‘So it was all a misunderstanding?’
‘Maybe.’
I add the cubed butter and stir it in. I stop waiting for an apology that isn’t going to come, and wonder if maybe I should be the one to say sorry. Maybe I was a little quick to drop her as a friend – just the way Stacie did to me. Maybe I should have tried to tell her how I felt six months ago. Maybe, maybe. But maybe it isn’t too late.
I stand back and let Gretchen rub the butter into the flour. ‘I’m glad you won the election,’ I say. ‘And I’m glad you’re here now.’
‘Yeah,’ she says.
‘It’s just – the mum stuff has been awful for me. Before the blog, I guess Mum and I did get on – or at least, we were kind of normal. But now, it’s Help! My daughter this; and Psst! My daughter that. All I know is – she can’t find out about this.’
‘She won’t find out from me.’ Gretchen pauses for a long second. ‘I promise.’
‘OK.’ I hope I’m not crazy to believe her.
I close my eyes and take a bite of fruit tart. My tongue tingles at the different tastes: the pastry light and crumbly, the custard rich and wobbly, and the fruit shiny and fresh (arranged neatly by Violet) on top and covered in a sticky apricot glaze. By the time we finish up for the evening, the four of us just seem kind of normal together. I have to admit that four people seem like more of a real club than just Violet and me. I’m relieved when Gretchen volunteers to put the fruit tarts in the canteen at lunchtime. (‘Well, no one will think I’m involved, will they?’)
Once the fruit tarts have been put away, Violet, Gretchen and I clean up the kitchen (Alison manages to spend most of the clean-up time answering texts on her mobile). We double-check that we’ve left no trace that we were ever here, and when it’s time to leave I lock the door and replace the key under the mat. Then we all repeat the secret password: ‘Buttercream’.
TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE
Things just can’t be going this well. I mean, this is my life after all. The next day, everything proceeds without a hitch. Gretchen and Alison say ‘hi’ to me in the hallway, but that’s it – acting friendly but not too friendly. Violet smiles at me from across the room as usual. Gretchen volunteers to help the teacher photocopy something, so she doesn’t even need the loo pass. And in the canteen at lunchtime, there are no fights or vomiting. Everyone queues up and gets their piece of fruit tart, and makes ‘mmm-ing’ noises and whispers how awesome it is, and how cool The Secret Cooking Club is. Best of all, Nick Farr still seems to be a fan. I join the queue for a slice of fruit tart, and overhear him saying something to Gretchen. ‘You know, I wish I knew how to cook stuff like this.’
For a split second, I have a little fantasy – that all the noise in the room hushes up and everything goes into slow motion. All of a sudden, the universe is just me and him. I walk up boldly, tap him on the shoulder, and say, ‘Why don’t you join us?’
But of course, I don’t.
Instead, I just try to be happy that Nick Farr and everyone else seems to like the fruit tarts and respect the club that Violet and I started, even if they’ll never know I’m involved. Or so I hope, anyway.
Because when lunch is over and things are back to normal, I’m aware of a nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach that won’t go away. To quote one of my mum’s favourite sayings in her blog: ‘Things that seem too good to be true usually are.’
After school, the four of us meet up at Mrs Simpson’s house. We all say the password ‘Buttercream’ on our way in, giggling a little at how silly it is to have a password. Everything is the same as when we left it the previous night. Gretchen and Violet are chatting about how much everyone liked the tarts. Alison gets the little recipe book off its stand and starts flipping through it to see what we can cook today.
I go out of the kitchen to lock the front door – I’d forgotten to do it when we came in. A van is idling outside. I can’t see anything through the stained-glass panel in the door, but I have the same strange feeling that I had earlier – this can’t last. My heart thuds in my chest.
The others are laughing and talking loudly in the kitchen. I’m about to go and re-join them when I hear a voice outside the door. ‘You sure you can manage until the nurse comes tomorrow? I’m happy to help you inside.’
And then the shrill reply of a woman’s voice. ‘Nonsense. I don’t need anyone to help me do anything now I’m home. You can send your nurse if you like, but I won’t let her in!’ A key turns in the lock.
I stand there, paralysed. The door opens and I’m face to face with an old woman: Rosemary Simpson.
She takes one look at me and lets out a strangled cry of surprise.
‘Mrs Simpson, please – it’s OK!’ I rush forward and try to help her inside. Her hair is like wire escaping from a bun at her neck and she’s leaning heavily on a cane.
‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’ She holds up the cane with a gnarled hand and waves it at me. ‘Shoo . . .’
I step back to avoid the random swing and hold up my hands. I’m aware of the others just behind me, peeking out of the kitchen door. ‘I’m Scarlett,’ I blurt out. ‘Your neighbour. I uh . . . I’ve been feeding your cat.’
Her eyes are bloodshot and wild. ‘Treacle? Where’s Treacle? What have you done with him?’
‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘The cat – Treacle? – hasn’t been here the last few days. But I came over to check if it – he – is back.’
‘Treacle?’ she calls out, craning her neck to look for him.
‘He isn’t here.’
She whirls back on me. I cower another few steps backwards.
Violet comes up to my side. ‘Hi, Mrs Simpson,’ she says, ‘would you like a cup of tea? We’ve got cupcakes left over from my birthday too. With buttercream icing and sparkles. They’re really nice.’
The old lady blinks and leans forward. Her wrinkled face goes white almost like she’s seen a ghost. ‘Cupcakes?’ she says. ‘Buttercream?’ She stares at the room around her like she’s trying to place where she is. Her eyes settle on Violet. ‘Yes, I’ll try one.’ She hobbles towards the kitchen. ‘And tea with two sugars and a dollop of milk.’
Gretchen and Alison make a quick retreat and start setting out cups and the last of the cupcakes on a plate. Violet sticks close to Mrs Simpson’s side, pulling up a chair for her.
Alison puts the plate of cupcakes in front of the old lady, and Gretchen makes her a cup of tea. I stand well back out of the way. It’s like the four of us are all holding our breath. Mrs Simpson lifts the cupcake in her trembling fingers, holds it to her nose and sniffs it. She peers closely at the icing swirls, the pink glitter, and the flower made of crystallized violets and rose petals in the centre. For a moment, she frowns. Then she takes a bite.
It seems to take for ever as she chews the cake with a clack of false teeth, and then swallows. I feel like I’m on national television awaiting the all-important verdict of the judges on Bake Off. Using her cane as a pivot, she swivels around in her chair and looks straight at me.
‘You,’ she says, pointing a wizened finger. ‘You did this?’
My mouth goes dry as I try to speak. ‘You’re right, Mrs Simpson, I started this. We shouldn’t be here – I know that. And I’m sorry. We’ll leave now and never come back. Or – you can call my mum if you want. Please don’t get my friends in trouble. It’s all my fault, not theirs.’
‘No,’ Violet says, ‘that’s not true. We all did it. It’s all of our faults.’
‘Hush!’ Mrs Simpson doesn’t turn around, but keeps staring at me. ‘This tastes like it has two teaspoons of baking powder in it. It should only have one. Don’t they teach you girls any maths these days?’
‘Um . . . I thought I put in one,’ Gretchen says. ‘I must have made a mistake.’
‘And the buttercream is too solid.’ She turns to Violet. ‘You should have used a dash more milk. And a hint of vanilla, I think.’ She licks her wrinkled lips. ‘Other than that . . . it’s passable.�
��
‘Passable?’
She turns away from me back to the others. ‘You’ve shown that you can follow a recipe.’ Her voice takes on a lecturing tone. ‘You can stir things together, put it in a tin and stick it in the oven.’ She tsks. ‘And by the way, the flapjacks you brought me were under-baked in the middle. You should have cooked them longer at a lower heat.’ Her hawk-like gaze turns to Violet. ‘And the crystallized violets were an interesting twist, but they made the whole thing too sweet. The bottom line is – you’ve found my kitchen and had your fun experimenting with your puddings and sweets. But now . . .’ She crosses her arms.
The word seems to echo around the room.
I bite my lip. She’s going to tell us to leave—
‘. . . now, you need to learn how to cook.’
STICK TO THE RIBS
I start to understand that old expression ‘slaving over a hot stove’. Gone are the cupcakes and banoffee pie; the flapjacks and fruit tarts are a dim and distant memory. Mrs Simpson says we need to learn how to cook, and she isn’t kidding.
‘You can’t think you know how to cook just because you can whip up a few puddings.’ She peers at each of us, her sunken blue eyes twinkling. ‘You girls these days are too skinny. In my day, we had rationing.’ She shakes her head like the memory hurts. ‘There was no sugar and no sweets. We all learnt how to cook food that “sticks to the ribs”.’
I nod politely. Suddenly, I’m very hungry for real food.
She flips the pages of the notebook, pausing and considering.
‘Do you know what I craved most as a girl after the war?’ Mrs Simpson says, her bushy eyebrows raised.
We shake our heads.
‘Eggs. That’s what. Real eggs, perfectly cooked, and everything that goes with them. But all we had back then were powdered eggs. You don’t know how lucky you are.’ She purses her lips. ‘Now I use only the freshest of ingredients – that’s one of the secrets of being a good cook.’
‘Is that the secret ingredient?’ I ask shyly.
‘No.’ My question seems to startle her. ‘Not that.’ Her eyes suddenly appear glassy and far away. ‘That’s something else entirely.’
For a long moment I worry that I’ve spoilt everything. I look down at the floor, scarcely daring to breathe.
‘So we’ll start with this one.’ Recovering, she props open the recipe book on the stand. Relief flows through me. The recipe on the page is for ‘Chicken Licken’s Eggs Benedict’. ‘If you can’t cook an egg properly, then you may as well get out of the kitchen.’
*
The four of us go through a whole dozen eggs, cracking them into cups, before Mrs Simpson is even halfway satisfied with our egg-breaking technique. Even Gretchen is sweating by the time we end up with a load of eggs in cups ready to poach. Mrs Simpson assigns Gretchen to do the poaching and prepare the sliced ham, Violet and Alison to bake the muffins, and me to make the hollandaise sauce.
While Mrs Simpson is helping Gretchen get the equipment out of the cupboards, I turn to Violet. ‘Looks like we have another new member.’
‘It’s all a little weird, isn’t it?’ Violet keeps her voice low.
‘What?’
‘That she’d just let us stay and carry on cooking.’
I shrug. ‘Maybe it was the flapjacks.’
‘Or she’s just lonely,’ Alison says. Flour puffs everywhere as she tips it into the bowl.
‘Anyway,’ I say, ‘let’s just go with it for now.’
It’s like we’re under a spell. An hour goes by, then another. Nothing else seems to matter – if we’re expected at home, or have homework or had other plans. The muffins bake, the hollandaise sauce gets whisked up and made. Mrs Simpson tells us stories about how people cooked during the war, and about how when she was a girl, they didn’t have Tesco or microwave ready meals or anything like that. While she mostly lets us get on with following the recipe, occasionally she cackles the odd instruction, or bangs her stick against the floor to make a point. The four of us scurry around like old-time kitchen maids.
Somehow we manage to finish making the Eggs Benedict. My stomach is rumbling because it’s almost eight o’clock and none of us have eaten anything. Violet stacks everything on the plates: muffin, ham, egg and a little swirl of hollandaise sauce for decoration. The four of us sneak glances at each other as Mrs Simpson sits down at the table and cuts a piece of what we’ve made. I think we’re all holding our breath – I know I am.
She raises the fork to her lips and pops the biteful into her mouth. She chews slowly and deliberately, the skin on her neck wobbling as she finally swallows it down.
Then she looks up. ‘Well,’ she says, waving an exasperated hand. ‘Don’t just stand there gawping. Sit down and eat.’
The other three scramble to sit down at the table, but I stand there, my hands on my hips. ‘But aren’t you going to say if it’s any good?’
She looks up at me slowly, still chewing. She pats her lips with a napkin, and takes a sip of tea.
‘You cooked it,’ she says. ‘Only you can say for sure.’
‘Oh,’ I say, not really understanding.
I sit down at the table. My friends and I silently lift our knives and forks, like taking the first bite is some kind of test. I cut a piece off the little tower of eggs and muffin and stick it in my mouth. The tastes are wholesome and familiar, yet new at the same time. It strikes me that I’ve never before really paid attention to what I eat – the different flavours and textures. Maybe part of learning how to cook is learning how to eat. I look up and notice that Mrs Simpson is watching me chew the first bite. Her lips pursed in a thin line, she nods almost imperceptibly at me. I smile down at my plate. I know it’s good.
In no time at all, everyone’s plate is completely empty. My only regret is that we didn’t make more. ‘Shall we start the washing-up?’ I ask Mrs Simpson.
‘First let’s talk about what we cooked tonight, and what we learnt.’
She goes around the table, asking each of us in turn what we thought of the dish we made. Alison says that it tasted ‘good’, and Violet says that it was ‘fun to make’. But Mrs Simpson keeps questioning us, making us talk about things like the balance of the seasoning, the texture of the eggs, the crispiness of the muffins. Gretchen thought that the sauce was a little runny; Violet thought that her muffin was too brown on the bottom. When it gets to be my turn, I don’t quite know what to say.
‘I thought that everything we used went really well together,’ I muster finally. ‘Like it belonged that way all along.’
For the first time all evening, Mrs Simpson manages a little smile. The years melt off her face. I smile back, glad to have given a ‘right’ answer. ‘In that case,’ she says, ‘I think we’re done here. Now, off with you – I want this kitchen sparkling before you leave.’
‘Yes, Mrs Simpson,’ we all say in unison.
We jump up from the table and start a marathon of washing up dishes, cleaning surfaces, putting away ingredients and wiping down the hob. I keep stealing glances at Mrs Simpson as she drinks another cup of tea, wondering about her. Tonight she’s made me think about cooking in a whole new way. And I feel good inside about what I’ve accomplished. That’s the best part.
But by the time I finish drying the dishes, Mrs Simpson’s eyes are closed and her head is drooping. Her grip loosens on her stick, and it falls to the floor with a thud.
‘We have to get her to bed,’ I say. We take off our aprons and help Mrs Simpson to the sofa in the front room. We cover her with an orange knitted throw. Less than a minute later, she’s asleep. All of a sudden I realize how irresponsible we’ve been – it must have been a shock for her to come home from hospital only to find a cooking club in her kitchen. We should have left hours ago.
‘Can we just leave her?’ I say to Gretchen. Together we unfasten the old lady’s shoes.
‘I’m not sure we have much choice. I guess she’ll be OK if she’s asleep.’
‘Uh oh!’ Alison looks at the screen of her phone for the first time all evening. ‘I told my mum that I’d be home by half eight from your house, Gretch. And now it’s almost half nine. And I was supposed to finish that stupid essay.’
Gretchen shrugs. ‘We’re all in the same boat.’
‘Where’s her stick?’ I say. ‘She’ll need it when she wakes up.’
‘Still in the kitchen, I guess,’ Violet says.
‘I’ll just go and get it.’
I go back to the kitchen. The little recipe notebook is closed on the rack, like it’s resting for the night. The plates and dishes that we used have been washed and are drying on the draining board of the sink. The pots and pans are drying at the back of the hob. There’s a faint hissing sound like a tap is running somewhere. I check the kitchen tap – it’s off. One of the wet tea towels is crumpled up on the counter. I hang it up over the front of the range to dry faster. I pick up Mrs Simpson’s stick and take it into the front room, propping it against the sofa so she can’t miss it.
‘Let’s go,’ I say. ‘I’ll come back tomorrow morning and check that she’s OK.’
We all grab our school bags and head out of the door. We’re in such a hurry that no one even thinks to give the secret password.
Maybe that’s what we did wrong.
KETCHUP SKY
There’s a light on under the door to the Mum Cave when I get back home. I tiptoe out of the kitchen towards the stairs when all of a sudden Mum bursts out.
‘Scarlett! Where have you been? I’ve been so worried.’ She engulfs me in her special stale-smelling Mum hug. ‘I was about to call the police. I can’t believe you did this to me again.’
The Secret Cooking Club Page 8
