The Secret Cooking Club (10 page)

STICK TO THE RIBS

I
start to understand that old expression ‘slaving over a hot stove'. Gone are the cupcakes and banoffee pie; the flapjacks and fruit tarts are a dim and distant memory. Mrs Simpson says we need to learn how to cook, and she isn't kidding.

‘You can't think you know how to cook just because you can whip up a few puddings.' She peers at each of us, her sunken blue eyes twinkling. ‘You girls these days are too skinny. In my day, we had rationing.' She shakes her head like the memory hurts. ‘There was no sugar and no sweets. We all learnt how to cook food that “sticks
to the ribs”.'

I nod politely. Suddenly, I'm very hungry for real food.

She flips the pages of the notebook, pausing and considering.

‘Do you know what I craved most as a girl after the war?' Mrs Simpson says, her bushy eyebrows raised.

We shake our heads.

‘Eggs. That's what. Real eggs, perfectly cooked, and everything that goes with them. But all we had back then were powdered eggs. You don't know how lucky you are.' She purses her lips. ‘Now I use only the freshest of ingredients – that's one of the secrets of being a good cook.'

‘Is that the secret ingredient?' I ask shyly.

‘No.' My question seems to startle her. ‘Not that.' Her eyes suddenly appear glassy and far away. ‘That's something else entirely.'

For a long moment I worry that I've spoilt everything. I look down at the floor, scarcely daring to breathe.

‘So we'll start with this one.' Recovering, she props open the recipe book on the stand. Relief flows through me. The recipe on the page is for ‘Chicken Licken's Eggs Benedict'. ‘If you can't cook an egg properly, then you may as well get out of the kitchen.'

*

The four of us go through a whole dozen eggs, cracking them into cups, before Mrs Simpson is even halfway satisfied with our egg-breaking technique. Even Gretchen is sweating by the time we end up with a load of eggs in cups ready to poach. Mrs Simpson assigns Gretchen to do the poaching and prepare the sliced ham, Violet and Alison to bake the muffins, and me to make the hollandaise sauce.

While Mrs Simpson is helping Gretchen get the equipment out of the cupboards, I turn to Violet. ‘Looks like we have another new member.'

‘It's all a little weird, isn't it?' Violet keeps her voice low.

‘What?'

‘That she'd just let us stay and carry on cooking.'

I shrug. ‘Maybe it was the flapjacks.'

‘Or she's just lonely,' Alison says. Flour puffs everywhere as she tips it into the bowl.

‘Anyway,' I say, ‘let's just go with it for now.'

It's like we're under a spell. An hour goes by, then another. Nothing else seems to matter – if we're expected at home, or have homework or had other plans. The muffins bake, the hollandaise sauce gets whisked up and made. Mrs Simpson tells us
stories about how people cooked during the war, and about how when she was a girl, they didn't have Tesco or microwave ready meals or anything like that. While she mostly lets us get on with following the recipe, occasionally she cackles the odd instruction, or bangs her stick against the floor to make a point. The four of us scurry around like old-time kitchen maids.

Somehow we manage to finish making the Eggs Benedict. My stomach is rumbling because it's almost eight o'clock and none of us have eaten anything. Violet stacks everything on the plates: muffin, ham, egg and a little swirl of hollandaise sauce for decoration. The four of us sneak glances at each other as Mrs Simpson sits down at the table and cuts a piece of what we've made. I think we're all holding our breath – I know I am.

She raises the fork to her lips and pops the biteful into her mouth. She chews slowly and deliberately, the skin on her neck wobbling as she finally swallows it down.

Then she looks up. ‘Well,' she says, waving an exasperated hand. ‘Don't just stand there gawping. Sit down and eat.'

The other three scramble to sit down at the table, but I stand there, my hands on my hips. ‘But aren't you going to say if it's any good?'

She looks up at me slowly, still chewing. She
pats her lips with a napkin, and takes a sip of tea.

‘You cooked it,' she says. ‘Only you can say for sure.'

‘Oh,' I say, not really understanding.

I sit down at the table. My friends and I silently lift our knives and forks, like taking the first bite is some kind of test. I cut a piece off the little tower of eggs and muffin and stick it in my mouth. The tastes are wholesome and familiar, yet new at the same time. It strikes me that I've never before really paid attention to what I eat – the different flavours and textures. Maybe part of learning how to cook is learning how to eat. I look up and notice that Mrs Simpson is watching
me
chew the first bite. Her lips pursed in a thin line, she nods almost imperceptibly at me. I smile down at my plate. I know it's good.

In no time at all, everyone's plate is completely empty. My only regret is that we didn't make more. ‘Shall we start the washing-up?' I ask Mrs Simpson.

‘First let's talk about what we cooked tonight, and what we learnt.'

She goes around the table, asking each of us in turn what we thought of the dish we made. Alison says that it tasted ‘good', and Violet says that it was ‘fun to make'. But Mrs Simpson keeps questioning us, making us talk about things like the
balance of the seasoning, the texture of the eggs, the crispiness of the muffins. Gretchen thought that the sauce was a little runny; Violet thought that her muffin was too brown on the bottom. When it gets to be my turn, I don't quite know what to say.

‘I thought that everything we used went really well together,' I muster finally. ‘Like it belonged that way all along.'

For the first time all evening, Mrs Simpson manages a little smile. The years melt off her face. I smile back, glad to have given a ‘right' answer. ‘In that case,' she says, ‘I think we're done here. Now, off with you – I want this kitchen sparkling before you leave.'

‘Yes, Mrs Simpson,' we all say in unison.

We jump up from the table and start a marathon of washing up dishes, cleaning surfaces, putting away ingredients and wiping down the hob. I keep stealing glances at Mrs Simpson as she drinks another cup of tea, wondering about her. Tonight she's made me think about cooking in a whole new way. And I feel good inside about what I've accomplished. That's the best part.

But by the time I finish drying the dishes, Mrs Simpson's eyes are closed and her head is drooping. Her grip loosens on her stick, and it falls to the floor with a thud.

‘We have to get her to bed,' I say. We take off our aprons and help Mrs Simpson to the sofa in the front room. We cover her with an orange knitted throw. Less than a minute later, she's asleep. All of a sudden I realize how irresponsible we've been – it must have been a shock for her to come home from hospital only to find a cooking club in her kitchen. We should have left hours ago.

‘Can we just leave her?' I say to Gretchen. Together we unfasten the old lady's shoes.

‘I'm not sure we have much choice. I guess she'll be OK if she's asleep.'

‘Uh oh!' Alison looks at the screen of her phone for the first time all evening. ‘I told my mum that I'd be home by half eight from your house, Gretch. And now it's almost half nine. And I was supposed to finish that stupid essay.'

Gretchen shrugs. ‘We're all in the same boat.'

‘Where's her stick?' I say. ‘She'll need it when she wakes up.'

‘Still in the kitchen, I guess,' Violet says.

‘I'll just go and get it.'

I go back to the kitchen. The little recipe notebook is closed on the rack, like it's resting for the night. The plates and dishes that we used have been washed and are drying on the draining board of the sink. The pots and pans are drying at the back of the hob. There's a faint hissing sound like a
tap is running somewhere. I check the kitchen tap – it's off. One of the wet tea towels is crumpled up on the counter. I hang it up over the front of the range to dry faster. I pick up Mrs Simpson's stick and take it into the front room, propping it against the sofa so she can't miss it.

‘Let's go,' I say. ‘I'll come back tomorrow morning and check that she's OK.'

We all grab our school bags and head out of the door. We're in such a hurry that no one even thinks to give the secret password.

Maybe that's what we did wrong.

KETCHUP SKY

T
here's a light on under the door to the Mum Cave when I get back home. I tiptoe out of the kitchen towards the stairs when all of a sudden Mum bursts out.

‘Scarlett! Where have you been? I've been so worried.' She engulfs me in her special stale-smelling Mum hug. ‘I was about to call the police. I can't believe you did this to me
again
.'

I'm so tired that I just stand there letting her squeeze me.

‘Sorry, Mum,' I say. ‘But I did tell you about the science project. We're working in pairs to build' – I scratch my head, trying to remember
what we've done in science class this year – ‘a solar-powered car.'

‘Really?' Mum looks disappointed – she won't get much mileage out of that in her blog.

‘I'm paired up with a new girl. Her name is Violet.'

Mum steps back. I have to catch myself from slumping. ‘All right, maybe you did mention it before – I don't remember.' She shrugs dismissively. ‘But I think it's time we got you a phone. Just so you can let me know where you are.'

‘A phone? Really?' Mum's always been opposed to girls my age having phones or tablets – anything like that. While I've got her old laptop computer and printer to do my homework, she won't even let me have internet access. She's already done a post on:
We didn't have any of that stuff in my day . . . so you don't need it either
. ‘That would be great.'

‘I really was worried, Scarlett. I hope you know that.'

I nod, wishing I could say more – tell her that I'm grateful that she was worried about me. But the words won't come out.

‘It's just, there's something strange with this house sometimes.' She stares at the wall, oddly distracted. ‘It's like, I keep smelling things. And remembering . . .'

‘Really?' I say. ‘Like what?'

‘Never mind.' She shakes her head. ‘I've got to get back to work now.' She goes to her office door. ‘And because you gave me a fright, you're grounded.'

Grounded! I try to protest, but she slams the door of the Mum Cave in my face. This is the first time she's ever grounded me, and I can just imagine her sitting gleefully at her computer and typing up a new blog entry:
A Mum's Pop Quiz: how many years has my daughter taken off my life?

But as long as she doesn't know about The Secret Cooking Club, I can live with whatever rubbish she writes. I realize that since we started the club, I'm stronger somehow; more confident. More like my old self.

I go upstairs and brush my teeth. I can't remember ever being so happy to flop into my own bed. I pull the duvet up to my neck and close my eyes. But sleep doesn't come. I go back over the events of the night: from Rosemary Simpson's surprise arrival, to the egg dish that we made, to how full my stomach feels having eaten something fresh and healthy. But there's a little niggle at the back of my mind that won't go away. A hissing sound – like a tap is running somewhere . . .

‘Wake up, Scarlett!'

A hand is shaking me in the dark. There's a
strange reddish orange glow outside the net curtains, and something smells funny.

‘The sky is ketchup,' Kelsie says. She pulls the duvet off me. ‘Come and see.'

I swing out of bed with a sleepy groan. The blood rushes from my head. Something is very wrong.

‘Girls!' Mum's voice is frantic as she runs up the stairs. ‘We need to get outside right now. Something's burning.'

Burning!

All of a sudden I hear the scream of a siren rushing down the road. The ketchup sky begins to flash with the glow of the spinning dome on the fire engine.

‘Mrs Simpson!' I cry. ‘She's in there.'

‘Who?' Mum barks.

‘Our neighbour! She's just come home from hospital.'

We rush outside the front door. A small crowd of neighbours has gathered across the road.

Firefighters pour out of the shiny red truck – there's at least six of them – and go up to Mrs Simpson's front door. One of them tries the door and another one gets ready to bash it in.

‘There's a key underneath the mat,' I yell, rushing forwards. ‘You don't need to bust down the door.'

One of the firefighters gets the key and unlocks the door.

‘Please step back,' another one says to me. ‘Across the road at the very least.'

‘Scarlett?' Mum's voice warns. ‘Come away now.' She pulls me along by the arm, her other hand herding Kelsie. When we're across the road I turn back, petrified, as the fireman pushes open the door. But there's no billowing cloud of smoke: just an old lady's frightened cry: ‘Who are you, young man? Go away now. Shoo . . .'

Two more firefighters dash in, one carrying a full-length stretcher. Mrs Simpson's protests grow even louder. ‘This is my house – and I'm not leaving!'

The remaining firefighters go inside, dragging along a limp fire hose. I hear a loud crash of glass. ‘Please, lady!' A man's voice. ‘We're trying to help you. There's a fire in your kitchen.'

Mum is busy trying to get Kelsie to take her thumb out of her mouth. Sensing my chance, I dash back across the road. One of the neighbours calls out, and then Mum yells, ‘Stop, Scarlett,' but I keep going. Mrs Simpson knows me – I can help get her out of the burning house.

But just as my foot hits the kerb, a sleek black Mercedes pulls up. I stop. A man jumps out of the car: tall with a high forehead, thin nose and
slicked-back dark hair. He's wearing a smart black suit and shiny black shoes. He turns to the crowd and waves briefly. Then he strides past me and up to the door.

‘Aunt Rosemary?' he calls out loudly. Water begins to whoosh through the hosepipe.

‘No!' Mrs Simpson's voice. ‘Turn off that water right now!'

I realize that Mr Black Mercedes must be the nephew, Mr Kruffs. Somehow, I'd pictured him as different – shorter, stouter, more like a fluffy poodle at Crufts dog show. But this man looks more like a slick, modern version of the Child Snatcher. Not someone I'd like to cross.

A moment later, the two firefighters come outside with Mrs Simpson between them – kicking and dragging her feet like a criminal resisting arrest. Mr Kruffs makes a big show of trying to take his aunt's arm. He waves to the crowd that everything's OK – obviously playing up the ‘politician-rescues-old-lady-from-burning-building' angle. Several people take pictures with their phones.

Mrs Simpson jerks her arm away. ‘You can go now, Emory,' she says. ‘Everything is fine.'

‘Fine?' His voice is low. ‘Your house is burning down – with you in it.'

‘Well . . .' Mrs Simpson yanks her stick away
from one of the firemen, ‘this lot has everything sorted. And it was only a very
small
fire . . .' She turns to the crowd across the street and waves her cane. ‘Go away – shoo . . .'

I step forward. ‘Mrs Simpson?' I try to sound calm and soothing. ‘Are you OK? Can I help?'

Mr Kruffs gives me an intense glare down his long nose, like I've just thrown an egg at his car. ‘Who are you?'

I stand my ground. ‘I'm her neighbour.'

‘Well, go back across the road, please. It's not safe for kids here.'

Mrs Simpson stares at me with pleading blue eyes. ‘Scarlett?' she says, sounding confused.

‘That's right, Mrs Simpson.' Ignoring Mr Kruffs, I reach forward and take her arm gently. ‘Shall we go and wait across the road until this is over?'

The old woman looks at her nephew, hesitating. Before she can make up her mind, one of the firemen comes out.

‘Everything is under control,' he says, loud enough for the crowd to hear. ‘You can all go back to bed.'

Someone chuckles like he's said something funny. No one leaves. I glance over at Mum, who's talking to a woman from down the street. I catch a snippet about Boots and the ‘Mum's Survival Kit'.

Mr Kruffs steps up and stands next to the fireman. ‘Everything is going to be fine now.' He grins widely as a few more photos are snapped. ‘I think we should all get out of the way now and let our brave firefighters finish doing their jobs.'

The crowd murmurs, and a few people begin to leave.

I lean closer to Mrs Simpson and listen as the fireman speaks to Mr Kruffs. ‘It was just a small, contained fire,' he says. ‘The hob in the kitchen was left on and a tea towel caught fire.'

‘A tea towel . . .' My hand flies to my mouth.
What have I done?

The fireman continues talking to Mr Kruffs. ‘There's some smoke damage, a burnt window frame and a broken window. It could have been a lot worse.'

But things
are
worse. I know that as soon as I take a look at Mr Kruffs, his face grimacing in concern. ‘The hob was left on,' he repeats. He shakes his head and tsks dramatically. ‘Really, Aunt Rosemary.'

‘It wasn't her fault!' I say. Guilt and fear churn inside me.

‘Please stay out of this,' Mr Kruffs says sharply. He turns back to his aunt. ‘This proves that you can't keep living here on your own.'

Her face crumples. ‘Yes, I can,' she says. ‘And
I wouldn't be on my own if you hadn't taken Treacle.'

Mr Kruffs gives a pained-looking shrug. ‘Shouldn't you be thanking me for that? That greedy old cat could have starved to death while you were in hospital.'

‘He's not greedy,' I cut in. ‘And he wouldn't have starved.
I
was feeding him. You should bring him back.'

Mr Kruffs peers down at me like a vulture in a tall tree. ‘This is nothing to do with you,' he says.

Mrs Simpson's bony hand tightens on my arm. ‘It's everything to do with me,' I say with a sudden surge of protectiveness. ‘Mrs Simpson is my neighbour – we share a wall. If her house had burnt down, so would ours.' I turn to the old lady. ‘Come on, Mrs Simpson, let's go. I'll ask Mum if you can sleep at our house tonight.'

‘There, Emory, you see?' Rosemary Simpson gives her nephew a defiant look. She allows me to steer her away. She hobbles towards our house, leaning heavily on both me and her stick.

‘I'll be back in the morning,' Mr Kruffs says. In two strides he's back at the black Mercedes and getting into the driver's seat. ‘We'll talk about this further. And this time, I'm going to take some action.'

Mrs Simpson's whole body starts to tremble.

‘It's OK,' I whisper. ‘It's going to be fine.'

‘Don't let him put me in a home, please.'

‘I won't, Mrs Simpson.' I bite my lip. ‘I promise.'