Mum must have heard the commotion through the wall of the Mum Cave and she came over to add her opinion. She invited Mr Kruffs over to our house for a cup of tea and a chat about Mrs Simpson’s future. And when I got home hours later and came into the kitchen, I couldn’t believe it – he was still there!
‘Hello, Scarlett,’ Mum said, giving me a quick hug. ‘Emory and I were having ever such a nice chat.’
‘Oh?’ I replied coolly. Emory? My eyes fixed on the half-empty bottle of red wine and the remains of a selection of nice cheeses that Mrs Simpson had bought Mum from a local shop.
‘Yes,’ Mr Kruffs stood up stiffly. ‘Your mum is a very interesting person.’
‘Yeah, she is.’ I couldn’t believe it. Is the “new Mum” all some kind of sick joke? Is she suddenly in cahoots with Mrs Simpson’s enemy?
‘Oh, not really.’ Mum blushed. ‘We were speaking about publicity, that’s all. Building a profile and all that. Which I know one or two things about.’
‘I confess that I’m not familiar with your mother’s blog,’ Mr Kruffs said. He smiled at her, looking almost boyish. ‘But she says she’ll forgive me.’
‘Yes, of course.’ She grinned back and their eyes locked together. Gross. ‘Especially since I’ve started taking it in a whole new direction. Right, Scarlett?’
‘Yeah.’
Mum’s already started ‘transitioning’ her blog from nasty tell-all rant to ‘inspirational women’s blog’. For the ‘parenting’ section, she’s had this new idea where she and I collaborate. It would be a ‘dialogue’ (her word) between a mother and daughter with a view to resolving their differences. At first I laughed and suggested that she’d have to come up with a whole new kit for Boots – Mothers and Daughters Together or some rubbish like that. Unfortunately, she loved that idea. I guess I’ll try to keep an open mind.
‘Anyway,’ Mr Kruffs said to Mum, ‘it’s been very nice to meet you, Claire. I’ll email you about that gallery opening I mentioned.’
Claire.
‘Oh yes.’ Mum’s face looked rosy and flushed. ‘Please do.’
OMG. All the blog stuff about ‘The Single Mum’s Guide to Dating’ and the ‘way to a man’s heart is through is stomach’ comes rushing back.
Mum is going on a date with Mr Kruffs!
‘Excuse me,’ I said in a choking voice. ‘I’ve got homework.’
‘Night, Scarlett.’ Mum kissed me on the cheek. I went upstairs to my room and stared up at the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. At least they have stayed put while everything else is a whirlwind of change.
The day that I’ve been both eagerly awaiting and secretly dreading finally arrives. The day of the online bake-a-thon. Thanks to all of Mum’s guest-blogging, tweeting and other publicity, I’ve got over eight hundred followers on my social media sites, and just over a quarter of them have signed up for the bake-a-thon. The format is this: everyone participating will bake something to take to their school, or hospital, or an old people’s home, or local lunch club for the elderly, or just set up on the high street somewhere. Everyone is getting sponsors and publicity from local businesses. People donate to an online charity fund to help the elderly.
Of course all this is happening out in cyberspace and the world in general, so I have very little control over it. But so far, the donations have been coming in at a steady pace. I’ve had to set up a whole new site linked to my original Bloggerific account to accommodate all the photos that members have been sending in for each of our sections: ‘Scrummy Cakes and Bakes’, ‘Healthy Bites at Home’, ‘Home-cooked Dinners’, and ‘Recipes for Sharing’. And as for my own branch of The Secret Cooking Club – well, we’ve been cooking around the clock. Every spare fridge shelf, table, worktop, tin and cupboard is filled with the things we’ve made. And in a last-minute ‘if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em’ move, Mr Kruffs called Mum and agreed to match whatever funds we raise from the bake-a-thon, in order to help pay for his aunt’s carer. So now I’m even more fired up to raise as much money as we can.
I’m up and dressed well before the time that Gretchen’s mum is supposed to come with her car to collect the food from Mrs Simpson’s house. It’s a crisp, bright autumn morning, and I can hear the birds singing in the garden as I go next door to get things ready. I let myself into Mrs Simpson’s house quietly, in case she’s still asleep upstairs. I’m surprised to find her sitting in her light-flooded kitchen, the doors to the garden flung open. On the table in front of her is a steaming cup of tea and one of the fluffy croissants that she helped us make. There’s also a piece of paper and a pen. As soon as I enter, she folds the paper and tucks it away.
‘Scarlett,’ she says, reaching out her wrinkled hand. I take it and she grips my fingers. ‘It’s a lovely day for your bake-a-thon.’
I look closely at her lined face. Her cheeks have more colour in them than usual, and her eyes seem to sparkle, as clear and blue as the sky outside. She looks younger somehow. She’s wearing her nicest flowered dress and ivory knitted cardigan, and her hair is smoothed back in a neat bun at the nape of her neck.
‘You look nice, Mrs Simpson,’ I say. ‘Are you expecting company?’
‘No, child.’ She looks at me for a long moment. ‘Not exactly. But there’s magic in the air today. Do you feel it?’
I stand still for a moment – something I haven’t done for a while. I listen to the sound of a pigeon cooing from the roof, the wind rustling through the orange and gold leaves. I feel the warmth of the pale sun on my face. Maybe those things are magic, I don’t know. But I feel a little bit calmer and ready to face the day ahead.
‘Yes, Mrs Simpson.’
She smiles. ‘I’m so proud of you, Scarlett.’
‘Thanks.’ Her praise means the world to me. I lean over and give her a kiss on the cheek.
Just then, the doorbell rings. I go to answer it – it’s Gretchen and Violet. ‘Hi!’ I say, ushering them in. ‘Right on time.’
We go into the kitchen, but Mrs Simpson is no longer there – I see her outside in the garden, leaning on her stick and looking up at the sky. She gives us a little wave as we empty the fridge and fill Gretchen’s mum’s car with heaped baskets, pans and boxes of food. Alison and Nick are helping to coordinate food pick-ups from some of the new members at our school – Susan, Eloise and Fraser – who have made even more stuff.
Gretchen’s mum drives us around to the places that we’ve pre-arranged – the hospital where we once took the flapjacks to Mrs Simpson, two old people’s homes, the local council headquarters, a branch of a local charity that run lunches for the elderly, and several local businesses that have agreed to support us. We’re left with a generous batch of chocolate chip cookies, brownies and cupcakes to take to school, and I have reason to believe that several more new members of The Secret Cooking Club (who we haven’t met yet) will be bringing things too.
We carry everything inside through the back door of the canteen – everyone at school pretty much now knows or suspects who’s a member of The Secret Cooking Club, and even if they don’t, the dinner ladies are totally on board and helping us. They’ve even said that club members can use the school catering facilities (closely supervised, of course).
So by the time all of us pitch up to our first class (late), it seems that things are going well. I somehow manage to make it through the morning and all of a sudden, it’s lunchtime.
As I leave the classroom, I can already hear the noise from down the hall in the canteen. Violet and I lock arms and go there together. As soon as I go through the door, I gasp. It’s like a cooking flash mob. The tables are covered with baked goods – either The Secret Cooking Club has far more members at school than I know about, or else the dinner ladies had a go at cooking their own recipes and puddings. Everyone is standing around chatting and laughing, waving trays, not bothering to queue up in any orderly fashion. I’m happy to hear the clunk of coins in the ‘pay what you want’ collection box that we set up.
Then someone throws open the door that leads to the school lawn outside, and people begin filtering out for an impromptu autumn picnic. It’s against school rules to do so, but the teachers don’t try to stop us – they carry their plates full of food outside and sit down on the benches along with everyone else. Luckily, the day is still bright and sunny with a mostly blue sky and little puffy white clouds.
I grab a tray and edge forward into the clump of kids in front of the pudding table (I’m way too on edge to tackle any real food). Someone taps me on the shoulder and I turn round. Instantly, the butterflies take flight in my stomach – the way they always do whenever I’m around Nick Farr.
‘This is fantastic, Scarlett,’ he says. His smile is amazing, his eyes shiny.
‘Thanks,’ I say, blushing. ‘Not that I had anything to do with it – but, I’m sure that The Little Cook appreciates your help with the website.’
‘No problem.’ He laughs. ‘And I saw your mum’s new post today promoting the bake-a-thon. She really has turned over a new leaf.’
‘Well . . .’ I roll my eyes. ‘It’s early days.’
‘Listen . . .’ He leans in closer and my heart practically stops. ‘My brother and his wife got me two tickets to see One New Direction – you know, the tribute band? I was wondering . . .’ His voice suddenly falters. ‘I mean, if you’re not too busy . . .’
‘I’d love to go,’ I practically gasp. ‘When is it?’
‘The Sunday after next. I can email you the details.’
‘That would be great.’
All of a sudden I’m in the midst of the crowd up at the food table. I feel Nick take my hand and squeeze it, and then we get separated. I look around for him, my hand tingling, but he’s gone.
I let the full implications of what just happened wash over me like a warm bath. Nick Farr asked me out to a concert. Nick Farr likes me!!!
The whole world feels like it’s in slow motion around me. I grab a samosa, a fruit tart and a chocolate brownie, unaware of all the noise and the people pushing around me. I still feel like I’m flying as I take my plate outside and find Violet, Alison, and Gretchen sitting in a circle on a blanket on the grass. The others reach out their hands and we all slap high-fives. I sit down and take a bite of the fruit tart that Alison made – her speciality dish.
‘Ummm. Delicious.’ I close my eyes to savour the taste, and try to lock Nick’s face into my mind.
When I open my eyes again, the sky is suddenly dark as a cloud passes over the sun. A few people look up and hold out their hands as the first raindrops start to fall.
THE SECRET INGREDIENT
By the end of the day, I’m exhausted but happy. I managed to sneak out of class for a toilet break at one point and checked our site on my mobile phone to see how the online bake-a-thon was doing. Hundreds of photographs had been uploaded, and nearly two dozen recipes. Best of all, we’d raised almost £3,000 so far for a charity that helps elderly people, and that’s before anywhere near all of the pledges have been collected.
After school, I log on to the blog and officially declare the bake-a-thon a success. I can’t wait to get back home and tell Mum and Mrs Simpson. Violet stays to help me collect our dishes and baskets. Gretchen and the others go off to collect the dishes we left at other locations. But when Violet and I come out of the school building, I’m surprised to see Mum waiting at the loading zone in her blue Vauxhall Astra. We hadn’t arranged for her to pick us up. Even though she’s now a ‘whole new mum’, she wouldn’t just have randomly decided to come and collect us. She leans out of the window to call to me, and it’s then I notice that her cheeks are streaked with tears.
‘Mum!’ I cry. ‘What’s up? Are you OK? Is Kelsie OK?’
‘Yes, yes, we’re fine.’ My sister is in the back of the car playing a Mickey Mouse game on Mum’s iPhone. ‘Get in the car,’ Mum says. ‘We need to go to the hospital.’
‘Hospital?’ Violet and I say at the same time. We look at each other, our faces stricken.
‘What’s happened?’ I say to Mum. But in my heart, I’ve already guessed.
‘It’s Rosemary,’ Mum says. ‘Come on – get in.’
Violet and I shove our things in the boot and climb inside. Mum drives quickly. No one tries to talk over the squeaky voice of Mickey Mouse. As I stare out of the window at the traffic and people walking on the pavement, Violet reaches over and puts her arm around me. I bury my face in her hair.
We get to the hospital car park and find a space. I can’t believe that just this morning we were here, worrying about our bake-a-thon of all things, and maybe even feeling a little smug that this time we weren’t here to visit anyone. How quickly things change.
Mum half drags Kelsie along by the hand, and Violet and I follow behind. It takes me a second to register that Violet’s got a basket of leftover baked goodies over her arm. We enter the lobby and Mum talks to the receptionist. She tells us to follow the yellow line – we’re going to a different ward than last time. We go up in the lift and keep walking. The yellow line finally stops before a forbidding-looking door: Intensive Care Unit.
‘But this can’t be right,’ Violet says. ‘I mean, she was fine. She was . . .’ Her voice trails off, helpless.
Mrs Simpson was sick. Really sick. And we hadn’t even known it.
The set-up inside is nearly the same as the other ward we visited: the same busy nurses; the torturous-looking medical machines in the hallway; doorways to tomb-like rooms. There’s an awful smell of disinfectant that doesn’t quite hide the ‘something else’ underneath. I bite my lip to keep it from quivering.
Mum speaks to one of the nurses. The woman barely looks up from her computer screen. ‘Are you family?’ she asks.
When Mum doesn’t answer right away, I step forward. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘She’s my grandma.’ The words sound completely right.
The woman waves us to a bank of chairs across from the desk. ‘Please take a seat,’ she says. ‘The consultant is on his way to speak to you.’
‘But can’t we see her?’ Violet says.
The woman narrows her eyes like she’s not used to argument.
‘We’ll wait,’ Mum says.
We all take seats in the uncomfortable moulded plastic chairs. The room seems to swirl in front of my eyes. ‘I . . . I don’t understand,’ I say.
Mum puts her hand on my arm. ‘Rosemary collapsed just after lunch. She managed to press the panic button on that pendant we gave her. I went over right away and found her sprawled on the kitchen floor. She’d been picking herbs – mint, sage and rosemary – they were all around her. She was unconscious.’ Mum’s voice catches. ‘Of course, I called an ambulance immediately.’
‘Yeah . . .’ What can I say?
She opens up her handbag and takes out a white envelope. ‘And I found this on the table in her kitchen – right where she fell.’ Mum’s eyes glisten with tears. ‘It’s got your name on it.’
My hand trembles as I take the envelope. I stare down at the writing, the loopy letters of my name swimming before my eyes.
‘She wrote you a letter,’ Violet says. ‘Open it.’
But I hesitate a second too long. A man in a white lab coat comes into the waiting area. He looks down at his clipboard, and then at Mum. ‘Claire Cooper?’ he says.
I shove the letter in the pocket of my jumper.
‘Yes.’ Mum stands up nervously. ‘Kelsie, switch that thing off.’ She reaches for the iPhone.
‘You’re Mrs Simpson’s family?’ the doctor asks.
‘Yes.’ This time Mum doesn’t pause.
‘Well, I’m sorry to have to tell you that the news isn’t good. Mrs Simpson came in for some tests last week. She’d been having headaches and feeling weak, as I expect you knew. She knew that her condition was getting worse.’
‘But she didn’t tell us any of this,’ I blurt out. ‘I mean, I know she had some headaches, but doesn’t everyone?’
The consultant nods. ‘It was quite sudden as these
things go. The blood pressure in her brain has been steadily rising. And today she had a major stroke.’ He takes out a folder from under the top sheets of the clipboard. He shuffles a few papers, and then hands Mum a photograph. I peer over her shoulder. It’s a grainy black and white scan of a skull.
‘You can see the clot here – this dark mass.’ The doctor points to a spot on the photo. ‘And now she’s slipped into a coma. I’m afraid that she’s already beyond our reach.’
I look at him in disbelief. ‘But, I don’t understand. You mean she’s . . . ?’
‘Can we see her?’ Mum asks.
‘Of course, this way.’
My legs are unsteady as I stand up to follow the consultant. This time it’s my turn to grip Violet’s hand for dear life. Mum walks next to us, her jaw set grimly. Kelsie shrinks behind her.
As we begin heading down the hall, there’s a pounding on the door to the ward and I hear a man’s loud voice. ‘Let me in, please. Someone let me in.’
The nurse at the desk looks annoyed as she buzzes the door. A whirlwind of a man in a black suit blusters inside.
‘Emory,’ Mum says in a choking voice. ‘You’re just in time. We’re going in to see her.’
Seeing Mum seems to calm him a little. He comes over to her and kisses her on the cheek. ‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ he says, ruffling Kelsie’s hair. He glances at me and Violet. ‘All of you.’ The sadness in his eyes is genuine.
I look at the floor, unable to answer him. The doctor taps his foot impatiently. I lead the solemn procession behind him down the hall.
As we walk down the corridor, I force myself to look inside a few of the open doors to prepare myself for the worst. Just like last time, there are televisions blaring loudly, and wizened patients lying with tubes sticking out in all directions. I begin to feel dizzy as we walk.
The doctor leads us to a single room at the end of the corridor. I pause at the door and look inside. Mrs Simpson’s frame is small and frail in the centre of the bed. Her skin is pale, her breathing even. She looks almost serene. The only tube coming from her is from a little finger cuff that leads to a quietly bleeping monitor.
The Secret Cooking Club Page 16
