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Crowley liked to think she was getting a lot better at accepting her ‘good’ nature. She helped Zira at charity bake sales, for somebody’s sake.
However, she told herself, no one’s purely good or purely bad. Sometimes a demon can be soft and also unleash absolute Somewhere on nasty neighbours.
So when she happened to drive past a farm with a ‘fresh eggs for sale’ sign, Crowley decided to exercise that imagination she was so infamous for.
-
Back at the cottage, the Andersons and Aziraphale had settled at the kitchen table for some lemon cake, lemon tarts, and lemonade. He thought lemon was delightful.
Less delightful now that they’d been drinking lemonade for weeks but to quote a certain demon-‘I can’t help it if my lemon tree gets a little overzealous! I told that stupid twat to rein it in but I think that made it grow more .’- More lemonade for the neighbours, then.
‘We couldn’t!’
‘You have to take a bottle or two home-‘
‘No, really, Mr Fell, you’re too kind- we couldn’t possibly-‘
‘Not a problem whatsoever! I already put a couple bottles in a doggy bag for you-‘
The back and forth was interrupted by a beanpole in a tattered Queen shirt charging in with a basket over each arm.
‘ANGEL! Angel! You’ve got a baking thing coming up, right?’
‘Good afternoon to you too, Crowley. There’s a fair next week, I was going to do lemon and rosemary focaccia and a lemon curd-‘
‘Scratch that! Change of plan, operation calcium carbonate is underway.’
‘Dear girl, what on earth are you talking about?’
‘I think Rita and meself are wondering that as well.’
Oh, right. They had guests to witness the shenanigans.
‘Calcium carbonate. Need it for, uh, gardening.’ said Crowley, setting her baskets on the counter and leaning against the back of Zira’s chair.
‘And what, pray tell, does calcium carbohydrate have to do with my baking tent entry?’
‘Carbonate. Eggshells. It all loops back to eggshells.’
If it wasn’t for the fact she’d been out in the Bentley, Zira would’ve assumed she was drunk.
‘Scrap the whole menu. We need quiche- quiche has eggs, right? And a couple of those giant Australian meringues-‘
‘Pavlovas?’
‘That’s the one, Rita- and if you can think of anything else, ngnnn, let me know.’
Aziraphale rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘Dear girl, are those baskets possibly carrying eggs?’
‘Correctamundo.’
‘How many?’
‘All of them.’
‘ALL OF THEM?’
‘Well, maybe not every egg in the South Downs but near enough.’
Mel whispered to her wife, ‘Egg dunnae feel like a real word anymore.’
Aziraphale rose, neatening his cardigan bitchily as he did. He carefully opened each basket and made a face that the Andersons recognised as ‘what in the name of the old gods and the new has my nutjob of a partner done now and why am I always involved?’
‘I think you might have actually succeeded in your mission. There’s chicken, duck, even quail- I’m surprised there’s no ostrich.’
A muffled voice came from the pantry, ‘I ASKED. NO ONE HAD AN OSTRICH. MAYBE OSTRICHES JUST DON’T LIKE ENGLAND.’ She emerged from the cubby holding a stack of cookery books. ‘Remember our tour of Africa after we checked out Egypt? One of those pecky bastards chased my camel.’
‘Yes, I seem to recall it now.’
‘Camels are still better than horses. ANYWAY! If I could enlist your services, I need you to find the eggiest recipes in these books. I’d do it myself, but the sunglasses make reading a little, gnnn, irritating.’
Rita and Mel were too bamboozled and intrigued to leave now. It wound up being an enjoyable afternoon, even with the overabundance of lemons and the Fells bickering like there was no tomorrow.
‘CUSTARD!’
‘ATTA GIRL, MEL. ANGEL, WE NEED CUSTARD!’
Aziraphale put his head in his hands.
-
The day of the fair dawned drizzly and argumentatively. At least three farmers had nearly brawled over which sheep had the right of way, a small child went missing and was found hiding under a llama at the petting zoo, and Aziraphale Z. Fell was death glaring a pensioner.
‘Mrs Harrison did lemon curd squares. She knew that was my first option.’
Crowley patted his shoulder, ‘Yours woulda been better, anyway. I had her lemonade at the jumble sale- she has no concept of sour. I swear my tongue shrivelled.’ He flicked his forked tongue for emphasis.
At long last, the judging began. Several members of the South Downs Shovel Association and Seniors Against The Downfall Of Diesel Tractors judged, with the head of the town committee leading the procession.
To Aziraphale’s limitless glee, Mrs Harrison didn’t even warrant a comment. They swept past her tepid tiramisu and lemon squares after the tiniest nibble, and lingered at the Fell table.
In the end, he didn’t win. Nevertheless, he proudly posed for a ‘new-fangled photograph’ with his second-place ribbon, and the victor, Rita.
‘Fuck yeah, that’s my WIFE! ’ Yelled Mel from the sidelines.
Rita blushed beside her rhubarb-and-custard cheesecake. Mrs Harrison protested at the back that Rita’s past career as a cake decorator gave her an unfair advantage. Absolutely no-one cared.
‘Day’s not over yet.’ Said Crowley with what could only be described as an evil grin.
He steered the rest of them towards the flower-judging stall. He hadn’t entered, as he generally prefered leafy plants to flowery ones, but Mrs Marzolek had certainly entered. With her prize winning hydrangea.
They watched from the sidelines as the chaos unfolded.
‘I swear they were blue !’ She shrieked as she was disqualified.
‘You can’t enter a blue hydrangea and arrive with a pink one-‘ the judge explained for the hundredth time.
The Andersons and Aziraphale turned to look at Crowley.
‘My dear, did you have something to do with this?’
He ignored the question, ‘it’s absolutely fascinating how calcium carbonate changes the colour of flowers, isn’t it?’
Aziraphale linked their arms, ‘Fascinating.’
The four of them headed back to the Andersons. Mel had just built a picnic table, and they had a lot of baked goods to get through.