Wild Moose Chase (4 page)

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.

He began to stroke a quivering Monty. Cam's eyes swivelled towards Bert before returning to Mr Zola.

“Ours were fatally injured in an annual cheese-rolling competition,” she said, gently. “They were chasing a round cheese down a very steep hill. It can reach speeds of up to seventy miles per hour. Our parents were very competitive and determined to catch the cheese first. Unfortunately they collided. The coroner's verdict was ‘death by cheese'.”

They all stared at the floor of the balloon.

“But our Gramps looks after us now,” said Bert. “He's the best cheese farmer in the country and he sent us on this competition … sort of.”

“What happened to your mum or dad?” asked Cam.

Mr Zola pulled a lace hanky from his man-bag and dabbed his eyes. “My poor papa was also the Royal Cheesemaker – one of those who died on a moose cheese quest.”

The twins gasped.

“Our most royal and noble Queen has desired a moose cheese for a long time,” he sniffed. “It is the rarest of the rare; a delicacy beyond most people's grasp. My father died trying to milk a wild moose. It turned out to be a bull and he was killed by a single kick to the head. I never knew my mother, so I was brought up in the royal household.”

He blew his nose on the lacy hanky and stuffed it back in his man-bag. “I'm afraid it's left me with a fear of mooses. I mean, a fear of meese. I mean, a … what do I mean?”

Cam put her arm around him and gave him a pat on the back. “I know exactly what you mean – moose,” she said. “How are you going to cope in Siberia? What if you bump into one?”

“I plan to watch from afar,” he said, holding up the telescope. “I can still let Her Majesty know what's going on without going near one of the beasts.”

“We could help you if you like,” said Bert. “We're always happy to help out a fellow cheese-orphan, aren't we, Cam?”

She nodded enthusiastically.

“I work alone,” said Mr Zola. “Apart from Monty, of course.”

“Monty's looking a lot calmer now,” said Cam. “I think he's getting used to us…
Please
can we register, Mr Zola? Here's the letter of consent from our grandpa.”

She handed him the golden leaflet. Mr Zola frowned and read the fake note written on the back. He hesitated for a moment before pulling out a rolled-up scroll from his man-bag.

“This is highly irregular,” he said, “but your story has moved me. I suppose I could make an exception for those who have also suffered at the hands of cheese. Besides, I can't afford to waste any more time.”

Mr Zola scanned the note again.

“So, just to double check – as legal guardian, your grandfather gives his permission for you to take part in the Great Moose Cheese Chase – correct?”

“He does,” murmured Cam, glancing anxiously at Bert.

“He will,” he whispered.

Mr Zola ticked a box. “Sign here, please.”

He unrolled the scroll of paper. It had a long list of names. The twins looked at each other with a mix of terror and excitement before signing their names at the bottom.

“I'm logging you in the Cheesemaker-Locator under CT for ‘Curd Twins',” he said, tapping the screen of the tracking device attached to his wrist. “Here is your transmitter.”

He handed Cam a tiny moose-shaped locator. “These allow me to keep tabs on everyone's progress. I plan to keep abreast with the leaders and report back to the Queen.”

“Where's mine?” asked Bert. “We want to enter as separate competitors. How do you even know we're twins?”

Mr Zola raised his eyebrows. “It's quite obvious,” he sighed. “You look just like each other.”

Cam and Bert both gasped in horror.

“There's no need to be rude,” spluttered Bert.

Mr Zola shook his head and continued tapping the Cheesemaker-locator. “I can enter you separately if you wish,” he said. “BC for Bert and CC for Camilla.”

Bert nodded and accepted his transmitter.

“Why aren't
you
making a moose cheese?” he asked, clipping it to his pocket. “After all, you're the Royal Cheesemaker.”

“Nobody from the royal household is allowed to take part,” he explained. “It would be unfair. Besides, I have the most important job of all. The Queen has entrusted me to return home with the first person who gets all the ingredients. Then I will make sure that the moose cheese is made to Her Highness's exact requirements. Ultimately, I am the only cheesemaker she trusts.”

“You don't get much of the glory, though, do you?” said Bert. “Don't you want to be a lord? And what about the prize money?”

“Some things are worth more than money, young man. The look on my beloved sovereign's face when she bites into that moose cheese will be reward enough for me.”

Cam took a deep breath as the balloon dipped in the wind. She looked over the basket for the first time. There were clouds below and she couldn't see the ground. She felt the butterflies rise in her stomach and shivered.

“I've got a feeling I'm going to win,” she sighed. “I'm good at making cheese. Last year I was runner-up in the Junior Cheddar Championships.”

“Yes,
runner-up
!” cried Bert. “You didn't win then and you're not going to win now. I am.”

“I am!”

“I am!”

“I—”

“Stop that!” interrupted Mr Zola. “Monty's bristles are extremely noise-sensitive. He gets very agitated, and believe me, you don't want to see him when he's angry.”

He got to his feet and opened the big wooden chest.

“Here,” he said, throwing them two fur-lined jackets. “You'll need coats where we're going.”

They were too big, but lovely and warm. Mr Zola pulled a long black coat around his own shoulders.

“Now, I have to report back to the Queen, so keep quiet. I don't want her knowing that I've acquired a couple of stowaways.”

He produced a red mobile phone from his man-bag and pushed a button.

“Your Majesty,” he simpered. “May I say how glorious and radiant you are sounding this evening? I trust you had a good helicopter flight back to the palace?” There was a pause as he listened to the reply. “…And your parachute opened OK? … Did your corgi enjoy the tandem jump? … Jolly good show, ma'am… Well, there's not much to report as yet. Several groups of cheesemakers have set off already and I should make Russia by tomorrow morning.”

The twins pulled their coats around them and looked up at the sky.

“I've got butterflies in my tummy,” whispered Cam.

Bert nodded. “I've got golden eagles in mine,” he muttered.

It was hard to believe, but they were going to Siberia. They were officially part of the Great Moose Cheese Chase.