The Secret Cooking Club

by Laurel Remington

  She makes a move like she’s going to struggle out of bed. ‘You told him about causing the fire!’ She claps a hand over her mouth.

  ‘Yes,’ I say quickly. ‘I mean, we had to. It was the right thing to do.’

  She sits back, stunned. ‘The right thing . . . ?’

  ‘Wasn’t it?’

  Mrs Simpson peers closely at me. I get the feeling she’s seeing me in new way. ‘Yes . . . if you put it like that. I suppose it was.’

  ‘We couldn’t let him keep thinking it was you when it wasn’t! And I hoped . . . well . . . that it would be enough.’

  ‘But it wasn’t, was it?’

  ‘Well – not really. But he did sound really worried about you. In fact’ – I lower my voice – ‘he said he’d call the police if you’re not back home this weekend.’

  ‘Pah! – the police! That’s one thing he won’t do. Not while he’s in the middle of his campaign.’

  ‘That’s good,’ I say. ‘But maybe you can at least let him know you’re OK?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says with a sigh. ‘I’ll do that. I’m a distraction that he doesn’t need right now – I know that. And I don’t want to be a burden to anyone.’ Her breathing grows quick and shallow. A knot of anxiety tightens in my chest. She may not be off her rocker, but Mrs Simpson is really old.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Simpson,’ I say in a soothing voice. ‘But is Emory really such a bad person? Gretchen didn’t seem to think so.’

  ‘No, he’s not a bad person.’ She sinks back into the pillows. ‘In fact, he’s a very good person. He and Marianne were practically best friends growing up. She loved cooking him his favourite puddings for his birthday and at Christmas – Emory was such a serious boy, but his face would just light up when he saw the food.’ She smiles faintly. ‘And when I put in the kitchen next door, he arranged everything. We were close once . . .’ She sighs.

  ‘I know the feeling,’ I mutter.

  ‘I know Emory just wants to do what’s best. And in fact, he may well be right . . .’

  ‘No, he isn’t!’ I say. ‘Because we’re going to look after you.’ I take back her hand. ‘Me and The Secret Cooking Club. And maybe’ – I still can’t quite believe it, but it must be true – ‘Mum too. I mean, she let you come here and hide out.’

  ‘Yes, she did.’

  ‘And Gretchen knows about these things. You can get a panic button installed, with a pendant-thingy to call for help on if you need it, and have a carer come to visit you – even live in. You could go on like that for a long time. And if someday in the future, you want to go into a care home . . .’ I shudder. ‘Well, that should be your choice.’

  ‘Thank you, child,’ she says. ‘I admire your spirit. And you’ve given me a lot to think about. It’s good to know that even at my age there are still . . . possibilities.’ She lies back in the bed, stifling a yawn. ‘And now, if you don’t mind, I think we both need to get some rest. It’s been quite a day.’

  ‘Goodnight,’ I say, kissing her on the forehead. I give her hand a squeeze but she’s already asleep.

  FINDING THE MAGIC

  The next morning I wake up late, exhausted after a night tossing and turning. I squint against the sunlight and the thoughts that are bombarding my head. What to do about Mrs Simpson? Can we make Mr Kruffs see reason? Has anyone seen my blog? And then I remember that I’m supposed to be meeting up with Nick Farr today after school. My insides go goopy.

  I smell breakfast from the top of the stairs. My stomach rumbles violently. Mum is already in the kitchen with Kelsie. Mrs Simpson has cooked a huge breakfast of eggs, bacon and buttery croissants. Miraculously, my sister’s plate is almost clean, and there’s not a smear of ketchup in sight.

  Mum beams at me as I come into the room. ‘Scarlett, I see you’ve found out about my little secret.’

  I stand there for a second, staring at her. Then I rush over. ‘Thank you, Mum.’ I give her a hug – the first one willingly given in a long time.

  ‘Oh, Scarlett!’ Mum squeezes me back. She smiles. ‘And actually – it’s no longer a secret. Rosemary called her nephew before breakfast and told him she was here.’

  I step away, flooded with emotion. Mrs Simpson gets up from the table, straightens her apron and takes a plate off the rack for me.

  ‘I can serve myself, Mrs Simpson,’ I say. ‘You eat. This is fabulous.’

  ‘No, child,’ she says. ‘Sit down. This is my treat.’

  It’s like the kitchen is filled with a warm glow – food and kindness and unlikely friendships. Mum takes a second croissant and, closing her eyes, takes a bite.

  ‘This is divine, Rosemary,’ she says. ‘I’d forgotten how good real food tastes. In fact’ – she looks at me and smiles – ‘I’d forgotten a lot of things that are important.’

  I smile back, blinking to make sure I’m not still asleep and dreaming the whole thing. This can’t be real.

  ‘Tell her what you told me,’ Mrs Simpson coaxes Mum. ‘All of it.’

  Mum takes a long breath. ‘There are things about my past that I haven’t told you, Scarlett. Things that were painful, and I wanted to forget them.’

  I stare at her. Mum almost never talks about her past. Across the table, Mrs Simpson nods encouragingly like they’ve practised this.

  ‘You may not know it, but my grandma used to live with us when I was a girl. She wasn’t quite all there after her husband died, but she was kind and she helped look after me when my dad left, and Mum had to go to work.’

  ‘Your dad left your mum?’ I try to digest this new bit of information. I never knew either of Mum’s parents – they both died before I was born. Dad’s parents lived a long way away, so we never really saw them either. Because I never had grandparents, I never missed not having them. Or not knowing anything about them.

  ‘My dad ran off with his secretary – I never saw him again.’ She swallows hard. ‘At first I blamed Mum – for losing my dad, and then for having to work. She was away just about every night. All she could find for work was a job as a barmaid pulling pints at a pub. I’d wait up sometimes until she came home, smelling of smoke, sweat and stale beer. I hated it.’ She takes a long sip of the fresh brewed coffee.

  ‘But when my grandma came to live with us, everything changed.’ She stares off into the distance. ‘It was like there was magic in the house. She was a wonderful cook, and she told stories, and she played the piano . . .’ Mum drifts off. ‘It wasn’t magic really. It was just . . . nice.’

  ‘It sounds like it,’ I say encouragingly.

  ‘Then she died.’

  Mrs Simpson puts her hand on Mum’s arm. ‘Everyone does, my dear.’ She gives a long sigh. ‘But that doesn’t mean the magic didn’t exist. I know it existed when I was with my daughter, Marianne. It was an “everyday” kind of magic.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Mum’s voice quavers. ‘Not any more. I tried to shut it out of my mind for so long. I vowed that I wouldn’t be like my mum – stuck in some degrading job, never having any money or any freedom.’

  ‘Of course, dear,’ Mrs Simpson says.

  ‘So when your dad left, Scarlett – just like mine did – I was determined to take control of my life. I started the blog and that grew into something’ – she hesitates – ‘amazing. For the first time people were taking notice of me. For the first time, I was important.’

  ‘No, Mum,’ I say softly. ‘You were important before. To me and Kelsie.’

  ‘I guess I should have realized that. Instead, I let the blog take over my life. I became just like my mum. Worse, in fact.’ Her eyes glisten with tears as she looks at me. For the first time, I see understanding etched in the lines around her eyes. The things she did and how she made me feel. ‘Much worse,’ she says.

  ‘Oh, Mum . . .’ I realize that I’m crying too.

  She takes my hand and squeezes it. ‘But then I started to smell the cooking coming from Rosemary’s Kitchen. It was like the memories were there on the other side of the wal
l, trying to find a way to creep through the cracks and crevices. All of a sudden, I was thinking about my mum, my grandma and my childhood.’ She smiles like she’s far away. ‘And the strange thing was that it didn’t seem painful any more. Just good. And . . . right.’

  ‘I’m glad, Mum.’

  She shakes her head. ‘But I didn’t want to face up to the way things were between us – and that it was my fault. And then the fire happened. I was so proud of you, Scarlett, and so ashamed of myself.’ She sighs. ‘And then Rosemary made that amazing breakfast . . . I went into my office to write about what happened. But instead, I shut down my computer and went next door.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘She did,’ Rosemary confirms, patting Mum’s hand. ‘We had a chat and a nice cup of tea.’ She smiles wryly. ‘Actually, a whole pot. She helped me clean up after the fire.’

  ‘Really?’

  Mum laughs. ‘Honestly, Scarlett, even a toxic waste dump can get cleaned up if you put your mind to it. Which might be a good project for this weekend. We could tackle your room – together.’

  ‘OK.’ I smile warily. ‘But you’re not going to, you know, write about it? Or write about not writing about it?’

  She sets her lips determinedly. ‘I told you the blog was going to take a new direction. I’ve been thinking about it for a while – ever since the day you brought home those cinnamon scones.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. I’ve gone back and checked all the analytics, plus my comments and interactions. They all show a definite trend.’

  ‘What?’ I say, my stomach twisting.

  ‘The bottom line is, there’s a strong calling among my followers for me to become an “inspirational blogger”.’

  ‘A what?’ I’m not sure I like the sound of that.

  ‘I’m going to focus on inspiring other mums and women. I’ll be kind of like an online coach for women who are looking to start a business, or change careers, or who just want a new lease on life. I want to help them to follow their dreams – just like I did.’

  ‘Oh.’ For a second I think she must be joking. But her face is serious.

  ‘Which means, Scarlett, that I’m afraid you’re no longer going to have a starring role.’

  ‘I . . . I’m not?’

  ‘No.’ She smiles. ‘I’m going to be a whole new mum to you and your sister. I promise.’

  Something loosens inside my chest, and all of a sudden I feel a flood of relief mixed with another half-remembered feeling . . .

  Hope.

  ‘And Rosemary’s going to help me,’ Mum says. ‘And we’re going to help her – just like you did that night. After all – that’s what neighbours do, isn’t it?’

  FRIENDS AND FOLLOWERS

  I leave for school in a daze. It all seems like some kind of dream: Mum’s story, her guilt, her ‘new direction’, and the fact that she’s actually helping another human being who’s in trouble. I don’t believe in magic – not the fairy-tale kind, and certainly not ‘everyday’ magic, whatever that is. But I can’t deny how much things have changed since Mrs Simpson came into our lives.

  They talked about the details while I was finishing my breakfast. Mrs Simpson will get a part-time carer to look in on her, but Mum and I will help her out too. Mum will speak to Mr Kruffs and try to get everything squared with him. How she’s going to find time to do all this, I’m not quite sure, but she actually gave me her old mobile phone so we can ‘keep in touch’ if Mrs Simpson needs anything. And even if Mum really is transformed, she and I still have a lot of issues to sort out. I accept that she’s sorry, and I forgive her. But as they say, ‘the proof is in the pudding’. Still, for now, it’s much more than I ever expected.

  The school day goes by quickly, and at the end of the day, my pulse goes into panic mode at the prospect of meeting Nick. I make my way to the library, worried that my knees might turn to jelly at any moment.

  Nick is already there with his computer on.

  ‘Hi, Scarlett.’ He pushes his wavy brown hair back from his forehead.

  ‘Hi.’ I try to slow my breathing and sit down next to him.

  ‘I see you’ve got your website up and running,’ he says. ‘I think it’s a great idea.’

  ‘Well, I did what you said. But I still need to sort out all the different pages, and I’m not sure that the layout is quite right—’

  He beams at me and my heart almost stops. ‘You’ve already got twelve followers. Not bad for less than a day, don’t you think?’

  ‘Twelve?’ I lean over and scroll down the screen. The little counter at the bottom that Nick inserted shows that twenty-two people have visited my blog, and twelve of them have signed up to follow it.

  ‘It’s real, then.’ My fingers on the keyboard begin to tingle with something like excitement. It crosses my mind that this is what Mum must feel every time she makes a new connection with a total stranger.

  ‘Yeah,’ Nick says. ‘It is.’ He helps me add the four additional pages: ‘Scrummy Cakes and Bakes’, ‘Healthy Bites for Home’, ‘Home-cooked Dinners’, and ‘Recipes for Sharing’ and add some boxes for uploading photos.

  ‘Now,’ he says, when all the pages are up, ‘there are some things we can do to increase your following. Sign you up for some other social media sites and then link everything together. You’ve got to build your online presence – strike while the iron’s hot.’

  ‘OK.’ I sit there watching him as he goes about setting things up for me. I know I ought to be paying more attention to the stuff he’s doing, but instead I’m transfixed by his long fingers typing expertly on the keyboard, and his chocolate-brown eyes as he concentrates on clicking, linking, adding icons and creating my profile as ‘The Little Cook’ on other sites.

  ‘What password do you want?’ He turns to me, and I sit back, startled.

  ‘Oh, um . . .’ I think for a minute. ‘How about “Buttercream”.’

  ‘“Buttercream” it is.’ He types it in. ‘Speaking of which, would you be OK for cooking on Monday after school?’

  ‘Monday?’

  ‘My mum’s cake.’ He flexes his fingers. ‘I can’t wait to get started on it. I can count on The Secret Cooking Club, can’t I?’

  ‘Of course.’ I smile. ‘After all, I owe you one.’

  ‘Well, I’m happy to accept payment in baked goods.’ He gives me a sly little wink.

  ‘So it’s true then – the way to a boy’s heart is through his stomach . . . ?’

  ‘Something like that.’ He holds my gaze for a second.

  My insides quietly melt. OMG.

  THE SHOWDOWN

  10 October: 9 p.m.

  Thanks to everyone who’s signed up to follow my new blog. I look forward to cooking lots of lovely things together.

  Last time I told you about my neighbour – she had an accident and was taken to hospital. I went to her house to feed her cat and found a very old, very special handwritten recipe book dedicated to ‘My Little Cook’ – which turned out to be her daughter. So I thought, ‘Why not give cooking a try?’

  The first thing I made was cinnamon scones. They were so fluffy and spicy and delicious – you just HAVE to try them. Here’s the recipe, by the way.

  Oh, and be careful with the oven and the knife – you might need a grown-up to help.

  Makes 14–16 scones

  450g self-raising flour

  Big pinch of salt

  100g butter

  50g caster sugar

  1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

  250ml milk

  For the tops:

  20g caster sugar mixed with ½ teaspoon ground cinnamon

  Preheat the oven to 220°C/gas mark 7 and lightly butter a baking tray. Sift the flour and salt into a mixing bowl, add the butter and rub it in with your fingertips until the mixture looks like breadcrumbs. Stir in the sugar and cinnamon, then add the milk and stir the mixture together quickly using a round-ended knife. As soon as the mixture comes together into a soft d
ough, put it onto a lightly floured work surface and divide the dough in half. Try not to handle the dough any more than necessary. Lightly shape each half into a block shape, then very gently roll each half into a rectangle about 22cm long, 8cm wide and 2cm thick. Using a large chef’s knife, cut each rectangle from one end to the other into triangles that measure about 6cm across the base. Transfer the triangles to the baking tray and sprinkle the sugar and cinnamon mixture generously over the tops. Put the tray into the hot oven, on a middle to high shelf, and bake for 10–12 minutes, until the scones are puffed up and turning golden on top. Place the tray on a wire rack to cool a little. You can eat them warm or leave them to cool completely, but they are best eaten on the same day. Nicest of all is to eat them warm, cut in half, spread with a little butter and then with any leftover cinnamon sugar sprinkled over the melted butter.

  Oh, and definitely don’t forget to preheat the oven. It works much better that way.

  Thanks for reading this and I hope you enjoy making the scones. And maybe you can do what my friend and I did – we left them in the canteen at school without telling anybody who made them. Just say: ‘Free samples from The Secret Cooking Club.’

  Happy baking!

  The Little Cook

  When I’m finished writing, I upload one of Violet’s photos of the scones we made. So far, blogging is kind of fun – not as fun as cooking, but I can see why Mum likes doing it. It’s a way to connect with people – something that seems a little easier to do on the web than in real life.

  As I look around my bedroom, I think about how much my life has changed since I started The Secret Cooking Club – not to mention a day ago when I sat in the library and actually flirted – FLIRTED! – with Nick Farr. And even though he had to leave to go to his rugby practice, knowing that I’ll see him again makes all the good things seem real.

  Monday afternoon, as I walk home from school, I’m still excited (and only a little nervous) at the prospect of Nick joining the club. I just know that we can make his mum an amazing birthday cake. But as I turn on to my road, my good feeling fizzles away. The black Mercedes is parked in front of Mrs Simpson’s house – it’s Mr Kruffs!