The Secret Cooking Club

by Laurel Remington

‘But I’m still not sure how.’ I stare at her without seeing. ‘Besides, I don’t have a clue how to go about it.’

  ‘Maybe not, but that’s where Nick comes in. We all think you’ll be a natural – with your mum and stuff—’

  ‘My mum!’

  She winks at me and heads to the door. ‘Let me know how it goes.’

  The door swooshes shut behind her.

  My big chance. I sit in class giving myself a pep talk. Part of me feels betrayed and ganged up on by my friends, but another part feels all giddy and stupidly excited. When lessons are over for the day, I mostly feel self-conscious and scared. But the main thing I need to focus on is helping Mrs Simpson stay in her own home.

  I put on lip gloss, brush my hair, and go to the school library. I’m half expecting the other members of The Secret Cooking Club to be sitting at a nearby table, giggling and laughing. But other than a couple of older kids studying for their GCSEs, the library’s empty.

  I grab a random book from a random shelf and flip halfway through it before I realize that it’s about the history of train travel in Britain. I slam it shut and put it back on the shelf. Then I have an idea. I ask the librarian if there’s a cooking section. She raises an eyebrow like I’ve asked for something strange, and points me to a shelf at the back.

  There are a couple of books for little kids – teddy bears’ picnics and cooking around the world; plus a few of the usual Jamie Olivers and Delia Smiths. At the end of the shelf there’s a tattered old book bound in blue leather that’s turned around back to front. I take it off the shelf. It’s a copy of Recipes passed down from Mother to Daughter that Mrs Simpson has in her kitchen. I flip through the recipes, realizing that – because of Mrs Simpson’s handmade, handwritten recipe book – I could cook any of them. Best of all, I’d no longer be scared to try. In fact, I want to try them all, and share Mrs Simpson’s recipes with even more kids.

  And that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

  THE PLAN IN ACTION

  I’m going to start my own website. It’s going to be called ‘The Secret Cooking Club’. I’ll put on lots of recipes and photos and inspire other kids to make things secretly for their school. There will be a page called ‘Scrummy Cakes and Bakes’, one called ‘Home-cooked Dinners’ and one called ‘Recipes for Sharing’. And then I’ll write about this really cool old lady who’s helping us and about her special handwritten recipe book. I’ll post photos of the book, the recipes, and all the little drawings and rhymes.

  And when it’s all up and running, I’ll send the website link to Mr Kruffs. He’ll see that we’re online and if he tries to put Mrs Simpson in a home, he’ll have no end of bad publicity.

  ‘Hi, Scarlett.’

  The dream dissolves like sugar in water.

  ‘Oh – um – hi, Nick.’

  ‘Sorry I’m late.’ He plonks his bag down at the table. ‘I’ve got to leave in thirty, so let’s get started.’

  ‘Great.’ I walk over to the table and sit down beside him, trying to remember how to breathe. I let a curtain of hair fall over my eyes so that I can watch his every move. His hands are slender, his fingers graceful as he takes his laptop out of his bag and turns it on.

  ‘So, were you thinking of a blog, or what?’ he asks me.

  ‘Yeah – a blog, plus a website where I can post some photos and people can leave comments,’ I brainstorm aloud. ‘Maybe a place for guest posts too.’

  ‘So, kind of like your mum’s?’

  I shudder. I can’t believe I’m doing this. ‘Well, it won’t really be like hers.’

  ‘No, I guess not.’

  My mind races to think of something to say as the computer boots up.

  ‘My mum won’t let me use the internet at home,’ I ramble. ‘So I don’t really know much about it. But I thought I might like to learn.’

  He turns to me. ‘Are you trying to get back at her?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Your mum,’ he says. ‘To be honest, I was kind of surprised when Ali told me you wanted to set up a website. I’ve always thought that you had it pretty rough, with your mum writing about you and everything.’

  ‘You did?’ My awkwardness begins to melt away.

  ‘I remember a few years back – you used to always speak up in class. You knew all the answers and you had lots of ideas – you were really clever.’

  I give him a wobbly smile. ‘Really?’

  ‘But then you stopped. After people found out about the blog.’

  ‘Well . . . I guess . . .’ I sigh. ‘Yeah, that’s probably true.’

  He types in his password. ‘I’m sure your mum is cool and all, but I know I’d hate it if anyone wrote like that about me on the internet.’

  ‘She isn’t cool. I hate that she does it. Most people don’t understand.’

  His smile makes me feel warm and tingly. ‘Maybe more people understand than you think.’

  I mull this over as he opens up a web page.

  ‘So there are some pretty good blogging sites out there. I think this one’s the best.’ He types something into the browser. ‘It’s called Bloggerific. It’s pretty easy to post photos, text and video. And you can search by hashtags – so you can follow people, and people can find you.’

  ‘Um . . . OK.’

  ‘Here, I’ll show you.’

  For the next twenty minutes, I half watch what Nick does, and half understand it. The rest of the time I’m watching him, and enjoying sitting next to the scrummiest boy in our year who thinks I must be clever, and who ‘understands’ that I haven’t had things exactly easy. I ask a few questions, but I can’t bring myself to ask the BIG question – he and Alison hang out at school and she talks about him all the time – do they have a thing going? Or is there hope for someone like me?

  ‘Scarlett?’ I realize that Nick is waiting for a response from me.

  ‘Oh, sorry. I was just trying to concentrate – it’s a lot to take in.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry that I have to rush off. But let me know how you get on and if you need any more help.’ He shuts down his computer. The electricity fizzles out of my body.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ I say. The words can’t express my muddled-up feelings. ‘I know you’re busy, but I really appreciate your help.’

  He hesitates for a second. ‘Well, if you really want to thank me, there’s something you can do for me too.’

  ‘Oh, what’s that?’

  ‘Would you consider taking on a new member?’

  THE FIRST POST

  I’m fully prepared for my feet not to touch the ground. But actually, I’m remarkably calm as I leave the library. It’s like the whole Nick Farr thing has made me grow up all in the course of a single day. I grip the paper with his phone number in my hand. I’ve agreed to contact him the next time The Secret Cooking Club meets – so that he can join us!

  ‘For the record, Alison didn’t tell me that you were the ones leaving the free samples,’ he’d re-assured me after seeing my astonished face. ‘I guessed that day I saw you out of class just before lunch. And I think it would be fun to learn a bit about cooking. I mean, lots of blokes do it these days. And Mum and Dad don’t have time to cook – it would be nice if I could surprise them by cooking something good once in a while.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I’d said. ‘I think it’s something that anyone can enjoy doing. I mean, we all have to eat, don’t we?’

  He laughed. ‘Yes, we do. Also, my mum has a big birthday coming up. Dad’s planning a party for her and I’m supposed to order a cake. But how awesome would it be if I could actually make her one?’

  ‘It sounds great,’ I said. ‘And we’d all be happy to pitch in.’

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘My rugby schedule’s a little hectic right now, but I should be able to meet you one night next week? Monday?’

  He’d written down his number and left for his practice. I’d rushed off to meet the other members at Mrs Simpson’s house.

  When I get there and
let myself inside, everything is quiet, dark and empty. In the kitchen, I see that some work has been done to repaint the wall and fix the window. It looks as good as new. Obviously, Mr Kruffs didn’t waste any time getting workmen in. And if he was here, then where is his aunt now? I’m sure that we’d arranged to meet her today. I was hoping she would be here so I could tell her about the new website – and about Nick wanting to join us.

  I don’t feel like going home so I nose around a little. Something is scribbled on the magnetic message pad that hangs on the fridge: ‘Gone to visit a friend – RS.’

  That explains where Mrs Simpson is, at least. It must have been a last-minute thing. Relieved, I sit down at the table and take a notebook and pen out of my school bag. The words pop into my head and I begin to write:

  Please don’t tell my mum that you’re reading this. I mean, you probably won’t because you don’t know who I am, so you don’t know who she is. And I don’t know who you are. For now, I think we ought to keep it that way. It will be our secret.

  You see, I have this problem with my mum. She’s a blogger, and she’s made my life a nightmare by posting lots of embarrassing stuff about me. I pretty much had to drop all my activities at school, it was getting so annoying.

  I pause and read over what I’ve written, crossing out and changing a few words here and there.

  But now I’ve started doing something that Mum doesn’t know about. Don’t worry, it’s nothing bad. It’s just that my neighbour was taken away in an ambulance, and when I went to feed her cat, I found this amazing kitchen and a special handwritten recipe book. And there was this new girl at school, and I told her about what I found, and she wanted to join me. So that’s our secret — we’re learning how to cook. Now there’s five of us — four girls and one boy, plus the old lady whose kitchen we use. We’re a real club — a secret club. No one knows who we are.

  Except you . . .

  And that’s what this blog is about. We’d like you to join us. Leave a comment below, and welcome to ‘The Secret Cooking Club’.

  Yours truly,

  The Little Cook

  P.S. Don’t tell any grown-ups!

  I put down the pen. Luckily, I’ve read enough of Mum’s blog to know how to do it. I think it sounds chatty, and says what I want to say. I’ve chosen to sign it as ‘The Little Cook’ in honour of Mrs Simpson’s book. A strange feeling comes over me – not the calm of earlier, but more like the jolt of an electric shock. I was meant to come here and find the special recipe book. I’m meant to be doing this.

  Just then, the front door opens. I jump up and pack my papers away. There’s a loud screech and the sound of small feet running. Then, voices:

  ‘Owwh, he scratched me!’

  ‘Well, I guess he’s just hungry, and glad to be home.’

  ‘Achoo! I’m allergic to fur.’

  Something small and black darts across the kitchen floor in front of me. ‘Treacle!’ I say happily. The cat goes next to the fridge where his bowl used to be and begins to meow indignantly.

  ‘Hi, Scarlett.’ Violet comes in with Treacle’s bowl in her hand. She puts a finger to her lips. ‘We were out kidnapping Treacle.’

  ‘Kidnapping?’

  ‘Well, cat-napping actually.’ Gretchen giggles. Alison gives another big sneeze.

  ‘Where was he?’ I ask.

  ‘At the cattery on Priory Road.’ Violet sets down his bowl and I fill it with cat food. ‘I asked my aunt to find out from Mr Kruffs where he had taken the cat. She told him that we were thinking of adopting him, but really we just wanted to surprise Mrs Simpson. Do you know where Mrs Simpson is?’

  ‘She left a note – she’s visiting a friend.’

  ‘Oh,’ Violet says. ‘That’s good – I guess. We came here earlier. The workmen were just leaving, but I was a little worried when she wasn’t here.’

  ‘Let’s try to cook something, and maybe she’ll be back in time for supper.’

  The four of us start raiding the fridge and cupboards. Violet suggests that we try to make ‘Simple Simon’s Cottage Pie’.

  I fetch the minced beef while Gretchen and Alison go out to the garden to pick some of the end-of-season vegetables. Violet chops the potatoes for the mash.

  ‘Where were you, by the way?’ Violet says. Her little smirk tells me that she knows exactly where I was.

  My calm, cool resolve fades and I break out into a silly grin. It’s all just too insane to think that I was setting up a website with Nick Farr and that he wants to join us. Gretchen and Alison come back inside. I suddenly feel self-conscious.

  ‘So how did your meeting go?’ Alison says, her eyes watering from the cat.

  ‘Um, good, I think.’

  ‘You think?’ Gretchen jeers. ‘Come on, Scarlett. You can do better than that.’

  ‘Well, he’s going to help me set up a website. An online Secret Cooking Club – I thought we’d have different pages: for ‘Scrummy Cakes and Bakes’, ‘Home-cooked Dinners’ and ‘Recipes for Sharing’.

  ‘What about something healthy too?’ Alison suggests. ‘Like “Healthy Bites for Home”? Mrs Simpson showed me a great recipe for fruit and nut protein bars. I’m dying to try them.’

  ‘I like it!’ I grin at Alison.

  ‘OK, OK,’ Violet says. ‘Now stop avoiding the real subject. How was it meeting . . . him?’ she coaxes.

  My face flushes crimson. ‘It was fine. Actually, Nick wants to join us.’

  ‘Join us?!’ Gretchen and Violet say at the same time.

  Alison shrugs. ‘I guess he’s a dark horse. He didn’t say anything to me.’

  ‘It will be really cool to have a boy member,’ Violet says.

  ‘Especially Nick Farr, right Scarlett?’ Gretchen winks at me and blows a kiss.

  ‘Very funny,’ I sulk. Is it that obvious that Nick makes me feel so strange – bubbly one minute and self-conscious the next? ‘But the more the merrier.’

  ‘Maybe he’ll invite the rest of the rugby team,’ Violet says. ‘They must eat a lot.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘But first we need to focus on helping Mrs Simpson. Here’s what I have in mind . . .’

  I outline my idea to the group. How we’ll start a website, get lots of followers and friends, and raise money to help Mrs Simpson and other elderly people living alone.

  ‘It might work.’ Gretchen says. ‘I mean, look at all the sponsors your mum has.’

  ‘And like Alison suggested, we can have a bake-a-thon. But we’ll do it online. We’ll get sponsors and advertisers and pledges. And if we can get other kids to join us – kids from all over the place – they can bake things too.’

  Alison beams – the bake-a-thon was her idea, after all. But it’s Gretchen who takes up the brainstorming. ‘It’s a really good idea, Scarlett,’ she says. ‘And once we’ve got an online profile, if Mr Kruffs tries to force his aunt out of her home, we’ll tell all his voters.’

  ‘Do you really think it might work?’ Violet says.

  ‘Well, unless anyone has any better ideas,’ Gretchen says, ‘let’s have a go.’

  ‘OK, we will. And, there’s just one other thing . . .’ Taking a deep breath, I turn back to Alison. I can’t believe the words are coming out of my mouth. ‘I was just wondering – about Nick. Is he . . . um . . . your—’

  Gretchen and Violet look at each other and laugh. Alison’s perfect skin flushes a lovely shade of peach.

  ‘No, silly,’ Alison says. ‘He’s my cousin.’

  MUM’S LITTLE HELPER

  My mind bubbles like a boiling pot. The new website, Mr Kruffs, Mrs Simpson – where is she anyway? – and most distracting of all, the fact that Alison is NOT going out with Nick Farr. He’s her cousin! No wonder she’s so at ease around him.

  We finish making the pies – they have fluffy mashed potato tops that are just browned, and the meat filling has lots of fresh vegetables, gravy and herbs in it. In the end, they are simple, but delicious. But for once, I can’t finish mine. I pa
ck the rest of it up in a plastic container, along with the one we made for Mrs Simpson. Despite the note she left, it’s getting late and I’m starting to get worried.

  We all pitch in to do the washing-up (double-and triple-checking that the oven and hob are turned off). Treacle curls up in his basket next to the range cooker. I stay behind after the others have left, hoping that Mrs Simpson might return. She doesn’t. Eventually, I decide to go home. I lock the door and put the key back under the mat.

  At home, I’m surprised to hear the TV on. It’s way past Kelsie’s bedtime, and Mum is always too busy to watch anything. But when I go into the front room, I see her – sprawled out on the sofa asleep, her laptop half tipped off her lap. At first I worry that she tried to wait up for me (luckily, both of us seem to have forgotten that, technically, I’m supposed to be grounded). Then I realize that she’s just exhausted. For a second, I feel sorry for her.

  I turn off the TV and watch her sleep for a minute, my brain ticking over with an idea. She won’t allow me internet access at home, so I won’t be able to upload my post or update my new website. But maybe there’s something I can do to change that.

  I move the laptop off her legs and she jerks awake. ‘Scarlett?’ She looks around her like she’s in a strange place. Then she sees the laptop in my hand and reaches for it. ‘Thanks for waking me,’ she says. ‘I’ve got some things to finish.’

  ‘That’s OK, Mum. I’m sorry you’re so tired.’

  ‘Well,’ she shrugs, ‘I guess that goes with the territory.’

  ‘I was thinking . . . maybe I could help you. With some of your blog stuff. I could answer emails and post updates; maybe even respond to comments if you showed me how.’

  Mum gives me a suspicious frown. ‘You’ve never shown an interest before.’

  ‘Well, we’re learning about computer stuff at school. So I could use some practice.’

  ‘Is this a new club you’ve joined?’

  ‘No,’ I say quickly. ‘It’s just that everyone else knows how to use computers and social media. I should learn it too.’