I’m so tired that I just stand there letting her squeeze me.
‘Sorry, Mum,’ I say. ‘But I did tell you about the science project. We’re working in pairs to build’ – I scratch my head, trying to remember what we’ve done in science class this year – ‘a solar-powered car.’
‘Really?’ Mum looks disappointed – she won’t get much mileage out of that in her blog.
‘I’m paired up with a new girl. Her name is Violet.’
Mum steps back. I have to catch myself from slumping. ‘All right, maybe you did mention it before – I don’t remember.’ She shrugs dismissively. ‘But I think it’s time we got you a phone. Just so you can let me know where you are.’
‘A phone? Really?’ Mum’s always been opposed to girls my age having phones or tablets – anything like that. While I’ve got her old laptop computer and printer to do my homework, she won’t even let me have internet access. She’s already done a post on: We didn’t have any of that stuff in my day . . . so you don’t need it either. ‘That would be great.’
‘I really was worried, Scarlett. I hope you know that.’
I nod, wishing I could say more – tell her that I’m grateful that she was worried about me. But the words won’t come out.
‘It’s just, there’s something strange with this house sometimes.’ She stares at the wall, oddly distracted. ‘It’s like, I keep smelling things. And remembering . . .’
‘Really?’ I say. ‘Like what?’
‘Never mind.’ She shakes her head. ‘I’ve got to get back to work now.’ She goes to her office door. ‘And because you gave me a fright, you’re grounded.’
Grounded! I try to protest, but she slams the door of the Mum Cave in my face. This is the first time she’s ever grounded me, and I can just imagine her sitting gleefully at her computer and typing up a new blog entry: A Mum’s Pop Quiz: how many years has my daughter taken off my life?
But as long as she doesn’t know about The Secret Cooking Club, I can live with whatever rubbish she writes. I realize that since we started the club, I’m stronger somehow; more confident. More like my old self.
I go upstairs and brush my teeth. I can’t remember ever being so happy to flop into my own bed. I pull the duvet up to my neck and close my eyes. But sleep doesn’t come. I go back over the events of the night: from Rosemary Simpson’s surprise arrival, to the egg dish that we made, to how full my stomach feels having eaten something fresh and healthy. But there’s a little niggle at the back of my mind that won’t go away. A hissing sound – like a tap is running somewhere . . .
‘Wake up, Scarlett!’
A hand is shaking me in the dark. There’s a strange reddish orange glow outside the net curtains, and something smells funny.
‘The sky is ketchup,’ Kelsie says. She pulls the duvet off me. ‘Come and see.’
I swing out of bed with a sleepy groan. The blood rushes from my head. Something is very wrong.
‘Girls!’ Mum’s voice is frantic as she runs up the stairs. ‘We need to get outside right now. Something’s burning.’
Burning!
All of a sudden I hear the scream of a siren rushing down the road. The ketchup sky begins to flash with the glow of the spinning dome on the fire engine.
‘Mrs Simpson!’ I cry. ‘She’s in there.’
‘Who?’ Mum barks.
‘Our neighbour! She’s just come home from hospital.’
We rush outside the front door. A small crowd of neighbours has gathered across the road.
Firefighters pour out of the shiny red truck – there’s at least six of them – and go up to Mrs Simpson’s front door. One of them tries the door and another one gets ready to bash it in.
‘There’s a key underneath the mat,’ I yell, rushing forwards. ‘You don’t need to bust down the door.’
One of the firefighters gets the key and unlocks the door.
‘Please step back,’ another one says to me. ‘Across the road at the very least.’
‘Scarlett?’ Mum’s voice warns. ‘Come away now.’ She pulls me along by the arm, her other hand herding Kelsie. When we’re across the road I turn back, petrified, as the fireman pushes open the door. But there’s no billowing cloud of smoke: just an old lady’s frightened cry: ‘Who are you, young man? Go away now. Shoo . . .’
Two more firefighters dash in, one carrying a full-length stretcher. Mrs Simpson’s protests grow even louder. ‘This is my house – and I’m not leaving!’
The remaining firefighters go inside, dragging along a limp fire hose. I hear a loud crash of glass. ‘Please, lady!’ A man’s voice. ‘We’re trying to help you. There’s a fire in your kitchen.’
Mum is busy trying to get Kelsie to take her thumb out of her mouth. Sensing my chance, I dash back across the road. One of the neighbours calls out, and then Mum yells, ‘Stop, Scarlett,’ but I keep going. Mrs Simpson knows me – I can help get her out of the burning house.
But just as my foot hits the kerb, a sleek black Mercedes pulls up. I stop. A man jumps out of the car: tall with a high forehead, thin nose and slicked-back dark hair. He’s wearing a smart black suit and shiny black shoes. He turns to the crowd and waves briefly. Then he strides past me and up to the door.
‘Aunt Rosemary?’ he calls out loudly. Water begins to whoosh through the hosepipe.
‘No!’ Mrs Simpson’s voice. ‘Turn off that water right now!’
I realize that Mr Black Mercedes must be the nephew, Mr Kruffs. Somehow, I’d pictured him as different – shorter, stouter, more like a fluffy poodle at Crufts dog show. But this man looks more like a slick, modern version of the Child Snatcher. Not someone I’d like to cross.
A moment later, the two firefighters come outside with Mrs Simpson between them – kicking and dragging her feet like a criminal resisting arrest. Mr Kruffs makes a big show of trying to take his aunt’s arm. He waves to the crowd that everything’s OK – obviously playing up the ‘politician-rescues-old-lady-from-burning-building’ angle. Several people take pictures with their phones.
Mrs Simpson jerks her arm away. ‘You can go now, Emory,’ she says. ‘Everything is fine.’
‘Fine?’ His voice is low. ‘Your house is burning down – with you in it.’
‘Well . . .’ Mrs Simpson yanks her stick away from one of the firemen, ‘this lot has everything sorted. And it was only a very small fire . . .’ She turns to the crowd across the street and waves her cane. ‘Go away – shoo . . .’
I step forward. ‘Mrs Simpson?’ I try to sound calm and soothing. ‘Are you OK? Can I help?’
Mr Kruffs gives me an intense glare down his long nose, like I’ve just thrown an egg at his car. ‘Who are you?’
I stand my ground. ‘I’m her neighbour.’
‘Well, go back across the road, please. It’s not safe for kids here.’
Mrs Simpson stares at me with pleading blue eyes. ‘Scarlett?’ she says, sounding confused.
‘That’s right, Mrs Simpson.’ Ignoring Mr Kruffs, I reach forward and take her arm gently. ‘Shall we go and wait across the road until this is over?’
The old woman looks at her nephew, hesitating. Before she can make up her mind, one of the firemen comes out.
‘Everything is under control,’ he says, loud enough for the crowd to hear. ‘You can all go back to bed.’
Someone chuckles like he’s said something funny. No one leaves. I glance over at Mum, who’s talking to a woman from down the street. I catch a snippet about Boots and the ‘Mum’s Survival Kit’.
Mr Kruffs steps up and stands next to the fireman. ‘Everything is going to be fine now.’ He grins widely as a few more photos are snapped. ‘I think we should all get out of the way now and let our brave firefighters finish doing their jobs.’
The crowd murmurs, and a few people begin to leave.
I lean closer to Mrs Simpson and listen as the fireman speaks to Mr Kruffs. ‘It was just a small, contained fire,’ he says. ‘The hob in the kitchen was left on
and a tea towel caught fire.’
‘A tea towel . . .’ My hand flies to my mouth. What have I done?
The fireman continues talking to Mr Kruffs. ‘There’s some smoke damage, a burnt window frame and a broken window. It could have been a lot worse.’
But things are worse. I know that as soon as I take a look at Mr Kruffs, his face grimacing in concern. ‘The hob was left on,’ he repeats. He shakes his head and tsks dramatically. ‘Really, Aunt Rosemary.’
‘It wasn’t her fault!’ I say. Guilt and fear churn inside me.
‘Please stay out of this,’ Mr Kruffs says sharply. He turns back to his aunt. ‘This proves that you can’t keep living here on your own.’
Her face crumples. ‘Yes, I can,’ she says. ‘And I wouldn’t be on my own if you hadn’t taken Treacle.’
Mr Kruffs gives a pained-looking shrug. ‘Shouldn’t you be thanking me for that? That greedy old cat could have starved to death while you were in hospital.’
‘He’s not greedy,’ I cut in. ‘And he wouldn’t have starved. I was feeding him. You should bring him back.’
Mr Kruffs peers down at me like a vulture in a tall tree. ‘This is nothing to do with you,’ he says.
Mrs Simpson’s bony hand tightens on my arm. ‘It’s everything to do with me,’ I say with a sudden surge of protectiveness. ‘Mrs Simpson is my neighbour – we share a wall. If her house had burnt down, so would ours.’ I turn to the old lady. ‘Come on, Mrs Simpson, let’s go. I’ll ask Mum if you can sleep at our house tonight.’
‘There, Emory, you see?’ Rosemary Simpson gives her nephew a defiant look. She allows me to steer her away. She hobbles towards our house, leaning heavily on both me and her stick.
‘I’ll be back in the morning,’ Mr Kruffs says. In two strides he’s back at the black Mercedes and getting into the driver’s seat. ‘We’ll talk about this further. And this time, I’m going to take some action.’
Mrs Simpson’s whole body starts to tremble.
‘It’s OK,’ I whisper. ‘It’s going to be fine.’
‘Don’t let him put me in a home, please.’
‘I won’t, Mrs Simpson.’ I bite my lip. ‘I promise.’
MAPLE SYRUP
But how on earth can I promise something like that? I’m the one who failed to notice that the burner was still on. I’m the one who draped the tea towel too close. The fire was my fault, and Mrs Simpson is paying the price! I stand next to her, feeling like my chest might explode. All of a sudden, Mum storms across the road, pulling my sister along with her. She takes my arm and pulls me a little way away.
‘Scarlett,’ she scolds, ‘that man is a politician. You sounded very rude when you spoke to him. What’s going on?’
‘Mum . . .’ I choke. Tell her. No, don’t tell her. What should I do? I take a long breath to pull myself together. ‘Please can Mrs Simpson stay at our house tonight? It sounds like the firemen have made a bit of a mess in there. She needs somewhere to go.’
Mum looks at Mrs Simpson’s bent figure, then back at me. Her cheeks are red from the cold air and the effort of boring the pants off our neighbour with stories of the Boots product selection committee.
‘Honestly, Scarlett!’ she says in a harassed whisper. ‘We can’t take someone in just like that. Where would she sleep?’
‘In my bed, or on the sofa bed – I don’t care.’
‘But we don’t even know her—’
‘We can’t just leave her out here!’ I cry. ‘She’s our neighbour, and her house was on fire. We need to help her.’
‘But I’ve got a deadline – I’m so busy . . .’ Mum shakes her head. ‘You know that, Scarlett.’
I take a breath. ‘I do know that, Mum. You have to write your blog. What’s it going to be this time: Help! My teenage daughter is taking in vagrants off the street? Or maybe, Psst! My thoughtless daughter made me miss my deadline. But if you write that, I’m going to get online and be the first person to leave a comment.’ I stand up straighter. ‘I’m going to tell everyone – all your precious readers, Twitter followers and Facebook friends – that the old lady who lives next door had no place to go and you wouldn’t even let her sleep on the sofa for one night.’ I raise my chin. ‘How do you think that will make you look at your next meeting with Boots?’
‘You wouldn’t dare,’ Mum spits. ‘If you ever do anything to hurt my reputation online, then I’ll . . . I’ll . . .’
‘It’s just for one night, Mum. Let Mrs Simpson stay with us for one night.’
Mum’s eyes skewer me but I can’t back down – not now. ‘We’re not done with this conversation.’ She walks over to Mrs Simpson – the old lady seems to have dozed off leaning on her stick – and puts her hand on her arm. ‘Mrs Simpson?’ Mum sounds like she’s talking to a child. ‘I’m Claire – Scarlett’s mum. If you need a place to stay for tonight, you can come next door to ours . . .’
Somehow I manage to fall asleep, because when I wake up the next morning, my body feels like lead. The memories of the night come rushing back – the fire that I caused; standing up to Mr Kruffs and Mum; and most of all, the helpless look of trust on Mrs Simpson’s face through it all. I get out of bed and rush to the window. The fire engines are gone without any sign that they were ever really here. Everything is still and quiet. I get dressed and go downstairs to check on our guest.
The blanket is folded on the sofa and the room is empty. I feel a stab of panic. I’d offered Mrs Simpson my bed, but she said that she preferred to sleep on the sofa downstairs. What if she wandered off in the night – sleepwalking maybe – and got hit by a car? Or maybe Mr Kruffs broke in and gagged her and took her off to a home, and I’ll never know where she is or what happened, and it’s all my fault—
And then I smell it. Like a zombie, I turn and leave the room in a daze. Whatever it is, it’s coming from our kitchen – and I can already tell that it’s going to be delicious.
I practically collide at the bottom of the stairs with Mum. She’s looks sleepy and cross with uncombed hair and no make-up.
‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ I blurt out. ‘I shouldn’t have said those things last night.’
She rubs her eyes. ‘No, Scarlett, I was the one who was wrong. You were just trying to be kind and neighbourly – the way I raised you.’
I smile faintly and don’t bother to contradict her.
Mum sniffs the air. ‘What’s that? It smells like cooking.’
‘I think it’s Mrs Simpson’s way of saying thank you.’
Mum raises her eyebrows. ‘Oh?’
I follow her to the kitchen. Mum stops at the door and gasps. A second later, I can see why.
The kitchen is immaculate – the washing-up has been done, the magazines and clutter neatly stacked to one side, and the table has been washed and set with four places. There are two large cast-iron pans on the hob, one filled with four sizzling eggs, and one that I can’t see because Mrs Simpson’s back is blocking my view. She’s standing up straight and steady without any sign of her stick. A second later, she lifts the frying pan and something flips up into the air. She catches it in the pan and removes it with a spatula on to a plate.
‘Sit down,’ she says, without turning round. ‘Everything will be ready in about five minutes.’
Mum and I look at each other with wide eyes. I wouldn’t even think of not obeying the command. Mum sits down at one end of the table. I sit down at my usual place, and behind me I hear the shuffling feet of my sister in her bunny slippers.
‘Oooh, breakfast,’ Kelsie says. ‘Smells nice.’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Sit down.’
Mrs Simpson brings Mum a steaming cup of coffee. ‘Thank you,’ Mum says in a croaky voice. The milk and sugar are already set out neatly in front of her. Mrs Simpson goes back to the hob and spoons more batter into the hot pan.
‘I’m not the biggest fan of American cooking nowadays,’ the old lady says. ‘It’s all non-fat this and no-carbs that. But when they do things the old-fashion
ed, home-cooked way, they get it right. Like pancakes and pure maple syrup. Nothing beats it, if you ask me.’
‘I love pancakes!’ my sister says. ‘It’s like when we went to Disney World.’
I smile at her. Just before Dad left, we had a family holiday to Florida. We stayed at a little motel next to an International House of Pancakes. I can just about remember how good everything tasted.
‘Where did you get everything?’ Mum asks, looking flustered. ‘I’m afraid I forgot to arrange a food delivery for this week.’
‘From my house,’ Mrs Simpson says. ‘The fire really was nothing – just a little smoke damage.’ She smiles in my direction. ‘The refrigerator was fine. I went over early to make sure I saved what I could.’
‘Good thinking,’ Mum says. ‘And I’m glad the fire wasn’t serious.’
‘Um,’ I say, biting my lip, ‘there’s something I need to say—’
Mrs Simpson cuts me off with a quick finger to her lips. I stop. She begins handing around the plates.
‘It’s just – can I help with that?’ I mumble.
She waves away my offer. This is her moment.
As well as pancakes, maple syrup and perfectly cooked eggs, there’s bacon, fruit salad and toast with fresh strawberry jam from a jar with a handwritten label. It’s like being in breakfast heaven.
When everyone else is served, Mrs Simpson sets down her own plate, but keeps standing up behind her chair. ‘Eat it while it’s hot,’ she says. She watches intently as we pick up our forks and try the food. After that, no one speaks – it’s all too delicious for words. Mrs Simpson finally sits down, a satisfied smile on her face. I smile too – for a second. Then I’m back to eating the best breakfast ever.
Mum gracefully ducks out after a second helping – but before the washing-up – and Kelsie goes off to watch TV. I’m left facing Mrs Simpson across the table.
‘That was amazing,’ I say. ‘Thank you so much.’
Mrs Simpson sighs and begins clearing the plates.
I jump up. ‘I’ll do that,’ I say, taking the plate from her hand and running water in the sink to do the washing-up.
The Secret Cooking Club Page 9
