Danny was back at the
cheese shop. Tonight he was going to Dave and Lucy’s, although they didn’t know
this yet. So he was browsing for a Dave-and-Lucy-friendly cheese. The Irish
Coolea had gone down very well last time: he could remember the unfeigned,
spontaneous praise it had triggered. Even a dedicated cheese-hater would
probably have been converted for life by that particular truckle. However, it
was a few weeks later now, and the fresh batches would be different: having
reached such a peak previously, they would most likely be inferior. Besides,
repetition was boring. What was required was the next in the logical
progression of cheeses that Dave and Lucy had been presented with.
Danny let his eyes
wander lazily over the counter… out of instinct or habit, deliberately avoiding
an overtly conscious or calculated decision. He just let himself waft gently
from one idea to the next. After a while he discovered that he was paying most
of his attention to a white-rinded, brie-like wedge, an oozy, ripe little
number. It gave the impression of being on the point of yielding to the
inevitable, slipping free of its natural casing and gently disintegrating.
Danny raised his eyes to Bernie the assistant who nodded slightly in approval.
Bernie was a solid, uncomplicated individual with a reddish face.
“Just came in this week.
Best we’ve had all year from the Welsh dairy. Try it.”
He was holding out a
sample on his knife. Danny put it in his mouth. His teeth tingled, and,
embarrassingly, he realised he’d made a little moaning noise. Bernie was
examining this reaction, and nodding again.
“Positively dangerous,
I’d call it. We’ve been keeping it away from most of the customers, and most
don’t notice it. Needs discipline, you see: needs experience.”
Danny refocused his
eyes, which had unaccountably got a bit out of shape.
“I have been waiting”,
he said, “for this cheese.”
“Haven’t we all? But I
can only let you have one. We didn’t get many in, and half of them have gone to
the staff…”
“Make it two?”
Bernie shook his head.
“Danny, I’m only letting you have one at all because you’re a regular. And,
just between you and me…” He leaned over the counter and became slightly
conspirational:
“…we’re not meant to be
selling it at all. I put it out when I saw you coming in. Just to see if you’d
notice it. I thought you would.”
Danny looked blank.
Bernie stood up, evidently bringing the whispering to an end.
“Well, it’s karma, you
see. Got to spread it around a bit, haven’t you?”
Evidently he had
interpreted Danny’s silence as gratitude.
“Thanks, Bernie.” said
Danny mechanically. He paid for the cheese and left.
The rest of the week
Danny didn't have a psychological battle with the cheese. The cheese wasn't
thinking about him or plotting against him, though its silence made Danny all
the more suspicious. It was very ripe. But when he opened the fridge the cheese
didn't look back at him, let alone stare challengingly. The cheese was
apparently indifferent to whether it was consumed, left alone, or had Dickens
read to it. This certainly wasn't a battle. But when Danny got up to go to the
toilet in the night, he knew the cheese heard him. And Danny thought about the
cheese.
While all this was going
on at chez Danny, Dave and Lucy carried on with their day-to-day lives. They
never got the cheese, or even the unexpected pleasure of Danny's company for
the evening.
Having forgotten about
his friends while buying the cheese, Danny had bumped into [weak] his good
buddy Ray at the door of The Cheese Shop [weaker] who had subsequently
accompanied him for a stroll around the shops. This uninteresting episode
culminated in the two of them shuffling down the street toward the bus stop.
Danny was feeling strangely upbeat and was gently swinging a small bag of
toiletries in his left hand while clasping the cheese in his right, when he
spotted a vague acquaintance from the semi-distant past. Then he realised who
it was, and made a 110% effort not to be noticed.
"Shit!"
"What?"
"Don't look
right."
"Alright
then."
"Don't look!"
Ray kept his eyes straight
ahead, and his expression vacant. In the corner of his eye he could see Danny
making an apparently blase effort to find something at the bottom of his bag of
toiletries. Although Ray couldn't see it from his viewpoint, Danny was also
slightly furrowing his brow to add depth to his bag-searching charade.
A sinewy, ferret-like
man of around Ray and Danny's age wearing a wispy moustache passed by ten yards
to their right without showing any knowledge of Danny's presence. Ray heard an
exhalation from Danny, but it was only after five more seconds of bag-fumbling
that the latter spoke, still not daring to look over his shoulder at the man
who had passed them by.
"Jesus, I just aged
6 years. That was probably the most undesirable acquaintance I have in the world.
Hellish. Truly hell, Ray! Hell!"
"Moustache."
"I'll tell you
about him. His name's Mark, my old neighbour's-daughter's ex. Last time I spoke
to him was on a bus. He offered me a crate of duty-free whisky for 50 quid. I
said 'I'm not a whisky drinker, but thanks anyway.' So he said, 'What about Red
Bull, chap?' I laughed (he didn't) then said that I didn't have the money to go
throwing my money around on fizzy drinks, even if it was cheap, but that if I
ever did, I'd know where to go. I thought at the time, as well as now, that
this was weak. Then immediately after this speech I realised that I had a 'The
Cheese Shop' carrier bag on my lap, and that I was holding a can of
Sprite."
"What did you
say?"
"I said, 'Apart
from this stuff!' - to which he replied, 'Get you some Sprite, chap, unless you
don't want anything off me,'"
"Oof! So you
said?"
"Nothing. I smiled
and turned my head, while making a 'heh' noise."
Ray laughed, and shook
his head. "You nobhead," he said.
Of the various
attributes that could be said to influence Danny’s daily moods, his time of
rising was perhaps one of the simplest to chart. Full motion before eight
tended to induce a waking dreamlike state, triggering strange and intense
emotions from within his obfuscated depths. These traced their way through his
entire day, like veins, slowly dissipating from their initial sharpness into a
muddy, foggy soup. The soup was in his head and arms, and tended to impact on
his ability to get on with the important things in life, such as enjoying a
morning coffee or afternoon flapjack. The likelihood of regressing into a
quivering meat jelly, with a computer screen and dead lines where his eyes and
thoughts should normally be, would increase, usually far in advance of
acceptable levels.
All of which helps to
explain why it was a slightly shaky and vulnerable Danny making his hapless way
to work, for an early meeting, on the morning when we rejoin the story of the
cheese. His natural defences, which in other circumstances were quite well
equipped to fend off the cruelties of a pessimistic imagination, were having an
off day. The drear, soulless air of Netherwood Industrial Estate was stripping
them with steady efficiency, just as bleach would attack the ordinary moisture
of the skin. He took increasing refuge in a fantastical contingency of
earthquakes and freak floods, in which a sane benevolent Creator featured
large, washing the surface layer of Surrey clean of the detritus of trite and
cogging businesses.
It was lucky he had the
cheese with him, for otherwise he might never have made it to the office with
his mind in human shape. The cheese kept his spirits up by singing 80s Pop Hits
and old Country standards. It listened to his interminable whining about having
to get out of bed at seven o’clock, and probed gently at his conscience, by
nodding or smiling in exactly the right places. It sparked the more acceptable
threads of Danny’s character into life. By the time he entered the office,
registered official presence with his swipe-card, climbed the stairs, and
strolled along the final stretch of corridor towards his appointed cubicle, he
was actually winning. And it was all thanks to the cheese.
After the brutality of
the walk across Netherwood, the office building felt stuffy and infinitely more
depressing. Soon Danny’s head was prickling, and he felt hot. Taking off his
coat as he walked through the first office room, his cheese and a couple of
receipts fell out of his pocket onto the floor, causing him to swear quietly
but firmly to himself, and also bringing a rush of pin-pricks to his scalp
which made him want to shout ‘Fuck off!’ at the top of his head, with the aid
of a mirror. Taking a breath, he bent down to inspect the cheese, which for a
cheese of its constitution was a a little less damaged than seemed physically
probable. As he picked up the cheese his rucksack swung round off his shoulder.
This made Danny very angry, and he only managed to hold his temper with
difficulty. Perhaps he shouldn't have brought the cheese to work after all. As
he gathered the receipts, the dark red carpet felt rough and scratchy on his
fingertips, like a jumper made of densely-packed goats’ hair which had been
washed without fabric softener. Pondering this analogy, Danny reflected that
Angora goat jumpers did actually exist. Goats’ hair seemed far too rough to be
used in a jumper. Perhaps Angora goats were more woolly than the kind of
British goats Danny had met, on account of the former living at high altitudes
in the Peruvian mountains, or wherever they were from. That seemed a feasible
explanation. Inasmuch as it referred to British goats, the carpet analogy
stood, and this pleased Danny, who had thought it very apt. As he got to his
desk, Danny was feeling a little better. He took off his jumper and shoes,
leaned back in his seat and ran his fingers through his hair. Mike approached.
“Danny mate,” began
Mike. “It’s a shitter out there. Fuckin cold, innit?”
“Yerp.”
“Phwoo.
Fuckin freezing. Do much at the weekend?”
“Oh, y’know
- ”
“Yeah? I
don’t know what I’m gonna do. I’m on a last warning with the bank or they pull
my overdraft. Just pull it! I was like, shit! What the fuck am I gonna do? I’ve
got to ask
for a
pay-rise today, really.”
“Well, go
for it,”
“Yeah? Mind
you, I asked for one last week, he said no. I hate this company, it treats you
like shit. I mean I love the people, they’re great. And the work? Love it.
Really enjoy it. But the company, well, they treat you like so many dog shits.
We work like all their personal slaves, huh, you work your ass off, right?”
“Um,”
“And they
give you nothing. You’ve got a problem? Forget it - fuck, Danny, I was supposed
to do that report sheet. I think Phil’s gone to his meeting without this report
sheet, I told him I’d already put it in his file last night. Fuck. Ok, I’ve got
to do this by the time he gets out and starts getting on my back, as per quota
usual. See you later, mate.”
Mike walked off at a
casual pace towards his own office. Danny felt mostly negative about Mike, but
well-disposed enough to make their conversation tolerable in small doses. Danny
was glad that their areas of work never really crossed. He pitied Phil, who
Mike assisted. Phil was a ridiculously tolerant man who regularly got screwed over
by Mike’s generally crappy work. The only time Danny had ever heard Phil
complain about Mike was once, late into an office pub outing, when Phil had
referred to him as a ‘fucking waste of space’. Danny and Mike managed to get
on, mainly because Mike never asked Danny anything about himself. This was fine
with Danny. Mike seemed still, after a year and a half, to think that Danny
went clubbing. He also thought Danny watched rugby, which was simply not the
case. One thing Mike didn’t know about Danny was that he was planning to write
a musical about his dog Boogie, and it was to this that his thoughts now
turned.
Boogie, the king of all
dogs in Croydon. There were some fine hounds living near Danny, but they all
deferred to Boogie; as he trotted by, head and tail held aloof in regal
bearing, they touched their caps and tugged their forelocks. Not that they
cowered, or grovelled; there was always a smile for good old Boogie. If the dog
constitution had been differently organised, he would be a people’s champion,
but, things being as they were, he was a revered monarch with the common touch.
As Danny contemplated the first big number in ‘Boogie: The Musical’, featuring
much supporting yapping and rhubarbing in the chorus, he realised the futility of
his latest project. He could never encapsulate the pure-grained, solid
doggyness of Boogie in any medium: painting, writing, least of all
money-spinning West End musicals. Although, it was true that he possessed many
fine photographs of the Boogster in action. He used one of them as the
screensaver for his computer; it showed Boogie running downhill with his ears
flapping, tongue lolling, both front paws off the ground and poised for a
dramatic double slam: one of his most fearsome attacks. Danny had a little
chuckle as it appeared in front of him, to the accompaniment of much grinding
and wheezing from the hard drive. Having pictures of Boogie around helped keep
things in perspective.
At that precise moment,
thirty miles north, Dennis Crimper was threading his way through the damp,
shiny streets of Central London. Dennis had been up since oh-five-hundred.
After rising he had gone through his usual morning routine: 100 sit-ups, 100
press-ups, and some yoga. Out of consideration for the other hotel guests, he
had omitted the squat thrusts and star jumps. After the exercise, he towelled
off and dressed efficiently in a pair of light slacks and a sweater. Like all
his clothes, they were chosen for blandness and performance. He needed to be
sure he could move fast, but didn’t want to be noticed doing it. As he left the
room, he pulled the door behind him with a casual grace, so that the click of
the latch was barely perceptible. He padded down the stairs to check out in a
similar cattish manner.
Five minutes later he
was sitting in a coffee shop just off Tottenham Court Road, with breakfast: two
double-shot espressos and a bran muffin. He looked down at one of the little
cups, letting the dark, oily surface of the coffee fill his field of vision, so
that everything else became blurry and uninteresting. Grasping the handle, he
brought it slowly to his lips, leaving plenty of time to inhale the fumes,
letting the heat burn his fingers. Sipping, he felt the caffeine spreading its
righteous glow through his veins, keen and warm. He imagined himself a finely
tuned engine, receiving an oil change. He widened his mouth and increased the
pouring angle with obvious experience, swallowing the remainder of the espresso
in one fluid movement. After a few timeless, perfect moments, glowing from the
first shot, he transferred his attention to the second, and executed the same
procedure.
The disposal of the
muffin was desultory by comparison. It was consumed haphazardly, almost as an
afterthought, as Dennis swam out of the shop, into the stream of commuters
dragging themselves awfully to work. They looked drawn and tired, in some
terrible spiritual limbo. Dennis, on the other hand, appeared placid and
untroubled. He drifted aimlessly from one channel to the next, hopping a
junction here, a lane there. Eventually he turned into quieter side streets,
away from the churning crowds. The volume turned itself down gradually, until
all he could hear was the sound of his own shoes, slapping gently on wet pavement.
Glancing now and then from side to side, he seemed almost like a tourist: but
he knew exactly where he was going, and beneath his apparently random strolling
was a carefully plotted route. As he drew closer to his destination, there was
a change in his eyes: they seemed to truly focus for the first time that
morning, his gait became more measured and controlled. The modification was
only slight, one that at the time would be unnoticeable, but in retrospect
clear and striking. He became at once completely poised, and utterly
forgettable. The sign above the door read ‘Neals Yard Dairy: Cheesemongers
Extraordinaire’. He had been waiting for this day for long, uncountable years.
And finally, it was here.
Dennis pushed the door
open, entered, and closed the door behind him quietly. The shop was empty,
apart from a red-cheeked, solid-looking individual who was standing behind the
counter and smiling. Dennis was trying to compose himself mentally after being
struck by the stench of over 60 cheeses, some of them French, which were
gathered together and encouraged to mingle in The Cheese Shop. The obvious
impulse to some would be to get away from anything making such a smell, quick -
as a lover of cheese Dennis’ reaction to the smell was a mixture of happiness
and intrigue. He spent a moment surveying the main display with excitement,
then collected himself and looked up.
“Hello there,” Bernie
offered. “What’ll it be, sir?”
“Hello, yes.” Dennis
paused, holding his breath. “Do you have any jobs going?”
“Well, no.”
A short silence. Dennis
looked mournful. Then he spoke again.
“Sorry if this is a bit
pushy, I don't mean to be - but is there any chance that I could persuade you
to give me a try?”
“Er,” Bernie pondered a
moment, looking away, then shook his head and made to speak again. Dennis saw
what was coming, so threw another egg in the pan. “I love cheese.”
Bernie looked back at
Dennis, looking for traces of irony. He found none, then began in a sympathetic
tone - “The thing is, I’ve only got one employee as such, young lad named
Peter. He helps me on a Saturday. Weekdays it’s just me, and to be honest with
you, not a lot needs doing, as a rule. Spend a lot of my time reading, so…”
“What about Sundays?”
“We don’t open on
Sundays.” Bernie said, then turned his eyes to the street. “It’s a shame,
because they do good business around here on Sundays. New place does, I’ve
heard. But me and my wife always have Sundays off, always have, and I can’t
leave Peter in charge of the shop, I haven’t the nerve. Some of these cheeses
are worth thousands of pounds -” Bernie broke off, then continued. “No, I
haven’t the nerve. Some of our regulars would take advantage, I’m certain. They
can be tricky. Some are used to buying cheese in the North -” Bernie thumbed over
his shoulder - “where they haggle for cheese, it’s traditional. I get haggled
every week by old John Horlick. I stay firm, of course, or it’d just get worse.
Often, he goes away sour, which is a shame, and I don’t like to upset people’s
ways, but if I wasn’t firm I wouldn’t make enough to get by. This isn’t
Preston, or Hull. This is London. Money won’t go far, especially with that
blasted ‘Neal’s Yard Cheesemongers Extraordinaire’ opening up across the way.
Business is down. I’ve held the regulars, of course, it’s the casual buyers
that’s the problem. At the new place they wear fancy green hats, and they’ve
employed youngsters, not much older than Peter, to run it. Those little beards,
what’re they called? Chin beards? Chinny beards? I don’t know, I don’t know
anything about young people. I also don’t know anything about coffee, which
they’re selling too, which I don’t hold with. Coffee and cheese? That’s a clash
where I come from. None of my regulars would buy cheese from a place with a big
coffee machine on the counter spraying fumes all over the Double Gloucester.
But the casual customers, and the young people, they get drawn in. That and the
chin-beards. Anyway, so I’m down really to the regulars. I get 5, maybe 6
customers a day. Lovely people as a rule, and I still break even - but the
point is some’re canny, and they’re used to me. Some come for conversation as
well as cheese. I couldn’t have the shop open on a Sunday while me and Susan
are out, with Pete here on his own. No, I couldn’t. He’s too young. All he does
is help out, he doesn’t even like cheese much.”
Dennis, whose spirits
had been low at the start of Bernie’s speech, had been steadily gathering as he
spoke, and was now beaming.
“Would it do any good if
I said that I have experience?”
“What sort of
experience?”
“I used to work in a
cheese shop in Aylesbury.”
“Nell’s?”
“No, another one.”
“What was it called?”
“Neal’s Yard
Cheesemongers Extraordinaire.”
Bernie halted. “You
don’t look the type.”
“That’s why I quit. I’ve
wanted, sir, to work doing something I love for the last 7 years, though I
didn’t realise until recently, or that that thing would be cheese. Four months
ago I decided that I was throwing my life away sitting behind a desk. I don’t
know what happened, I didn’t see it coming. I’d been drifting for years,
feeling fairly neutral about it all. I had lows, but I also had highs now and
then. As I say, neutral overall. Then one afternoon, it just hit me. I handed
in my letter of resignation, and that evening I wrote on a piece of paper my
top five favourite things in the world. The only one that seemed a realistic
avenue of employment was number 4. Cheese. My first port of call the next day
was Nell’s, where I was a regular. They refused me, due to my lack of
experience and the fact that they didn’t need anyone, but said there was a new
place opening up, the first of a nationwide chain called Neal’s Yard. I got a
job there, and hated it. It was like working in an upmarket McDonald’s. No
respect for the cheese. I left.”
Bernie was beginning to
look interested. “And how did you end up here?”
“I went back to Nell’s
to ask again. Nell said there was no way at all, she had too many staff as it
was. I asked her where the nearest decent cheese shop was, and she said the
only place she’d call decent in the area was Bernie’s place, in the middle of
London, but that that was obviously no use to me, being so far away. I was
downhearted. But lying in bed that night, I couldn’t rid my mind of the
niggling impulse to come down here. I’d quit a well-paid job, and I was feeling
strong-minded and idealistic. At 2pm the next day, I made my decision. I would
come down and give it a shot, one last shot at the dream before I gave in and
went back to the drawing board. The only other ‘favourite thing’ I hadn’t ruled
out off the list I’d made a week before was cats. Vet training would take
years, and anyway I didn’t want to operate on cats, I just wanted to give them
tuna and stroke them while they sat on my lap. Catteries were out of the
question, because I would end up taking home every cat that was going to be put
to sleep, and end up living with 148 cats.”
Bernie nodded.
“So anyway, I made my
decision to give the cheese thing one last shot. That was yesterday. That’s why
I’m so keen, and why I’d be grateful beyond measure if you gave me the honour
of working here.”
Bernie smiled. Dennis
appeared to be totally genuine. A strange boy, he thought, but then so were a
lot of people.
“Alright then.”
“Alright?” Dennis
answered, hopefully.
“Alright then. It’s
Monday today. You’ve somewhere to stay?”
“You mean, you’ll take
me on?”
“I can’t
offer you a full job, son. I just haven’t the money. But I tell you what I can
do, if you’re interested. Come in tomorrow at ten. We’ll try you this week and
if you make the grade, and I can trust you, then maybe I’ll get you a few hours
in the week and then, maybe, in a while, you might be able to run this place on
Sundays. Neal’s Yard are open Sundays. You know how they work, you’re an
insider. On top of that - er - what’s the name again?”
“Dennis”
“On top of
that, Dennis, I’m giving you this chance because I like the cut of your jib.”
Dennis waited for a
moment for Bernie to continue, but the latter seemed happy enough with what had
been said. He thanked him heartily and left the shop feeling as good as any man
who just got a part-time shop-job ever has.
The cellar underneath
the Cheese shop was grim and damp. As Dennis descended the stairs, it welcomed
him with increasing darkness, until it was whole and solid around him. He
switched on a bulky torch held in his right hand: it glowed a weak, unhelpful
yellow. It was hand-powered and had been charged earlier with thirty seconds of
vigorous shaking. A modern battery torch would have been smaller and brighter,
but Dennis was particular about such matters. In any case, ten minutes would be
plenty to carry out the discreet investigation that he had in mind.
The first week at the
Cheese shop had gone according to plan. Dennis had arrived five minutes early every
day, which he judged to be enough to seem keen, but not pushy. He worked
efficiently behind the counter, always seeming to create time and space, no
matter how busy the cramped little shop got. Everything about him was smooth,
regular, and unflustered. He was careful, however, to make a few little
mistakes every now and then, so that Bernie could have the pleasure of
mentoring him in the ways of the cheesemonger. His manner to Bernie was manly,
but cunningly deferential.
At the end of every day,
he returned to the tiny bedsit he had rented in Battersea, and recorded the
day’s progress in a hard-backed laboratory notebook using neat, precise
figures. The resulting calculations were transferred to a graph pinned to the
wall. This was drawn on paper, with faint pencil lines marking the axes. Dennis
had drawn these freehand, without a ruler. There were several lines plotted on
the graph, all steadily rising: the highest was on the cusp of a horizontal bar
marked ‘Phase 1 complete’. There was nothing else in the room apart from a
clockwork radio, and several well-thumbed novels by Frederick Forsyth.
There were no stores in
the cellar: it was too damp, and the musty smell would taint the cheeses. But
in the far corner, there stood two grimy metal filing cabinets. Dennis allowed
himself a small, satisfied smile as he moved towards them. Both had locks, but
the keys had been left in them: Bernie would never expect anyone to be
interested in his paperwork. Dennis started going through the contents
methodically, with quiet pleasure. He enjoyed such tasks.
Twenty minutes later he
was walking home with a buoyant, springy step. He was a whole week ahead of
schedule. Already, Bernie trusted him to run the shop on Sundays. This much was
no great surprise: he knew his abilities, and Bernie was easy to manipulate.
But today’s find was a genuine delight. He had found the first tracks of his
quarry, and the hunt was on.
“Yes, he’s a lovely lad,
Dennis. No problem.”
“Mmm.” Joyce continued
with her book while Bernie talked.
“Can’t see a problem. I
know he’s only been here a few days, but he’s just fitted right in. Ideal. And
after working with Peter, it’s like, er - it’s like, you know -” Bernie looked
searchingly at the burning logs in the fireplace for resolution. “Er, - ”
“Mm..”
“ - well, they’re like
chalk and cheese. Ha! Joyce?”
Joyce took off her
glasses and closed her book. “Bernie, you’re quite obviously nervous about
leaving this boy in charge of the shop. Why not just leave it till next
Sunday?”
“He’s not a boy, Joyce,
he’s 28. And why should I be nervous? The boy’s a natural! Can you be born to
work in a cheese shop, do you think? Like that driving instructor on the TV?
Maybe not intended by God, I mean, like he was, so he said, but if anyone’s got
the tools, that boy -” Bernie caught his wife’s eye - “Sorry Joyce, I’m getting
off the point. But what I’m saying is he’s not just a boy like Peter. And that
Neal’s Yard lot in Ashford - a pox on their houses and all that, of course -
but didn’t they half train him! Either that or he’s been practising at home,
which I wouldn’t put past a boy of his temperament. And his knowledge of the
cheese! You’ve heard him talk yourself. No, I’m not worried at all. Sunday it
is.” He paused. “No problem.”
“Alright then.” Joyce
re-opened her book. Bernie looked into the fire and returned to his thoughts.
Perhaps he and Joyce could get back early from their walk on Sunday, just to
put his mind at rest. Reassured, he blinked to quell the heat of the fire on
his eyes, and reached for his glass of warm whisky.
Dennis spent no small
part of his own Friday evening in contemplation. But while Bernie’s mind
rambled between mumbled reassurances and nagging concerns, Dennis’ thoughts
were keen and anticipatory. Vibrant, alert lines and dashes characterised both
the markings on the sheets of paper before him and the movements of his mind.
Blinking to relieve his tired, stinging eyes - at around the same time as
Bernie - he leaned back from his desk, exhaled deeply and pulled a small memo
book from his shirt pocket. He looked with satisfaction at his timetable for
the past and coming weeks. Four days on the job and Bernie already trusted him
enough to run the shop alone. On Sunday he would be able to get all the
information he needed without interruption, and then his campaign could begin
in earnest. He thought of Bernie, and felt a pang of regret. Dennis didn’t like
using him, didn’t like using his shop - here he reached for a piece of mint
yarg, which had passed its date without selling - but he tried to comfort
himself with the thought that while he may not be doing Bernie as much good as
his benevolent boss thought, he was certainly not doing him any harm.
“After I leave,” Dennis
began aloud, then faltered - he had pictured walking away from The Cheese Shop
on Sunday night, and felt a lump in his throat. Rattled by how much the image
affected him, he turned his mind back to the good he was doing the shop. Bernie
will probably keep opening on Sundays, and do a good business, Dennis thought
to himself. He knew from his stake-out that Neal’s Yard took well on a Sunday,
mostly from the PR agents and marketing executives with time to kill and money
to burn. Dennis had watched them as he sipped his coffee, stopping at the
window, chuckling at the ‘Cheese n’ Pickle’ bars and the XXXtra-strong
cheshire. Bernie had got in some novelty cheeses on Dennis’ advice, and he knew
they would bring people in, enhancing his reputation further - and once they’re
in, Oak smoked cheddar display, thought Dennis with a smile. He knew people,
and he knew cheese. And soon, he would know the fulfilment of his greatest
ambition.
But as he watched the
rain dribble down his bedroom window, and envisaged hanging up his apron for
the last time on Sunday, Dennis could not help wondering if he truly knew
himself.
A dirty yellow carriage
skated the platform, screeching gently as it employed its special train brakes.
These worked by employing a randomised pattern of tugs and jerks, in order to
keep the commuters on their feet, if they were lucky. Arms reached out of grimy
windows to unlock the special train doors, which streamlined embarkation by
needing opening from the outside. Various creatures spilled into the station,
shambling towards exits on autopilot. Towards the back, a young man dithered:
his head wandered from side to side as if looking for something. Danny (for it
was he) was trying to remember what he was doing. He had left the train with a
plan: a young, morphing plan, but nonetheless, a design of some sort. It had
since gone walkabout. Maybe if he waited, it would snap back into his brain,
from the piece of elastic on which it was walking? Or perhaps it was gone for
good? Danny hoped it hadn’t been anything particularly brilliant, and tormented
himself for a while, worrying that he had forgotten some scintillating scheme
for idle money making.
Well, he had probably
better get a drink. No good would come of standing around on the platform,
chewing his lip and looking bewildered. He adjusted his knapsack so that it
rested easily on his back, and turned towards the exit ramp.
On a parallel platform,
Dennis Crimper sat on a bench, pretending to read. His eyes were aligned
towards the book in front of him, but if you looked closely enough, it seemed
they were not quite focused. He was in fact expending most of his concentrative
powers, which were considerable, on his sense of smell. His nostrils twitched
occasionally, as if discarding already scrutinised whiffs, before moving on to
new ones. Then they froze. He blinked a few times, folded the book carefully,
and slowly rose to his feet, pushing his nose forward, following it. The scent
was slight but unmistakable. He forced himself to remain calm, and started
methodically eliminating possible locations of his quarry. Not the platform on
his right, he thought, turning his head slightly in that direction. No… the one
on his left. But near the end, now, getting weaker all the time… Dennis started
hurrying up the exit ramp. He lost the scent as he did, and felt panic
accelerating his movements. But when he reached the top, it returned, and he
was now definite that it was coming from the platform on the left. He stood
against the wall, melting quietly into it, and waited.
As Danny walked towards
the exit, thinking about the imminent coffee, he felt a strange movement in his
knapsack. Suddenly, his legs stopped. His expression became abstract and
cloudy, ripples passing over it, the results of some unknown internal process.
Slowly he turned around, back towards the platform, where a train for London
was now waiting: in fact, just about to depart. He felt an overwhelming urge to
board that train, tinged with fear: he sensed that something terrible would
happen if he stayed at the station. So he trotted towards it, instructing his
body carefully, feeling the call and response of his nerves and muscles. He
opened the door and leapt nimbly onto the last carriage, the agility of his
body belying the dreamy, pillowed state of his thoughts. As the train pulled
away, he noticed a dark, slightly built man, running with an ungainly, but
surprisingly efficient gait, and a wave of panic washed over him. But the
stranger, whoever he was, had left it too late, and was forced to slow to a
trot as his goal receded. There was no frustration or bother in his attitude:
instead he stood poised, contained… as he disappeared from sight, Danny felt
the fear that had been building in him ebb away slowly, until it was a gentle
background hum. Suddenly, he remembered what it was he had been planning to do.
He needed to return the cheese, which was currently in his knapsack. Although
it was good company, he felt a yen for home from the cheese, and knew the only
one who could help was Bernie, the cheesemonger. He wasn’t sure how he knew this,
but it was beyond question, an intuitive truth. It seemed obvious now that this
was what he would do with the rest of the day: already, the idea of any
alternative was receding from his memory…
Crimper paced the
platform, thwarted. He had feared that this one would be stronger, more
resourceful – more dangerous. Already its power was increasing, and it was able
to exert control over its host of some kind. He knew, though, that the effort
expended in the escape had weakened his prey, and it would need recuperation:
after all, it was not yet fully mature. Dennis knew that the cheese would go
where it felt safe, amongst its own kind. And he knew where that would be.
As he crossed the road
outside the train station, Danny became aware of someone calling him. Turning
around, he saw Ray trotting up from the station waving his arm.
“Hey, Ray.”
“Danny, hello! I’m going
this way too, to Ann’s house. I saw you on the train but it was so crowded I
couldn’t move up the carriage. Man, you took off on the platform - where are
you going in such a hurry?” Danny looked into the distance and frowned.
“Cheese,” he uttered.
“You have cheese, or
you’re going to get cheese?” A pause followed.
“I’m going to Bernie’s,”
Danny began, more promisingly. “Cheese,” he repeated, returning to square one.
Then, turning to Ray suddenly - “Do I keep saying cheese?”
“Yes. Have you been
drinking or what?”
Danny looked wounded.
“No, I haven’t! Do you
think I go boozing in the middle of the day with only a The Cheese Shop carrier
bag for company?” He frowned again, and tried to remember the point of his trip
into the city. And not for the first time that week, he wondered why he had
brought the cheese.
“I don’t know what the
hell’s going on at the moment Ray, it’s like I’m normal all the time apart from
once every couple of days, when I just do things without thinking, and then I
wonder what the hell I’m doing them for - oh, here we are anyway.” They had
arrived outside The Cheese Shop. “I’m getting rid of this cheese.”
“What?”
“I said,” Danny
faltered. “Perhaps I can trade it,” he added, and walked through the door of
The Cheese Shop without elaborating.“
“Hello, Danny!” Bernie beamed. “What’s the
news?”
“Bernie, I’m sorry but
I'm going to have to return that cheese you gave me. Is there any chance of a
trade?”
“Certainly, certainly.
Not your cup of tea after all then? To be honest I thought yours tasted
slightly different to the rest of the batch, but it was the last one. You know
I got a letter the other day from the dairy, it turns out it went up in smoke
last week? Owner said he got a call in the night from the alarm centre saying
there was an intruder, then when he got there it was ablaze, flames just ripped
through it he said. Anyway he’s insured, but the trouble of rebuilding and the
time out of the market, he’s not sure if he won’t go into the static caravan
business - never really in it for the cheese, more of a caravan man, Glyn.”
Bernie looked out the window in a contemplative manner, before turning back to
Danny. “Cows were safe, they’re kept in a separate building,” he added. Danny
nodded, and took out the cheese. Bernie unwrapped it and gave it the once over.
“So let’s see, a third
gone, looks in good nick. And as it’s such a fine day, I’ll give you a fiver’s
worth of whatever you like.”
As Danny cast his eyes
over the refrigerated display, he became aware of surge of energy sweeping up
from his stomach and washing over his brain. He blinked quickly several times,
and for the first time noticed the changed interior of Bernie’s shop. Bernie,
who had re-wrapped the returned cheese and taken it into the back room, came
back in, smiling with pride as Danny continued to look about himself.
“Few changes,” he
commented.
“You’re telling me,
Bernie! I thought business was bad at the moment - how on earth did you afford
the new unit?”
“Business picked up. I’d
like to take the credit, but that wouldn’t be fair - in any case, let’s be
honest, I’ve been running this place 18 years, last 4 to a loss, and it
wouldn’t just pick up for no reason the last couple of weeks. No, I can’t take
the credit, except for hiring the boy on a whim. That I am pleased with myself
for. Got him working Sundays on his own already, no problem. Knows all about
cheese. And what’s more,” Bernie leaned over the counter conspiratorially,
“knows all about the business, what makes people jump nowadays. He’s worked
elsewhere, and knows what he’s about like nobody I’ve had work here. Not like
Peter, I suppose that means, but still. Spends time in the cellar, I’ve
noticed, though I don’t think he knows I know that. But that’s all right, I
guess he’s just looking over the old cheeses down there. S’pose there must be
some even he hasn’t heard of before! Lovely lad, though. Business is up, and no
mistake. He got me to put a few of those chocolate cheese drops in the window,
and the rainbow cheeses - just in the window, because I don’t generally approve
of them - and got me to put that stand there -” Bernie nodded in the direction
of the rotating glass cabinet, filled with smoked cheddars, “- and my business
has gone through the roof! Which, I might add, I have just got fixed! Ha har
har!”
Danny, who had become
caught up in Bernie’s rumbustuous good humour, was beginning himself to feel
upbeat and optimistic - in contrast to the stupor and confusion that had
characterised much of his week. “Well, I’m glad, Bernie. And I guess I’ll meet
this Dennis at some point, if he’s working Sundays. I think I’ll take some of
that Lancashire blue, if I may?”
“No problem!” Bernie
answered, still beaming like a lighthouse. “And have a chocolate cheese drop,
just for laughs!”
“Well thanks a bunch,
Bernie. I’m glad things are working out. Bye for now.”
“Yes, bye for now,
Danny! And if you’re going past Neal’s Yard, give that carrier bag a swing for
me! Ha ha ha! Bye now!”
Danny opened the door
and stepped into the street. The cold breeze blew through his hair and he heard
the clear, fresh tinkle of a bell as Bernie’s door closed behind him.
The cheese sat on its shelf
in the shop. It was tired and needed to rest. Before long, it would need
another host. It hadn’t wanted to keep Danny, because it had grown to like him,
and in any case, he was a bit pathetic. Someone stronger was needed, someone of
ability. This time the domination would be complete, and permanent. The cheese
could feel its juvenile softness, the same sentimentality that had saved Danny,
ebbing away, being shed like old skin. A change was coming.
Bernie pottered around
the shop, enjoying the knowledge that only a few minutes of his working day
remained. He inspected the pickles and oaty biscuits, which was entirely
unnecessary. The biscuits needed no supervision, but they were pleasing to the
eye. He turned and surveyed the cheese counter with pride: it really had been
transformed since Dennis had been hired. It had been unremarkable previously,
despite the first-rate produce. But now, it exuded quality: something cunning
in the arrangement of the different cheeses was calculated to resonate in the
desire of the cheddar or brie fancier. That young lad Danny had brought back
the last of the special cheeses from the Welsh Dairy. Nice lad, Danny, Bernie
thought – bit hapless though. It was terrible about the fire at the dairy, but
then, the cows were safe, and he had his caravans… anyway, Bernie had put the
cheese next to some nice Wensleydale. But now that he looked at it, it seemed
out of place. It was developing faint, but unmistakable blue veins, which were
unexpected in a cheese of that type. As he stared at them, they pulsed gently.
Dennis was just turning
off the Strand, to head northwards towards the cheese shop, when he felt the
change. Little ripples of scent wafted over him, like shockwaves from an
explosion. Something very pungent indeed had just come into being. Abandoning
all attempts at keeping a low profile, he plunged headlong into the pedestrian
traffic, accelerating to a fast run, brushing people out of the way when
necessary. He felt his legs and lungs working, fit and efficient, but despite
this, was frustrated: events were running out of control, and he wasn’t even
catching up, he was dropping further behind. He pushed himself into a flat-out
sprint, sensing his body straining, but numbly, as if it were a thing separate
from him.
It wasn’t difficult to
find Bernie. He was laid out on the floor of the cheese shop, eyes fixed on the
ceiling. Dennis knelt down beside him, laying his hand across Bernie’s cheek
and pulling him round to face him. Bernie stared madly at him.
“Bernie, it’s me, Dennis.
Listen, this is very important. Where is the cheese?”
Bernie’s eyes got wider.
“Dennis?”
“That’s right, Bernie,
it’s me, Dennis. It’s safe now, the cheese is gone. But you have to tell me
where it went. It’s very important. Where did it go, Bernie?”
Bernie crumpled a
little.
“Cheese? No, not cheese.
No crackers. Never! Not even Jacobs!”
Dennis slapped him. He
was getting hysterical. Bernie looked dazed for a second, and then seemed to
calm down. His voice sank to a whisper.
“Dennis? Is that you?
Listen, Dennis….” he drew closer, raising his head from the floor,
“…no oats. No oaty
biscuits. It isn’t right…”
He fell back and sobbed
like a baby.
“…so much mould….”
Dennis gave up. He would
have to track the cheese without Bernie’s help. Bernie would be all right, but
he’d need a break from dairy products. In six months time, he would probably be
able to face a little skimmed milk, and from there he could work his way back
to some sort of normality. It would be tough for Bernie, but he’d pull through.
Meanwhile, Dennis had a cheese to hunt.
Episode 12
"Science begins and ends with the question of mortality; Art represents for man the expression of life. I once saw a flying cheese. I live now for art, and not to probe the mysteries of this world."
(Francis
Bacon, 1784)
"Blue veins in a cheese give a texture, flavour and aroma not comparable in terms of psychological effect with any natural phenomena currently within our catchment of knowledge."
(Professor
Marcias Rodrigo, International Conference of Environmental Psychology,
Amsterdam, 2002)
In
the street, the cheese looked about itself and saw its pursuer, bursting out of
the shop and immediately spotting it. The chase began, quickly turning off the
pavement and into a network of alleyways. Dennis threw himself after the cheese
with all his being, his eyes fixed on the cream blob as it frantically
navigated corners and porta-skips, now stopping abruptly as if undecided on its
course, then darting away from him once more. The chase went on. Dennis began
to sense that the cheese was tiring more quickly than he - despite its
consistent speed, it seemed to be starting to panic - at one point it hung a
left before emerging almost immediately back into the alley and pulling away
from the opposite wall just in time to avert a collision. Although Dennis knew
that the cheese was nowhere near as fragile as it seemed, he knew that a 40mph
impact with brick would mean a sticky end.
Gasping
for air but still at full tilt, Dennis skidded around the corner, only to find
that the alley opened onto a small building site. Slowing to a trot, he scanned
for his quarry - and spotted it, hovering 30 feet off the ground, as if
collecting itself. Gasping, this time with horror, Dennis watched the cheese
take a short hop and then start to
descend towards him, accelerating with terrifying veracity. He flung
himself to the ground, just in time to feel a stiff whisking sound cut the air
just above him. Fearing another pass, Dennis immediately jumped up and turned
about, but registered with relief - and afterwards, disappointment - that the
cheese had continued to increase in speed away from him. The accelerating dive
run at Dennis had developed into a scything, upward arc across the night sky,
which was now receding up and away toward the stars, leaving a faint trail of
brilliant blue - and which in an instant, was gone. Dennis stared at the last
point of blue for a short while, then sat back on a pile of breeze blocks and
tried to regain his composure. He had escaped in one piece again, but with
nothing to show for his efforts. His mind raced with frustration as he recounted
all the time and effort he had given to his cause, only to lead up to this point
after 7 long years. After a good amount of this Dennis’ thoughts turned to Bernie
and The Cheese Shop, whereupon he climbed to his feet and dusted his knees. Feeling
suddenly less downtrodden, Dennis started back toward the alley, envisaging a pot
of tea in front of Bernie's fireplace.
When Dennis got back to the shop he locked the door, walked behind the counter and
through the back entrance into Bernie's hallway, closing the door behind him.
Bernie was leaning forward in an armchair, staring into the fire. He addressed
Dennis without looking up.
"Cheese."
"It's
gone, Bernie. Forget about the cheese. Take Joyce away for a few days, I can
look after the shop. You need it, Bernie."
Bernie
looked up at Dennis, and nodded gratefully. "Dennis, you're truly a
diamond. First what you've done for the shop, now this. If you hadn't been
around..."
If
I hadn't been around, Dennis thought - and shuddered. The hand that would feed,
he thought, and left the thought there. After 11 encounters, he had captured
only one cheese, and that had got away during an altercation with an French
railway official on the barriers at Nice. There was no way to find them other
than word of mouth. [End, episode, end!] Always a sudden, unpredictable turn,
anywhere, anytime; always a rinded cheese; and always ending as abruptly as it
began - with a sudden ascent into the night sky, a flash of blue.
Dennis
decided to give up on it and stay on at Bernie’s full-time.
THE END