The Secret Cooking Club

by Laurel Remington

  ‘No, child.’ She waves at me to sit back down. ‘I’ve got a headache. And when that happens, it helps to have something to focus on. I need to think straight.’

  I pour myself a third glass of fresh orange juice and sit down. ‘What can I do to help you?’ I say. ‘Violet and I – well, all of us really – we’d like to do something. Your nephew has no right to put you in a home. He just can’t!’

  The old lady’s shoulders droop like a wilted flower.

  ‘I mean, you didn’t start that fire! We left the hob on, and I put the tea towel on the front of the cooker to dry. The fire was my fault. And I’m going to tell your nephew – and my mum – the truth.’ I feel like a prisoner marching to the scaffold, but I know it’s the right thing to do.

  Mrs Simpson straightens up suddenly and turns to me. ‘Don’t mention it to them, Scarlett,’ she says. ‘It won’t help anything. If Emory knows you were there in the house, it might make things worse.’

  ‘But why? Isn’t it worse if he thinks you can’t look after yourself?’

  She turns back to the sink and begins soaping the dishes with a sponge, pausing only to tuck a stray strand of grey hair back into her bun. ‘Everyone gets old,’ she says finally. ‘There’s no escaping that. I have to go some time – and I’m OK with that. I’d just like to stay in my own home as long as I can, that’s all.’ She stops talking. A tear runs down her cheek – or maybe it’s just a soapsud.

  I stand up. ‘How about I dry?’ I offer.

  Mrs Simpson nods. I grab a tea towel and we both go about the washing-up in silence. My mind is turning over and over. There must be something that I can do – something that The Secret Cooking Club can do. But what?

  When we’ve finished the dishes, Mrs Simpson dries her hands and takes off her apron. Her ankles are thick and saggy in too-dark nude tights.

  ‘I’d like my cat to be with me,’ she says. ‘If I have to go into one of those places.’

  ‘We need to get Treacle back anyway.’ I fold my arms stubbornly. ‘And as far as I’m concerned, you’re not going anywhere if you don’t want to.’

  Her smile is fragile. ‘Thank you, child. And now, I’d like to go back to my house.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Part of me was hoping that Mrs Simpson would stay here with us.

  ‘Yes,’ she insists. ‘I have to deal with this on my own. Trust me, it’s better that way.’ She rubs her temples like she’s in pain.

  ‘But what about the fire? I mean, aren’t you mad at us?’

  She gives a little chuckle. ‘Let me tell you a secret, Scarlett. Everyone makes mistakes. In this case, there was no harm done, you learnt something, and it will never happen again. I know that.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, some of the tension draining away. ‘I’m sorry all the same.’

  ‘I know.’ She smiles.

  ‘You’ll be OK going home on your own?’

  ‘Yes, I will.’ She grips her stick tightly and hobbles towards the front door. I open it and she goes outside, her stick clonking on the pavement. I watch to make sure she’s OK. When she gets to her own front door, she stops. ‘By the way, Scarlett,’ she says.

  ‘Yeah? I mean . . . yes?’

  ‘I shall expect you and your friends at five o’clock today. Don’t be late.’

  I stare at her in disbelief.

  ‘Um, OK,’ I say. ‘We won’t be.’

  Back inside my house I get Mum’s mobile from its charger and quickly ring Violet.

  ‘We’ve got a situation,’ I say. I tell her all about the fire; about Mrs Simpson staying with us; about the breakfast – and about how we can’t be late.

  ‘Oh, Scarlett,’ Violet says, ‘that’s so awful. I can’t believe that we . . . It’s terrible!’

  ‘I wanted to tell Mr Kruffs, but she didn’t want me to. She said it would only make things worse. But I’m not sure I believe that. We have to do something.’

  ‘And she really still wants us to come over? Didn’t you say the whole kitchen was on fire?’

  ‘No. Luckily it wasn’t that bad – just a bit of smoke damage. It could have been a lot worse apparently. But now Mr Kruffs is trying to put her in a home.’

  ‘A home? But she has a home.’

  ‘No! I mean an old people’s home. Like one of those awful places you hear about on the news. I bet there’s nothing to do but sit around and watch TV and play bridge. You probably have to eat horrible mushy food so that your dentures don’t fall out. Everyone’s pretty much just waiting to die.’

  ‘Ugh.’ Violet shudders. ‘She can’t go there. But what can we do?’

  Secretly, I’m a little disappointed that Violet doesn’t have a solution – because I know I don’t.

  ‘Can you call Gretchen and Alison?’ I grasp at straws. ‘We need an emergency meeting right after school. We have to think of something.’

  BRAINSTORMING

  When The Secret Cooking Club gathers in the front room of Violet’s aunt’s house, everyone starts talking at once. ‘Who used the hob last?’ Gretchen tries to get to the bottom of things.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Violet says. ‘Maybe me, or Alison, I don’t remember—’

  ‘I’m sure I checked,’ Alison wails. ‘It wasn’t me.’

  ‘Look,’ I hold up my hand. ‘This won’t help. We’re a club, so in some ways we’re all responsible.’ I swallow hard. ‘Besides, I went into the kitchen last—’

  ‘You’re right – it doesn’t matter,’ Gretchen says. ‘It happened and we need to move on – together.’

  Everyone nods glumly. I pass around a bowl of tasteless cheese crisps.

  ‘We could meet here sometimes,’ Violet volunteers. ‘As long as we clean up really well. Aunt Hilda doesn’t cook, and she doesn’t like the smell of food in the kitchen.’

  ‘What good is a kitchen where you can’t cook?’ Gretchen says stroppily.

  ‘We could meet at my house,’ Alison says. ‘Mum doesn’t get home from work until seven. She doesn’t cook either, but she’s got a lot of stuff we could use.’

  I shake my head. ‘That’s not the point. Even if we could find somewhere else, it won’t be the same.’

  ‘I agree,’ Violet says. ‘Besides, we’ve made things worse for Mrs Simpson: her nephew’s threatening to send her to an old people’s home because she can’t look after herself. We can’t just leave her to be locked away eating mushy food until she dies.’

  ‘Mushy food?’ Alison looks horrified. ‘She’d hate that.’

  I clear my throat to get things back on track. ‘And anyway,’ I say, ‘she’s teaching us. I’ve never had a mentor before.’

  ‘Me neither,’ Gretchen says. ‘And I guess she must have enjoyed it too if she wants us to come back. So what do we do?’

  ‘Well, I was kind of hoping you might have some ideas,’ I say. ‘Since you’re involved in the PTA and all that.’

  Gretchen gives me an exasperated look. ‘Have you ever been to a PTA meeting?’

  ‘No.’

  She shakes her head. ‘Forget it.’

  ‘I have an idea.’ Alison flicks a lock of blonde hair out of her eyes. The three of us turn towards her. I stifle a mean little thought that it’s probably the first time she’s ever spoken those words. ‘Well, I do.’ Alison glares at Gretchen (who must have been thinking the same as me). ‘I was thinking that maybe we could have a bake-a-thon or something.’

  I sit back in my chair. ‘Go on . . .’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe we could get sponsors and advertisers, and people could make pledges to a PayPal account. Nick says you can raise money by doing stuff online. I mean . . . look at your mum.’ She glances sideways at me like she’s still trying to figure out why I deserve to have a ‘celebrity’ in the family.

  The mention of Nick Farr makes my cheeks go hot. ‘Well, I don’t know anything about what Mum does, other than make my life miserable,’ I say. ‘Besides, even if we raised money, what good would that do?’

  ‘Mrs Simpson could
hire a nurse or carer,’ Gretchen says. ‘That’s what happened when my gran got really old. The carer came in once a day at first. At the end, she was there round the clock.’

  ‘It’s definitely something to consider, I guess.’

  ‘But what about Mr Kruffs?’ Violet says. She lowers her voice. ‘Aunt Hilda said that he’s keen to have Mrs Simpson sell her house. I think he owns a share of it or something. Maybe that’s why he’s so keen to get rid of her.’

  ‘That’s pretty low,’ Gretchen says.

  ‘You know,’ I say, ‘there is one thing that we might be able to do – about Mr Kruffs, if he causes trouble.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Violet asks.

  ‘Well . . .’ I think aloud. ‘I know how stressed my mum gets over her “online image” and the number of Facebook friends and Twitter followers that she has. She’s always going on about it.’

  ‘She’s got loads, hasn’t she?’ Gretchen says admiringly.

  ‘But she’s always trying to get more. And if Mr Kruffs is running for MP, he’s probably worried about his public image too.’

  ‘The “grey vote”!’ Gretchen says. ‘That’s what you call it when you want old people to vote for you.’

  ‘Yeah. And it wouldn’t look very good if everyone knew that he put his aunt in a home, would it?’

  ‘No!’ Violet’s eyes blaze. ‘I wouldn’t vote for him. No way.’

  ‘So if he tries anything, we expose him.’

  ‘OK,’ Gretchen says. ‘It’s a start. And now, we’d better head over to her house.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Alison stands up quickly. ‘I’m starving and I want to cook something, not sit around here.’ She eyes the bowl of cheese crisps disdainfully.

  ‘Me too.’ I stand up while Violet tosses the rest of the crisps in the bin. ‘Let’s go.’

  We go to Mrs Simpson’s house and ring the bell. There’s no outward sign that there ever was a fire, or that anyone is home. Or whether or not Mr Kruffs came around as promised. After a minute there’s no answer so I knock hard on the door. A wave of anxiety rises inside me.

  ‘Is the key still there?’ Violet says. ‘We ought to at least check that she’s OK.’

  I bend down and check under the mat. The key is there as usual. I unlock the door and we all go inside. There’s a smell of smoke, and the house is quiet like it’s holding its breath. I tiptoe towards the light under the kitchen door, feeling nervous.

  As I’m about to turn the knob, a voice comes from inside. ‘You’re two minutes late.’

  Mrs Simpson’s voice.

  I open the door. Part of the wall is charred black, the window is blocked with cardboard, and there are towels on the floor mopping up the last of the water. Mrs Simpson’s copper kettle is on the hob with steam coming out of it – at least the stove seems to be working. I suck in a breath through my teeth, feeling guilty all over again.

  Mrs Simpson looks up from where she’s sitting at the table, cookbooks spread out before her. There’s also a piece of paper and a pen.

  ‘I’m sorry we’re late,’ I say. ‘And just so you know, we all wanted to say—’

  She holds up her hand to silence me.

  ‘You wanted to say that you’re sorry, and that it won’t happen again. I know all that, so let’s just skip it and get down to business.’ She lifts her chin proudly.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Simpson,’ we all say in unison.

  ‘I’ve made up a menu.’ She holds up the piece of paper. Four of you, and four courses. Sound fair enough?’

  OMG!

  For the next few hours, I forget about the fire, my problems, Mrs Simpson’s problems, and everything else – except trying to cook something special that meets her high standards.

  AN IDEA

  At school the next day I daydream about the evening at Mrs Simpson’s house. For the first time ever, I ate like I was in a five-star restaurant. There was French onion soup with home-grown herbs; spicy crab cakes with a dill mayonnaise; perfectly marinated rib-eye steaks with tender vegetables; and for pudding, my own special creation – a mint and strawberry chocolate soufflé.

  Mrs Simpson didn’t even lift a spoon during the cooking process, but she hovered over each step; approving the measuring and mixing of ingredients like she was four people at once. She also set the table with fine gold-rimmed china, snow-white linen placemats and napkins, and gold and silver candles. We didn’t talk about the fire, or her worries, or any of our own.

  Once, as we were cooking, I’d tried to ask her about the little recipe book hoping she’d tell us more about the dedication – ‘To my Little Cook – may you find the secret ingredient.’ ‘It’s a really lovely little book,’ I’d said. ‘It must have taken you ages to make.’

  But Mrs Simpson didn’t answer right away. Her breathing seemed to grow shallow and I could tell that I’d upset her. But a moment later, she’d recovered. ‘It was a long time ago,’ she’d said, her hand trembling as she raised a teacup to her lips. I’d taken the hint – and Violet had helpfully asked a question about how long to cook the vegetables in order to change the subject.

  When dinner was served, Mrs Simpson got us each talking about the good bits about ourselves: our happiest times, our best memories, what we want to be when we grow up – stuff that might seem lame, but actually was nice to talk about.

  Gretchen talked a lot about her family and how close they are. I already knew her dad is a barrister, but I didn’t know that her mum is the head of HR for some bank. Or that she has an older brother who works for a clean water charity in Africa. No wonder Gretchen tries hard to be Ms Perfect. And succeeds – most of the time, at least. ‘I want to study law like my dad,’ she said proudly. ‘So I can help people with their problems. But I’ll need to know how to cook for when I’m at university. And, you know, after.’

  Alison acted unusually shy when Mrs Simpson asked her about her future ambitions. Before answering, she looked at Gretchen as if seeking permission. ‘I wanted to go to ballet school,’ she told us, ‘but I had to have an operation on my knee. So that’s not going to be possible now.’

  I saw her through new eyes, feeling surprised and sympathetic. Alison has turned out to be nicer than I expected, but I didn’t know that she’d had that happen to her.

  ‘But I’m kind of OK with it,’ she continued. ‘I was thinking that I could start a dance studio someday. I like working with kids. But who knows . . .’ She smiled in my direction. ‘Maybe I’ll teach cooking too so that girls who want to be dancers can still eat healthily. It’s really fun – I never would have guessed.’

  Mrs Simpson nodded thoughtfully. ‘The best way to eat healthily is to use healthy ingredients – vegetables, nuts, fruits, fish – all as fresh as possible. I’ve got some special recipes I can show you.’

  ‘Great,’ Alison said. ‘I’d like that.’

  When Mrs Simpson turned to Violet and asked her what she wanted to be, Violet surprised everyone except me by saying that she wants to be a doctor. ‘I want to save lives,’ she said. Her eyes flicked over to me, but she didn’t tell the rest of them what she had told me. ‘But until I can do that, I’m happy enough baking things. I was really scared to come to a new school,’ she admitted. ‘But now that we’ve got The Secret Cooking Club, I’m glad I did.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘The Secret Cooking Club has been good for all of us.’

  ‘And what about you, Scarlett?’ Mrs Simpson asked.

  I’d been waiting for the question, and made up all kinds of answers in my mind: like winning Bake Off, writing my own cookbook, or helping end hunger in Africa. But instead, I decided to answer truthfully.

  ‘I don’t know, really,’ I said. ‘I’m kind of just trying to enjoy what I’ve got now – like you guys.’

  ‘Let’s toast the Secret Cooking Club,’ Violet replied raising her glass.

  ‘To Mrs Simpson,’ I said.

  ‘To mixing friends and flour,’ Gretchen added.

  ‘To buttercream,’ Alison laugh
ed.

  Mrs Simpson leant forwards. ‘To friendship,’ she said.

  ‘Hear, hear.’

  The kitchen echoed with the tinkling of crystal as we all clinked our glasses together. And even though it took a long time to wash and put away all that fine china, it was a really good night.

  But now . . .

  ‘Hey Scarlett, wait up!’

  I turn round and see that the person trying to get my attention is Nick Farr. I feel like everything I ate for breakfast might come up again. Alison and Gretchen are good friends with Nick, so why does talking to a boy make me so nervous?

  ‘Oh, hi.’ I stop walking and turn, feeling myself blush.

  ‘Alison said you needed some help – with an online profile or something?’

  ‘Um, I do—?’

  ‘That’s what she said.’ His cute-as-a-boy-band-member face slips into a frown.

  Get a grip, Scarlett! ‘I mean – yes, I do.’

  He raises an eyebrow. ‘I’ve got my laptop in my bag. I can meet you in the library after school. But I don’t have long. I’m helping coach a junior rugby team later tonight.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘OK, well . . .’ He gives me a look like he’s sorry he bothered to speak to me in the first place. ‘I’ll see you later then?’

  ‘Yeah. Thanks.’

  I make a dash for the girls’ loos. My insides feel liquid and gushy. Nick Farr spoke to me. Nick Farr is going to meet me after school. OMG! I am going to die/be sick/fall down on my knees and thank Alison/kill Alison/run screaming from the building/go home and change my clothes/wash my hair/take a cold shower/crawl under the duvet and never come out.

  ‘So did Nick talk to you?’ Violet emerges from the far cubicle, smiling mischievously.

  ‘You’re in on it too! I thought I was going to die.’

  ‘Come on, Scarlett,’ she laughs. ‘This is your big chance.’

  ‘For what!’

  She cocks her head like I’m stupid or something. ‘We agreed it, I thought. If we’re online we might be able to raise money to help Mrs Simpson.’