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There was nowhere that he was a stranger, and there was no getting away from him. He was doing what he did best, and what he was doing was what he was.
He was not waiting. He was working.
– – -
Harriet Dowling returned home with her baby, which, on the advice of Sister Faith Prolix, who was more persuasive than Sister Mary, and with the telephonic agreement of her husband, she had named Warlock.
The Cultural Attaché returned home a week later, and pronounced the baby the spit of his side of the family. He also had his secretary advertise in The Lady for a na
Crowley had seen Mary Poppins on television one Christmas (indeed, behind the scenes, Crowley had had a hand in most television; although it was on the invention of the game show that he truly prided himself). He toyed with the idea of a hurricane as an effective and incredibly stylish way of disposing of the queue of na
He contented himself with a wildcat tube strike, and when the day came, only one na
She wore a knit tweed suit and discreet pearl earrings. Something about her might have said na
Her flat shoes crunched up the gravel drive, and a gray dog padded silently by her side, white flecks of saliva dripping from its jaw. Its eyes glinted scarlet, and it glanced from side to side hungrily.
She reached the heavy wooden door, smiled to herself, a brief satisfied flicker, and rang the bell. It donged gloomily.
The door was opened by a butler, as they say, of the old school.[13]
"I am Na
She left the dog in the garden, and passed her interview with flying colors, and Mrs. Dowling led the na
She smiled unpleasantly. "What a delightful child," she said. "He'll be wanting a little tricycle soon."
By one of those coincidences, another new member of staff arrived the same afternoon. He was the gardener, and as it turned out he was amazingly good at his job. No one quite worked out why this should be the case, since he never seemed to pick up a shovel and made no effort to rid the garden of the sudden flocks of birds that filled it and settled all over him at every opportunity. He just sat in the shade while around him the residence gardens bloomed and bloomed.
Warlock used to come down to see him, when he was old enough to toddle and Na
"This here's Brother Slug," the gardener would tell him, "and this tiny little critter is Sister Potato Weevil. Remember, Warlock, as you walk your way through the highways and byways of life's rich and fulsome path, to have love and reverence for all living things."
"Na
"You don't listen to that woman," Francis would say. "You listen to me."
At night, Na
Oh, the grand old Duke of York
He had Ten Thousand Men
He Marched them Up To The Top of The Hill
And Crushed all the nations of the world and brought them
Under the rule of Satan our master.
This little piggy went to Hades
This little piggy stayed home
This little piggy ate raw and steaming human flesh
This little piggy violated virgins
And this little piggy clambered over a heap of dead bodies to
get to the top.
"Bwuvver Fwancis the gardener says that I mus' selfwesswy pwactice virtue an' wuv to all wivving fings," said Warlock.
"You don't listen to that man, darling," the na
And so it went.
The Arrangement worked perfectly. A no‑score win. Na
In the background Crowley and Aziraphale met on the tops of buses, and in art galleries, and at concerts, compared notes, and smiled.
When Warlock was six, his na
Warlock now found himself being educated by two tutors.
Mr. Harrison taught him about Attila the Hun, Vlad Drakula, and the Darkness Intrinsicate in the Human Spirit.[14] He tried to teach Warlock how to make rabble‑rousing political speeches to sway the hearts and minds of multitudes.
Mr. Cortese taught him about Florence Nightingale,[15]Abraham Lincoln, and the appreciation of art. He tried to teach him about free will, self‑denial, and Doing unto Others as You Would Wish Them to Do to You.
They both read to the child extensively from the Book of Revelation.
Despite their best efforts Warlock showed a regrettable tendency to be good at maths. Neither of his tutors was entirely satisfied with his progress.
When Warlock was ten he liked baseball; he liked plastic toys that transformed into other plastic toys indistinguishable from the first set of plastic toys except to the trained eye; he liked his stamp collection; he liked banana‑flavor bubble gum; he liked comics and cartoons and his B.M.X. bike.
Crowley was troubled.
They were in the cafeteria of the British Museum, another refuge for all weary foot soldiers of the Cold War. At the table to their left two ramrod‑straight Americans in suits were surreptitiously handing over a briefcase full of deniable dollars to a small dark woman in sunglasses; at the table on their right the deputy head of M17 and the local KGB section officer argued over who got to keep the receipt for the tea and buns.
Crowley finally said what he had not even dared to think for the last decade.
"If you ask me," Crowley said to his counterpart, "he's too bloody normal."
Aziraphale popped another deviled egg into his mouth, and washed it down with coffee. He dabbed his lips with a paper napkin.
"It's my good influence," he beamed. "Or rather, credit where credit's due, that of my little team."
Crowley shook his head. "I'm taking that into account. Look‑by now he should be trying to warp the world around him to his own desires, shaping it in his own image, that kind of stuff. Well, not actually trying. He'll do it without even knowing it. Have you seen any evidence of that happening?"
13
A night school just off the Tottenham Court Road, run by an elderly actor who had played butlers and gentlemen's gentlemen in films and television and on the stage since the 1920s.
14
He avoided mentioning that Attila was nice to his mother, or that Vlad Drakula was punctilious about saying his prayers every day.
15
Except for the bits about syphilis.