‘You’re probably right.’ She purses her lips in thought. ‘Social media is important. I guess maybe you are old enough to use it responsibly. But we’d need to set strict controls.’ I can sense her blog-cogs whirring: Help! My daughter wants to be online. Is this payback? For once, I don’t let it bother me.
‘Of course, Mum,’ I concede. ‘And if I helped you, then you wouldn’t have to work so hard all the time.’
‘Hmm. I’ll think about it.’
‘I . . . um, could start now?’
‘I’m too tired to show you right now.’
‘OK, but once I’ve got a little practice, I’ll be able to do loads. You’ll need all your energy for your launch in Boots.’
‘Well . . . I’ll sleep on it.’ She closes up the laptop and sets it on the coffee table. Her mouth gapes into a big yawn. ‘Don’t stay up too late.’
‘OK, I won’t.’
I haven’t exactly got permission, but Mum’s not one to turn down an offer of free help – even from me. We both go upstairs, and as soon as I hear her bedroom door shut and the water running in the bath, I creep back downstairs. I go to the lounge and open her laptop computer. It turns on immediately but it asks for a password.
Determined not to fall at the first hurdle, I go into the kitchen and try the door to the Mum Cave. It doesn’t open. I push harder, thinking the door must be stuck, but it still doesn’t open. It must be locked. I’ve never known Mum to lock it before.
I try the kitchen junk drawer to see if there’s a spare key. As I’m rummaging through the bits of paper, old bills and yellow stickies, there’s a loud thunk from behind the door to the Mum Cave. I go back over and put my ear to the door. Everything is quiet – I must have imagined it.
I look again for a key, but find instead a yellow sticky with the name and number of a computer repairman. On the back, Mum’s scribbled her password: scarlettkelsie1. I’m surprised and even a little bit touched that she’s used our names as her password. I return to the lounge and type it in. The screen flickers to life.
OK, I’m in – so now what? I pull up the Bloggerific website. From there, it takes me a confusing and slightly nerve-racking half hour to set up an account. I have to sign up for an email account on another site, verify my address, choose my template and figure out how to move around text boxes and photo layouts. Finally, I open a new text box, and slowly and carefully so that I don’t make too many mistakes, I type in my first blog post as ‘The Little Cook’.
When I’m finished typing, I look over what I’ve done. It’s fine – I guess – but on-screen, it seems kind of dry and boring. I realize almost immediately what’s missing. Mum always uses lots of cringeworthy pictures in her blog – irritating 1950s mums in aprons hoovering or doing laundry – with little sayings like: ‘If only you’d do what I say, Mummy wouldn’t have to LOSE HER RAG’; or making up not-so-funny little award badges for things like Today I survived washing my daughter’s gym kit. All of her friends and followers always comment on how good they are. For my blog, I need some pictures too. Gretchen and Alison have both taken photos with their mobiles of some of the things we’ve made. That should do for a start.
I spend the next half hour trying to add some little empty boxes with the cursor where the photos will eventually go. But everything I’ve written ends up on the wrong lines or disappearing half off the page. Frustrated, I save what I’ve done as a draft and shut it down before I can make it any worse.
I’ll just have to ask Nick. Poor me!
AN UNWANTED VISITOR
I leave early for school the next morning and go over to Mrs Simpson’s house. Treacle is inside, meowing at the door, and there’s no sign that Mrs Simpson has been home. My stomach knots with worry. Maybe she came home and Mr Kruffs had her ‘old-lady-napped’. Or maybe she tried to get somewhere on her own and was hurt or injured. When we’re cooking with her, she doesn’t seem old and frail at all. But I remember the other times: in the hospital and the night of the fire . . .
Violet sees my face when I meet up with her in the corridor. Her smile fades to worry. ‘She’s not back yet?’
‘No. What can we do?’
‘I don’t know – are you free after school?’
‘Um, yeah.’ I hesitate. ‘But I’ve got a couple of questions for Nick – about the website.’
Her eyes light up in amusement. ‘I bet you do.’
I give her a black look and walk off to class.
It takes me the whole morning to psych myself up to talk to Nick at lunchtime. When I approach his table across the canteen, the skin on the back of my neck prickles with goosebumps like everyone is looking at me and laughing. He’s chatting with one of his rugby friends, but looks up as I come over to this table. I shift awkwardly from foot to foot.
‘Hi,’ I say, my voice croaky. ‘Thanks for your help yesterday. I’ve uh . . . got a few follow-up questions.’
His friend raises an eyebrow across the table. My cheeks grow hot.
‘Yeah, whatever.’ Nick shrugs. I’m immediately sorry that I came up to him in front of his friend. ‘I can’t do today – maybe tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow?’ I repeat dumbly. ‘Yeah, that would be great.’
Before I can embarrass myself any further, I quickly turn and make a beeline for the girls’ loos. I practically slam into Gretchen and Alison, who are standing at the sink painting their nails with rainbow stripes of pink and purple varnish.
Gretchen gives me a disdainful look for the benefit of another girl who’s at the sink washing her hands. As soon as the girl leaves, Gretchen shrugs apologetically. ‘Hi, Scarlett,’ she says. ‘What’s up?’
‘I need your photos for the website,’ I say. ‘All the stuff we’ve cooked.’
‘I can upload the photos and help out with the website if you want,’ Alison offers. ‘You’re going to need some help.’ She gives a little smirk. ‘Unless you and lover boy want to do it all yourselves.’
‘No,’ I say. I see in the mirror that I’m blushing. ‘I can definitely use some help. Besides,’ I lower my voice, ‘we also need to find Mrs Simpson.’
‘What?’ Gretchen says, looking concerned.
‘She’s not back yet,’ I say.
‘And you have no idea where she is or who this “friend” is she went to visit?’
‘None at all. It’s like she’s just vanished.’
We agree to meet at Mrs Simpson’s house after school as usual. But everyone seems a bit preoccupied. It’s not like Mrs Simpson was around at the start, but already she’s become just as important as any of the other members. More important – considering that she’s teaching us, and we’re using her kitchen and special recipe book.
The house is still empty when we get there. Treacle meows plaintively like he’s lonely – and maybe just a little unhappy with us for ‘rescuing’ him. Which he probably is. We find a recipe that we all agree on: ‘Peter Piper’s Pepper Pasta’. Gretchen and Alison go out to the garden to pick tomatoes while Violet and I mix up the fresh pasta dough. But my heart isn’t in it. It takes ages before the pasta is ready to use: we have to roll the dough and cut the pasta, draping long strands around the kitchen. Gretchen and Alison have made a big bowl of salad and started stirring the spices into the sauce. It all smells delicious, and my stomach is rumbling. Now, if only Mrs Simpson would come back—
All of a sudden, there’s a loud knocking on the front door.
‘Aunt Rosemary – open up!’ a voice calls out.
The four of us freeze, looking at each other in horror. It’s Mr Kruffs. We’ve been caught red-handed!
‘Aunt Rosemary – you know we need to talk. You’re only making things worse for yourself by not taking my calls. I’m coming in.’
A key rattles in the lock. The door bangs open. Instantly, I’m roused into action.
I head him off at the kitchen door. ‘Hello, Mr Kruffs,’ I say, faking a pleasant smile. Violet comes up silently beside me.
‘Where is she?�
� he says accusingly.
‘She?’ I give Violet a puzzled look. ‘I thought the cat was a boy cat, didn’t you?’
Violet giggles. ‘I never looked.’
‘Not the cat!’ Mr Kruffs blusters. ‘I’m looking for my aunt.’
‘Oh.’ I shrug dramatically. ‘Sorry, haven’t seen her today. She left a note – she’s visiting a friend.’
‘Friend? What friend?’
‘She didn’t say.’
He crosses his arms. ‘And what, pray tell, are you doing here if she’s not in?’
‘Like I said the last time, I’m Mrs Simpson’s neighbour,’ I say. ‘And her friend. We all are.’ I’m relieved when Gretchen and Alison come up to the door behind me. Now it’s four against one.
‘You shouldn’t be here,’ he says. ‘You’re trespassing.’
I put my hands on my hips, feeling suddenly brave. ‘So call the police. They might find it interesting that you’re bullying an old lady – taking her cat away from her and trying to force her out of her own home. And even if they don’t want to listen to us, I’m sure your voters might.’
Mr Kruffs takes a step forward. I grip Violet’s hand and stand my ground. OMG.
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he says. ‘My aunt can’t keep living here on her own. It’s my responsibility to make arrangements for her.’
‘What, so that you can sell her house and get the money for your campaign – is that it?’ Violet says. I squeeze her hand gratefully.
He actually looks puzzled for a second, and then starts to laugh. ‘Is that what you think? That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.’
‘Well, I don’t know.’
‘No, you don’t,’ he says firmly. ‘And we’re done with this conversation. Go home.’
‘OK, girls,’ Gretchen says breezily. ‘You heard the man. Let’s go.’
‘But what about the—’
Gretchen cuts me off with a raised hand. ‘We’ll just have to leave Mr Kruffs to do the washing-up.’ Gretchen turns back to him. ‘We were cooking supper. The kitchen’s in a bit of a mess.’ She smiles wryly. ‘Could you make sure that the oven and hob are turned off when you go?’
‘You were using the kitchen?’
‘Of course,’ I answer. ‘Your aunt is teaching us how to cook. She’s not here right now, but we have to practise. We can’t let her down.’
‘She’s teaching you to cook—’ He stops abruptly, looking genuinely startled.
‘Yeah,’ Alison chimes in. ‘She’s a great teacher – the best. And she knows so much about cooking – she even wrote a special recipe book that we’re using. The only thing wrong with her is that she’s a little old, that’s all.’
‘Rosemary hasn’t cooked in years. Not since Marianne died.’
‘Marianne?’ I say.
‘Her daughter. But since you’re such good “friends”, I would have thought you knew that.’
To my Little Cook – may you find the secret ingredient. I swallow a lump in my throat. Mrs Simpson wrote the special recipe book for her daughter: Marianne. A daughter who died.
Mr Kruffs raises his hands in a gesture of futility. ‘Aunt Rosemary heats up canned soup and barely eats that. A year ago she lost so much weight that she was wasting away. She had to be put on electrolytes and fibre.’ He looks at me pointedly, like I should know what that is.
‘Sounds awful,’ I mutter.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Not eating properly is one of the reasons she can’t stay here by herself.’
‘But her fridge is always full of food,’ I protest. ‘She has an amazing kitchen and all these cookbooks. She wrote a cookbook by hand for her daughter. It’s obviously her passion.’
Mr Kruffs laughs gruffly. ‘And do you really think my aunt goes out to the shops and brings all the food back herself? Or do you believe there’s a baking fairy that crawls out of her special cookbook at night and holes up in one of the cupboards?’
‘No, of course not.’ I don’t tell him that actually, we’ve all wondered why the kitchen is always well stocked with food.
‘Well, think about it. She doesn’t drive, and the supermarket is too far away for her to walk there.’
‘So . . .’
‘So I have food delivered to her – or, at least, my PA takes care of it. Every week, like clockwork. And not just from the local supermarket, since I know how my aunt appreciates real food. It’s from a gourmet market – they even put everything in the cupboards where it belongs, or out on the worktop, in case it might encourage her to try cooking something again. It’s not cheap, believe me. But I don’t want my aunt to starve, now do I?’
‘No . . .’ I admit, as I’m struck by a new possibility. What if Mr Kruffs is genuinely concerned for his aunt? We’ve only met her a few times – surely he must know lots of things we don’t. What if before we met her she wasn’t eating? And she did have a fall that put her in hospital . . .
‘And now she’s gone missing and you’re here. She doesn’t have any “friends” any more that live close by. So where is she?’
‘I don’t know,’ I concede. ‘And I can see why you’re concerned.’ I look at my friends. Everyone nods worriedly. ‘But honestly your aunt seems OK. When we’ve been around her, she’s seemed happy and she’s eaten the stuff we’ve cooked for her. So maybe she’s doing better than you think?’
He gives me a long look, and I can feel sweat beading up on my brow. I raise my chin and try to sound like a grown-up. ‘Mr Kruffs, would you like to stay a bit longer and have some of the supper we’ve been cooking. It’s just salad and pasta with home-made sauce – the recipe is from your aunt’s special book.’ I think of what Mum would say in her blog and take a deep breath. ‘It might be a good idea if we all sit down and talk.’
THE WARNING
He stares at me. I stare back. The others look at me – surprise and shock on their faces. My heart bangs inside my chest.
‘OK,’ he says. ‘Let’s talk.’
What have I done?
Violet and Alison practically flatten each other in their hurry to set an extra place at the table. I’m amazingly relieved when Gretchen gestures for our ‘guest’ to take a chair and sits down opposite him. She sits up tall, looking every inch the cool, calm, collected PTA rep and future lawyer that all the grown-ups love.
Mr Kruffs crosses his arms, looking for a moment like he’s sorry he accepted the invite. I bring the huge wooden bowl of freshly tossed salad over to the table and sit down next to Gretchen.
‘So, Mr Kruffs . . .’ Gretchen is saying, ‘how’s the campaign going?’
‘It’s going just fine.’ His eyes snag on me.
‘That’s what my dad says. You may know him – Alan Sandburg, QC.’
‘He’s your father?’ Mr Kruffs straightens up in his chair.
‘Yeah.’ Gretchen smiles smugly. ‘He says that you’re a real champion of the “grey vote”.’
‘Of course,’ Mr Kruffs says. ‘Our elderly people are important members of society. We need to respect and value them.’
‘And I suppose you’ll have to travel up to London a lot if you’re elected.’
‘That’s right. I’ll be there most of the time. I’ve got a trip there planned for early next week.’
‘Don’t you have any family here?’ I ask. Violet and Alison sit down and I pass Mr Kruffs the salad bowl.
He serves himself a generous plateful. ‘I’m divorced,’ he says. ‘So, no. Other than Rosemary, of course.’
‘It’s so nice of you to care so much about your aunt,’ Violet says. It sounds like she means it. I frown.
Mr Kruffs spoons on some oil and vinegar dressing and passes the salad bowl on to Alison. ‘Whether you believe it or not, I do care about her. As I said, Aunt Rosemary is my only relative. Once she was almost like a mother to me. But her health has been getting worse lately. She’s scattered and forgetful and sometimes she’s unsteady on her feet. Of course she won’t talk about it, but I
think she may be suffering from dementia.’
‘And what is that exactly?’ Gretchen says.
‘In simple terms, it means that she’s losing her memory.’ Mr Kruffs takes a bite of salad and chews thoughtfully. ‘It happens to lots of old people. There’s no cure, and she’ll only get worse and worse. She might forget to turn off the hob, or she might forget to get dressed or feed the cat – or even eat regular meals. She’s a danger to herself, and I can’t always be around to look in on her – even if she wanted me to.’
We all eat our salad in silence. I mull over what he’s just said.
‘These tomatoes . . .’ Mr Kruffs muses. ‘I must say, they do taste very fresh.’
‘Your aunt grows them in her garden,’ Violet says. ‘They’re totally organic.’
‘My aunt grows them?’
‘Yeah.’
He narrows his eyes and finishes off his plate of salad. When he’s finished, Alison jumps up and brings over the steaming bowl of spaghetti. It smells delicious, but I know I can’t eat another bite. Not until I confess to what happened.
‘Mr Kruffs, there’s something you need to know,’ I say, trying to keep my voice steady. ‘Your aunt didn’t leave the hob on that time it caught fire.’ I grip the edge of the table. ‘We did – accidentally. She was teaching us how to cook Eggs Benedict from her special recipe book. We forgot to turn off the gas and it was my fault that the tea towel caught fire. Not hers.’
Mr Kruff’s face twists into a scowl. ‘What did you say?’
‘I said – we started that fire, not your aunt.’
He sits back, stunned. ‘I could call the police right now. What you did was dangerous and stupid – not to mention a waste of public resources.’
‘It was dangerous and stupid,’ I admit. ‘But . . . it was an accident. It won’t happen again.’
I bite my tongue waiting for the explosion that I’m sure is coming. Will he jump up and push over the table, shattering everything on the floor? Will he really call the police, or drag us out himself?
So I’m surprised when he reaches for the bowl of pasta, and serves himself a heaping pile.
The Secret Cooking Club Page 12
