Chapter Text
Aziraphale came round the shelves from the back of the shop to find a black-clad figure peering into her window display from just beside the till.
"Oh, please don't touch anything in the window," she said quickly.
The black-clad figure turned - tight black jeans on a slender body; a black tshirt with a logo of a red snake and a green apple, and the words 'Serpent of Eden' beneath it; black jacket; shoulder length red hair caught up into a messy half-bun. She was gorgeous - at least, the portion of her face that Aziraphale could see was gorgeous. The rest was covered by a pair of designer sunglasses.
"Uh, sorry," said the vision of loveliness. "I was interested in the Herefordshire Pomona."
It was the centre of the display, surrounded by other, lesser books on apples and fruit growing. Aziraphale didn't specialise in gardening books, but the Pomona had been too good a prize to pass up.
"It's awfully expensive," she said. "I'm asking £5,000 for it."
"Don't worry," said the vision, wryly. "I won't get mucky fingerprints on it."
Aziraphale leaned into the window and carefully lifted the two volumes out of the middle of the display. "Late nineteenth century, original binding which, as you can see, is in very good condition...." She laid the volumes on her desk and stood back so that her potential customer could see for themselves. "Only 600 were ever published," she added, trying not to hold her breath as the potential customer/vision of loveliness opened the cover of the first volume with all the care that she could have hoped for.
"I know," said the vision. "I've been looking for a copy for some time. Just good luck that I happened to come into Hay today," she added, lingering over one of the colour plates. "I was delivering some cider to Kilverts, and I thought I may as well have a look round while I was here." She smiled wryly. "Maybe Somebody Up There likes me after all." She closed the book carefully. "£5,000, you said?"
Aziraphale nodded.
"The last one I saw online was £7,000, and it was in Inverness," she said. She produced a wallet from her jacket pocket. "This is much more convenient."
As Aziraphale took the card payment, the customer produced a business card.
'AJ Crowley, Serpent of Eden Cider Orchard,
a traditional Herefordshire orchard, certified organic.
Sinfully Good Cider!'
She grinned.
Aziraphale smiled back. "I'll, er, just put some bubble wrap round these for you," she said, deftly wrapping the volumes in brown paper before the bubble wrap, and sticking her own business card on the front with a piece of tape.
'AZ Fell and Co, Antiquarian and Unusual Books, Hay-on-Wye'
She didn't usually feel a need to do this - customers who came into the shop knew where they were, after all - but this time, it seemed important.
AJ Crowley took the package from her. "Thanks - you're an angel." She grinned again. "And I've sinfully ruined your window display!"
Aziraphale tucked the credit card reciept into the till. "I think it was worth it," she said.
She wasn't thinking of the £5,000.
~
A few weeks later, she saw the vision of loveliness again.
She was sitting at the computer on her counter, doing the necessary drudgery of adding her new acquisitions to her catalogue - having an abebooks account was a necessary evil these days, but she was disciplined enough to update it regularly: "1st. Ed. 8vo. vi + 242pp. B/w ills. Original boards, half calf with gilt edging...."*
She was debating with herself whether she could describe the pages as "slightly foxed" or "with some foxing" when the bell rang over the shop door and the vision of loveliness - AJ Crowley - sauntered into the shop.
*First edition, octavo (the size of most ordinary books), vi preliminary pages plus 242 pages long, black and white illustrations. Original boards - half calf means that the spine and corners of the covers are leather - with gilt edging to the pages. Foxing is the brown spotting on the pages of some older books.
"I was wondering," Crowley asked, "if you'd be happy to put up a poster for me?"
Aziraphale didn't put posters up, as a general rule, but this time.... "What's it for?" she asked.
"Oh, I'm hosting an Apple Day event at the orchard," Crowley said. "You know the sort of thing - bring along your mystery apple to be identified, with tastings of apple juice and cider, and tours of the orchard."
"I'd be happy to," Aziraphale said. She already had a roll of clear tape in her hand to stick the poster to her window.
"Sold all the apple books then?" Crowley asked, looking over her shoulder at the window display.
"Oh, no - most of them went back on the shelf. They're downstairs if you're interested. I just acquired a collection of Illustrated London News bound volumes, and they're so big I thought they'd be better in the window." She smiled as she turned to face Crowley. "You know how it is - no matter how big your shelves are, there are always some books that don't fit."
Crowley drifted towards the cellar stairs and peered down.
"I'll show you where they are, if you like," Aziraphale said, leading the way. The cellar was divided into several small rooms, each containing a different subject, and Aziraphale went straight to the shelf at the left of the stairs. "Are you enjoying the Pomona?"
"It's going to come in very handy for Apple Day," Crowley said, "not that the ordinary punters are going to get a sniff at it. I've got this woman from the Marcher Apple Network coming - she really knows her stuff, and she's been fascinated by the book. There's a modern, cheaper version, obviously, but you can't beat the original."
"You take all this very seriously, don't you?" Aziraphale asked.
Crowley had bobbed down to inspect the meagre offerings on the shelf marked 'Trees', and shrugged. "It's how I make my living," she pointed out. "Can't be half-arsed about these things if you want to do them well."
Aziraphale had been interested enough in the Serpent of Eden cider to go to Kilvert's one evening after she'd shut the shop to sample a bottle. Cider wasn't really her drink of choice - she was more of a wine buff - but she had to admit it tasted a lot better than the Strongbow she'd unwisely tried in her youth. "I suppose this is cider country," she said.
"Yup. Which means a lot of competition, often from people who've been making cider for generations - and here I am, an incomer, and a woman. I've got to give it my best shot, or not bother."
"I'm sure you do - give it your best shot, that is."
Crowley hadn't shown any interest in the books so Aziraphale turned to climb the stairs again.
She had a choice to make now - either politely see Crowley off the premises and probably never have a conversation with her again, or.... "How does one get to your orchard?" she asked. "For Apple Day?"
"We're not far outside Eardisley," Crowley said. "There'll be signs up on the day."
"Oh, I meant - is there public transport?" Aziraphale asked. "I don't drive, you see."
"Don't drive?" Crowley looked shocked. "How do you survive?"
"Oh, I can get almost everything I need here in Hay, and there's the bus to Hereford, or to Brecon - the T14 goes all the way to Cardiff now, so occasionally I can get to an art exhibition there, as long as I get back early. There aren't any evening buses. And I'm afraid there aren't any buses to Eardisley from here...."
Crowley was looking at her with her mouth hanging open. "I'll pick you up," she said. "If you want to come, that is."
"But, won't you be busy?"
"I can slip away for an hour or so - I do have staff, and they're very capable."
"That's very good of you," Aziraphale said. "I'd like that very much indeed."
~
Aziraphale was expecting a normal, modern car, maybe one of those big ones that didn’t fit the local lanes. She wouldn’t have been surprised by a delivery van with the Serpent of Eden logo on the side.
She was not expecting a vintage Bentley.
“Like it?” Crowley asked. She was leaning on the side of the car beside the driver’s door, smiling proudly.
“I can safely say I have never ridden in such a – magnificent – car,” Aziraphale said. She was feeling rather scruffy now, in her beige slacks and green wellies. She was going to be tramping round a farm, after all. Crowley was, as ever, in black jeans and what looked suspiciously like snakeskin boots. She came round the car to open the passenger door for Aziraphale.
They sailed regally through Hay, but as soon as the vintage car had climbed the hill to Clyro, Crowley started to speed up alarmingly. Aziraphale surreptitiously looked around for a handle to hang on to, and ended up holding the edge of her seat in a deathlike grip. “Aren’t you going (eep) rather fast?” she suggested timidly. The car was uncomfortably close to a steep drop straight down to the river, and taking the bend at what seemed like enormous speed.
“3 ½ litre, 110 horsepower – in her prime she could get up to 90 miles an hour!” Crowley said. She glanced sideways at Aziraphale’s pale face – or at least, Aziraphale assumed she glanced sideways. She was still wearing her sunglasses, and they had a sort of silver grille at the sides that hid her eyes. “Don’t worry – I’m not going at 90 miles an hour today!”
She wasn’t stopping for anything, either – at one point near Madley she made a tractor back up for her.
Aziraphale had never been so glad to get out of a car in her life. The Bentley pulled up next to a black and white timber framed house which couldn’t have been more typical of a historic Herefordshire cottage if it tried. There was a smallish cottage garden, with an apple tree, at the front of the cottage, and behind it fields full of apple trees stretched away into the distance.
Behind the cottage were all the buildings one might expect on a working farm, barns and sheds that gleamed with modernity, as well as a marquee set up in the nearest field, and rows of cars parked by the nearest trees.
“It was a bit of luck, me finding this place,” Crowley said, as she sauntered, and Aziraphale tried not to totter, towards the marquee. “Caught my eye to start with because it was practically falling down, so I did a bit of research and found that it had once been a pub called the Old Crown – a cider pub, naturally – and then I did a bit more digging, and found that the name Old Crown was a Victorian typo. It had really been called the Old Crow. Well, as soon as I found that out, I had to buy the place!”
“You were looking for a farm to buy, then?”
“I was looking for somewhere I could make a living out of making alcohol,” Crowley said. “Gin’s fashionable, but I wasn’t really interested in gin. I was bored of beer, and you’ve got to try very hard to grow grapes this far north – so cider seemed the perfect choice.” She paused at the entrance to the marquee. “Have a look round – I’ll be leading an orchard walk in….” She consulted her large and expensive looking watch. “About half an hour, if you’re interested.”
Aziraphale waggled a welly at her. “I did come prepared,” she said.
~
Before the orchard tour, Aziraphale wandered round the marquee. Tables were set up, with small displays of apples, some of them sitting on little plates with slices cut out of them. At the far end of the marquee was a small podium with a lectern, and on the lectern was the Herefordshire Pomona. Standing in front of the podium, with a more modern book in her hand, was a dark haired young woman wearing big round glasses. She was talking to a middle-aged man wearing the local farming uniform of green gilet over checked shirt, corduroy trousers and green wellies.
“Oh, that’s just a Blenheim Orange,” she was saying, as Aziraphale approached. “They’re quite common, I’m afraid.”
The middle-aged man holding the apple looked sceptical. “I was led to believe that it was a local variety. Are you sure you can tell?”
“Quite sure,” the young woman said. “Look, here – there’s the photo, and we can cut it open if you like.”
The man murmured something about getting a second opinion, and went away.
The young woman sighed. “Everyone thinks they’ve got an Eggleston Styre,” she said, looking after him, “and not something you can pick up at the local supermarket.”
“You must be the Marcher Apple lady,” Aziraphale said.
The young woman held out her hand. “Anathema Device,” she said, “and before you ask, we have apples in the US as well. I fell in love with the Johnny Appleseed legend when I was a kid, and now I live in Apple Heaven!”
“I’m Aziraphale Fell – I’m afraid that’s rather a mouthful. I sold Ms. Crowley the Pomona.”
“Oh, you’re the bookseller!” Anathema said enthusiastically. “I can’t tell you how pleased I was to actually get my hands on a copy of that!”
She looked beyond Aziraphale then, as a tall and slightly stooped young man made his way through the crowd towards them. “Hi, Newt! This is Newt – he works for Crowley – you don’t need to say Ms. Crowley, you know. She doesn’t like titles.”
“I’ll bear that in mind,” Aziraphale said.
Newt climbed up to the podium and looked out over the crowded marquee. “Um, ladies and gentlemen? Can I have your attention?”
About half a dozen people standing nearby turned their heads towards him.
“Um, just to let you know the orchard tour is starting in ten minutes.”
He shuffled down.
“ORCHARD TOUR STARTS IN TEN MINUTES, PEOPLE!” Anathema bellowed. This time the whole marquee heard her, and people started making for the exit. Aziraphale followed them.
~
She couldn’t really say that she learned a lot from the orchard tour. She was far too distracted by Crowley’s glossy red hair, and tight black jeans, and – oh, dear, she really ought to be paying attention to the talk instead of fantasizing about the good looking orchard owner.
“So these are Kingston Blacks – you can see how dark the skins are. They’re just about ready to harvest, and they make a reliable, full-bodied cider we call Black Serpent. Some of last season’s is available to taste in the marquee….”
~
The Black Serpent was – very cider-y. So was the Red Serpent (Red Foxwhelp), and the Old Crow (Skyrme’s Kernel). She drew the line at trying the Sinful Scrumpy (a blend of Dabinett and several others that she forgot the names of). She had a vague feeling that scrumpy was a lot stronger than ordinary cider. There was also a non-alcoholic apple juice called Eden (King’s Acre Pippin), which was a lot nicer. Aziraphale thought that she could probably bear to drink that again, and bought a bottle.
“What do you think?” Crowley asked, sidling up to her at the tasting table.
“Oh, er, I’m very much afraid I’m not really a cider person,” Aziraphale admitted, shamefacedly. “But I’m sure these are all very good.”
“Thing to remember,” Crowley said, “is that you should treat cider like wine. A lot of pubs serve cider in pints, and that’s all very well for Bulmer’s and that sort of mass-produced stuff, but us smaller producers have to go for taste rather than quantity. And, don’t worry – I’m not going to force you to drink our scrumpy.”
“Were you watching me?” Aziraphale asked in surprise.
Crowley grinned. “Might have been, a bit. Listen, there’s a lull in the proceedings – do you mind if I take you home now?”
“That’s really very good of you,” Aziraphale said. "And thank you - I've had a fascinating afternoon."