Once they’d all gone and just the history department remained, we held a meeting to discuss strategy. Which took about twelve seconds.
‘Right,’ said Peterson. ‘The honour of the department is at stake. We’re not having some techie or security oik win this. Right Max?’
‘Absolutely. Your instructions are clear, gentlemen. Come back with your cheese – or on it.’
In the end, we took the big pod, TB2. It was ridiculous – everyone wanted to go. I did wonder, briefly, if the Boss had lost his mind, but, as usual, he knew exactly what he was doing. This was a St Mary’s day out.
The history department was represented by Peterson, who’d pulled rank, and Roberts, who had medals for running. Why we thought that might be useful is a mystery to me. Security was fielding Markham and Weller, and the techies had entered Dieter (who was big enough to flatten any and all opposition – and possibly the 9lb Double Gloucester cheese as well), and Cox.
Helen headed medical support. Dr Dowson and Professor Rapson festooned themselves with recording equipment, all of which I knew they would forget to deploy once the races started.
And we were ready.
‘Right,’ I said as we assembled at the door of TB2, prior to unleashing ourselves on 19th-century Gloucestershire. ‘Standard rules apply. No one goes anywhere alone. Don’t drink the water. Try out the gurning, by all means. Many of you have a natural advantage there. Watch out for pickpockets and cutpurses. Gentlemen, raise your hats and bow if speaking to a member of the opposite sex and ladies should bob a curtsey. Any questions?’
I stepped aside lest I be trampled and off we all went.
The fair was great fun. We watched the gurning, and the shin-kicking, and the wrestling, inspected the goods laid out for sale, avoided some of the more dubious-looking booths, refused the offer of a tasty animal-product pie, evaded the more obvious con artists, and slowly followed the chattering crowds to the site of the main event.
I nearly killed myself getting up that bloody cliff. Or Cooper’s Hill, as I should probably call it. Quite honestly, Edmund Hillary himself and a team of Sherpas would have nearly killed themselves getting up that bloody cliff.
I gave it up half way, telling everyone I’d get a better view from here rather than the top – which was true, because in addition to being nearly vertical, Coopers Hill is concave so the only thing you can see from the top is the bottom.
We – Schiller and I – settled ourselves in the sunshine, on a moderately comfortable tump of grass and discovered we could only maintain stability by clutching at a handy tree root and hanging on for grim death. Around us, happy families all dressed in their Sunday best were doing exactly the same, clinging on to saplings, odd fence posts, each other, and busily unpacking their refreshments. A good many flagons were being passed around.
We smiled at our neighbours, straightened our mobcaps, rearranged our shawls, and primly tucked our skirts around our ankles.
Mrs Mack had provided pasties and we got stuck in, because, as far as I could see, given the lack of safety procedures, health and safety restrictions, medical provision, or organisation of any kind, the event would only take just long enough for the four races to be run, the dead and dying scooped up and the cheeses awarded.
At the top of the hill, a large number of stalwart but possibly not too bright young men had assembled. I could see our guys among them, blending in nicely with their leather breeches, stout shoes, gaiters, and thick frieze jackets. They seemed undaunted. We’re St Mary’s. We don’t daunt.
It is important, they told me later, to watch the cheese until it passes you, because cheeses don’t care and often bounce into the crowd, maiming the innocent and those too slow-witted to duck. Once the cheese has gone past, then you switch your attention to the hill and can fully appreciate the carnage occurring there.
The first race was excellent. The cheese was unleashed and a second later so were the contestants. Most of them managed to stay on their feet for nearly two or three giant strides and then gravity won and down they went, tumbling down the steep slope, head over heels, to the cheers and jeers of their supporters. They pulled themselves to their feet, got their bearings, and set off again. And fell again. And rolled again. Some cartwheeled spectacularly through the air, arms and legs flailing, receiving a special roar of approbation. Some fell and didn’t get up. The hill was littered with young men in various states of dilapidation. Coats were ripped or had come off altogether. Shoes lay everywhere.
‘Good God,’ said Schiller, awestruck.