Mr Doubler Begins Again Read online

  The third shed, though inactive at this time of year, was Doubler’s most treasured. If he could wrap chains round it like a giant 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.

  Chapter 3

  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 see?’

  Mrs Millwood watched intently, her own sandwich hanging a little limply in her hands and a frown playing gently on her forehead.

  ‘So, one cut with your knife and then break it with your fingers to get the full experience. You can serve it with an apple – probably a Cox’s
orange pippin is best, but I’m not a pedant, Mrs Millwood. And chutney. You’re after a sweet chutney or something quite dry and sour. I’ll give you a try of two I’d recommend, but chutney is a very personal thing – it’s a matter of taste. Just so long as it’s not pickle: the brine will compete with a good Cheddar, not complement it. You don’t want competition on your plate. You’re looking for harmony. Harmony and tone. Think of it as a piece of music and you’re the conductor.’

  Mrs Millwood looked at her own sandwich and took a cautious bite.

  ‘Heat? No. I wouldn’t even heat a good Cheddar on a cold day. Complete waste.’

  ‘I’m sorry I spoke.’ Mrs Millwood took a larger, more defiant bite of her sandwich, refusing to be ashamed of her sliced, evenly toned knife-cut cheese layered with supermarket ham, mustard, pickle, pepper and lettuce. ‘Lovely,’ she said, taking her biggest mouthful yet.

  ‘I just thought it would perk up your lunch,’ she added, washing her mouthful down with a generous gulp of tea.

  ‘Well, yes, I’m not averse to a little cheese with my potato, but not in this context, and never with Cheddar. There are plenty of cheeses crying out to be melted. I’d put most of the goat family into that category,’ thus dismissing the entire group with a wave of his hand. ‘But I’m not after additional flavour. I’m working, Mrs Millwood, and what I want to taste is the potato.’

  ‘And are you pleased with today’s spuds?’

  ‘Oh! I am, I am. I’m absolutely delighted. They are behaving themselves beautifully. There’s little news to report, and that’s a good thing. Just further validation.’ Doubler lowered his voice a fraction, saying, conspiratorially, ‘Once I have my findings confirmed by the experts – our friends overseas – I’m done.’

  Mrs Millwood looked at him carefully. ‘With your research? With your potatoes? What are you done with?’ Mrs Millwood had concern in her voice. She’d known him when he was done before and it had very nearly killed him.

  Doubler recognized the worry and set about reassuring her that his motivation, his zest for life and his appetite for continued research were very much unfinished. ‘I can’t imagine I will ever be completely done with potatoes per se. They are in my blood. What would I concern myself with if they weren’t there to fill every working moment? But the detailed analysis, yes, I think I am probably finished with that. I cannot see any room for improvement or any questions left unanswered. Once I receive validation, it will mark the end of a very long period of concentrated work. If I am right, and my research is formally recognized, then I suppose I shall have to think of another project, or dedicate my remaining years to ensuring my work is properly recorded for the benefit of future generations. It will be the most significant moment of my life, of that I am sure. Obviously, I’m still awaiting official word from the institute, and you can appreciate that I’m not finding the waiting very easy.’ He sighed heavily, immediately undermining any pretence of confidence he had just delivered.

  Mrs Millwood knew as well as he did that Doubler would not find the wait easy. She, too, was impatiently awaiting news. After all, since he had revealed his discovery to her, she had been instrumental in steering him through this convoluted course of action, which would, they both hoped, ultimately result in the scientific validation he craved. She had researched the options open to him fully and, without betraying any confidences, had taken the counsel of those comfortable in the areas of law, copyright, patent and scientific assessment, and in many respects these enquiries had been as meticulous and painstaking as Doubler’s own endeavours.

  The situation, as she had carefully explained to him over a lunch, was that during the decades he had spent as a potato farmer, the farming world had moved on and left him behind. It transpired that the science of potatoes was funded primarily by the giant users, those who stood to gain the most commercially from any significant improvement in the process. The big-label oven-ready chip producers were at the heart of research and development, and the fast-food retailers, too, had a considerable vested interest in blight. ‘Who would have thought the oven chip had so much power, Mr Doubler!’ she had exclaimed, before continuing with her lugubrious findings.

  Despite his own significant production, Doubler had not struck deals with these commercial partners and so had never worked in league with them. Likewise, through the happy accident of his meticulous barn clearing, Doubler had found himself, most discreetly, in the vodka business, but never on any scale. So, while he was a much-valued and highly respected contributor to it, the vodka industry had its own specific regulations to navigate and its own endless legislation to challenge. Doubler was not of enough consequence either to those who funded research or lobbied on behalf of the potato growers, and he was certainly small beer for the beverage companies. Doubler simply did not move in the right circles.

  Mrs Millwood had researched all of this carefully and had soon learnt an alarming amount about the duplicitous nature of corporate life. She had spent time talking to great legal minds, who all warned her of being too hasty in sharing her anonymous friend’s findings until she had found a partner with deep pockets who could be trusted with the science. She should tread carefully, she had been warned, for an unscrupulous player further up the supply chain would not think twice about taking this research and presenting it as their own or undermining Doubler’s findings. As one great mind had put it, ‘Once they get wind of what he’s up to on that farm of his, the big boys will simply chew him up and spit him out,’ and so, instead, she had presented to Doubler over lunch one day a solution that would take a little longer but would have his work put in front of some of the most qualified and respected eyes in the world.

  And thus, after much research, Mrs Millwood’s solution was to seek a non-partisan validation from the Institute of Potato Research and Development in northern India. It was for feedback from this venerated institution that they now waited.

  ‘Well, let’s have a look.’ Mrs Millwood rummaged in her bag for a little leather diary and flicked back through the pages. ‘We posted your package just after Christmas, didn’t we? Here we go. The twenty-seventh. Now, there will have been holiday delays and the like, but even so, that’s six weeks.’

  Doubler looked glum.

  ‘But six weeks isn’t that long if you think about it. That’s overland post, not airmail, and I don’t know what their postal service is like over there. Let’s allow it four weeks, shall we? And then there’s some processing time yet – two weeks? We don’t want them rushing it. Four maybe? Four weeks to do a really thorough job. And we want a thorough job, don’t we? Then four weeks back in the post. I think, Mr Doubler, you’re anxious ahead of time. I think if you haven’t heard anything back by the beginning of April, you can start to wonder if there’s a problem.’

  ‘What sort of problem?’ Doubler’s face was beset with a frown drawn from all sorts of unframed worries.

  ‘Failure of the post to arrive. Administration error their end. Lost in an in-tray. Then there’s the technical side. They don’t think your work is important. They think your findings are wrong. They don’t think it is worthy of a response.’

  Doubler was alarmed by each one of these possibilities, but the sum of all the possibilities (why would he fail on one count when he could fail on so many?) had his head reeling.

  Mrs Millwood smiled at him reassuringly. ‘But do you know how hopelessly futile it is to worry about any of these issues? We can’t worry about those things that are out of our control. You have your farm. You have your potatoes. You’ve made breakthroughs, Mr Doubler. And they’ll recognize that.’

  Seeing her words land with little impact, Mrs Millwood reached for a more powerful weapon in her arsenal. ‘Do you think your Mr Clarke floundered at the first hurdle?’

  Doubler thought hard. He imagined his great hero working by candlelight, scratching out his own findings with the worn stub of a pencil. He thought about the many generations of potatoes that man must have grown with no clear goal in mi
nd, just the burning desire to improve the spud for the benefit of all. He thought about the achievement this represented when undertaken by a man with no education. Doubler was ashamed.

  ‘No, of course not. Mr Clarke overcame every obstacle.’

  Mrs Millwood chuckled to herself. ‘He did, didn’t he? And here are you hanging your head in shame and you haven’t had a single setback yet!’

  ‘You’re right, of course, as always. And poor Mr Clarke didn’t have the benefit of a role model as I do. But, Mrs Millwood, you can understand my worries, can’t you? This is my life’s work. I’ve made some sacrifices along the way, too, and I want there to be some meaning, some purpose behind it all. I want my legacy.’

  He stood up and went to look out of the window, clearing a small patch of condensation through which he could see the last of the winter sun as it chased across his fields.

  ‘When I die, Mrs Millwood, this work is all that will be left of me. My potatoes are my bequest. I have devoted every waking moment to them, and my most useful days are now well behind me. I want to leave my mark; I want to show the world it was worth it. I want to die knowing I made a difference. Is that too much to ask? Am I being greedy?’

  Mrs Millwood thought carefully before answering. ‘Not greedy, but a little impatient perhaps. You have your health, Mr Doubler, and, what’s more, you still have plenty of time left to make a difference. You should count yourself among the fortunate ones.’ She paused, and Doubler, focused on the view from the window, missed the shadow of something fearful flickering across her eyes.

  He turned to face her, looking at her quizzically as he waited for her to carry on. She shook her head a little sadly, a determined smile on her face, and she continued in a slightly different direction to the thought process she’d begun.