‘I’m not sure about this,’ I say. My chest feels like it’s being squeezed by a giant fist.
‘It will be OK,’ Violet says. ‘I promise. Let’s just have a go.’
I force myself to take a breath. ‘OK.’
THE BIG LAUGH-IN
When I get home, there’s no sign that Mum’s even noticed that I was gone. Kelsie’s sitting in front of the TV watching The Ice Princess, her eyes glued to the screen. Her mouth is crusted with dried chocolate from a half-eaten pack of Hobnobs. The door to the Mum Cave is shut. I unwrap the flapjack, cut it into two pieces, and set it on a plate in the kitchen. I don’t have my school bag or my homework, so I sit on the sofa next to my sister and eat a bag of prawn cocktail crisps.
As I’m trying to tune out my sister’s off-key rendition of the theme song, all of a sudden Mum bursts into the room.
‘Flapjacks!’ she cries. ‘I’ve been absolutely craving flapjacks all day. I mean, I didn’t know it was flapjacks I wanted exactly . . .’ She brushes a strand of unwashed hair off her face. ‘But where on earth did they come from?’
‘From me,’ I say. ‘Some kids at school made them. They were giving out free samples.’
‘I love the purple sparkly things,’ Mum says, chomping happily at her piece of flapjack. ‘And the caramel. It reminds me of something else my grandma—’ Frowning, she cuts herself off. ‘You should do something like that, Scarlett.’ She looks down at the empty bag of crisps in my lap. The cogs in her brain are clearly ticking. Help! There’s a new cooking club at school and my lazy, deadbeat daughter won’t get off her bottom and stop eating crisps.
‘Yeah, Mum,’ I say with a shrug. ‘I probably should.’
At school the next day, I sit at the back of the maths lesson, watching Gretchen and Alison text each other under the table. Just before lunchtime, Violet raises her hand and asks to go to the toilet. She gives me a quick glance on her way out of the room. I feel a little thrill of fear and anticipation.
In the canteen, I sit at a corner table and watch the kids coming in – some with their lunch bags, others taking a tray and getting a hot dinner (some kind of chicken goopy stuff with clumpy bread pudding for dessert) from the window. While on her ‘toilet break’, Violet has placed the tin with the flapjacks on the centre table with a little sign that says ‘Free Samples from The Secret Cooking Club’. Violet herself comes into the canteen a few minutes later, flanked by a laughing Gretchen and Alison. I deliberately look away from them.
Someone approaches the basket – none other than Nick Farr. My breath catches; he’s so scrummy! His almond-shaped brown eyes widen. He looks around quickly and takes another piece. And then I find that he’s looking in my direction and smiling.
OMG. Nick Farr is looking at me. He’s walking towards me. Somehow he knows – he must. He . . .
. . . walks past me and sits down at a nearby table with a group of his friends. I exhale sharply. What was I thinking?
‘Check this out,’ he says to his mates, pointing at the centre table. ‘The Secret Cooking Club.’
‘Killer,’ one of them replies. He and another mate stand up and walk to the centre table. They each grab a little piece of flapjack and eat it, and then another. Another of Nick’s mates comes up and pretends he’s going to grab the whole tin and stick it under his shirt. More people come up in a steady stream: two girls with pierced noses who are part of the goth crowd, three star rugby players, two girls on the swimming team, a couple of computer geeks, and then, horning their way to the front of the queue, Gretchen and Alison.
Gretchen wrinkles her pert little upturned nose as she looks inside the tin. Her voice is high-pitched enough that I can hear her over the din. ‘What are those things on top?’ she says to Alison.
‘I don’t know. But if I eat any of them, my face will break out in spots!’
The girls make a point of flouncing off without trying any flapjacks. Their rejection ruins the mood. Except for the computer geeks who come back for seconds, the crowd begins to dwindle.
Suddenly, from one of the far tables across the room, there’s a loud snort of laughter. A few people turn to look. It’s a tall girl with a neon-pink streak in her black hair. She’s one of the goth crowd. They aren’t the kind of kids who ever smile, but that’s exactly what they’re doing. The girl whispers to her friend, and feeds her a tiny piece of flapjack.
‘OMG, it’s fab,’ the friend says. Before I know it, everyone’s chattering and laughing, and people are splitting their flapjacks apart to make sure that everyone can try them. The good feeling seems to move like a chain reaction from one to the other. From person to person, table to table. The sugar rush seems to be making everyone happy.
Gretchen looks at Alison. I can tell they’re on the verge of trying to ruin everything by acting like everyone is totally lame, but then Nick comes up and whispers something in Gretchen’s ear. Gretchen gives him a flirty smile and goes back to the centre table and takes a flapjack. I watch as the transformation comes over her – she goes back to Nick and whispers something in his ear, and they both start laughing their heads off. It’s so loud that two teachers come in. They glance around, looking surprised, and then they smile too. The flapjack basket empties quickly, but the positive vibe is still there in the room. I’m even more shocked to realize that I’m smiling at the whole ridiculous thing. I spot Violet standing near the door. She’s not laughing, but her bow-shaped lips are turned upwards in satisfaction. I walk towards her, but just then the bell rings, and by the time I get over to the door, she’s gone.
MRS SIMPSON
The flapjacks are long gone, but that afternoon, there’s still a lively buzz in the classroom – more people than usual speaking up and asking questions in class; talking to people they wouldn’t normally, and generally more smiles all around. When it’s time to go home, I meet up with Violet in the corridor. She’s got the basket over her arm, and together we push through the crowds to the front entrance, and out to the car park.
‘Everyone loved the flapjacks,’ she says. ‘Just like we hoped.’
‘I know. I didn’t expect people to like them quite so much.’ I shiver a little knowing that Nick liked them.
Maybe it was the crystallized violets,’ she says with a grin.
‘Well, they definitely made a change from that gross bread pudding!’
‘That’s for sure,’ Violet says. ‘Anyway, we’d better get going.’
‘Going? Where are we going?’
‘To see Mrs Simpson, remember? Do you know which hospital she’s in?’ Violet’s question throws me.
‘Um, no.’
‘Well, the Royal Elmsbury is closest, so let’s try there first. There’s a bus, I think.’
‘OK.’ I shrug, knowing that Violet’s right. Flapjacks or no, visiting Mrs Simpson is the right thing to do. ‘Let’s go.’
The bus stop is around the corner from the school, and we don’t have to wait long. Twenty minutes later, the bus drops us off in front of the hospital. It’s a busy, intimidating place, with cars and vans coming and going, old people and pregnant women meandering across the zebra crossing; people in wheelchairs; and nurses in uniforms going in and out.
Violet leads the way inside. There’s a gift shop and a coffee kiosk in the lobby and at one side, a reception desk. Violet goes up to the receptionist and speaks confidently, like she’s been in a hospital loads of times and isn’t even a little bit scared.
‘We’re here to visit a patient,’ she says. ‘Mrs Simpson.’
The woman looks over her half-moon glasses at Violet and me. ‘Which ward is she in?’
‘I’m not sure.’ Violet looks at me.
‘Her name is Rosemary Simpson,’ I say, trying to sound like a grown-up. ‘Can you direct us to the right ward?’
The woman types something into the computer one finger at a time. It seems to take an age. Finally, she looks up again. ‘Are you relations?’
‘Yes,’ I say without hesitation. ‘I�
��m her niece. She’s my only aunt, and I’m really worried about her. My friend and I brought her a basket of sweets we made.’
The woman frowns. ‘She’s in the Hessel Wing. Follow the blue line to B ward.’
We follow the painted blue line on the floor through bleak corridors; past outpatients hurrying to appointments in worrying-sounding departments such as oncology, radiotherapy, physical rehabilitation and ante-natal. With our basket and school bags, Violet and I are like two Little Red Riding Hoods wandering through a scary forest of machines, fluorescent lights and sick people. Finally, the blue line ends in a door marked Hessel Wing, Ward B. I push open the heavy swinging door.
Inside is another reception desk with two nurses in pale blue uniforms. One is riffling through paperwork, the other is typing on a computer. I’m relieved when Violet goes up to the desk. She says who we are, and who we’re here to see.
‘Rosemary Simpson?’ The nurse with the paperwork looks at the other nurse. ‘Is she allowed visitors?’
‘I suppose so,’ the other woman says, still staring at the computer screen. ‘But she’s been given a mild sedative. She has concussion and needs to be kept here under observation.’
‘Can we see her?’ I say. ‘We brought her a basket with some flapjacks that we made.’
‘She won’t be eating any flapjacks. But since you’re relations’ – the nurse eyes me sceptically – ‘you can have five minutes to see her. And you can leave the basket here if you like.’
I sense that if we leave the flapjacks, she and the other nurse will hoover up what’s inside. Violet obviously thinks the same as she clutches the basket even more tightly.
The nurse points down the corridor. ‘She’s in room six. Be back here in five minutes.’
‘Five minutes,’ I repeat. Violet and I walk quickly down the hall. ‘What a horrible place,’ I whisper.
Violet doesn’t answer. She seems lost in a world of her own. ‘Yeah,’ she says finally as we reach the door to room six. A gameshow theme is blaring loudly from inside.
I peer inside the room. There are two raised beds, one on each side of the room. In the bed nearest the door is a white-haired woman who’s staring at the television and eating a heart-shaped box of bonbons. There are lots of flowers and get-well cards on the bedside table. Clearly, she’s being well looked after. In the other bed is a grey figure, little more than a lump underneath the thin, blue blanket. There’s a breathing tube sticking out of her nose, an IV in her arm, and she’s hooked up to a monitor that is blipping slowly in the corner. There are no flowers or get-well cards anywhere.
I walk into the room. ‘Shh,’ the white-haired woman says. ‘They’re about to solve the puzzle.’
On the television screen, a woman is turning over the letters in a puzzle. ‘Bad luck,’ the host says to the losing contestant.
‘Pah, it wasn’t bad luck at all – he was just thick,’ the old woman says, gesturing with the heart-shaped box. Her accent sounds Scottish or Northern or something. She glowers, as if noticing Violet and me for the first time. ‘Who are you?’
‘We’re looking for Mrs Simpson. Is that her?’ I point to the blanket bulge, already knowing the answer.
‘What’s left of her.’ The old woman frowns.
‘We brought this.’ Violet holds up the basket on her arm. ‘We thought she might be sick of hospital food.’
The woman pops a bonbon in her mouth. ‘Nice of you, pet, I’m sure. But I don’t think she’ll be up to it any time soon.’
‘Has she been awake?’ I ask.
The woman flips through the TV channels with the remote. ‘Oh aye,’ she says, her eyes wide. ‘She’s been awake – off and on. And let me tell you, it’s hard to get any sleep when she is.’ She shakes her head and tsks. ‘Tussling with the blankets and moaning about her cat. She wants to go home, but her nephew won’t have it.’
‘Nephew?’ Violet asks.
‘You mean Mr Kruffs?’ I say.
‘Aye, that’s him. So you know him, do you?’
‘No, but I’ve seen the election posters—’
‘Election.’ She snorts. ‘Well, good luck to him, that’s all I can say. Swanning in here, making her upset. I’ve thought about asking to be moved rooms, but in here’ – she laughs grimly – ‘one old dear is as good as the next.’ She settles on a channel and turns up the volume. ‘At least she’s asleep most of the time.’
From the other bed there’s a loud groan and a rustling noise. The grey old woman under the blanket coughs and splutters, then wriggles in the bed like she’s trying to prop herself up on her elbows. Her eyes are open, but glassy, like she’s not really seeing anything in the room. Her head turns slightly and she spies the basket. She leans forward and sniffs the air. Her blue eyes meet mine.
‘Mrs Simpson?’ I whisper. ‘We’ve made you some flapjacks. They’re chocolate and salted caramel.’
The old woman sinks back into the bed. Her eyes close again, her lips drawn into a thin line. But then she seems to smile. Her breathing grows even as she goes back to sleep.
‘Maybe she’ll be able to try them later,’ I say to Violet in a low voice. Violet nods and sets the basket down on Mrs Simpson’s bedside table. I reach out and touch Mrs Simpson’s gnarled hand. ‘Get well soon,’ I whisper.
Violet and I tiptoe out of the room.
BANOFFEE
Violet and I don’t say much as we ride the bus back. I secretly vow to avoid hospitals in the future at all costs. I keep thinking about Mrs Simpson – a helpless bulge under a thin blanket. I know it was the right thing to visit her, but I kind of wish we hadn’t. I’d rather think of Rosemary Simpson as the amazing cook with the fabulous kitchen. She did seem to revive a little when she smelt the flapjacks, though. I hope she gets to taste them.
Violet stares out of the window of the bus. As the sky grows darker and her reflection in the window sharpens, I’m startled to see a tear trickling down her cheek. I turn away so as not to embarrass her. The bus stops near the school and we both get off.
‘So I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?’ I try hard to sound cheery.
She shrugs. The tears are gone but there are dark hollows under her eyes. ‘OK.’
I wait for her to turn round or walk off – I don’t even know where she lives – but she keeps on walking along beside me.
I turn down my road. We walk together, passing several houses with ‘Emory Kruffs for MP’ signs in their windows. We reach the last two houses at the end of the terrace: my house, and Mrs Simpson’s.
‘I’m going inside to feed the cat,’ I announce.
Violet looks at me. She smiles.
I unlock Mrs Simpson’s door and we go inside. Right away, I can tell that something’s wrong.
‘Where’s the cat?’ I whisper. My skin prickles with goosebumps.
‘Maybe it’s asleep?’
‘But it’s always been here before.’
Inside, there’s no sign of the cat, and other things are different too. Mrs Simpson’s pictures have been taken off the wall and stacked against each other, and a lot of her knick-knacks have been cleared away. There are a few open boxes with bubble wrap spilling out. Mrs Simpson is obviously in no state for spring cleaning, so it can only be one person – Mr Kruffs. The idea that he’s been here gives me the shivers.
Violet seems to have the same thought. ‘What if he’s still here?’ she says guardedly.
We stand still, listening for sounds from upstairs or inside the kitchen. Everything is quiet.
I square my shoulders. ‘We’re not doing anything wrong. We’re only here to feed the cat.’
‘Maybe we should leave.’
‘I’m staying,’ I say. ‘We may never get another chance to be here. You can go if you want to.’ I give her a sideways glance. ‘But I’d rather you didn’t.’
Her violet eyes widen with shared understanding. ‘OK,’ she says. ‘What shall we make tonight?’
The kitchen has avoided being ransacked, b
ut only just. The cat’s bed and food dish are gone – at least whoever took it away is going to feed it. There are other things different too: dirty teacups in the sink, a list of ‘house clearance’ firms on the worktop, and the little book of recipes is off its wooden bookstand. I notice how tattered its binding is; how faded the cover. It’s covered with crumbs, like someone used it for a cutting board to make a sandwich on.
I pick up the book and blow off the crumbs. I set it back on the bookstand and open it up at random. It falls open almost automatically to a recipe for ‘Georgie Porgie’s Banoffee Pie’.
‘Banoffee Pie!’ Violet says. ‘That’s my favourite pudding in the whole world.’
I lower my eyes. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever had it.’ I skim over the ingredients. Banana and toffee – not two things I would ever have thought of putting together – plus lots of cream.
‘Are you serious?! Then we have to make it!’
Violet’s excitement wins me over – that, and the fact that there’s a fruit bowl in the centre of the table that has a big bunch of fresh bananas in it. Some things are just meant to be, I guess.
‘OK.’ I say, ‘Let’s do it.’
The rest of the ingredients aren’t so neatly lined up this time. It’s like the magic kitchen elves have all fled from Mr Kruffs. We have to dig through the cupboards to find a packet of oaty biscuits, a can of condensed milk, and a half-used packet of brown sugar. In the very back of the fridge, we find the double cream and butter.
When everything is assembled I read through the recipe again. ‘Look at him,’ Violet says over my shoulder, pointing to the cartoon-like picture of fat little Georgie Porgie. He’s chasing a flock of merry girls with his lips pursed in a kiss. ‘He’s gross.’ She makes a face. ‘I wouldn’t want him to kiss me. Unless he happened to grow up to be a boy like Nick Farr.’
My insides judder. ‘Nick Farr?’
‘He’s cute, isn’t he?’ She laughs.
The Secret Cooking Club Page 5