BAD GRACE - quantum witch © 2005

see Prologue for warnings, rating, and summary

In which R.P Tyler makes known his disapproval of an obviously gay bookseller.

5:04 – MOVING ALONG

TINA MOORE, UNDER-SECRETARY TO THE COPY EDITOR of the Tadfield Advertiser was combing through today's mail. Her title was one of those things that get glorified and tacked onto the truly menial jobs. Basically, she was a mail sorting machine on two legs. But it was work.

She didn't even open the letters with Mr. R.P. Tyler's return address any longer. Those went into a special bin all by themselves. She'd have liked it to be the wastebin, but alas someone much higher up was beholden to acknowledge them. It had become quite the 'issue'.

Today there were only two, thank God. Tina finished sorting and delivered the normal stack of letters to the copy editor. The Tyler letters, those she marched straight over to the office of Gordon Marsden, editor-in-chief. Let him have fun with them. She'd happily stick with under-secretary status if it meant leaving that decision to someone else.

Gordon sighed to see her approach, but knew there was nothing for it. The newspaper owner had been called by Mr. Tyler once upon a time, and such an uproar resulted that they now had to kowtow to all of the Tyler letters unless they were dangerously inflammatory. For the most part they were ironically humourous, and the staff often got a kick out of the man's overwhelming sense of self-importance and apparently omniscient wisdom. Pity they couldn't have hired the man for their 'Laugh At Life' column, because he was perfectly serious.

Apparently he had a double-edged axe to grind today, and both sides had to do with a certain newcomer to Tadfield. Gordon quietly read the letters, translating to himself as he went.

"Dear Sirs:
While I, for one, shall always welcome with open arms a new resident of our beloved town, offering up fellowship unless they prove themselves unworthy, I must protest the business practices of a recent London transplant. Perhaps this individual is accustomed to his ways from living in, of all places, Soho, but it would be best for all concerned in our fair village that he come to understand our ways are simpler and more wholesome.

(Riiiight, Gordon snickered. Only you and your wife think so, while the rest of us go on with real life. We might be less exposed to true crime and corruption, but we have our moments.)

"This gentleman is a purveyor of used books in a downtown shop. For the most part, his books have no great offence to a sensible-minded person. It is well-organised place and the prices are reasonable. There is a Children's section, a Religion section (which also contains possibly subversive works from Eastern and 'New Age' so-called religions), a General Fiction area (even though it sports many a modern romance novel, dubious in content), and a Non-Fiction department. It is to this last area that I draw your attention, dear readers, for it contains such filth as I've never seen in our God-fearing town. High upon a top shelf, in the basement of the shop, I discovered books of such a nature as to shock one into speechlessness."

(One could only hope it would work on you, thought Gordon, and returned to the letter.)

"The books in question were of such moral degeneracy that I cannot even repeat their titles or content, but let it be said that they obviously would appeal to the sensibilities of a person such as the bookshop owner.

(Ah, must be about the gay lifestyle, Gordon grinned. Well, there were bound to be a few residents interested in that. His sister, for example, would probably find it of interest.)

"The most frightening aspect of this situation is how it will affect any children who frequent the shop. Though obviously some are delinquent already, exposure to such material will only further their decay and lead to immoral and criminal behaviours.

(Must be talking about Them again. What a silly sod, Gordon shook his head. Besides, the books are on a high shelf with a ladder as the only access, for the very reason of keeping children away. A ladder that Tyler undoubtedly had had to climb to reach said books.)

"In conclusion, I implore the good people of Tadfield to boycott this establishment, and thus to let the owner know that we, as morally upright and responsible individuals, will not stand for this. Shut him down, I say, send him back to the pits of sinful London.

Sincerely,
R. P. Tyler
Lower Tadfield Resident's Association, Chairman"

Gordon laughed, and then sighed. Poor Mr. Fell. Not in town three weeks and already Tyler's target. Oh well, they'd all faced it at some point. Literally. At least the charmingly swish bookseller would take it with a grain of salt. Fell was so easy-going and likable you could have put a pair of wings and halo on him. Nothing to find objectionable there unless you had a very closed mind.

He moved onto the second letter, also about Mr. Fell.

"Dear Sirs:
I must start by saying that our local churches are fine places, devoted to God and family. They tend to our souls and our bodies on a weekly basis, all with charity in their hearts. Unfortunately they are, by nature, supported largely by the good will and donations of the community and must sometimes rely upon various events to bolster their needs and pay for repairs to the stained glass or to buy new books. This past week, St. Cecil and All Angels was to hold a bake sale, with delicious dishes donated by church members and offered to the public through a raffling system which, although rather close to being gambling, is still a suitably wholesome and effective technique. The church raised enough money, in addition to a sizable charitable donation from an anonymous person, to buy sixty new hymn books. Praise God.

(And I'll bet I know who did the donating, Gordon mused. Mr. Fell has a passion for religious works. Probably bought the books himself, wholesale, and let the church keep the remaining cash for other things they need.)

"However, it is to this bake sale itself I must draw your attention. While personally volunteering my scant free time to aid in this sale, I was thrown together with a local businessman about whom I have written recently. While seeming an amiable chap when trying to ply his wares, he is secretly terribly rude. When I pointed out that the baked goods were rather disorganized, and would he be so kind as to arrange them by type and perhaps alphabetically by content, he begged my pardon. All well and good, but when I went on further to point out the obvious, that pies and cakes should be separated so that rafflers could more easily discern the choices available to them, he declared that they probably had eyes and enough schooling they could read the labels and tell for themselves. The cheek of the man!

(Gordon laughed uproariously, something he hadn't done over Tyler's letters in ages. He was beginning to like Mr. Fell even more. His staff lifted their heads, and wondered if their editor-in-chief had finally gone 'round the bend with the pressure.)

"That said, I should like to declare that we not only demand better organisation of all future volunteering events, but also that only those willing to follow its rules be allowed to participate. In addition, I must in good conscience request that this businessman be barred from taking place in any further volunteering activities, as he cannot respect the simplest and most logical needs of the community.

Sincerely,
R. P. Tyler
Lower Tadfield Resident's Association, Chairman"

Gordon wiped his eyes from the laughter. He filed the letters away in the large envelope marked 'Tyler Tattlers' and stuck it in his desk. These he absolutely wouldn't print, but nor would he throw them away. Someday he might use them as a basis for a book. Until that time he would keep them around for grins on really bad days.

Mr. Fell had better watch himself, or Tyler might make a point of walking slowly past his store and frowning seriously in through the windows. Or perhaps, to be spiteful, entering the store and tutting loudly over what he found, and possibly even shuffling a few books out of alphabetical order. He was an enemy to be reckoned with.

AZIRAPHALE WAS FULLY AWARE OF Tyler's dislike, but it didn't bother him in the slightest. He really didn't care terribly much about the attitude of people who, in the long run, were destined to be not only a gnat buzzing in the face of humanity but also a private laughingstock. It was that person's choice and wasn't it all about Free Will, after all? So long as their immortal soul wasn't in danger then Aziraphale ignored them and let them go on their merry – or, in this case, psychically constipated – way.

He had already dealt with harsher things. Making the decision to move to the edge of Upper Tadfield two months ago had been wrenchingly difficult. But he couldn't face London without Crowley. It wasn't home right now.

The storefront had come available a month ago when the previous owner retired. Aziraphale sold at auction all the priciest of his books - those that weren't his personal collection - and made a very pretty sum which he used to buy the store and all the things to set it up as a bookshop. The old shop in Soho had very little left inside when he'd closed up. He kept the shop though, because he had to make sure Crowley could find him. If indeed the demon ever returned or wanted to find him. He wrote a note, placed it on the counter, drew a protective ward around the shop, and locked the door.

His new store, also called 'Fell's Slightly Used Books' because he was lazy about such things, was doing a fair trade though it would never be truly swamped, which suited him fine. He had, in fact, changed his entire business acumen. Instead of his shop being a façade for his private collection, he kept those things upstairs in his flat and kept only saleable books downstairs for the public. And they actually were buying and selling.

Most remarkably, the shelves were organised. But type, by genre, by author and/or title, for heaven's sake. The older, lesser known books had their own special section in the basement. But otherwise he carried mostly newer works, even paperbacks. There were reprinted classics, best-sellers, children and youth books. He even included modern romance novels, which he had never before bothered carrying because they seemed rather tediously identical and because the paper felt cheap under his discerning hands. There was, however, quite a steady stream of lady customers who enjoyed them and he did a brisk business of selling and re-selling and re-re-selling such tripe. And he would have rather have his perfectly manicured nails ripped out with red-hot tongs than to admit he occasionally read one in bed.

Bed, that was also a new thing. He'd bought one, first of all. It was in the flat above the shop, which was only moderately furnished and still halfway filed with book shelves. And he'd actually begun sleeping, just a bit, now and again. In fact, most nights. He really couldn't see any reason to stay awake all the time anymore. He'd read everything he could possibly want to of older works. He didn't care much for most modern worksº. And there was no further reason to sit up for days dwelling upon the prophetic works, because they were invalid now. He had better things to do, and they all seemed to be during the daytime when other people were active, so… he slept at night.

For the most part, he settled quickly into a pleasant and simple existence. He bought and sold used books. He found charming little restaurants to eat in. He shopped in small local shops. He sometimes had a drink at the Bull and Fiddle pub and listened to the patrons debate various sport-related or political issues. He met Newt now and again during the day when Newt had his lunchtime break. He walked to the little downtown park and fed squirrels and songbirds, as there was no pond and therefore no ducks. He volunteered at the church and at the two local schools when he could. He spread general, unfocused good will.

And he spent every weekend with Rachel, both with and without her parents, who sometimes needed time for themselves. He had become her official uncle, as explained to the community. He was the closest she would ever get anyway, as neither parent had any siblings.

He did his best to be happy. For the most part he was. Though of course he still had a gaping wound inside that wouldn't completely heal. It seemed the only way to cope was to ignore it and hope it went away. He couldn't waste time moping about when the world was still here, while he still had a duty, while he was still an angel.

And he sometimes saw Adam and Them when they came biking through town to buy ice cream, comic books, fresh supplies of teeth-rotting candies, or whatever they blew their allowances on. They would sometimes stop by the store, but only briefly to say hi as they saw him often enough around Dovecot Place. They'd all said they wouldn't mind babysitting for Rachel, but so far none of them was really comfortable dealing with a baby that small, so it was just as well Mr. Fell was around. Grown ups were better at that stuff, especially when it came to diaper time.

Today Adam came in alone, looking slightly pensive. He nodded his head at Aziraphale and then wandered through the stacks, occasionally tugging a book out and flipping through it. Slowly he made his way to the stairs and down to the basement. And when he heard Aziraphale talking to another customer upstairs, he quickly crawled up the ladder to reach the books in the section called 'Personal Relations', which was a fancy term for 'Sex'.

He'd had the classes of course. The next was coming this year. But they only ever covered the very basics – this is what this part is called and this is what it does and this is what happens if you use it so please try not to until you're much older. Boring and unhelpful when a person needed immediate explanation about how to deal with the opposite sex. Understanding the mechanics wasn't the same as being able to get your hands on the parts and make them into a working machine. He wasn't sure that was the right metaphor, but it was good enough for now.

"Something I can help you find, Master Young?" came the wry voice from the bottom of the stairs.

Adam squawked in a terribly undignified way and stumbled down the ladder, dropping a book. He hadn't sensed the angel, let alone heard him on the stairs. Damn, he'd really been distracted.

"Ah," said Aziraphale, picking up the book. "I think this one might be a bit too grown up for you, just yet. Needing to know all the many and varied positions a consenting couple can twist themselves into isn't really something you're planning to do this weekend, is it?" Inside, the angel prayed the boy wasn't going to ask for more than a book. Giving advice about sex to the Antichrist when one is, oneself, a six thousand year old virgin... not an easy task.

Adam blushed harder than he'd ever done in his life. It was nearly like sunburn, it actually hurt a bit. "Er, no, of course not. I just… I wanted to know… about…" He swallowed and straightened his shoulders and reminded himself this wasn't just some judgmental adult, this was an angel who understood everything. "There's a girl I like and… well, I dunno what to do anymore. Not that," he pointed at the '101 New Positions for Partners' book in Aziraphale's hand, "but more like, y'know, how to ask her out. Officially. And where to go and stuff."

Aziraphale smiled warmly, and with relief. "Dear boy. It's good to see that shining newness of youth realising it's becoming adult. And thankfully seeing it comes with responsibility as well. So, we'll just put this book back… and concentrate on the 'Young Adults' section over here." He riffled through the books and found a couple. "Here, these might better suit your needs."

Adam took 'Dating Guides for Young Teens' and "What to Ask and Where to Go: Your Very First Date' with extreme gratitude and fear.

Before he left, he turned back to Aziraphale. "You know who it is, don't you?"

The angel smiled, noncommittally. "Yes, of course. Do… the rest of Them know about this development?"

"Er."

"Suspected as much. Do you think you can keep the secret?"

"…Maybe a while longer."

"What do you suppose their reactions might be, if they found out?"

"Probably not terribly happy. We're all friends you see, been friends for half our lives. It would be… weird, I guess. It is weird, really, but I like Pep. She's fun and smart and she understands me pretty well, and she's, well, getting kinda pretty… And I know her."

"I know the feeling. Completely." Aziraphale gave a slightly pained sigh. "But I also know that if you were to be found out and your friends didn't approve… it might be worse than if you'd never tried to date her at all."

Adam cocked his head. "Yeah, I know. But I also think I'm willing to take the risk. See, me, I only get one lifetime to deal with this stuff. Yeah, that's true, one normal human lifetime, though I expect it'll be a really long one if I can work on it. So I figure I can work through it, keep my friends no matter what, even if we hit some bumps." He stopped and looked at the angel, realising that his feelings weren't shared. "I s'ppose… it's probably harder when you've been down a road as long as yours, and there's no end in sight, and you don't even know where the other person is or what they feel."

"You have no idea…" The voice was resigned but deeply sad.

"I think you're lucky though, in a way. You're eternal. And what goes 'round, comes 'round, right? It's a round world, after all." Adam got less philosophical and more practical then. "I think he's gonna wander the world for a while, then circle right back home. Because this is home for him. England. You."

Aziraphale's eyes were getting that familiar hazy look like fog was rolling in, and he turned away slightly. "Yes…yes, I suppose that you're right. Thank you, Master Young. I do hope you find the books helpful."

Knowing he was dismissed, Adam went down to the park and sat under a tree to read. The books weren't nearly as pulse-poundingly exciting as the one he'd dropped in the shop, but it definitely held some of the clues he needed. Pepper liked girly things, even though she'd pull out someone's fingernails with hot tongs before admitting it. But finding she could confide these things in Adam was a definite plus toward going out on a real date soon.

As for Wensley and Brian figuring things out… it was bound to happen in time. He would just deal with it when the time came, because he was still young enough to be driven by creativity and hormones and didn't want too much planning ahead to get in his way. In the long run, what mattered was friends, and Adam always took care of them.

º The cheap romances were brain-numbing. Along with a cup of chamomile, they were the ticket to rapid sleep. Cheaper than sleeping pills for one who wasn't used to sleeping in the first place.