Wild Moose Chase (3 page)

The Forged Letter

(Six days to go…)

The sound of the Queen's helicopter slowly faded and was replaced by the buzzing of the crowd. Whispers of
moose cheese
filled every tent and marquee. Cam noticed that several of the cheese stalls pulled down their shutters and had already begun to pack up. One of them was the man with the orange cheese that Gramps had been talking to earlier.

“Lester,” called Gramps. “Are you leaving already? The fair has only just begun.”

“No time to lose,” said Lester. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and I don't intend to miss it. I've signed up and have been given my Great Moose Cheese Chase tracking device.” He held up a tiny moose-shaped transmitter and clipped it to his lapel. “I'm off to Siberia to find a wild moose. If I win, I will be Lord Lester.”

“Do you mean to say, you're actually going to attempt to make a moose cheese?” asked Gramps.

“Of course!”

“But the ingredients are impossible to find!” cried Gramps. “You'll never be able to milk a wild moose! And don't tell me you're familiar with any Mongolian yaks. As for the salt – well, those mines in Kazakhstan are deserted for a reason!”

“Well, I'm going to try,” Lester said, “and I'm not the only one. Take a look around you.”

Gramps and the twins stood in the middle of the fair and watched as the excited crowd started to disperse. There was a large group of people surrounding Mr Zola in the royal enclosure, shouting for him to register them first. A white van zoomed past and screeched to a halt. Three men dressed from head to foot in white overalls and white sunglasses charged out of the royal enclosure and jumped in. The door slammed shut and the van took off.

“They're from the Specialist Cheesemakers Association,” said Cam. “And they look like they know where they're going.”

“I bet they've had a tip-off,” said Lester, hooking his stall to the back of his car. “I've got to hurry. Wish me luck, Mr Curd. Bye, kids.”

He sped off across the gorge with his cheese stall bobbing furiously behind him.

Bert tugged on Gramps' arm. “C'mon, Gramps! What are we waiting for?” he cried. “Let's sign up. I want to be Lord Curd.”

“And I want to be Lady Camilla,” said Cam. “You heard what Lester said – we're wasting time.”

Gramps looked down at the two excited faces in front of him.

“We are not entering this competition,” he said, “even if it is set by the Queen. It's far too dangerous. Many people have died trying to make moose cheese. I promised your parents that I would—”

“—take care of us,” interrupted Cam. “We know that. But if I was
Lady
Camilla then I could take care of you … and the farm. We would never have to worry about money again.”

“I would rather lose the farm than you,” he said. “It's completely out of the question – a fool's mission.”

Just then, the two Easy Cheesy Doggy Treats men raced past on a tandem bike, their embroidered ears flying out behind them.

“Moose cheese, moose cheese, moose cheese!” they chanted.

Gramps folded his arms. “See!” he said. “I don't want to argue about it any more. We need to find the Show Tent. When my prize cheddar wins we won't need to worry about moose cheese.”

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 this 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!”