The Secret Cooking Club

by Laurel Remington

  I rush down the corridor. Violet could have been my friend and I’ve ruined it. Why can’t I just tell her the truth – that I’m scared to do anything because of Mum and her stupid blog. Why did I go to Mrs Simpson’s house, and why did Violet have to find me? Why did Violet have to come to our school at all?

  In the girls’ loos, I practically slam into Gretchen and Alison who are on their way out. ‘Hey, watch it.’ Gretchen teeters backwards.

  I lock myself in a cubicle.

  ‘You OK, Scarlett?’ Gretchen almost manages to sound concerned.

  ‘Come on, Gretch,’ Alison says.

  ‘I think she’s crying.’

  ‘No I’m not!’

  ‘Whatever.’

  I wait in the cubicle until I’m sure they’re gone. A part of me knows that I’m acting totally irrational – like I’m outside my own body watching a crazy person. And then a new coldness washes over me. What if Gretchen tells Mum that she saw me crying like a big baby?

  The loo door bangs behind me as I run out into the hall. Keeping my head bowed low, I push past the people in the corridor and run out of the school.

  A SPOONFUL OF SECRETS

  What am I doing? Where am I even going? I hurry past the shops, practically knocking down an old man pulling along a battered shopping trolley. I almost get hit as a lorry grinds to a stop in the middle of the zebra crossing. All the time I’m heading towards home – but I don’t want to go home. Thoughts flash into my head: Help! My selfish daughter tried to run away, or worse: Help! My daughter ran away and then, unfortunately, came back!

  Panting for breath, I finally stop. I’m standing on the doorstep of Mrs Simpson’s house. I get the key out from under the mat, open the door and let myself inside.

  The cat is there just inside the door. I scoop it up and sob into its black fur. It purrs in my arms but flicks its tail, like it’s deciding whether or not to tolerate me.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, setting it down. ‘You’ve got your own problems, haven’t you?’

  The cat struts into the kitchen, meowing for food. I follow slowly behind, my heart finally slowing in the calm quiet of Mrs Simpson’s kitchen. The recipe notebook is on the bookstand where I left it. But I’m almost positive that I left it open on the scones page. Now, it’s flipped open to a page on ‘Pat-a-cake Flapjacks’. There’s a drawing cut from an old book and pasted on to the page of a little boy in a puffy white baker’s hat. There’s a hand-drawn border around him of steaming pies and iced cakes.

  I flip through the notebook, my mouth watering at the possibilities: Hansel and Gretel’s Gingerbread, Knave of Hearts Strawberry Tarts, The Princess and the Pea Soup, Simple Simon’s Cottage Pie. But in the end, I turn back to the Pat-a-cake Flapjacks. Whatever they are – I need to make them.

  Just like before, nearly every ingredient called for in the recipe is almost immediately to hand – like some kind of magic baking elf has been at work. Next to the recipe book, there are even two bars of Belgian cooking chocolate on the worktop that I swear weren’t there last time. It’s definitely a little weird, but I decide to make the best of it. I put on an apron, wash my hands and get started. I even remember to preheat the oven this time.

  The cat sits and watches as I work. First, I read through the recipe so I know exactly what I’m doing. Then, I measure out the ‘wet’ ingredients – butter, golden syrup, a dollop of honey – into a pan. I add the brown sugar and cinnamon, and place the pan on the hob. I swirl the ingredients around with a wooden spoon over a low heat. The colours mix together – warm shades of brown and gold, marbled through with the bright yellow of the butter. The spicy scent goes straight to my head. It’s fun watching all the separate parts of the mixture melt together like they’ve always belonged that way. When everything is uniform and liquid, I take the sticky mixture off the hob and mix in the porridge oats. The ingredients clump on the spoon. I scrape some off with my finger and taste it. It melts on my tongue, tasting wholesome and delicious.

  I’m so caught up in what I’m doing that when the doorbell rings I practically jump out of my apron.

  I’m not expecting to get lucky a second time. I’m sure it’s Mr Kruffs, or maybe even the police. My heart starts to thud, but to be honest, what I’m most worried about is the syrup mixture getting cold before I can finish stirring in the oats.

  I open the door. Standing there is the one person I didn’t expect to see after the way I acted at school – Violet.

  And I’m very glad to see her.

  ‘Can I come in?’ she says.

  ‘Sure.’ I stand aside and she comes inside the house. She sets down her school bag, and next to it, the empty Easter basket.

  ‘Everyone loved the scones,’ she says. ‘That cinnamon – it really packed a punch. And it was even better because no one could work out who made them.’

  ‘That’s good.’ I nod uneasily. It’s just so weird that the whole school was talking about the scones that I made – which is the last thing I wanted. I turn and she follows me through to the kitchen.

  I go back to the pan and keep stirring the oats into the sticky mixture.

  ‘What are you making?’ Violet looks over my shoulder.

  ‘Flapjacks.’ I wave a sticky hand at the recipe book. ‘With Belgian chocolate on top.’

  ‘Yum,’ Violet says. She reaches behind the bookstand and picks up a tin that I hadn’t noticed was there. ‘Look,’ she says, reading the label. ‘Caramel. I love caramel.’ She hesitates. ‘Maybe you could add some of that too.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘Can you grab me that tin?’

  ‘Sure.’ She hands me a rectangular cake tin that I’ve already lined with baking paper. I scoop in the clumpy mixture and pat it down with the wooden spoon. When it’s all spread out and flat, I carry the tin over to the cooker.

  ‘How long does it need to cook for?’

  I glance over at the book. ‘Twenty-five minutes.’ She opens up the oven and sets the timer. I put the tin inside. ‘Would you like some tea?’ Violet asks. ‘Or there’s hot chocolate. I can boil a kettle.’

  ‘Yeah, hot chocolate sounds good.’ I wash my hands at the sink.

  Violet fills the kettle and switches it on. I find the cupboard with the mugs. Mrs Simpson’s mugs are pretty, all different colours of stoneware, some with stripes and polka dots. I give Violet a purple mug and use a blue one for me. She finishes making the hot chocolate and brings it over to the table. We sit facing each other.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry about earlier,’ I say. ‘It’s just . . . well . . .’ The words stick to the roof of my mouth. ‘Lots of things.’

  ‘No worries,’ she says. ‘I’m the one who should be sorry.’

  Something unspoken seems to pass between us – one of those weird moments where you just know what the other person’s thinking, and you don’t have to bother with talking. But then it’s gone, as Violet asks the question I’ve been expecting.

  ‘So, your mum’s really that blogger?’

  ‘Yeah.’ That blogger. Enough said.

  ‘I hadn’t heard of the blog, but Gretchen showed me. She said you guys used to be friends, but then when your mum got famous, you started acting all stuck-up.’

  ‘Stuck-up?’ I stare at her dumbfounded. ‘Me?’

  ‘I said you didn’t seem like that to me. And I read some of the blog.’

  ‘You did?’ I lean forwards, feeling tense.

  ‘I know your mum doesn’t mention your name. But everyone at school seems to know about it. I couldn’t believe she wrote all that personal stuff about you. You know – the stuff about you washing your white underwear with black socks, giving your whole family head lice, and wetting the bed till you were eight.’ Her face is solemn. ‘I know how I would feel . . .’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Embarrassed,’ she says immediately. ‘And also kind of sad.’

  I smile weakly. And then I find myself telling Violet just how embarrassing and ‘kind of sad’ it is for me for real. I
tell her about Stacie, and about how Gretchen and Alison pretended to be my friends, but really they were ‘leaking’ stuff to Mum. I tell her about the violin, the tap-dancing, and the ‘Mum’s Survival Kit’. Then, I tell her about Dad leaving, and about Mum’s online ‘victory’ over him. I tell her how Mum’s most popular posts are the ones about Top ten reasons I wish I’d never had kids; and where does that leave me? And when I’ve finished telling her all that, a tear falls into the lukewarm hot chocolate in the mug in front of me.

  She puts a hand on my arm. ‘I didn’t tell anyone that you made the scones, Scarlett. Honest.’ She hesitates. ‘I wanted to, though. Because you should get the credit.’

  ‘I know I’m being totally lame. But it’s just that I don’t want anything – anything – to get back to Mum. I can’t stand her writing about me. I—’ A sob escapes. ‘I just hate it. Every week when her blog post goes up, I just want to crawl into a hole and die.’

  ‘Have you told her?’

  ‘Told her?’ As soon as the words are out, I realize that, despite trying to be friendly, Violet will never understand. ‘Yeah, I did try. I told her it made everyone laugh at me. I told her that I have no friends any more, and that I don’t want to do anything if she’s going to write about it.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘We had a “discussion” about it. She told me her side – that she’s working really hard to be successful with the blog, and get advertisers and stuff. She said that she wanted to have a job where she could support me and my sister without working long hours away from home. She tried to tell me all this stuff about online demographics and unique visitors – most of it, I didn’t really understand. I told her that I supported her goals and stuff, but that the things she said really hurt sometimes. So, I thought we’d come to an “understanding”. I felt good for a few days. Until the next post came out. Guess what it was about?’

  ‘Your talk?’

  ‘Bingo.’ I sigh. ‘It was called The ungrateful teenage muse or something like that. You can guess what it said.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘The only thing that kind of works is doing nothing – and I mean nothing at all. No clubs, no activities, no friends, nothing. She can’t get as much mileage out of boring as she can out of failure.’

  ‘Must be pretty lonely.’

  ‘I guess so.’ I shrug.

  Her heart-shaped face brightens as she smiles. ‘It’s good then that you’re doing something about it.’

  ‘Doing? What am I doing?’

  ‘You’re cooking.’ She sniffs the air as the smell of baking flapjacks gets stronger and stronger.

  I lean forward with a stab of real fear. ‘Violet, please. I’m not really going to do anything. I can’t – I mean, I’m breaking into my neighbour’s house and using all her stuff. If Mum found out and wrote about it, I’d probably be arrested or something.’

  ‘Well, I won’t tell – on one condition.’ Her smile grows mischievous.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I want to cook with you. We can teach ourselves – just us. It will be a secret.’

  ‘But—’ I open my mouth to protest. There are a thousand things wrong with the idea. Instead, just for a second, I let myself be swept along by Violet’s enthusiasm. ‘A cooking club?’ I glance around me at the amazing kitchen, mulling over the idea.

  ‘Yeah. A secret cooking club.’

  ‘Hmm.’ I stand up as the oven beeps that it’s done. ‘Can I think about it?’

  A DASH OF FRIENDSHIP

  The flapjacks turn honey-brown in the oven. I take them out quickly so they don’t get burnt. They smell rich, buttery and delicious. I put the tin on a wire rack to cool. For the next step, Violet opens the tin of caramel and scoops it into a bowl while I melt the chocolate over a pan of hot water.

  ‘I never really thought about trying to cook or bake anything before,’ Violet says. She peers at a pencilled-in note in the margin of the recipe and then mixes some salt into the caramel. ‘I mean, my mum used to cook everything, and I guess I always thought that there’d be time to learn—’

  She stops. I pause in my stirring and look sideways at her. She bites her lip for a second, and then her mouth upturns in its usual amused expression. But her eyes don’t look amused. She stares down at the caramel, swirling the wooden spoon through it absently. I want to ask her what’s up, but just then I notice the chocolate has completely melted, so I take it off the hob.

  ‘Quick,’ I say, ‘let’s get this on before it starts to harden. You go first.’ We both take our bowls over to the table where I’ve put the flapjacks to cool. Violet spoons an even layer of caramel over the top. I keep stirring the chocolate, and when she’s done the whole pan, I spoon a thick layer on top. When I’ve finished, Violet uses the handle of the spoon to score something in the cooling chocolate:

  The Secret Cooking Club

  She hands me the spoon. I underline the words with a squiggle. It all seems very solemn and official. But just then, my stomach breaks the mood by rumbling loudly. ‘It looks good,’ I say. ‘I can’t wait to taste it.’

  After we’ve tidied up the mess and the chocolate has set a little, I cut it into squares and serve up two squares on Mrs Simpson’s rose-patterned china. Violet and I clink our mugs together. Then we each take a bite.

  ‘Gosh.’ Violet grins. ‘It’s good.’

  ‘It is good.’ I can hear the pride in my own voice. It’s crunchy and gooey and I can taste both the chocolate and the caramel. It all melts together in my mouth. I’ve had flapjacks loads of times – the kind wrapped in plastic from the corner shop. But this is completely different. This is home-made. And I made it. We. I take another bite, chewing it slowly. Part of me almost wants to tell Mum. Almost.

  I lick a streak of chocolate off my lips. ‘What are we going to do with them?’ I say. ‘We can’t eat them all.’

  ‘I could have a good go,’ Violet jokes. Then her smile wavers. ‘But I guess it’s up to you.’

  ‘No. It’s up to us.’ I savour the word. ‘We’re a club now.’

  Violet takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully. ‘I know you’ve got issues about it. But I really liked giving out the free samples at school. It was weird, but it made everybody a little bit nicer somehow.’

  ‘Nicer?’

  ‘Yeah. I think so. And if we did it again, we can say they were made by The Secret Cooking Club.’ Violet wipes her chin. ‘It’ll seem like there are lots of us doing it.’

  ‘You mean, like we’re some kind of underground network who are all taking turns making things?’

  Violet’s eyes shine. ‘It would be cool, wouldn’t it? Especially if what we make actually tastes good. And just about anything is bound to taste better than canteen food.’ She sticks out her tongue. ‘That rice pudding they serve every other day tastes like sick.’

  ‘It looks like it as well,’ I giggle. ‘All those lumps.’

  ‘Gross!’ She laughs too. ‘So, you’re in?’

  ‘Well . . .’ I have to admit, the idea does sound cool. And if a little sugar rush makes school a happier place, then who am I to complain?

  ‘Unless you have a better idea?’

  ‘I don’t,’ I say. ‘Though I did think that maybe we could bake something for Mrs Simpson. If she’s still in hospital, she must be hating the food too. We could take her a tin of flapjacks.’

  ‘That’s a great idea.’ Violet says. ‘Let’s do it.’

  ‘But I like your idea about school too,’ I say. ‘As long you solemnly swear on your life that no one will know I’m involved.’

  ‘OK,’ Violet says. ‘I swear.’ We shake sticky hands to seal the deal. Then we eat another square each and drink another mug of hot chocolate.

  ‘Um, Violet,’ I say, licking the crumbs from my lips. ‘I think we might need another batch.’

  A NAMELESS GIFT

  Violet and I make two more batches of flapjacks, chatting about all the things we could make next. The possibiliti
es are endless, and it’s nice to have someone who’s as excited as I am. As I’m spreading the final layer of chocolate over the salted caramel, Violet comes over to the table with a little jar. ‘I found these,’ she says. ‘Crystallized Violets. It says on the jar that they’re real flowers.’

  The jar is filled with sparkly purple flower petals coated with glittered sugar. I open the jar and hold it up to my nose. They smell very sweet.

  ‘Do you want to put them on top?’ I say.

  ‘Well, I don’t know. It might make for kind of funny flapjacks. But it could throw people off the scent that you had anything to do with it.’

  ‘OK. Let’s do it.’

  Violet arranges the crystallized violets in a swirl pattern. The purple sparkles look like magic dust. I don’t know how it’s going to taste, but Violet seems to have a flair for making things look pretty.

  We put the flapjacks for Mrs Simpson into Violet’s Easter basket. For the school ones, we fill up a big tin with a picture of Peter Rabbit on it that we found in a cupboard. I wrap up the last two flapjacks in kitchen roll for Violet and me to take home. I leave the little notebook of recipes on the bookstand – it seems to have done a pretty good job keeping our secret so far, and it belongs in Rosemary’s Kitchen.

  We’re in the middle of cleaning up when there’s a muffled ringing sound. Violet’s mobile phone. She checks the screen and gasps. ‘It’s seven o’clock already. I have to go.’

  ‘Seven?’ I can’t believe it’s that late. I was planning to tell Mum that I’d gone to the library again, but it closes at five. The words flash in my head: Psst . . . my daughter went missing for two hours – was she: (a) smoking; (b) snogging; (c) drinking; (d) shoplifting?

  I’ll have to think of something else.

  I quickly finish the washing-up while Violet wipes down the worktop. Whatever spell we’ve been under is broken. Now, all the problems with our ‘plan’ seep into my head. What if the hospital won’t let us in? What if Mrs Simpson is in a coma – or dead? What if someone at school sees me or Violet putting out the flapjacks? What if the crystallized violets taste disgusting? What if? What if—?