‘Cheese-rolling,’ said Dr Dowson taking the seat opposite me as I struggled to get to grips with the day.
‘What?’ I said, confused. Understandably, I think.
‘Cheese-rolling,’ he said again.
Enlightenment failed to happen.
I dragged my thoughts back from where they’d been and said again, ‘What?’
‘I need details for my current project. I’m looking into the Phoenician influences in early Britain.’
I decided to stop saying ‘What?’
‘Why?’
‘Tin mines,’ he said, with the air of one making everything crystal clear. ‘Trading links with the west country. They took tin – what did they leave behind?’
A whole generation of half Brit/half Phoenician offspring was the most likely answer to that one.
I sighed and flattened my data stack.
‘Cheese-rolling?’
He nodded, pleased at my lightning grasp of the subject in hand.
‘Yes, it happens in several areas around the West Country, but the main event is in Gloucester.’
‘Is?’
‘Yes. Since the early 1800s at least.’
‘There weren’t that many Phoenicians around then, surely?’
‘That’s when they started keeping records. It’s been going on since the 1500s. Probably even long before that.’
‘So, just to be clearing – this cheese-rolling – you want us to investigate?’
‘Yes.’
‘When? Ancient British cheese-rolling? Sixteenth-century cheese rolling? Nineteenth-century cheese-rolling? Current cheese-rolling?’
‘Oh, Nineteenth century, I think. Current is no good. The authorities have been trying to put a stop to it for years on health and safety grounds. Unsuccessfully, I’m happy to say, but I don’t think they use a proper cheese any more and there are always delays while they have to wait for the ambulances to return from ferrying casualties to the hospital and we want to be in and out as quickly as possible. So, I thought if we go back a couple of centuries, we could experience the authentic cheese-rolling …. experience. Any Whit Sunday will do.’
‘We? Are you intending to accompany us, Doctor?’
‘Of course, Max. It’s my project. Sadly, the old fool upstairs wants to come as well. We’ll have our work cut out making sure he doesn’t break his neck, of course.’
‘Hold on. How can cheese-rolling break his neck?’
‘Oh, dear me. Have you never …? This is from last year. Watch this.’
He brought up a data stack and I sat and watched. Appalled. And fascinated.
I suppose I had imagined – in my innocence – a couple of elderly ladies gently laying aside their parasols and decorously tossing a pretty little cheese – underarm, of course – at a row of girlie skittles while possibly wearing bonnets decorated with flowers and ribbons. I should have remembered fertility rites don’t really work like that. Fertility rites involve blood …
This particular rite involved some kind of enormous, homicidal wheel of cheese, rolling and tumbling down a one-in-three hill – or cliff, as those outside of Gloucester would probably call it – obliterating everything in its path and closely pursued by similarly rolling and tumbling young men in proud possession of a death wish St Mary’s could only stand back and admire.
A row of burly men were stationed at the bottom of the cliff – sorry, hill – to catch those still on their feet and prevent them from crashing into each other, the scenery and – in extreme cases – Cheltenham.
A couple of years ago – maybe even last year, I would have sat back in amazement and said, ‘Cool! Is there a ladies’ race? Where do I sign up?’
Now, aware that at my age the bones don’t heal always heal quickly, I wasn’t so sure.
‘Dr Dowson, is Dr Bairstow aware …?’
‘Oh yes. Have no fear. It’s all been cleared. Just a brief jump, of course, since we don’t have a client and this one is for our own personal consumption, so to speak.’
I replayed the data stack and watched the devastation again. Dr Dowson insisted on slow-motion replays in case I missed some of the finer points of bone-breaking.
‘Marvellous, isn’t it? You can see the primitive influences. Fascinating. Quite fascinating. I thought you could put together a small group and we’ll pay them a visit.’
I’m an historian and a regard for personal safety has never figured that prominently in my working life but I do have an occasional twinge of conscience about the personal safety of others. I called a meeting and showed them the data stack – every bone-busting moment of it before calling for volunteers.
Several hectic minutes later, Guthrie restored order.
We had to limit the contestants to six, but compensated with unlimited spectators.
‘What about you, Max?’ said Peterson. ‘Are you going?’
‘Of course. I’m the still, small voice of sanity.’
I could hear Guthrie laughing all the way down the stairs.