The Secret Cooking Club (3 page)

THE LITTLE RECIPE BOOK

I
don't really know why I took the notebook from Mrs Simpson's kitchen. It's not like I'm actually going to
cook
anything at home. I can picture Mum rubbing her hands with glee if I did:
Help, my daughter is trying to poison me/burn down the house/make me throw up during my marketing meeting with Boots.
I stick the recipe book under my pillow. Part of the reason I keep my room – according to one of Mum's blog posts – ‘like a toxic waste dump' is so that she won't ever go in there.

Downstairs the next morning, Mum is blustering around in the kitchen, taking two minutes out of her busy day to drink a cup of instant coffee.

‘So do you have any plans for the weekend, Scarlett?' Mum says.

‘Um . . .' My brain furiously calculates the probabilities of providing her with blog material, depending on whether I say ‘yes' or ‘no'. I settle on: ‘Not really, but I've got some homework to do.'

‘Kelsie's gone to a birthday party this morning and I've got a guest blog post to write. Can you go over to Stacie's house?'

‘She's visiting her grandma,' I lie. Stacie was my best friend last year, before the whole Gretchen and Alison thing. Then Mum wrote a post called
Psst . . . want to know a secret? My daughter's best friend is really thick
. And then, big surprise – Stacie stopped speaking to me and dropped me as a friend. Luckily, she goes to a private school so I don't have to see her every day.

‘That's nice.' Mum puts down the coffee cup and digs around in the fridge. She takes out a piece of cold pizza and nibbles on it. ‘And how's school – you doing any new clubs?'

‘No, Mum.' I take a box of cereal from the top of the fridge and pour some into a bowl. Then I sit down and stare at it.

Mum shakes her head and tsks. ‘I just don't know what's up with you, Scarlett. When I was your age, I had lots of friends. Plus I did swimming and netball and . . .'

I stop listening. Mum's already written a soppy blog post called
I really was your age once . . .
where she went on about the days before mobile phones, iPads and Snapchat, when she and her friends passed notes in class and gossiped about boys. That post alone got over three hundred and fifty sympathetic comments from her followers. She won't write another one that's too similar, so I'm off the hook.

‘Yeah, Mum, I know. But I'm sure Oxford University can live without me.' I force myself to take a bite of the cereal. It tastes like soggy cardboard.

Mum frowns. ‘Well, if you're not doing anything, maybe you can pick up a few things for me at the shops.'

‘Sure, whatever.' I take my bowl to the sink.

‘You didn't eat any of that cereal.' Mum's eyes sharpen. ‘Is something wrong?'

‘No.' I pause for a second. ‘I'm just not hungry.'

She cocks her head. ‘You're not anorexic, are you?'

‘No, Mum. It's just that the cereal's a little stale.'

‘Oh.' She tosses the pizza crust in the rubbish and puts the kettle back on to boil. When she's not looking, I take the crust out of the bin and put it in the compost bucket instead.

‘OK, Scarlett, whatever you say.' Mum glances
at me over her shoulder. ‘But you're a growing girl – almost a real teenager. You need to keep your blood sugar up.' I can almost see the gears in her brain working overtime:
Idea for new blog post = is my daughter anorexic – or just obstinate?

‘Whatever, Mum. I'll have a snack later.'

I go up to my room and take out the little recipe book from underneath my pillow. I open it and reread the inscription inside the cover:
To my Little Cook – may you find the secret ingredient.

I wonder what it was like for the Little Cook – a daughter or son, I assume – to spend time with their mum learning how to bake and cook wonderful things. One thing's for sure, I can't imagine
my
mum ever doing something like that with me.

I flip through the nursery rhyme section of the notebook, smiling at the recipes for pies, bread and gingerbread, and the little rhymes about ‘The Cat and the Fiddle', and ‘Goosey, Goosey Gander'. There are a few recipes for basic things: ‘Humpty Dumpty's Perfect Eggs'; and ‘Yankee Doodle's Four-cheese Macaroni'. There's also an ‘ABC of Spices', most of which I've never heard of. But lots of the ingredients make my mouth water: buttercream, ginger, golden syrup, cocoa and caster sugar. Best of all are the cinnamon scones. There's a picture done in pen and coloured in with crayon
of little fluffy triangles steaming hot in a basket with a red and white gingham cloth. My stomach rumbles just thinking about them. If I could try just one recipe, it would be that.

But I can't try any of the recipes. Not here at home where Mum would know about it.

So I'll have to find another way.

THE HOUSE NEXT DOOR

T
he street is quiet as I slip out of the front door. I walk up the weedy stone path to Mrs Simpson's house. I tell myself that it's not really breaking and entering when there's an old lady in the hospital and a cat that needs feeding. And a recipe book that needs returning. It's a no-brainer really. And if, by some chance, Mrs Simpson is already home from hospital, I'll tell her I came over to look after the cat.

No one answers when I knock on the door. The key is still under the mat. With a quick glance around to make sure no one's watching, I let myself into Mrs Simpson's house.

The first thing I see are those two yellow eyes again, shining like twin moons. The cat meows impatiently like it's been waiting for me and I'm late. ‘Hi,' I say. ‘You still here by yourself?' The cat swishes its tail. It gets to its feet and leads the way to the kitchen.

I get down to business – scoping out where everything is so that I can get on with my plan. Just being here again has made up my mind. I've found a special little recipe book and the perfect kitchen just on the other side of the wall. And now . . .

I'm going to cook something.

One by one I open the cupboards. It's like exploring a supermarket baking aisle. There are dozens of little jars and tins of herbs and spices. There are bags of flour: stoneground, buckwheat, spelt, malted wheatgrain; and sugars: demerara, caster, icing, muscovado – who knew there were so many different kinds? Even though everything is labelled, it's still kind of overwhelming. The cat rubs against my leg and stands in front of one of the cupboards.

‘OK, OK, I get it. You're hungry again.' I open the cupboard and find a large supply of cat food. I dig around some more until I find a tin-opener in a drawer, along with a complete set of baking utensils and electric appliances, most of which I've no idea what to do with, and some of which look like
scary dentist instruments.

Once the cat has its head contentedly in its bowl, I take out the little recipe book and set it on the bookstand. It practically falls open to the recipe for cinnamon scones. I read over the instructions: mixing everything together, then rolling out the dough and cutting out little triangle shapes that are to be dusted with more cinnamon and sugar. Then they're supposed to rise and become all fluffy in the oven. It sounds straight-forward enough, but suddenly I start to feel nervous.

What business do I have breaking and entering, and using Mrs Simpson's things? And worse, what makes me think that I can possibly bake anything? I've never really tried before, except once. I wanted to surprise Mum with a cake for her birthday so I bought a mix at the corner shop. It turned out that I didn't have enough eggs, and the butter was as hard as a rock. The mixture ended up all powdery and lumpy. Then I left it in the oven too long, and it came out charred and practically on fire. I threw it in the bin before Mum even knew I'd tried.

I take a deep breath – I'm here now so I may as well have a go. Most of the ingredients I need – flour, butter, baking powder, salt – are already set out on the worktop, along with a jar of Ceylon cinnamon. Strange that I didn't notice them last
night. It's almost like Mrs Simpson had been getting ready to bake scones. It makes me feel a bit creepy – almost like she's here with me in the kitchen, looking over my shoulder, making sure I do it right. I peek quickly behind me. There's no one there.

‘Silly,' I say aloud. Everything seems normal again. Finished eating, the cat curls up in its basket next to the cooker and begins licking its paws. I wash my hands and grab a rose-patterned apron from a hook by the fridge. Before I can lose my nerve, I put it over my head and tie it round my waist.
I'm ready.

I've never been one of those kids who liked playing in sand, making mud pies, finger painting or generally making messes. So that might be why I'd never guessed how satisfying it could be to measure out ingredients that by themselves look like nothing, put them into a bowl, then stir them together. Peering out of its basket, the cat keeps an eye on my progress.

At first the mixture is lumpy and dry, and all my worries come back that I've done something wrong. I think about adding more milk, but I decide, just this once, to trust the recipe. I keep on stirring. The smell of cinnamon goes to my head, and for some reason I feel happier and calmer than I've been in ages. When the dough is a soft mass in
the bowl, I sprinkle some flour on the worktop to start rolling it out.

But all of a sudden, disaster strikes. The doorbell rings, and a key turns in the lock.

A TASTE OF CINNAMON

S
omeone's here! Panicking, I look around. I could dash out of the back door, but I'd be trapped in the garden, and besides, the kitchen's a mess and it's obvious what I've been doing. The cat jumps up from its basket like it's trying to figure out how to cover for me. I pull off the apron and start trying to clean up – for all the good it's going to do. And then I hear a woman's voice: ‘Look, I'm sorry if you're bored, but I have to do this. You said you wanted to come. Next time, stay at home.'

I don't hear a reply because the front door closes and something – a handbag maybe? – thunks to
the floor. Then there's the sound of heels clicking in the hallway. I look around for a place to hide – the broom cupboard? The hearth? Inside the oven?

The knob on the door turns. I stand there paralysed, my heart thundering. The cat comes up beside me, the fur on its back standing up. The door opens. I come face to face with just about the last person I was expecting to see . . .

Violet.

‘Oh, you scared me!' Her hands fly to her mouth. ‘I . . . I didn't know anyone was here.'

‘Um, yeah.' I smile through my teeth. ‘I was just . . . just—'

‘Violet? Is there someone in there?'

Frantically, I gesture at the cat.

‘No, Aunt Hilda. Just a cat.' Violet gives a fake-sounding sneeze for effect.

‘All right,' Aunt Hilda says. ‘I'm going to start with the upstairs. Don't touch anything, OK?'

‘OK.'

The high heels click up the stairs.

‘Thanks for that,' I say. My heart slows to a fast jog.

‘What are you doing here?' She eyes the kitchen and the mess I've made.

‘I was making scones,' I say sheepishly. ‘Cinnamon.'

She sniffs the air. ‘It smells good in here. Not
cinnamon, though – but something else?'

‘I don't know – butter maybe? Or the dough? But dough doesn't really smell like anything, does it?'

‘It's nice.' She smiles. ‘But you don't live here, right? My aunt said the house belongs to some old lady.'

‘Mrs Simpson,' I say. ‘Rosemary. She's a neighbour. We live next door.'

‘Oh. It's cool that she lets you use her kitchen.'

‘Yeah . . . it is.'

‘Violet?' The aunt's voice comes from upstairs. ‘Did you say something?'

‘No, Aunt Hilda,' Violet calls out.

‘OK, but I need to see the—'

The aunt appears at the kitchen door, the clicking of her heels coming to an abrupt stop. She's about Mum's age but much taller in her heels, and she has the same blue-black hair as Violet. She's wearing a neat grey suit and a floral scarf.

‘. . . kitchen,' she trails off, her mouth gaping open. ‘Wow,' she says, ‘it's . . . big.' She glances around. ‘What a fantastic space. And look at the range cooker – it's enormous.' She gestures towards the cast-iron cooker that's as big as a small car.

‘It's huge,' I agree.

Her eyes come to rest on me. ‘And who are you?'

‘I'm Scarlett. From next door. I . . . uh, came over
to feed the cat.'

‘Looks like you're feeding yourself too.' Frowning, she gestures at the mess of flour and dry ingredients sprinkled on the worktop and the floor. ‘If you're here without permission, then you'd better be gone when Mr Kruffs arrives.'

‘Mr Kruffs?' The name sounds vaguely familiar. ‘Who's he?'

Violet's aunt sizes me up like she's debating whether to answer. ‘Emory Kruffs. He's running for local MP.' She wanders over and examines the cooker. ‘You may have seen his name on posters.'

‘Maybe.'

‘I'm an estate agent – and he's arranged for me to give him a valuation on the house. He's supposed to meet me here.'

‘Is it his house?' I ask.

‘Well,' she frowns. ‘Not exactly. I think he's the nephew of the owner.'

‘Rosemary Simpson,' I say. ‘She's the lady who lives here. Do you know if she's OK?'

She shrugs. ‘No idea, sorry.'

‘Well, someone needs to feed the cat until she gets back,' I say firmly. ‘I mean, I'm sure Mrs Simpson wouldn't want it to starve. And I live right next door.'

‘The cat . . .' she muses. ‘I see your point, but if Mr Kruffs sees this mess, then I don't know . . . I
wouldn't let him catch you here—'

‘I was just leaving,' I say. ‘That is – after I cut out the scones and put them in the oven.' I wince. ‘And, you know . . . um . . . take them out again. Is that OK?'

‘Cool,' Violet says. ‘Can I watch?' She looks doubtfully at her aunt.

Something beeps loudly, startling us all. A text message. Aunt Hilda takes out her BlackBerry and stares at the screen. ‘This must be your lucky day,' she says. ‘Mr Kruffs just cancelled our meeting.'

Violet and I look at each other and grin.

Aunt Hilda checks her watch. ‘I'm going to finish looking around and draft the email for the valuation,' she says. ‘You two had better make sure this kitchen is spotless when you're done.' Her heels click away to the front room where she switches on a table lamp.

I turn to Violet. ‘Thanks for staying,' I say. ‘I mean, it was kind of creepy being here by myself. Especially if that Mr Kruffs turns up.'

‘No problem,' Violet says. ‘It's not like I've got anything better to do. And I've always liked scones – that is, if you're sharing.' Her smile grows wider.

‘I'll think about it,' I laugh. We both peer into the bowl of mixed-up dough. I breathe in deeply. It smells delicious and . . . doughy. I put the soft ball on the worktop and gently roll it out. The rolling
pin sticks a little to the dough, so I sprinkle more flour over the ball, trying to look like I know what I'm doing.

‘Did your mum teach you how to cook?' Violet sounds almost impressed.

‘No.' My mind whirls, trying to think of something cool – like my grandma was a
Bake Off
finalist – or something. But I don't want to lie to Violet. I point to the recipe book. ‘Actually, I've never done it before,' I say. ‘I'm teaching myself.' Flustered, I turn away from her and concentrate on cutting the dough into little triangle shapes. I check the recipe again, and sprinkle a sweet-smelling mixture of cinnamon and sugar on the tops.

‘No – you're having a laugh.' Violet giggles in amazement. ‘You've done this before. Right?'

I stand up a little straighter. ‘Yeah, I guess I have. I can make cheese on toast. Does that count?'

‘Yes, it does! I can't even make toast without burning it.'

‘Well, I can barely even plug in the toaster!'

We look at each other and both start laughing. It's not like it's really
that
funny, but I'm so out of practice that my side begins to hurt. I kind of get the idea that maybe it's the same for her.

Violet helps me cut out the rest of the scones and we put them on a buttered baking tray. As we
work, I tell her about the ambulance taking Mrs Simpson away, and about the cat, and how I broke into the house and found the recipe book and the kitchen. ‘I had no idea it was here,' I say. ‘Right on the other side of the wall.'

‘It's awesome,' Violet says. She picks up the recipe book and flips through it. ‘And this book – I can't believe someone took the time to write all this out by hand.'

‘Yeah,' I say. ‘I wonder who the Little Cook was.'

Violet reads the inscription inside the cover. ‘And the secret ingredient – what's that?'

‘I don't know.'

She goes back to the page with the scone recipe. ‘Well, I can see why you wanted to have a go at making these scones,' she says. ‘They look so delicious.'

‘Yeah.' My brow furrows in concentration. We've cut out all the scones and I can't put off any longer the thing I've been dreading: tackling the range cooker.

‘Ever used one of these things before?' I ask futilely.

‘I don't think I've ever even seen one.' We both bust up laughing again. She helps me carry the trays over.

I look inside one of the cast-iron doors. Luckily, there are some wire racks – it looks like a normal
oven once you open the doors. ‘Look,' Violet says, ‘there's a temperature dial. What should I put it on?'

I put the trays down and check the recipe in the notebook. ‘Put it on 220 degrees.' I decide not to spoil the moment by mentioning that we were supposed to preheat the oven. Oh well. ‘They should be ready in about twenty minutes.'

‘I can't wait to try one,' Violet says.

My stomach rumbles in agreement.