The Secret Cooking Club (11 page)

MAPLE SYRUP

B
ut how on earth can I promise something like that? I'm the one who failed to notice that the burner was still on. I'm the one who draped the tea towel too close. The fire was my fault, and Mrs Simpson is paying the price! I stand next to her, feeling like my chest might explode. All of a sudden, Mum storms across the road, pulling my sister along with her. She takes my arm and pulls me a little way away.

‘Scarlett,' she scolds, ‘that man is a politician. You sounded very rude when you spoke to him. What's going on?'

‘Mum . . .' I choke.
Tell her. No, don't tell her. What
should I do?
I take a long breath to pull myself together. ‘Please can Mrs Simpson stay at our house tonight? It sounds like the firemen have made a bit of a mess in there. She needs somewhere to go.'

Mum looks at Mrs Simpson's bent figure, then back at me. Her cheeks are red from the cold air and the effort of boring the pants off our neighbour with stories of the Boots product selection committee.

‘Honestly, Scarlett!' she says in a harassed whisper. ‘We can't take someone in just like that. Where would she sleep?'

‘In my bed, or on the sofa bed – I don't care.'

‘But we don't even know her—'

‘We can't just leave her out here!' I cry. ‘She's our neighbour, and her house was on fire. We need to help her.'

‘But I've got a deadline – I'm so busy . . .' Mum shakes her head. ‘You know that, Scarlett.'

I take a breath. ‘I do know that, Mum. You have to write your blog. What's it going to be this time:
Help! My teenage daughter is taking in vagrants off the street?
Or maybe,
Psst! My thoughtless daughter made me miss my deadline
. But if you write that, I'm going to get online and be the first person to leave a comment.' I stand up straighter. ‘I'm going to tell everyone – all your precious readers, Twitter
followers and Facebook friends – that the old lady who lives next door had no place to go and you wouldn't even let her sleep on the sofa for one night.' I raise my chin. ‘How do you think
that
will make you look at your next meeting with Boots?'

‘You wouldn't dare,' Mum spits. ‘If you ever do anything to hurt my reputation online, then I'll . . . I'll . . .'

‘It's just for one night, Mum. Let Mrs Simpson stay with us for one night.'

Mum's eyes skewer me but I can't back down – not now. ‘We're not done with this conversation.' She walks over to Mrs Simpson – the old lady seems to have dozed off leaning on her stick – and puts her hand on her arm. ‘Mrs Simpson?' Mum sounds like she's talking to a child. ‘I'm Claire – Scarlett's mum. If you need a place to stay for tonight, you can come next door to ours . . .'

Somehow I manage to fall asleep, because when I wake up the next morning, my body feels like lead. The memories of the night come rushing back – the fire that
I
caused; standing up to Mr Kruffs
and
Mum; and most of all, the helpless look of trust on Mrs Simpson's face through it all. I get out of bed and rush to the window. The fire engines are gone without any sign that they were ever really here. Everything is still and quiet. I get dressed and go
downstairs to check on our guest.

The blanket is folded on the sofa and the room is empty. I feel a stab of panic. I'd offered Mrs Simpson my bed, but she said that she preferred to sleep on the sofa downstairs. What if she wandered off in the night – sleepwalking maybe – and got hit by a car? Or maybe Mr Kruffs broke in and gagged her and took her off to a home, and I'll never know where she is or what happened, and it's all my fault—

And then I smell it. Like a zombie, I turn and leave the room in a daze. Whatever it is, it's coming from
our
kitchen – and I can already tell that it's going to be delicious.

I practically collide at the bottom of the stairs with Mum. She's looks sleepy and cross with uncombed hair and no make-up.

‘I'm sorry, Mum,' I blurt out. ‘I shouldn't have said those things last night.'

She rubs her eyes. ‘No, Scarlett, I was the one who was wrong. You were just trying to be kind and neighbourly – the way I raised you.'

I smile faintly and don't bother to contradict her.

Mum sniffs the air. ‘What's that? It smells like cooking.'

‘I think it's Mrs Simpson's way of saying thank you.'

Mum raises her eyebrows. ‘Oh?'

I follow her to the kitchen. Mum stops at the door and gasps. A second later, I can see why.

The kitchen is immaculate – the washing-up has been done, the magazines and clutter neatly stacked to one side, and the table has been washed and set with four places. There are two large cast-iron pans on the hob, one filled with four sizzling eggs, and one that I can't see because Mrs Simpson's back is blocking my view. She's standing up straight and steady without any sign of her stick. A second later, she lifts the frying pan and something flips up into the air. She catches it in the pan and removes it with a spatula on to a plate.

‘Sit down,' she says, without turning round. ‘Everything will be ready in about five minutes.'

Mum and I look at each other with wide eyes. I wouldn't even think of not obeying the command. Mum sits down at one end of the table. I sit down at my usual place, and behind me I hear the shuffling feet of my sister in her bunny slippers.

‘Oooh, breakfast,' Kelsie says. ‘Smells nice.'

‘Yeah,' I say. ‘Sit down.'

Mrs Simpson brings Mum a steaming cup of coffee. ‘Thank you,' Mum says in a croaky voice. The milk and sugar are already set out neatly in front of her. Mrs Simpson goes back to the hob and spoons more batter into the hot pan.

‘I'm not the biggest fan of American cooking nowadays,' the old lady says. ‘It's all non-fat this and no-carbs that. But when they do things the old-fashioned, home-cooked way, they get it right. Like pancakes and pure maple syrup. Nothing beats it, if you ask me.'

‘I love pancakes!' my sister says. ‘It's like when we went to Disney World.'

I smile at her. Just before Dad left, we had a family holiday to Florida. We stayed at a little motel next to an International House of Pancakes. I can just about remember how good everything tasted.

‘Where did you get everything?' Mum asks, looking flustered. ‘I'm afraid I forgot to arrange a food delivery for this week.'

‘From my house,' Mrs Simpson says. ‘The fire really was nothing – just a little smoke damage.' She smiles in my direction. ‘The refrigerator was fine. I went over early to make sure I saved what I could.'

‘Good thinking,' Mum says. ‘And I'm glad the fire wasn't serious.'

‘Um,' I say, biting my lip, ‘there's something I need to say—'

Mrs Simpson cuts me off with a quick finger to her lips. I stop. She begins handing around the plates.

‘It's just – can I help with that?' I mumble.

She waves away my offer. This is her moment.

As well as pancakes, maple syrup and perfectly cooked eggs, there's bacon, fruit salad and toast with fresh strawberry jam from a jar with a handwritten label. It's like being in breakfast heaven.

When everyone else is served, Mrs Simpson sets down her own plate, but keeps standing up behind her chair. ‘Eat it while it's hot,' she says. She watches intently as we pick up our forks and try the food. After that, no one speaks – it's all too delicious for words. Mrs Simpson finally sits down, a satisfied smile on her face. I smile too – for a second. Then I'm back to eating the best breakfast ever.

Mum gracefully ducks out after a second helping – but before the washing-up – and Kelsie goes off to watch TV. I'm left facing Mrs Simpson across the table.

‘That was amazing,' I say. ‘Thank you so much.'

Mrs Simpson sighs and begins clearing the plates.

I jump up. ‘I'll do that,' I say, taking the plate from her hand and running water in the sink to do the washing-up.

‘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

W
hen 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.