At that moment, I lose it. I rush away from the room and a few metres back down the corridor, leaning against the wall and gasping for breath. The tears rise like a tidal wave inside me. The light blurs to dark in front of my eyes.
A hand grasps my arm to steady me. I blink and find that it’s Emory Kruffs standing there.
‘Scarlett . . .’ he says quietly.
‘You were right,’ I say with a hiccuppy sob. ‘She should have been in a home with nurses to look after her round the clock. I should have listened – persuaded her. If she’d gone to the nice home like you wanted her to, then maybe this wouldn’t have happened.’
He gives me a kindly smile and shakes his head. ‘No, Scarlett,’ he says. ‘I think you were right all along. She was old and ill – even I didn’t know quite how ill – and this would have happened anyway. At least she was able to spend her last days where she wanted to be – at home. She was able to pass her gifts on to you and your friends – and that meant a lot to her.’ His eyes fill with tears. ‘I’m glad that, in the end, she stayed where she was, surrounded by her memories, and’ – he squeezes my hand – ‘by people she loved.’
I nod solemnly. In that moment, we seem to reach a kind of understanding. Maybe even a truce.
‘Come on.’ He gently tugs my arm. ‘It’s time to say goodbye.’
I allow myself to be led back down the hall and into the room. Violet and Mum are seated there on either side of Mrs Simpson, each holding one of her hands. Kelsie is standing behind Mum, her face almost hidden behind Mum’s hair. Violet isn’t crying, but her head is bowed. I recall how she was there with her mum at the . . . end.
She looks up when I enter. I can see the pain there in her purple-blue eyes. ‘She’s looks very peaceful,’ Violet says, trying to smile. ‘You know, like they say – on her way to a better place and all that.’
I shake my head. Wherever Mrs Simpson has gone, it can’t be better than her lovely kitchen.
‘I’m so sorry, Scarlett,’ Mum says. And I can tell immediately that she means more than just about Mrs Simpson.
‘No, Mum, it’s OK.’ My voice is remarkably steady. ‘Um, do you mind if I sit with her for a minute with Violet?’
‘Of course, go ahead. I’ll be just outside.’ Mum stands up and shifts places with me in the small room. As she ushers Kelsie out of the room, Emory Kruffs takes Mum’s hand and they walk out together.
‘Mrs Simpson,’ I say in a whisper. ‘Rosemary?’
There’s no response other than the breathing. I grasp her wrinkled, arthritic hand. It’s cool and slightly clammy. I look over at Violet. She’s set the basket she brought with her on the spare visitors’ chair.
I let go of Mrs Simpson’s hand for a second and stand up. ‘We brought you something.’
I go over to the basket and remove the cloth. I feel like Little Red Riding Hood, except this time I know full well that the wolf is already at the door.
‘We’ve got scones, and a few flapjacks and chocolate-covered gingerbread people.’ I smile through my tears. ‘I know you like those.’ I take the basket back to the bedside. I hold up one of the ginger biscuits under Mrs Simpson’s nose. The delightful smell seems to fill the room as if they were just out of the oven. Cinnamon, sugar, golden syrup, spicy ginger. And something else is there too, underneath it all. I suddenly remember the letter that Mum found. I hand the cookie to Violet and fumble in my pocket.
I open the envelope and unfold the paper. It’s only a few lines, written in Mrs Simpson’s handwriting. I read it aloud in a soft voice:
My dear Scarlett,
I’ m sorry if I didn’t tell you just how short my time with you was going to be. But I thought it was probably better that way. I haven’t known you very long, but I know that you already possess everything you need to become the young woman that you want to be.
The recipe book is yours, and I hope that you will keep it always and remember the times we had and all that we shared. Please don’t be sad about me, but live your life to the fullest, and I’ll be with you always. And as for the secret ingredient – you only have to look inside yourself to find it. And believe . . .
Love always,
Rosemary Simpson
Tears roll down my cheeks as I finish the last line. Violet begins to sob softly. And just behind me, I’m aware of three other people who have crowded into the room – Gretchen, Alison and Nick. It’s only fitting that all The Secret Cooking Club should come here at the end, to say thank you to her for what she brought into our lives.
One by one, my friends all touch Mrs Simpson’s hand – say goodbye, before going out of the room, leaving her in peace. Violet lingers at the door for a second before joining the others.
And then there’s just me.
All of a sudden, I feel Mrs Simpson’s hand underneath mine give a little jerk. Immediately I sit forward, hope flickering for an instant. Her eyes are still closed but her lips move slightly and a word comes out of her mouth: ‘Marianne.’
Her hand grips mine more tightly for a second, and something like a smile plays over her lips. The heart rate monitor begins to drone a flat, steady tone.
She’s gone.
EPILOGUE
The funeral of Rosemary Simpson is held on a grey Friday afternoon. In attendance is me, Mum, Emory Kruffs, my sister, Violet, Gretchen, Alison, Nick and about a hundred other members of The Secret Cooking Club who came from all around to meet up, celebrate the life of our mentor, and to bring loads of delicious food that would feed an army. The occasion draws such a crowd that the local newspaper sends a photographer, and the head of the charity for the elderly gives a speech praising our charity bake-a-thon. Many more people are present, not so much in spirit, as in cyberspace.
Mrs Simpson is buried underneath a shady tree in a corner of the graveyard, next to her daughter and her long-dead husband. I cry at the funeral – of course I do. But at the same time, I feel a strange sense of calm. I know that Mrs Simpson’s with her daughter now – her ‘Little Cook’ – and that she’s at peace. I know that the magic is real. And as for me – whatever happens, I can handle it.
I mean, I’ve already had to come to terms with the fact that Mum seems pretty serious with Emory Kruffs, and there’s been talk of knocking our two houses into one (with Mrs Simpson’s fabulous kitchen staying put, of course). Emory’s actually OK, now that I’m getting to know him. Believe it or not, he and I have watched a couple of cooking shows together when he’s over at our house. He told me a secret too – that when he has time, he might want me to teach him how to cook so he can make something special for Mum. So The Secret Cooking Club might be getting its first real ‘celebrity’ member – or, at least, our first MP.
But the one thing that does rattle me is when Nick Farr seeks me out after the service, offers his condolences . . . and then reminds me about our ‘date’ in two days’ time to see the concert.
In other words, life goes on.
The evening after the funeral, I sit at my desk with Treacle curled up on my lap. At least so far, he seems content in his new home here with us. I finish typing in one of Mrs Simpson’s special recipes, and close the little notebook. I press the button on my new computer to publish it on the blog – sharing what she left behind with all of our friends and followers. Beside me is a plate of deliciously fresh miniature butter pastries that Gretchen and Alison made, decorated by Violet with chocolate swirls and gold sparkles on top. I also have a steaming cup of hot chocolate topped with a sprinkling of cinnamon that Mum brought up to my room. I breathe in deeply, savouring the aromas and flavours.
A dash of friendship, a pinch of secrets, a cup of laughter and a dollop of tears.
And then there’s the secret ingredient that’s always there – something that we just have to find within ourselves.
Maybe you’ve guessed it already . . .
It’s really not all that secret . . .
That’s right . . .
Love.
ACKN
OWLEDGEMENTS
This book is dedicated to Eve, Rose and Grace. I love you more than chocolate caramels. I’d like to thank the judges of the Times/Chicken House Children’s Fiction Competition 2015 for choosing this book as the winner, and all the lovely people at Chicken House for making the dream a reality. I’d also like to thank my parents, my partner Ian, and my writing group: Lucy, Ronan, Chris, Francisco and Dave, for your support and belief. Finally, I’d like to say thank you to all my readers – you are the secret ingredient who truly bring a book to life!
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Text © Laurel Remington 2016
First paperback edition published in Great Britain in 2016
This electronic edition published in 2016
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Produced in the UK by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CR0 4YY
Cover and interior design by Helen Crawford-White
British Library Cataloguing in Publication data available.
PB ISBN 978-1-910655-24-5
eISBN 978-1-910655-61-0
The Secret Cooking Club Page 17
