The Secret Cooking Club (13 page)

THE FIRST POST

I
'm fully prepared for my feet not to touch the ground. But actually, I'm remarkably calm as I leave the library. It's like the whole Nick Farr thing has made me grow up all in the course of a single day. I grip the paper with his phone number in my hand. I've agreed to contact him the next time The Secret Cooking Club meets – so that he can join us!

‘For the record, Alison didn't tell me that you were the ones leaving the free samples,' he'd re-assured me after seeing my astonished face. ‘I guessed that day I saw you out of class just before lunch. And I think it would be fun to learn a bit
about cooking. I mean, lots of blokes do it these days. And Mum and Dad don't have time to cook – it would be nice if I could surprise them by cooking something good once in a while.'

‘Yeah,' I'd said. ‘I think it's something that anyone can enjoy doing. I mean, we all have to eat, don't we?'

He laughed. ‘Yes, we do. Also, my mum has a big birthday coming up. Dad's planning a party for her and I'm supposed to order a cake. But how awesome would it be if I could actually make her one?'

‘It sounds great,' I said. ‘And we'd all be happy to pitch in.'

‘OK,' he said. ‘My rugby schedule's a little hectic right now, but I should be able to meet you one night next week? Monday?'

He'd written down his number and left for his practice. I'd rushed off to meet the other members at Mrs Simpson's house.

When I get there and let myself inside, everything is quiet, dark and empty. In the kitchen, I see that some work has been done to repaint the wall and fix the window. It looks as good as new. Obviously, Mr Kruffs didn't waste any time getting workmen in. And if he was here, then where is his aunt now? I'm sure that we'd arranged to meet her today. I
was hoping she would be here so I could tell her about the new website – and about Nick wanting to join us.

I don't feel like going home so I nose around a little. Something is scribbled on the magnetic message pad that hangs on the fridge: ‘Gone to visit a friend – RS.'

That explains where Mrs Simpson is, at least. It must have been a last-minute thing. Relieved, I sit down at the table and take a notebook and pen out of my school bag. The words pop into my head and I begin to write:

Please don't tell my mum that you're reading this. I mean, you probably won't because you don't know who I am, so you don't know who she is. And I don't know who you are. For now, I think we ought to keep it that way. It will be our secret.

You see, I have this problem with my mum. She's a blogger, and she's made my life a nightmare by posting lots of embarrassing stuff about me. I pretty much had to drop all my activities at school, it was getting so annoying.

I pause and read over what I've written, crossing out and changing a few words here and there.

But now I've started doing something that Mum doesn't know about. Don't worry, it's nothing bad. It's just that my
neighbour was taken away in an ambulance, and when I went to feed her cat, I found this amazing kitchen and a special handwritten recipe book. And there was this new girl at school, and I told her about what I found, and she wanted to join me. So that's our secret — we're learning how to cook. Now there's five of us — four girls and one boy, plus the old lady whose kitchen we use. We're a real club — a secret club. No one knows who we are.

Except you . . .

And that's what this blog is about. We'd like you to join us. Leave a comment below, and welcome to ‘The Secret Cooking Club'.

Yours truly,

The Little Cook

P.S. Don't tell any grown-ups!

I put down the pen. Luckily, I've read enough of Mum's blog to know how to do it. I think it sounds chatty, and says what I want to say. I've chosen to sign it as ‘The Little Cook' in honour of Mrs Simpson's book. A strange feeling comes over me – not the calm of earlier, but more like the jolt of an electric shock. I was
meant
to come here and find the special recipe book. I'm
meant
to be doing this.

Just then, the front door opens. I jump up and pack my papers away. There's a loud screech and the sound of small feet running. Then, voices:

‘Owwh, he scratched me!'

‘Well, I guess he's just hungry, and glad to be home.'

‘Achoo! I'm allergic to fur.'

Something small and black darts across the kitchen floor in front of me. ‘Treacle!' I say happily. The cat goes next to the fridge where his bowl used to be and begins to meow indignantly.

‘Hi, Scarlett.' Violet comes in with Treacle's bowl in her hand. She puts a finger to her lips. ‘We were out kidnapping Treacle.'

‘Kidnapping?'

‘Well, cat-napping actually.' Gretchen giggles. Alison gives another big sneeze.

‘Where was he?' I ask.

‘At the cattery on Priory Road.' Violet sets down his bowl and I fill it with cat food. ‘I asked my aunt to find out from Mr Kruffs where he had taken the cat. She told him that we were thinking of adopting him, but really we just wanted to surprise Mrs Simpson. Do you know where Mrs Simpson is?'

‘She left a note – she's visiting a friend.'

‘Oh,' Violet says. ‘That's good – I guess. We came here earlier. The workmen were just leaving, but I was a little worried when she wasn't here.'

‘Let's try to cook something, and maybe she'll be back in time for supper.'

The four of us start raiding the fridge and cupboards. Violet suggests that we try to make
‘Simple Simon's Cottage Pie'.

I fetch the minced beef while Gretchen and Alison go out to the garden to pick some of the end-of-season vegetables. Violet chops the potatoes for the mash.

‘Where were you, by the way?' Violet says. Her little smirk tells me that she knows exactly where I was.

My calm, cool resolve fades and I break out into a silly grin. It's all just too insane to think that I was setting up a website with Nick Farr and that he wants to join us. Gretchen and Alison come back inside. I suddenly feel self-conscious.

‘So how did your meeting go?' Alison says, her eyes watering from the cat.

‘Um, good, I think.'

‘You think?' Gretchen jeers. ‘Come on, Scarlett. You can do better than that.'

‘Well, he's going to help me set up a website. An online Secret Cooking Club – I thought we'd have different pages: for ‘Scrummy Cakes and Bakes', ‘Home-cooked Dinners' and ‘Recipes for Sharing'.

‘What about something healthy too?' Alison suggests. ‘Like “Healthy Bites for Home”? Mrs Simpson showed me a great recipe for fruit and nut protein bars. I'm dying to try them.'

‘I like it!' I grin at Alison.

‘OK, OK,' Violet says. ‘Now stop avoiding the
real subject. How was it meeting . . .
him
?' she coaxes.

My face flushes crimson. ‘It was fine. Actually, Nick wants to join us.'

‘Join us?!' Gretchen and Violet say at the same time.

Alison shrugs. ‘I guess he's a dark horse. He didn't say anything to me.'

‘It will be really cool to have a boy member,' Violet says.

‘Especially Nick Farr, right Scarlett?' Gretchen winks at me and blows a kiss.

‘Very funny,' I sulk.
Is it that obvious that Nick makes me feel so strange – bubbly one minute and self-conscious the next?
‘But the more the merrier.'

‘Maybe he'll invite the rest of the rugby team,' Violet says. ‘They must eat a lot.'

‘Maybe,' I say. ‘But first we need to focus on helping Mrs Simpson. Here's what I have in mind . . .'

I outline my idea to the group. How we'll start a website, get lots of followers and friends, and raise money to help Mrs Simpson and other elderly people living alone.

‘It might work.' Gretchen says. ‘I mean, look at all the sponsors your mum has.'

‘And like Alison suggested, we can have a bake-a-thon. But we'll do it online. We'll get sponsors
and advertisers and pledges. And if we can get other kids to join us – kids from all over the place – they can bake things too.'

Alison beams – the bake-a-thon was her idea, after all. But it's Gretchen who takes up the brainstorming. ‘It's a really good idea, Scarlett,' she says. ‘And once we've got an online profile, if Mr Kruffs tries to force his aunt out of her home, we'll tell all his voters.'

‘Do you really think it might work?' Violet says.

‘Well, unless anyone has any better ideas,' Gretchen says, ‘let's have a go.'

‘OK, we will. And, there's just one other thing . . .' Taking a deep breath, I turn back to Alison. I can't believe the words are coming out of my mouth. ‘I was just wondering – about Nick. Is he . . . um . . . your—'

Gretchen and Violet look at each other and laugh. Alison's perfect skin flushes a lovely shade of peach.

‘No, silly,' Alison says. ‘He's my cousin.'

MUM'S LITTLE HELPER

M
y mind bubbles like a boiling pot. The new website, Mr Kruffs, Mrs Simpson – where is she anyway? – and most distracting of all, the fact that Alison is NOT going out with Nick Farr. He's her cousin! No wonder she's so at ease around him.

We finish making the pies – they have fluffy mashed potato tops that are just browned, and the meat filling has lots of fresh vegetables, gravy and herbs in it. In the end, they are simple, but delicious. But for once, I can't finish mine. I pack the rest of it up in a plastic container, along with the one we made for Mrs Simpson. Despite the note
she left, it's getting late and I'm starting to get worried.

We all pitch in to do the washing-up (double-and triple-checking that the oven and hob are turned off). Treacle curls up in his basket next to the range cooker. I stay behind after the others have left, hoping that Mrs Simpson might return. She doesn't. Eventually, I decide to go home. I lock the door and put the key back under the mat.

At home, I'm surprised to hear the TV on. It's way past Kelsie's bedtime, and Mum is always too busy to watch anything. But when I go into the front room, I see her – sprawled out on the sofa asleep, her laptop half tipped off her lap. At first I worry that she tried to wait up for me (luckily, both of us seem to have forgotten that, technically, I'm supposed to be grounded). Then I realize that she's just exhausted. For a second, I feel sorry for her.

I turn off the TV and watch her sleep for a minute, my brain ticking over with an idea. She won't allow me internet access at home, so I won't be able to upload my post or update my new website. But maybe there's something I can do to change that.

I move the laptop off her legs and she jerks awake. ‘Scarlett?' She looks around her like she's in a strange place. Then she sees the laptop in my hand and reaches for it. ‘Thanks for waking me,'
she says. ‘I've got some things to finish.'

‘That's OK, Mum. I'm sorry you're so tired.'

‘Well,' she shrugs, ‘I guess that goes with the territory.'

‘I was thinking . . . maybe I could help you. With some of your blog stuff. I could answer emails and post updates; maybe even respond to comments if you showed me how.'

Mum gives me a suspicious frown. ‘You've never shown an interest before.'

‘Well, we're learning about computer stuff at school. So I could use some practice.'

‘Is this a new club you've joined?'

‘No,' I say quickly. ‘It's just that everyone else knows how to use computers and social media. I should learn it too.'

‘You're probably right.' She purses her lips in thought. ‘Social media is important. I guess maybe you are old enough to use it responsibly. But we'd need to set strict controls.' I can sense her blog-cogs whirring:
Help! My daughter wants to be online. Is this payback?
For once, I don't let it bother me.

‘Of course, Mum,' I concede. ‘And if I helped you, then you wouldn't have to work so hard all the time.'

‘Hmm. I'll think about it.'

‘I . . . um, could start now?'

‘I'm too tired to show you right now.'

‘OK, but once I've got a little practice, I'll be able to do loads. You'll need all your energy for your launch in Boots.'

‘Well . . . I'll sleep on it.' She closes up the laptop and sets it on the coffee table. Her mouth gapes into a big yawn. ‘Don't stay up too late.'

‘OK, I won't.'

I haven't exactly got permission, but Mum's not one to turn down an offer of free help – even from me. We both go upstairs, and as soon as I hear her bedroom door shut and the water running in the bath, I creep back downstairs. I go to the lounge and open her laptop computer. It turns on immediately but it asks for a password.

Determined not to fall at the first hurdle, I go into the kitchen and try the door to the Mum Cave. It doesn't open. I push harder, thinking the door must be stuck, but it still doesn't open. It must be locked. I've never known Mum to lock it before.

I try the kitchen junk drawer to see if there's a spare key. As I'm rummaging through the bits of paper, old bills and yellow stickies, there's a loud thunk from behind the door to the Mum Cave. I go back over and put my ear to the door. Everything is quiet – I must have imagined it.

I look again for a key, but find instead a yellow sticky with the name and number of a computer
repairman. On the back, Mum's scribbled her password: scarlettkelsie1. I'm surprised and even a little bit touched that she's used our names as her password. I return to the lounge and type it in. The screen flickers to life.

OK, I'm in – so now what? I pull up the Bloggerific website. From there, it takes me a confusing and slightly nerve-racking half hour to set up an account. I have to sign up for an email account on another site, verify my address, choose my template and figure out how to move around text boxes and photo layouts. Finally, I open a new text box, and slowly and carefully so that I don't make too many mistakes, I type in my first blog post as ‘The Little Cook'.

When I'm finished typing, I look over what I've done. It's fine – I guess – but on-screen, it seems kind of dry and boring. I realize almost immediately what's missing. Mum always uses lots of cringeworthy pictures in her blog – irritating 1950s mums in aprons hoovering or doing laundry – with little sayings like: ‘If only you'd do what I say, Mummy wouldn't have to LOSE HER RAG'; or making up not-so-funny little award badges for things like
Today I survived washing my daughter's gym kit
. All of her friends and followers always comment on how good they are. For my blog, I need some pictures too. Gretchen and Alison have
both taken photos with their mobiles of some of the things we've made. That should do for a start.

I spend the next half hour trying to add some little empty boxes with the cursor where the photos will eventually go. But everything I've written ends up on the wrong lines or disappearing half off the page. Frustrated, I save what I've done as a draft and shut it down before I can make it any worse.

I'll just have to ask Nick. Poor me!