The Secret Cooking Club

by Laurel Remington

  ‘Silly,’ I say aloud. Everything seems normal again. Finished eating, the cat curls up in its basket next to the cooker and begins licking its paws. I wash my hands and grab a rose-patterned apron from a hook by the fridge. Before I can lose my nerve, I put it over my head and tie it round my waist. I’m ready.

  I’ve never been one of those kids who liked playing in sand, making mud pies, finger painting or generally making messes. So that might be why I’d never guessed how satisfying it could be to measure out ingredients that by themselves look like nothing, put them into a bowl, then stir them together. Peering out of its basket, the cat keeps an eye on my progress.

  At first the mixture is lumpy and dry, and all my worries come back that I’ve done something wrong. I think about adding more milk, but I decide, just this once, to trust the recipe. I keep on stirring. The smell of cinnamon goes to my head, and for some reason I feel happier and calmer than I’ve been in ages. When the dough is a soft mass in the bowl, I sprinkle some flour on the worktop to start rolling it out.

  But all of a sudden, disaster strikes. The doorbell rings, and a key turns in the lock.

  A TASTE OF CINNAMON

  Someone’s here! Panicking, I look around. I could dash out of the back door, but I’d be trapped in the garden, and besides, the kitchen’s a mess and it’s obvious what I’ve been doing. The cat jumps up from its basket like it’s trying to figure out how to cover for me. I pull off the apron and start trying to clean up – for all the good it’s going to do. And then I hear a woman’s voice: ‘Look, I’m sorry if you’re bored, but I have to do this. You said you wanted to come. Next time, stay at home.’

  I don’t hear a reply because the front door closes and something – a handbag maybe? – thunks to the floor. Then there’s the sound of heels clicking in the hallway. I look around for a place to hide – the broom cupboard? The hearth? Inside the oven?

  The knob on the door turns. I stand there paralysed, my heart thundering. The cat comes up beside me, the fur on its back standing up. The door opens. I come face to face with just about the last person I was expecting to see . . .

  Violet.

  ‘Oh, you scared me!’ Her hands fly to her mouth. ‘I . . . I didn’t know anyone was here.’

  ‘Um, yeah.’ I smile through my teeth. ‘I was just . . . just—’

  ‘Violet? Is there someone in there?’

  Frantically, I gesture at the cat.

  ‘No, Aunt Hilda. Just a cat.’ Violet gives a fake-sounding sneeze for effect.

  ‘All right,’ Aunt Hilda says. ‘I’m going to start with the upstairs. Don’t touch anything, OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  The high heels click up the stairs.

  ‘Thanks for that,’ I say. My heart slows to a fast jog.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ She eyes the kitchen and the mess I’ve made.

  ‘I was making scones,’ I say sheepishly. ‘Cinnamon.’

  She sniffs the air. ‘It smells good in here. Not cinnamon, though – but something else?’

  ‘I don’t know – butter maybe? Or the dough? But dough doesn’t really smell like anything, does it?’

  ‘It’s nice.’ She smiles. ‘But you don’t live here, right? My aunt said the house belongs to some old lady.’

  ‘Mrs Simpson,’ I say. ‘Rosemary. She’s a neighbour. We live next door.’

  ‘Oh. It’s cool that she lets you use her kitchen.’

  ‘Yeah . . . it is.’

  ‘Violet?’ The aunt’s voice comes from upstairs. ‘Did you say something?’

  ‘No, Aunt Hilda,’ Violet calls out.

  ‘OK, but I need to see the—’

  The aunt appears at the kitchen door, the clicking of her heels coming to an abrupt stop. She’s about Mum’s age but much taller in her heels, and she has the same blue-black hair as Violet. She’s wearing a neat grey suit and a floral scarf.

  ‘. . . kitchen,’ she trails off, her mouth gaping open. ‘Wow,’ she says, ‘it’s . . . big.’ She glances around. ‘What a fantastic space. And look at the range cooker – it’s enormous.’ She gestures towards the cast-iron cooker that’s as big as a small car.

  ‘It’s huge,’ I agree.

  Her eyes come to rest on me. ‘And who are you?’

  ‘I’m Scarlett. From next door. I . . . uh, came over to feed the cat.’

  ‘Looks like you’re feeding yourself too.’ Frowning, she gestures at the mess of flour and dry ingredients sprinkled on the worktop and the floor. ‘If you’re here without permission, then you’d better be gone when Mr Kruffs arrives.’

  ‘Mr Kruffs?’ The name sounds vaguely familiar. ‘Who’s he?’

  Violet’s aunt sizes me up like she’s debating whether to answer. ‘Emory Kruffs. He’s running for local MP.’ She wanders over and examines the cooker. ‘You may have seen his name on posters.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I’m an estate agent – and he’s arranged for me to give him a valuation on the house. He’s supposed to meet me here.’

  ‘Is it his house?’ I ask.

  ‘Well,’ she frowns. ‘Not exactly. I think he’s the nephew of the owner.’

  ‘Rosemary Simpson,’ I say. ‘She’s the lady who lives here. Do you know if she’s OK?’

  She shrugs. ‘No idea, sorry.’

  ‘Well, someone needs to feed the cat until she gets back,’ I say firmly. ‘I mean, I’m sure Mrs Simpson wouldn’t want it to starve. And I live right next door.’

  ‘The cat . . .’ she muses. ‘I see your point, but if Mr Kruffs sees this mess, then I don’t know . . . I wouldn’t let him catch you here—’

  ‘I was just leaving,’ I say. ‘That is – after I cut out the scones and put them in the oven.’ I wince. ‘And, you know . . . um . . . take them out again. Is that OK?’

  ‘Cool,’ Violet says. ‘Can I watch?’ She looks doubtfully at her aunt.

  Something beeps loudly, startling us all. A text message. Aunt Hilda takes out her BlackBerry and stares at the screen. ‘This must be your lucky day,’ she says. ‘Mr Kruffs just cancelled our meeting.’

  Violet and I look at each other and grin.

  Aunt Hilda checks her watch. ‘I’m going to finish looking around and draft the email for the valuation,’ she says. ‘You two had better make sure this kitchen is spotless when you’re done.’ Her heels click away to the front room where she switches on a table lamp.

  I turn to Violet. ‘Thanks for staying,’ I say. ‘I mean, it was kind of creepy being here by myself. Especially if that Mr Kruffs turns up.’

  ‘No problem,’ Violet says. ‘It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do. And I’ve always liked scones – that is, if you’re sharing.’ Her smile grows wider.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ I laugh. We both peer into the bowl of mixed-up dough. I breathe in deeply. It smells delicious and . . . doughy. I put the soft ball on the worktop and gently roll it out. The rolling pin sticks a little to the dough, so I sprinkle more flour over the ball, trying to look like I know what I’m doing.

  ‘Did your mum teach you how to cook?’ Violet sounds almost impressed.

  ‘No.’ My mind whirls, trying to think of something cool – like my grandma was a Bake Off finalist – or something. But I don’t want to lie to Violet. I point to the recipe book. ‘Actually, I’ve never done it before,’ I say. ‘I’m teaching myself.’ Flustered, I turn away from her and concentrate on cutting the dough into little triangle shapes. I check the recipe again, and sprinkle a sweet-smelling mixture of cinnamon and sugar on the tops.

  ‘No – you’re having a laugh.’ Violet giggles in amazement. ‘You’ve done this before. Right?’

  I stand up a little straighter. ‘Yeah, I guess I have. I can make cheese on toast. Does that count?’

  ‘Yes, it does! I can’t even make toast without burning it.’

  ‘Well, I can barely even plug in the toaster!’

  We look at each other and both start laughing. It’s not like
it’s really that funny, but I’m so out of practice that my side begins to hurt. I kind of get the idea that maybe it’s the same for her.

  Violet helps me cut out the rest of the scones and we put them on a buttered baking tray. As we work, I tell her about the ambulance taking Mrs Simpson away, and about the cat, and how I broke into the house and found the recipe book and the kitchen. ‘I had no idea it was here,’ I say. ‘Right on the other side of the wall.’

  ‘It’s awesome,’ Violet says. She picks up the recipe book and flips through it. ‘And this book – I can’t believe someone took the time to write all this out by hand.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I wonder who the Little Cook was.’

  Violet reads the inscription inside the cover. ‘And the secret ingredient – what’s that?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  She goes back to the page with the scone recipe. ‘Well, I can see why you wanted to have a go at making these scones,’ she says. ‘They look so delicious.’

  ‘Yeah.’ My brow furrows in concentration. We’ve cut out all the scones and I can’t put off any longer the thing I’ve been dreading: tackling the range cooker.

  ‘Ever used one of these things before?’ I ask futilely.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever even seen one.’ We both bust up laughing again. She helps me carry the trays over.

  I look inside one of the cast-iron doors. Luckily, there are some wire racks – it looks like a normal oven once you open the doors. ‘Look,’ Violet says, ‘there’s a temperature dial. What should I put it on?’

  I put the trays down and check the recipe in the notebook. ‘Put it on 220 degrees.’ I decide not to spoil the moment by mentioning that we were supposed to preheat the oven. Oh well. ‘They should be ready in about twenty minutes.’

  ‘I can’t wait to try one,’ Violet says.

  My stomach rumbles in agreement.

  THE SCENT OF CHILDHOOD

  When I get home, I’m surprised to see Mum sitting at the table helping Kelsie read her phonics book. ‘Where have you been?’ she asks me without looking up. ‘No, Kels, there’s an “l” – it’s “pool”, not “poo”.’

  ‘I went to the library to do some homework.’

  ‘Oh.’ She sounds disappointed. There’s very little blogging material in me going to the library, but I’m sure that my sister’s ‘pool’/‘poo’ confusion will figure prominently in the next post. ‘Well, next time let me know, OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘And I hope you’re hungry, because I made baked macaroni cheese. It’s on the hob.’

  ‘Really?’ I raise an eyebrow. Even though I’m stuffed to the gills with the most delicious, fluffy, puffy cinnamon scones I could ever imagine eating – let alone making myself – I feel kind of sorry that I missed what, in our house at least, passes for a real meal.

  ‘I’ll have a little,’ I say. ‘Sorry, I didn’t know you were cooking.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to.’ She leans forwards on her elbows. ‘I mean, me? Cook?’ she gives a little laugh. ‘But it was the oddest thing . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I was in my office, and all of a sudden there was this smell.’ Her brow furrows. ‘Some kind of spice – cinnamon, maybe. It reminded me of something. I don’t know what really. Something from my childhood.’

  ‘Your childhood?’ I try not to sound surprised. One thing that Mum never talks or blogs about is her childhood, before she got to teenage years anyway. Sometimes I wonder if she was ever my age.

  She shrugs. ‘I guess a neighbour must have been cooking. All of a sudden, it was like I was back in my grandma’s kitchen. They do say that smell is one of the strongest senses for triggering memories.’ She stares at the cooker for a second.

  ‘That’s interesting,’ I say. ‘What was your grandma like? You never really talk about her.’

  She blinks quickly. ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ She waves away my question. ‘I guess my nose is just extra sensitive today. You’d think I was pregnant or something.’ She stands up and puts the kettle on, twisting her hands in what I recognize as her I’ve just thought of something to blog about way. ‘I mean, when I had you girls in my tummy, I was throwing up left and right. For all nine months of it, each time. Everything tasted like salt and’ – she laughs – ‘seemed to smell like dog poo!’

  ‘Mummy, you said poo!’ Kelsie says triumphantly.

  ‘Oops, I meant ‘pool’ of course!’ Mum points back to the book and she and Kelsie both giggle. Even I have to smile, though we are all far too old for that kind of joke. I serve myself a small bowl of macaroni cheese, mulling over what Mum said about how she could smell the cooking through the wall. It’s kind of odd that she’s never mentioned it before. I mean, before her accident, Mrs Simpson must have cooked all the time.

  I sit down at the table with the bowl and take a bite. I’m so surprised that I almost choke. ‘It’s good, Mum,’ I say.

  ‘I made the sauce myself.’

  ‘You did?’

  She narrows her eyes. ‘Don’t look so surprised. Believe it or not, Scarlett, not everything is made in the microwave.’

  Later that night, as I’m lying on my bed staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling, I think about everything that’s happened over the last two days – from the yowling cat, to the kitchen and cookbook – from meeting Violet unexpectedly, to Mum’s home-made cheese sauce.

  Most of all, though, I think about making the scones. My mouth waters as I remember their comforting doughy taste. Because I hadn’t preheated the oven, we left them in for much longer than they should have needed. I was kind of stressed out that they would be burnt. But when we took them out, they were nice and golden brown on the bottom. To me, they tasted perfect.

  They looked perfect too – Violet even snapped a few pics of them on her phone.

  She and I each ate two, and Violet’s aunt ate one. I wrapped the rest up and stored them in a plastic container – they’re still downstairs in my bag, fourteen of them. I feel a little bit mean for not sharing them with Kelsie and Mum, but I don’t want to explain where they came from.

  When I hear Mum’s bedroom door close, I tiptoe downstairs, unwrap the scones and leave two of them out on a plate on the kitchen table. Let Mum and her followers try to figure out who made them. She’ll never guess in a million years that it was her boring old daughter. I climb back in my bed and drift off to sleep, still breathing in the phantom smell of cinnamon.

  A DOLLOP OF TEARS

  The next morning the scones are gone (with a plate of crumbs left behind on the table) and the door to the Mum Cave is shut.

  The day goes slowly – the usual sort of Sunday: Mum working, me playing with Kelsie until Mum comes out and zaps dinner in the microwave, then falls asleep on the sofa . . . I creep into Mrs Simpson’s house just before teatime to feed her cat, but I feel uneasy there by myself. What if her nephew comes round today after Violet’s aunt talks to him? I sneak out again, wondering if I’ll ever have the courage to go back there and use the kitchen. Or will the scones be our first and last attempt?

  The next morning, Mum is up and in her office by the time I come downstairs. I can hear Mum’s voice, talking animatedly to someone on her mobile. By the time I’m ready to leave for school, and have got Kelsie ready too, Mum still hasn’t come out. I feel kind of sad that she hasn’t even bothered to come out to say goodbye to us. But when I pick up my bag (filled with a dozen scones) and leave the house, I feel better.

  As class is about to begin, Violet comes up to me in the hall. ‘Do you have them?’ she whispers behind her hand. I feel a little flicker of pride when I see that, behind her, Gretchen and Alison are looking in our direction.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I gave one – well, two, actually – to Mum. But I’ve got the rest with me. Do you want one?’

  ‘Later.’ Violet smiles conspiratorially. ‘In fact, I have an idea.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ll see. Leave them with me
. And come to the canteen at lunchtime, OK?’

  I ignore a tiny stab of alarm. ‘OK.’

  Worry knots in my chest later on as I walk into the canteen. On a table at the centre is a large pink and purple Easter basket. I watch as a few kids go up to it and peer inside. There’s a sign taped to the handle of the basket.

  FREE SAMPLES!

  My stomach clenches. I sit down at a table near the door and watch the steady stream of people going up to the basket and helping themselves. A moment later, Violet plunks down beside me.

  ‘Do you like my surprise?’ she whispers.

  I stand up awkwardly. ‘Um . . . I’ll see you later, OK. I’ve got to see Ms Carver about an essay I wrote.’

  Violet stops smiling. ‘What’s up with you?’

  ‘Nothing.’ My voice catches. ‘You didn’t tell anyone that I helped make the scones, did you?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. But what’s the problem? Everybody loves them.’

  I look over to the central table. People are hovering around like wasps at a picnic. Some kids are talking to other kids that I know for sure aren’t their friends. The volume of chat in the room rises steadily. There were only twelve scones, but people seem to be sharing them out – even the crumbs.

  ‘Yeah, great. It’s just . . . could you not mention my name? I mean – can you say that you made them?’

  Violet puts her hands on her hips. ‘For your information, no one saw me put them there. I thought it would be fun to have it be a secret. I’m not going to say who made them.’

  ‘Oh.’ I feel so stupid. I can’t tell Violet about why I don’t want to be involved – it all just sounds so lame.

  ‘So, what’s wrong, Scarlett?’

  ‘Nothing.’ I turn away and leave the canteen.