Wild Moose Chase

by Siobhan Rowden

  The twins reluctantly followed Gramps inside the biggest marquee at the fair and immediately came face to face with Primula Mold. As well as the lucky Stilton around her neck, she was holding another blue cheese. She eyed them all suspiciously and clutched her cheese closer. Fungus waddled over to Bert, his long muddy ears flapping excitedly.

  “Ah, Miss Mold,” said Gramps. “Is that your prize cheese? Well, I hate to disappoint you, but this is mine.”

  He held up his cheddar, which was at least twice as big as Miss Mold’s. She stared at the huge cheese.

  “And I hate to disappoint you,” she said, a thin wonky smile slowly stretching across her face. “But I’m withdrawing from the competition. I have better things to do.”

  Gramps’ mouth dropped open. “Like what?”

  “Like moose cheese,” replied Miss Mold, holding up her tiny moose-transmitter.

  Gramps’ jaw fell another inch. “But we’ve been entering this competition for the last fifty years,” he said.

  “It’s not about this competition any more,” she croaked. “It’s all about the other competition now. That’s where the glory lies. I’m heading to Siberia right away and taking this cheese for supplies.” She held up her prize blue cheese. “Are you coming?”

  “No, I am not!”

  Miss Mold’s face dropped. “What do you mean?” she said. “You have to! We’ve been competing against each other for years and I want to beat you!”

  “And I would love to beat you,” replied Gramps. “But I can’t leave the children.”

  “Take them with you, then,” snapped Miss Mold. “I’m taking Fungus.”

  “That’s not the same.”

  Miss Mold clenched her bony jaw and glared at the twins. “So be it,” she said. “On my return you may address me as Lady Primula Mold. Maybe I’ll buy up your land with the prize money and extend my blue cheese dairy. Of course, I would have to bulldoze that wreck of a farm of yours to make room for my goats, but it’s almost falling down anyway. Goodbye, Mr Curd. Come, Fungus.”

  Fungus trotted after his mistress and out of the marquee.

  “You mean old stick insect!” cried Bert.

  “Now Bert, watch your manners,” said Gramps.

  “For once in my life I agree with Bert,” grumbled Cam. “Why is she so mean?”

  Gramps sighed and jingled his change.

  “Time changes many things,” he said. “Long ago, we used to be friends – sweethearts, even.”

  “Bleeuugggghhh!” cried Bert, clutching his throat and pretending to be sick. “That’s gross!”

  Gramps ignored him and carried on. “We grew up together and planned to join dairies and become a cheese force to be reckoned with. But then she became obsessed with the revolting art of blue cheese production. I could never agree to inject my cheese with mould, and we went our separate ways. Eventually, I met your grandmother and life went on. But Primula never forgave me and has been in fierce competition ever since.”

  “And now she wants to bulldoze our farm,” cried Cam. “You can’t let her get away with it, Gramps. We have to make that moose cheese first.”

  “Let’s go, let’s go!” said Bert, tugging Gramps’ sleeve.

  “Calm down. If I win ‘Best Cheese in Show’ then everything will be fine.”

  “Stop saying that everything will be fine!” wailed Cam. “Look around you! Everyone is going. Nobody cares about best in show any more. It’s all about moose cheese now! If Primula Mold wins this competition then she can do whatever she likes. We will have to call her Lady Mold.”

  Gramps frowned and jingled loudly. “Part of me wants to go,” he explained. “I would like nothing better than to beat that gloating old shrew. But like I mentioned before, it’s far too dangerous, and I promised—”

  “Don’t you dare say it again,” interrupted Cam.

  “Besides,” Gramps said, laughing, “how would we ever get to Siberia?”

  “Miss Mold has obviously found a way,” said Bert. “You two wait here while I go and see what she’s up to.”

  “I’m coming too,” said Cam, following him. “You’re not going anywhere without me. I don’t want you sneaking off to Siberia on your own.”

  Bert stopped and looked at her. “That’s not a bad idea,” he whispered.

  They both glanced back at Gramps, who was fiddling with his prize cheddar.

  “We’ll be back in a minute,” called Cam.

  “Don’t be long,” said Gramps, holding his cheese up to the light.

  They stepped outside just in time to see Primula Mold rise up into the blue sky in a bright yellow hot air balloon. Fungus’ head popped up over the side of the basket, his ears swinging in the wind. They just caught sight of Miss Mold’s smug face as she soared up and over the marquees, rubbing her lucky Stilton.

  “She must have hired a balloon to take her to Siberia,” said Cam. “I bet it cost a fortune.”

  They watched the large yellow globe shrink to the size of a lemon as it got further and further away.

  “I’ve got to enter this competition,” declared Bert, “with or without Gramps. Primula Mold must not win!”

  “I can’t let you go on your own,” said Cam. “What if you win and get all the glory? I’m entering too.”

  “No! Your big butter-toes will just get in my way.”

  “It will be your pea-brain that gets in the way,” snapped Cam. “You don’t even know where Siberia is.”

  Bert frowned. “Somewhere near London?”

  “Try northern Russia!”

  “OK, smarty pants,” he sniffed, “you can come as far as Russia with me if you can think of a way to get us there. Then we’ll split up.”

  Cam rolled her eyes and took another look at the golden leaflet detailing the rules.

  “Neither of us will be going anywhere unless we have Gramps’ permission,” she muttered. “We need a letter from him to get registered, and that’s not going to happen.”

  They stood for a moment staring at the rules.

  “I’ve got an idea,” murmured Bert, looking all around him.

  “That’s a first,” said Cam.

  “You could do it,” he whispered. “You could write the letter of consent and sign it from Gramps. I would do it but my writing looks like a load of squashed flies.”

  “I’m not forging a letter!” cried Cam. “That’s cheating! Gramps would be furious.”

  “He would soon forgive us when we arrive home with all the ingredients for the moose cheese,” said Bert. “I think Gramps wants us to enter the competition – he just doesn’t know it yet. He said that part of him would like to go. Well, we are part of him – we are his grandchildren. The only reason he won’t give us a real letter of consent is because he thinks collecting the ingredients will be too dangerous. But if we ask him after we get them all, then everything will be OK. This letter is just temporary. We need it to get registered.”

  “I don’t know,” sighed Cam. “He’s still going to be mad if we leave without telling him.”

  Bert shook his head. “The most important thing is that Gramps would like nothing better than to beat Primula Mold,” he said. “So, one of us has to win this competition – for him!”

  Cam nodded slowly. “OK,” she said, looking over her shoulder to make sure no one was watching. “You’re right.”

  She pulled a pen out of her pocket, turned the leaflet over and wrote carefully on the back.

  To Whom It May Concern:

  I, Cornelius Curd, give my consent as legal guardian for Camilla and Bert Curd to take part in The Great Moose Cheese Chase.

  Yours sincerely,

  C. Curd

  “I’m impressed,” whispered Bert. “You’re normally such a goody-goody.”

  Cam turned pink.

  “I’m doing th
is for Gramps!” she hissed. “Come on, let’s see if it works.”

  They walked towards the royal enclosure, past three huge hot air balloons tethered to the ground. One of them was the Crown Balloon. Its large golden basket was tied to four posts with red satin ropes. They stopped to look inside. A golden throne with a cushioned seat took up the whole of one end. The basket was completely lined with purple velvet. Cam ran her hand over the plush material.

  “Even if we register, how are we going to get to Siberia?” she said. “We can’t afford one of these.”

  They peered in. A gilded framework held up the burners, which sat between the enormous basket and the canopy. Two golden lions stood to attention either side of the throne. Beside one of them was an ivory side table with a small bowl of peppermints and a couple of magazines on top – Horse and Hound and Extreme Bungee Jumping. At the other end was a large wooden chest, a solar-powered kettle and a silver tea service.

  “It’s massive,” said Bert. “Big enough to have a party in… Big enough to … hide in.”

  They turned at the sound of approaching voices. Mr Zola, the Royal Cheesemaker, came striding towards them, followed by two attendants. He was studying a large round radar device attached to his wrist.

  “My Cheesemaker-Locator has indicated that some of the contestants have already left for Russia,” he said to the attendants. “I have to follow and report back to the Queen. The wind is perfect and I must leave immediately.”

  Bert stepped forward.

  “Excuse me,” he said, “but my sister and I would like to register for the competition.”

  “I’m afraid you’re too late, young man,” said Mr Zola, climbing into the basket. “Registration is now closed. Release the ropes!”

  The two men started to untie the Crown Balloon from its mooring.

  “Stop!” cried Bert in alarm. “It can’t be closed. We have to enter. You don’t understand!”

  Mr Zola twiddled his moustache irritably. “If I say it’s closed, then it’s closed,” he said, as the great balloon began to rise from the ground. “The Queen herself has put me in charge of this competition. She placed this cheese hat on my head with her very own bejewelled fingers and said—”

  “What hat?” asked Bert.

  Mr Zola’s hands flew up to his bare head. “My cheese hat!” he yelled. “Pull me back in. I must have left it in the royal enclosure.”

  Cam and Bert watched as the men caught hold of the ropes and heaved the huge balloon back into place. Mr Zola jumped out.

  “Help me find it,” he called to the attendants. “I can’t be late.”

  The twins looked at each other as the three men disappeared round the corner.

  “What shall we do?” whispered Cam.

  “Quick, into the basket,” answered Bert. “This is our only chance. We’ll have to stow away and try and persuade Mr Zola to register us for the competition on the way.”

  They clambered in and looked around. Cam lifted up the lid of the big wooden chest. Inside was a fur rug, some warm coats and a union jack parachute. She pulled out the rug and threw it to Bert.

  “Put that over you and hide under the throne,” she said, stepping into the chest. “I can just about fit in here.”

  She closed the lid as Bert squeezed beneath the large seat. They both crouched in their hiding places, their hearts beating wildly. Bert began to fidget.

  “Cam?” he called.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m having second thoughts.”

  “What!”

  “I’m not sure this is such a good idea,” he said. “Is it sunny in Siberia?”

  But before she could answer, Mr Zola had returned with his cheese hat and climbed back into the basket. The two attendants released the red satin ropes and the Crown Balloon floated high up into the sky.

  Gordon Zola

  Bert lay flat under the throne, the fur rug covering his body. His palms were sweating and he felt sick. Had they just made a terrible mistake? Mr Zola was sitting above him on the large cushioned seat.

  Cam lifted the chest lid a centimetre and peeped out. She was beginning to regret what they’d done too. What would Mr Zola do when he found out he had a couple of stowaways? And Gramps was going to be hopping mad.

  She watched Mr Zola let down two ear flaps attached to his cheese hat. It was getting colder as they climbed higher. He produced a hand mirror from a fringed leather bag and studied himself, stroking his moustache and murmuring something under his breath. Then he checked his Cheesemaker-Locator and began springing gently up and down on the throne. Cam could see Bert’s head being gently pummelled by Mr Zola’s bottom. Bert let out an involuntary squeak. Mr Zola leapt to his feet and glared at the throne suspiciously.

  “Did you hear that, Monty?” he said.

  Cam glanced around the basket to see who “Monty” was, but there appeared to be no one else there. Mr Zola got to his knees and peered under the throne. He produced a long telescope and began poking the fur rug with it.

  “Gerr-off,” mumbled Bert.

  Mr Zola let out a small scream and ran to the other side of the basket.

  “Who’s there?” he shrieked, holding the telescope up like a sword. “Show yourself!”

  Bert crawled out from under the throne, his green eyes wide with panic and his mouth pulled in that strange diagonal line.

  “A stowaway!” gasped Mr Zola.

  “Erm … t-two, actually,” stuttered Cam, popping up from her hiding place.

  Mr Zola spun round as Cam tried to climb out of the crate, tripped on the side and fell in a heap on the floor.

  “I think I’m going to faint,” mumbled Mr Zola, raising the back of his hand to his forehead. “Quick, fetch my man-bag.”

  As he slid theatrically to the floor, he managed to point to the fringed leather bag.

  Bert and Cam looked at each other in confusion before grabbing the bag. They knelt beside the crumpled Mr Zola.

  “Smelling salts,” he moaned.

  Bert peered into the bag and pulled out a small bottle. He held it under Mr Zola’s nose.

  “Mind the moustache,” said Mr Zola, snatching the bottle and inhaling deeply.

  The twins wrinkled their noses as the smell of lavender oil and ammonia drifted out. Mr Zola pushed himself up into a sitting position and pulled out the small mirror from his man-bag. He checked his reflection before turning to the twins.

  “You are in so much trouble!” he hissed. “Do you realize what you’ve done?”

  “We’re so sorry,” murmured Bert. “We were hoping to—”

  “I don’t care what you were hoping to do!” shouted Mr Zola. He turned back to the mirror and patted the curly hair on his top lip. “You’ve tangled the ’tache!”

  “Pardon?” asked Cam.

  “You’ve mangled my muzzie!” he fumed. “Niggled my nose neighbour!”

  Cam frowned.

  “You and your silly escapades have messed up my moustache!” ranted Mr Zola, twiddling his elaborate nose hair back into place. “Poor Monty! He gets very nervous around children.”

  “Monty?” repeated Cam. “Your moustache has a name?”

  “Of course he has a name,” he cried, getting to his feet. “But what’s your name? Who are you? You are trespassing on Her Majesty’s property!”

  Cam cleared her throat and glanced nervously at Bert.

  “M-my name is Camilla Curd and this is my brother, Bert,” she said hesitantly. “First of all, we would like to apologize for scaring your moustache.”

  Bert looked at her as if she was mad, but Mr Zola seemed pleased with the apology.

  “I’ve n-never seen such a fine moustache,” she went on. “Have you, Bert?”

  A small smile touched Mr Zola’s face as he coaxed “Monty” round into two perfectly symmetrical coils
.

  “Erm … no,” said Bert. “It’s really … I mean, he is really … um … hairy. Is he friendly?”

  The smile beneath Mr Zola’s moustache vanished. “Not with trespassers,” he warned.

  “We’re very sorry for hiding in the Crown Balloon,” said Cam. “But when you said that registration was closed, we panicked. You see, we have to win this competition. If we don’t we could lose our home.”

  “Everyone has their reasons for wanting to win this competition,” snapped Mr Zola. “And your problems are none of my concern. How dare you hide in the Crown Balloon? I can’t be held back by a couple of stowaways. I’m on a mission for the Queen. And now I have to return to the World Cheese Fair and have you arrested. It’s a complete waste of my time. And Her Majesty’s, I might add.”

  “Arrested?” cried Bert. “No! Wait! We’re really sorry.”

  Mr Zola ignored him and took out the long telescope.

  “How infuriating,” he tutted, looking all around. “We can’t turn back because the wind is in the wrong direction and we can’t go down as we’re right over the English Channel.”

  “If you can’t take us back, then take us with you,” pleaded Bert. “If you register us now and then drop us off in Siberia, you won’t have wasted any time at all.”

  “We promise not to get in your way,” added Cam. “You won’t even know we’re here.”

  “Impossible!” said Mr Zola. “Under eighteens must have the consent of a parent or guardian.”

  “We have a letter from our grandpa,” said Cam, crossing her fingers behind her back.

  “Not good enough,” replied Mr Zola. “Like I said, it has to be from parents or guardians.”

  “Gramps is our guardian,” said Bert. “We don’t have any parents. They died years ago in a terrible cheese accident.”

  Cam noticed Mr Zola’s face soften. He put down the telescope and eyed them warily.

  “I too lost a parent in a cheese-related accident,” he muttered, lifting a manicured hand to his lip.