Chapter Four – Whispers and Wiggles
With the prized chutney scroll safely back in the family’s pantry, the Cheese Family gathered in the snug lounge of their cheese-wheel cottage. The tension of the recent dance-off with the Stilton Sisters was still melting away, replaced now by warm mugs of tomato soup and generous servings of victory crackers. The air was cosy, but an expectant hush lingered — everyone knew the Nationals loomed.
Sir Blue Vein, propped in his favourite crumb-dusted armchair, cleared his throat. He leaned forward, tapped the floorboards with his cane, and prised open a creaky plank. From beneath, he pulled out a battered shoebox marked in faded pen: Foxtrot Finals ’73.
The family leaned closer. Sir Blue Vein gently lifted the lid. Inside, nestled in yellowed tissue, gleamed a pair of golden dance shoes. They sparkled faintly, as if remembering the spotlight.
Lady Brie gave a soft gasp, one hand fluttering to her chest.
“You’ve kept them all these years?”
“Of course,” he said, eyes twinkling. “Never thought I’d need ’em again… until those twins started moonwalking across the breakfast table.”
Monterey Jack and Halloumi Belle exchanged wide-eyed glances.
Babybel clapped her little hands, while Mini Mozzarella wriggled excitedly on the rug, already trying to copy a foxtrot step without knowing what a foxtrot was.
Across the room, Clarabelle Cheddar was helping Halloumi Belle adjust her glittery leg warmers. She chuckled, her voice fond.
“You know, your father and I weren’t too bad on the dance floor either. One year we even made the Cheese Tango Quarterfinals — back when TV cameras were the size of fondue pots!”
Halloumi Belle’s jaw dropped. “Mum! You never told us that!”
Eddie Emmental puffed out his chest. “We had style,” he declared, then promptly tripped over Wensley’s tail. The Wensleydoodle barked indignantly, earning a round of laughter that lightened the mood.
Just then, the fondue-shaped telly crackled to life. Eddie hurried over, adjusting the antenna (made from breadsticks) until the picture sharpened.
The sound of a dramatic trumpet fanfare rang out.
Then an announcer’s voice boomed across the room.
“Coming this weekend — The Dairy District Dance Nationals! See the best of the best twirl, tap, and tango for the nation’s tastiest trophy!”
The screen blazed with glitzy lights, spinning cheeses in slow motion, and glitter cannons firing across a stage that looked big enough to host the whole of Biscuitshire.
Mini Mozzarella leapt onto the sofa and copied the announcer’s voice: “Twirl, tap, and tangle!”
Babybel squealed with laughter, shaking her cheese rattle in time.
Then, two dazzling presenters appeared.
Melba Toast was a golden, glittery slice of toast with crisped edges, sparkling stilettos, and a smile so bright it could butter itself.
Cherry Bakewell stood beside her, a perfectly round tart in a flowing scarlet gown, her glossy cherry hat twinkling under the lights.
“We’re back, darlings!” Melba sang, blowing a kiss to the camera. “And this year promises more flavour than ever!”
Cherry Bakewell winked dramatically. “Get ready — the heat is rising on the dance floor!”
Lady Brie pursed her lips, unimpressed. “Melba’s still too quick with her catchphrases. And that Cherry always over-does the wink.”
The twins giggled.
Clarabelle rolled her eyes. “Oh, Brie. You said the same thing last year.”
The broadcast shifted to silhouettes of the judging panel, each backlit by glowing spotlights.
The camera panned slowly.
One held their arms with perfect poise, layers of meringue rippling like a pavlova.
Another swept a cape across the stage, flames licking from their pimento-red outfit.
A third flicked open a delicate fan made of tempura batter and prawn tails.
And the fourth shimmered, fluid and colourful, like a living cocktail of fruity purée.
Mini Mozzarella gasped, pointing dramatically at the screen. “That one looks like a pudding wizard!”
Babybel giggled so hard she toppled onto Wensley, who licked her face until she squealed.
But Sir Blue Vein’s smile had vanished. He leaned forward, eyes narrowing.
“That one… I know that waltzing walnut. We crossed forks in ’73. He’s ruthless with his scores.”
The room fell quiet. The family exchanged uneasy looks. The Nationals would not be a simple contest — they would be judged, weighed, and possibly wiggled into defeat.
Outside the cottage, beyond the glow of the fondue fountain, the night air carried whispers.
Two shadowy figures lurked behind a stack of stilton crates. The Stilton Sisters, cloaked in feathered shawls, huddled together.
“You heard them,” hissed the older sister, eyes glinting. “They’ve entered the Nationals.”
The younger one smirked, twirling a feather between her fingers. “Then we’ll just have to make sure they never make it to the final.”
“How?”
“With sabotage, of course. Glitter bombs. Slippery stilton wax. A dance floor rigged to creak.”
She giggled darkly.
The elder sister tapped her chin. “Yes… and perhaps a little distraction for the judges. After all, they do love a sweet-talking stilton.”
Their laughter echoed faintly down the cobbled lane, unheard by the family inside.
Back in the lounge, the broadcast ended with a spray of sparkles and the Nationals logo spinning across the screen.
Halloumi Belle bit her lip. “Do you think we really have a chance?”
Monterey Jack straightened his shoulders, the scroll clutched tightly in his hand. “Not just a chance,” he said with a grin. “We’ve got a whole dance legacy behind us.”
Lady Brie reached across to squeeze Sir Blue Vein’s hand. “And this time, we’re not dancing for trophies or applause. We’re dancing for family.”
Mini Mozzarella leapt up again, wiggling with wild enthusiasm. “And for wiggly worms!”
Everyone laughed, the tension breaking.
But outside, beneath the shadow of the stilton crates, two pairs of scheming eyes glowed in the dark — and the promise of sabotage simmered like a fondue pot left too long on the heat.
Blind Man Makes 