeah,” Crowley mumbled, hoping rather than believing that Aziraphale really meant it.
“And those strawberries were…,” he searched for the right word, “scrumptious! You grew them yourself, I presume?”
Crowley looked up in surprise.
“Well, er, yeah, as a matter of fact, I did. I didn’t think you would notice, though.” His voice trailed away towards the end of the sentence.
Aziraphale smiled, sweetly and knowingly, and Crowley suddenly felt very self-conscious. Surely, the angel didn’t know he had yelled at the strawberry plants, or did he? He heard Aziraphale take a deep breath and prepared for the inevitable reproach.
“I believe I also promised you a dinner at the Ritz.”
“What?”
“Back in 1967. I said we could have a picnic and dine at the Ritz.”
And? Crowly thought. It was an 'and', not an 'or'? He scrutinised Aziraphale’s face, half expecting a trap. But the angel’s look was pure and honest, no trace of sarcasm, no hint of deceit.
“Er…”
“Good. Let’s say next month, then? It’s on me.”
“Um. Yeah. Great.”
They had arrived at the bookshop’s doorstep, and Aziraphale put down the wicker basket, found the key in his pocket, and opened the door.
“Well,” he said, turning around to pick up the basket again, “I’ll call you next month. Have a lovely evening. And thanks again for the wonderful day.”
With that vanished into the bookshop, closing the door behind him.
“Oh, thank you,” Crowley eventually gathered his senses enough to come up with a response. “Have a lovely evening as well,” he went on, before realising he was talking to a closed door. He turned around sheepishly, but to his relief nobody had paid attention to this rather embarrassing display. He quickly went back to his car to get home.
This time, he forgot to drive above the speed limit. He was still preoccupied. Humans, he mused, surely were mysterious in their ways. But angels, it turned out, weren’t any easier to comprehend.
***