parcel, he would. He had, instead, to content himself with the measures he had in place.
He glanced back and forth, checking that nobody could see him as he punched the code into the panel by the door to this the most secretive of his stores. He slipped in and closed the door behind him. Inhaling deeply, he took a moment to enjoy the unique scent that lingered long after the plant had been used. Potato, yes, to a practised nose, but also the more prominent tang of cleanliness smothering traces of sap and honey. It would be several weeks before this storehouse sprang to life again and he loved its emptiness and promise in winter. He savoured it for a few more deep breaths before flicking one low light on and inspecting the vast copper stills with their glorious pipes, funnels and gauges. Even in this dim lighting, the metalwork shone.
‘Morning,’ he whispered, with respect evident in his voice. To a layman, this equipment must look quite mysterious, daunting even. But to Doubler, every connecting piece made perfect, logical sense.
The apparatus had been there when Doubler bought the farm with his wife, Marie. He’d discovered it in the first few weeks of living there, once he’d started to assess the heaps of rusting equipment left behind by the previous farmer. (The farmer had died suddenly, fifteen years before he might reasonably have expected to, but even had he received some sort of warning, Doubler doubted he would ever have cleared this backlog of past misjudgements.)
When Doubler had first discovered it, this vast pile of metalwork beneath tractor arms, balers and rotting feed sacks, he had recognized the green hue as the oxidization of copper and knew it would be worth something if he found the right metal dealer. But then as he’d begun to painstakingly separate the wheat from the chaff, he’d recognized it as an old still, used for distilling vodka, and as a distraction from the trials of fatherhood and a diversion from a wife whom he constantly disappointed, he’d dared himself to investigate the equipment fully. He had tinkered at first, fixing a piece here and a piece there, wondering idly if he’d ever get round to restoring it properly, when, in a flash of inspiration he barely understood, he’d felt compelled to take the entire configuration to pieces, laying each of the component parts on the ground before stripping them down, cleaning and repairing each piece, replacing seals and valves, and then reassembling the entire structure, feeling his way part by part with the skill of a mechanic and the patience of an organ builder.
Now, he knew it inside and out, knew its sighs and moods, and he understood how to tune it to perfection, treating it with the respect that such an ancient piece of engineering deserved. Doubler was well aware that modern techniques must surely have since outclassed this old thing, but the results it produced had its idiosyncratic imperfections woven into its fabric, resulting in the artisan end product that made it so distinctive and desirable – several bottles of which were now resting in the cellar.
His inspection complete, Doubler switched off the light and shut the door behind him, tugging at the handle twice to ensure it was locked securely. As he walked back into the yard, he looked up at the sun, which was now grazing the edge of the low kitchen wall, and hurried inside, confident that he had satisfactorily passed the time until lunch and could finally, carefully, share his worries with Mrs Millwood.
As Mrs Millwood bustled around the kitchen making a pot of tea for them both and setting out two places on the now tidy kitchen table, Doubler prepared his meal. From the dark of the pantry he fetched a couple of shallots, testing them between his thumb and finger, registering the lack of give, still, all these months later.
‘So much superior to their cousin the onion,’ he declared to Mrs Millwood, who watched him chop the bulbs into tiny cubes with a distrusting glance he could sense as he worked. ‘Look at that! A delight!’ The bulbs still glowed a pearlescent white and the pieces fell away crisply under his blade. These he scooped into a pan and softened for just a few seconds in butter before adding the potatoes and crushing them deftly with the back of a fork. ‘Not mashed, mind you, just crushed.’ He answered the unspoken question gleefully.
Grating black pepper with two sharp snaps of his wrist, he carried the steaming plate to the table.
Mrs Millwood was unclipping her Tupperware and removing the sandwiches that she prepared, with surprising variety, every day.
‘What you want on that, Mr Doubler’ – nodding in the direction of his plate – ‘is a nice bit of melted Cheddar.’
‘Cheddar? Melted? Heavens, no, Mrs Millwood. Why on earth would I do that?’
‘For, you know, a bit of flavour. Or vitamins. You can’t live on spuds alone.’ This she knew was a provocative statement, but it wasn’t spoken to provoke, more out of genuine and long-running concern over his nutritional intake.
‘Oh, Mrs Millwood. I don’t really need to tell you about the beneficial qualities of the British potato, do I? You know as well as I do that the potato produces more edible protein per acre per day than either rice or wheat.’
‘But I’m not going to eat an acre of spuds, Mr Doubler. I just want something tasty for my lunch. Tasty and healthy.’
‘Don’t talk to me about healthy! The biological value of potato protein is better than that of wheat, maize, peas or beans. Potatoes are just as good for you as milk, and nobody would deny the health benefits of milk, now would they?’
‘I know very well about the beneficial qualities of the British potato’ – and indeed she did. Only last night she had enlightened the ladies in her knitting circle, who were amazed not just by this information but by the depth of Mrs Millwood’s knowledge and the persuasiveness of her passion – ‘but a bit of melted Cheddar for flavour wouldn’t go amiss.’
Doubler put down his fork and looked sternly at his lunch companion. ‘Mrs Millwood. Heat is the worst possible thing you can subject a Cheddar cheese to. All that would achieve would be to release the oils and destroy the flavour. If you go to the trouble of making a decent Cheddar, there’s only one way to eat it.’ Here, he went to the pantry and produced a large parcel wrapped tightly in waxed paper and tied with string.
‘Let me show you.’ He demonstrated with exaggerated movements while never taking his eyes off his audience. ‘You serve Cheddar on wood. Not pottery or porcelain. That’s a rule,’ he said firmly, placing the unwrapped Cheddar on the centre of a wooden chopping board. ‘The natural oils and flavours in the wood are absorbed into the cheese, adding a quality that cannot be replicated by any other means. Secondly, wood is porous. It does not create an impenetrable barrier against the cheese, thus allowing it to breathe.’
Mrs Millwood appeared to be holding her breath.
‘Allowing a cheese to breathe is another rule. Otherwise it sweats and that is not good. A sweaty Cheddar is never good,’ said Doubler, unwrapping the parcel carefully.
Mrs Millwood shook her head solemnly.
‘Next rule.’ He counted this off on his index finger, suddenly aware that there were actually many rules when it came to Cheddar and he probably needed to keep a log. ‘Just one cut, Mrs Millwood, or at any rate, as few cuts as possible.’ He used here his penknife to make a sharp diagonal cut through the narrowest point until he could break it with his fingers. ‘The Cheddar is a cheese of the fingers – it’s a truly sensory experience. You breathe it in, you feel it, and you taste it. The feel is the bit that can’t be missed. By handling the cheese with your fingers, you prepare your brain for what to expect. You don’t want any surprises. My brain already knows to ready itself for the sharp tang of good Cheddar because my fingers have already tasted it ahead of my mouth. You
