‘Here’s the sauce,’ Gretchen says. Her hands are shaking as she passes him the bowl.
He dips the ladle in the sauce, holds it up and looks closely at it, before gooping it over the pasta. Then he takes a bite, barely chewing it before diving in to take another. The rest of us watch in stunned silence – in a few seconds, he’s demolished half the portion.
He sets down his fork and wipes his mouth with a napkin. ‘It was brave of you to confess,’ he says.
My friends and I all breathe at once.
‘Not that it changes anything,’ he says, serving himself more pasta. He passes the bowl to Gretchen, who takes a small portion for herself and hands it to Violet.
‘It doesn’t?’ I croak.
‘No.’
I swallow hard. ‘But maybe Mrs Simpson doesn’t really have dementia or whatever. If she’s a little scattered sometimes, it might just be because she’s old. And maybe she’s sad about her daughter too.’ My Little Cook. Gretchen gives me a sharp jab with her elbow. I ignore it. ‘When did she die?’ I say.
‘Two years ago,’ Mr Kruffs says. ‘It was a car accident.’
Violet breathes in sharply.
‘It was quick and painless – so they say, but she was Rosemary’s only child. No parent should have to outlive their child.’
‘Did Rosemary’s daughter like to cook?’ I ask.
‘Like to?’ He nods. ‘She was amazing. She went to cooking school in Paris and Switzerland, and became a professional chef in London. The restaurant where she worked was awarded a Michelin star while she was there. I remember the Christmas dinners they used to cook together – it was like a banquet there was so much food. And all of it was perfect.’ He smiles faintly. ‘They were happy times.’
‘It’s just so tragic,’ Alison wails, as she spoons sauce on to her pasta.
‘Yes,’ I say. The food comes round to me. ‘But that doesn’t mean that Mrs Simpson is crazy or losing her memory. Maybe she’s just sad – or lonely – or bored. Maybe she just needs something else to do.’
Mr Kruffs shakes his head. ‘As I say, her health is suffering. She needs to be looked after. And I can’t do that. There are some very nice places out there with very nice people. Whatever you might have heard’ – he snorts, sounding annoyed – ‘and people say some idiotic things about homes for the elderly . . . well, there are a lot of good, kind places where older people are very happy. And safe. She’d make new friends too. It’s just what she needs.’
‘But we’re her friends,’ I say, feeling more and more upset. ‘That’s got to count for something?’
‘“Friends” that practically burn down her house?’ He glares at me. ‘I think she can do without those, don’t you?’
‘It was an accident!’
‘But it happened.’
I cross my arms. ‘I know you’re her nephew, but you can’t just make her leave her home and go into one of those places.’
‘Actually, I can.’ His eyes glint coldly. ‘I have her power of attorney, which means I can make decisions on her behalf. And I own a share of this house.’
‘But it’s cruel! She doesn’t want to go—’
Gretchen elbows me even harder this time. I snap my mouth shut and stare sullenly down at my plate.
‘I understand what you’re saying about your aunt, Mr Kruffs, really I do.’ Gretchen passes him back the bowl of pasta. ‘My grandma was in poor health and needed care before she died. A carer came to visit her every day. And Dad installed a panic button in case something happened when the nurse wasn’t there.’
Mr Kruffs fills his plate with seconds. ‘I don’t think that’s going to be enough. In the last few months I’ve become convinced that she needs round-the-clock care.’
And then you can sell her house? I open my mouth again but Gretchen cuts me off with a look.
‘It’s just something to think about.’ Gretchen sounds like a real adult. ‘An option.’
Mr Kruffs doesn’t answer. He’s back to eating the pasta like it’s going out of style. I inhale the steam coming from my plate. Now that Gretchen’s taken charge, I take a small bite. The fresh herbs and the spices of the sauce tingle on my tongue, the vegetables full of delicious flavour. The homemade pasta is silky and rich.
‘This food . . .’ Mr Kruffs says, wiping his mouth on a napkin, ‘is delicious.’
‘Oh, do you think so?’ Violet smiles brightly. ‘I’m so glad. Your aunt would be proud to hear you say so.’
He shakes his head in disbelief.
The bowls of pasta and sauce get passed around again, and the food is gone in a few minutes. ‘Would you like some pudding?’ Gretchen offers him.
‘Unfortunately, I’m going to have to pass,’ Mr Kruffs said. ‘I must dash. The fact is, my aunt is still missing. I have to phone around and try to find her.’
‘Has she done it before?’ Violet asks.
He pauses before answering. ‘A few times. Unfortunately, any old friends she has are scattered here and there. She’s gone to complete strangers’ houses before, looking for people she used to know who died years ago.’
‘Oh.’ I don’t really have a good answer to that.
‘Is it OK if we stay to do the washing-up?’ Alison asks. ‘We’ll check to make sure that everything is turned off and we’ll lock up.’
‘You do that,’ he says. ‘But from now on, you need to find somewhere else to do your cooking – do you understand?’
‘Yeah,’ I say. The breath leaves my body like a punctured balloon.
‘I’m leaving for London next week for a day or so,’ he continues. ‘Tuesday morning, early. If she’s not back home by the weekend, I’m calling the police.’
‘Fair enough,’ Gretchen says.
I nod.
‘Thanks for eating with us.’ Violet cheerfully changes the subject. ‘I think we all understand each other much better now.’
‘It’s been . . . interesting.’ Mr Kruffs runs a hand through his dark hair. He nods curtly at us, and turns and walks out.
As soon as he’s gone, the four of us open our mouths as if to talk at once, and yet no one speaks. Violet clears the plates from the table and Alison runs a sinkful of hot soapy water.
‘What now?’ I find my voice and turn to Gretchen.
‘You didn’t help things by getting annoyed like that,’ she scolds.
‘And you sure were a Miss Goody-Two-Shoes sucking up to him like that—’
‘I can’t believe you told him about the fire!’
‘Well, we can’t let him keep believing that she did it, can we!’
‘OK, OK,’ Violet intervenes. ‘That’s enough. We need to think about what we do next.’
‘We have to hope Mrs Simpson comes back,’ Alison says. ‘If he has to call the police, it will make things a lot worse for her.’
‘Alison’s right,’ Gretchen says. ‘There’s not much we can do unless we find her.’
‘But if she does come back, then how do we know we can trust him?’ I say.
Gretchen smiles cryptically. ‘Once she’s back, I think Mr Kruffs will come around to our way of thinking.’
‘What makes you so sure?’ I snap. ‘He seemed like a total creep to me.’
Gretchen rolls her eyes. ‘Honestly, Scarlett. Don’t you ever read your mum’s blog? She’s always saying that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.’
HIDING OUT
I’m relieved when I get home that night: we’ve stood up to Mr Kruffs and given him more than just food for thought. Though I have to admit – Gretchen’s grown-up way of dealing with him might have been more effective than mine. But there’s still one big problem – where’s Mrs Simpson?
For the second night in a row, Mum is working on her laptop in the lounge. Her hair is tangled and stringy, and she has dark circles under her eyes. But sitting on the table next to her is a lovely pink-iced butterfly cake, and the crumbs and wrapper of one already eaten.
‘Hello, Mum,’ I say
, putting down my bag.
‘Scarlett.’ She smiles wearily and checks her watch. ‘Let me guess – working hard on your science project?’
‘Yeah, Mum, it’s going to be really cool when we finish.’
‘I’m glad you’ve made a new friend. What did you say her name was?’
‘Violet.’
‘Violet. That’s pretty – like Scarlett.’ She smiles.
‘Yeah.’ I start to head off.
‘Sometimes I worry – that you don’t have friends because . . .’ She hesitates. ‘Well, you know . . .’
I stop.
‘. . . because of me,’ she finishes in a whisper.
I stare at her in disbelief. ‘Because of you?’
‘I know – it was a silly thought.’ She gives a little laugh. ‘I mean, no one knows who I am for real, or who you are.’
‘Um . . .’
‘Except the people at Boots, of course. And maybe anyone who might recognize my profile picture. So really, I know it’s not an issue. But you know . . .’ she says, brightening further, ‘I’ve had this idea lately. That I might move in a whole different direction.’
I’m not sure I like the sound of that. I press my lips together. Now that I think about it, it’s been a few weeks since she’s written any ‘bad’ blog posts about me. After The Single Mum’s Guide to Dating, she wrote a post for another site on Best Mum-friendly Day Spas, and this week’s Friday post will be Psst – I’m in Boots! about her upcoming product launch. If that equals a new direction, then maybe I should be all for it.
‘But anyway,’ she shrugs, ‘we’ll see.’
‘Sounds . . . interesting,’ I manage.
‘Would you like a cake?’ She gestures to the plate. ‘They’re really nice. I had a big dinner and can’t eat another bite.’
‘Oh.’ I peer closely at her. Mum’s usual idea of dinner is a little tub of yoghurt and a bag of crisps – maybe a slice of cold pizza on the odd night. And certainly not fairy cakes. I recall what Gretchen said about Mum’s blog and the way to a man’s heart – maybe she’s planning to start dating again. That would probably be a good thing – give her lots of stuff to blog about other than me.
‘I’ll have it later, Mum,’ I say. ‘And if you want to go to bed early, I can help you with your work – like we agreed the other night.’
She rummages through her papers. ‘I’ve printed out some emails for you to update my contacts. Do you think you can do that?’
‘Yeah, I can.’
‘Well, then . . .’ She stands up and flexes her fingers wearily. ‘I’ll leave you to it. And just remember – I’m trusting you not to be looking at any websites you shouldn’t. Remember, I can always check.’
I give an offended shrug. ‘Whatever, Mum. I’m just trying to help you. But if you’d rather I didn’t—’
‘No, Scarlett – I appreciate your help.’ She walks to the door. ‘As I say, I trust you.’
‘Oh, Mum, one more thing.’
She turns back towards me. ‘What?’
‘Is something wrong with your office?’
‘No,’ she says a little too quickly. ‘It’s just that I can always smell cooking from the other side of the wall. It’s really distracting.’
I eat the fairy cake and update Mum’s contacts. When I’m finished, I go back to Bloggerific and log on. I’m not too worried that Mum might actually check up on me. Even if she sees that I accessed a cooking blog, what’s the harm in that? I click on my draft blog post to update it. I manage to upload the pictures of our food creations that Alison emailed to me. The layout isn’t quite right, but I’m satisfied that I’ve done the best I can. I hit the icon to publish my first post as The Little Cook.
The Secret Cooking Club Online is now officially ‘live’.
I surf Bloggerific for a while, looking at other cooking blogs. I check back a few times to see if there’s any sign that anyone has seen my blog. Of course no one has – it’s only been up for minutes – what am I expecting? But then a little warning flashes on at the bottom of the screen: low battery. Mum doesn’t have the charger in the lounge. It must be in the Mum Cave.
I set the laptop aside and go to the kitchen. I’m surprised to see loads of pots and pans on the draining board, all washed up and drying. Mum wasn’t kidding when she said she had a big dinner. There are also three plates. Mum, Kelsie . . . and . . . ?
As unlikely as it may seem, I know who.
I go to the back of the kitchen and try the door to the Mum Cave. The door sticks, but this time it isn’t locked. Taking a deep breath, I open the door. The room is completely dark. I don’t turn on the light but whisper instead, ‘It’s OK, Mrs Simpson, don’t be scared. It’s just me, Scarlett.’
There’s no answer at first, but a small circle of light goes on around the tattered old sofa that Mum crashes on sometimes. I blink at the brightness. A gnarled hand draws back from the light switch, pulling a faded quilt up to her neck. Her hair is a halo of silver; the lines in her skin softer and less pronounced.
‘Scarlett,’ Mrs Simpson says. She puts a finger to her lips. ‘You won’t tell Emory I’m here, will you?’
‘Of course not.’ I step inside. Although I guessed the truth, I can still scarcely believe my eyes. I mean, Mum of all people is hiding our neighbour away – in her office?
‘Your mother has been very kind,’ Mrs Simpson says.
‘That’s good,’ I say. ‘Hard to believe, but good – really.’
‘Won’t you sit down?’ She gestures to the swivel office chair that Mum got free from the tip.
I perch on the edge of the chair. ‘We made you supper tonight and last night, but you weren’t there. My friends brought your cat back too.’
She blinks. ‘Treacle? Treacle’s back?’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘He’s back. And your nephew came round.’
‘Oh, Emory.’ She sighs and tsks.
‘He said some things, Mrs Simpson. Things that got me kind of worried.’
‘What?’ She grins toothily. ‘That I’m losing my marbles and need to go to a nut farm?’
I blink in surprise at her language. ‘Well, I don’t think he’s right or anything. But yeah . . . something like that.’
‘What exactly did he say?’
I take a breath. ‘He said that you weren’t eating. That you forgot to do things because you had . . .’
‘Dementia,’ she finishes.
‘So do you?’ I ask, feeling scared of the response.
Mrs Simpson gives a sad little laugh. ‘When you get to be my age, your mind is full of everything you’ve ever done in your life – not to mention regret at things you haven’t done. With all that clutter, do you think there’s room for things like what day it is and when it’s time to go shopping or pay the bills?’
‘Maybe not. But people still have to do those things.’
‘Yes,’ she nods, ‘you’re right, they do. But that doesn’t mean they have to be shut away some place where people sit around watching television, eating mush, and waiting for a nurse to help them to the toilet, does it?’
I purse my lips. ‘He also told us about your daughter. That she, um . . . passed away.’
She looks down at her gnarled fingers but doesn’t answer. I press on, knowing that this is the key to everything.
‘She was the one you wrote the inscription to, right? “To my Little Cook”. You made the notebook for her. You cooked things together – you taught her. And then when she grew up, she went on to become a real chef. One of the best, Mr Kruffs said. You must have been so proud.’
A tear forms in the wrinkled corner of her eyes. ‘Yes, you’re right, Scarlett. Right about it all. Marianne was my daughter; my “Little Cook”. She was everything to me. You also asked me once about the “secret ingredient”. Well’ – she takes a breath – ‘it’s something that everyone has to find for themselves – the thing that makes life worth living. My daughter was all that to me and more. And now . . . she’s gone.�
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‘I’m so sorry.’ I reach out and take her hand.
Her grip is surprisingly strong. ‘Thank you, child.’
We sit like that for a few minutes without speaking. I wish I knew the right thing to say, but deep down, I know that there is no ‘right thing’.
She draws a rasping breath. ‘My nephew means well. And he’s right about one thing – my health isn’t what it once was. In truth, sometimes it feels like I’m marking time. I try to keep busy with the house and the cat and the garden. But as for cooking . . .’ Her blue eyes are pools of tears. ‘For a long time I couldn’t face that. All those smells and tastes – all those memories.’
‘I . . . I think I understand.’
‘And then you girls came along. You broke into my home and shook up my life. You brought me those flapjacks in hospital . . .’ She wrinkles her nose. ‘Mind you, I was not a fan of the crystallized violets.’
‘Oh!’
‘But I knew then that my life wasn’t quite over. I realized that I have things to do before . . .’ She shakes her head. ‘Anyway, I’m not going to let Emory put me away somewhere, even “for my own good”, no matter how nice it is, and how much it might make my life easier. Not without a fight.’
‘And we’re going to help you.’ I squeeze her hand.
‘Yes, well.’ She leans back on the pillow as if the effort is too much. For a second, she winces and rubs a spot on her head just behind her ear.
‘Are you OK?’ I say, suddenly worried.
‘Fine. I get headaches sometimes, that’s all.’
‘Do you want a painkiller? I know where Mum keeps them.’
‘No, child.’
We sit in silence for a few moments. ‘We cooked him dinner,’ I say haltingly. ‘Mr Kruffs came round while we were making “Peter Piper Pepper Pasta” with salad and home-made sauce.’
She pulls her hand away, startled. ‘You cooked for Emory?’
‘Um . . . yeah. He came over while we were waiting for you. We thought feeding him might help.’
‘And did it?’
‘Well . . .’ I hesitate. ‘He didn’t have us arrested when we admitted to starting the fire.’
The Secret Cooking Club Page 13
