The Secret Cooking Club (14 page)

AN UNWANTED VISITOR

I
leave early for school the next morning and go over to Mrs Simpson's house. Treacle is inside, meowing at the door, and there's no sign that Mrs Simpson has been home. My stomach knots with worry. Maybe she came home and Mr Kruffs had her ‘old-lady-napped'. Or maybe she tried to get somewhere on her own and was hurt or injured. When we're cooking with her, she doesn't seem old and frail at all. But I remember the other times: in the hospital and the night of the fire . . .

Violet sees my face when I meet up with her in the corridor. Her smile fades to worry. ‘She's not back yet?'

‘No. What can we do?'

‘I don't know – are you free after school?'

‘Um, yeah.' I hesitate. ‘But I've got a couple of questions for Nick – about the website.'

Her eyes light up in amusement. ‘I bet you do.'

I give her a black look and walk off to class.

It takes me the whole morning to psych myself up to talk to Nick at lunchtime. When I approach his table across the canteen, the skin on the back of my neck prickles with goosebumps like everyone is looking at me and laughing. He's chatting with one of his rugby friends, but looks up as I come over to this table. I shift awkwardly from foot to foot.

‘Hi,' I say, my voice croaky. ‘Thanks for your help yesterday. I've uh . . . got a few follow-up questions.'

His friend raises an eyebrow across the table. My cheeks grow hot.

‘Yeah, whatever.' Nick shrugs. I'm immediately sorry that I came up to him in front of his friend. ‘I can't do today – maybe tomorrow?'

‘Tomorrow?' I repeat dumbly. ‘Yeah, that would be great.'

Before I can embarrass myself any further, I quickly turn and make a beeline for the girls' loos. I practically slam into Gretchen and Alison, who
are standing at the sink painting their nails with rainbow stripes of pink and purple varnish.

Gretchen gives me a disdainful look for the benefit of another girl who's at the sink washing her hands. As soon as the girl leaves, Gretchen shrugs apologetically. ‘Hi, Scarlett,' she says. ‘What's up?'

‘I need your photos for the website,' I say. ‘All the stuff we've cooked.'

‘I can upload the photos and help out with the website if you want,' Alison offers. ‘You're going to need some help.' She gives a little smirk. ‘Unless you and lover boy want to do it all yourselves.'

‘No,' I say. I see in the mirror that I'm blushing. ‘I can definitely use some help. Besides,' I lower my voice, ‘we also need to find Mrs Simpson.'

‘What?' Gretchen says, looking concerned.

‘She's not back yet,' I say.

‘And you have no idea where she is or who this “friend” is she went to visit?'

‘None at all. It's like she's just vanished.'

We agree to meet at Mrs Simpson's house after school as usual. But everyone seems a bit preoccupied. It's not like Mrs Simpson was around at the start, but already she's become just as important as any of the other members.
More
important – considering that she's teaching us, and we're using her kitchen and special recipe book.

The house is still empty when we get there. Treacle meows plaintively like he's lonely – and maybe just a little unhappy with us for ‘rescuing' him. Which he probably is. We find a recipe that we all agree on: ‘Peter Piper's Pepper Pasta'. Gretchen and Alison go out to the garden to pick tomatoes while Violet and I mix up the fresh pasta dough. But my heart isn't in it. It takes ages before the pasta is ready to use: we have to roll the dough and cut the pasta, draping long strands around the kitchen. Gretchen and Alison have made a big bowl of salad and started stirring the spices into the sauce. It all smells delicious, and my stomach is rumbling. Now, if only Mrs Simpson would come back—

All of a sudden, there's a loud knocking on the front door.

‘Aunt Rosemary – open up!' a voice calls out.

The four of us freeze, looking at each other in horror. It's Mr Kruffs. We've been caught red-handed!

‘Aunt Rosemary – you know we need to talk. You're only making things worse for yourself by not taking my calls. I'm coming in.'

A key rattles in the lock. The door bangs open. Instantly, I'm roused into action.

I head him off at the kitchen door. ‘Hello, Mr Kruffs,' I say, faking a pleasant smile. Violet comes
up silently beside me.

‘Where is she?' he says accusingly.

‘She?' I give Violet a puzzled look. ‘I thought the cat was a boy cat, didn't you?'

Violet giggles. ‘I never looked.'

‘Not the cat!' Mr Kruffs blusters. ‘I'm looking for my aunt.'

‘Oh.' I shrug dramatically. ‘Sorry, haven't seen her today. She left a note – she's visiting a friend.'

‘Friend? What friend?'

‘She didn't say.'

He crosses his arms. ‘And what, pray tell, are you doing here if she's not in?'

‘Like I said the last time, I'm Mrs Simpson's neighbour,' I say. ‘And her friend. We all are.' I'm relieved when Gretchen and Alison come up to the door behind me. Now it's four against one.

‘You shouldn't be here,' he says. ‘You're trespassing.'

I put my hands on my hips, feeling suddenly brave. ‘So call the police. They might find it interesting that
you're
bullying an old lady – taking her cat away from her and trying to force her out of her own home. And even if they don't want to listen to us, I'm sure your voters might.'

Mr Kruffs takes a step forward. I grip Violet's hand and stand my ground. OMG.

‘You don't know what you're talking about,' he
says. ‘My aunt can't keep living here on her own. It's my responsibility to make arrangements for her.'

‘What, so that you can sell her house and get the money for your campaign – is that it?' Violet says. I squeeze her hand gratefully.

He actually looks puzzled for a second, and then starts to laugh. ‘Is that what you think? That's the craziest thing I've ever heard.'

‘Well, I don't know.'

‘No, you don't,' he says firmly. ‘And we're done with this conversation. Go home.'

‘OK, girls,' Gretchen says breezily. ‘You heard the man. Let's go.'

‘But what about the—'

Gretchen cuts me off with a raised hand. ‘We'll just have to leave Mr Kruffs to do the washing-up.' Gretchen turns back to him. ‘We were cooking supper. The kitchen's in a bit of a mess.' She smiles wryly. ‘Could you make sure that the oven and hob are turned off when you go?'

‘You were using the kitchen?'

‘Of course,' I answer. ‘Your aunt is teaching us how to cook. She's not here right now, but we have to practise. We can't let her down.'

‘She's teaching you to cook—' He stops abruptly, looking genuinely startled.

‘Yeah,' Alison chimes in. ‘She's a great teacher –
the best. And she knows so much about cooking – she even wrote a special recipe book that we're using. The only thing wrong with her is that she's a little old, that's all.'

‘Rosemary hasn't cooked in years. Not since Marianne died.'

‘Marianne?' I say.

‘Her daughter. But since you're such good “friends”, I would have thought you knew that.'

To my Little Cook – may you find the secret ingredient.
I swallow a lump in my throat. Mrs Simpson wrote the special recipe book for her daughter: Marianne. A daughter who died.

Mr Kruffs raises his hands in a gesture of futility. ‘Aunt Rosemary heats up canned soup and barely eats that. A year ago she lost so much weight that she was wasting away. She had to be put on electrolytes and fibre.' He looks at me pointedly, like I should know what that is.

‘Sounds awful,' I mutter.

‘Yes,' he says. ‘Not eating properly is one of the reasons she can't stay here by herself.'

‘But her fridge is always full of food,' I protest. ‘She has an amazing kitchen and all these cookbooks. She
wrote
a cookbook by hand for her daughter. It's obviously her passion.'

Mr Kruffs laughs gruffly. ‘And do you really think my aunt goes out to the shops and brings all
the food back herself? Or do you believe there's a baking fairy that crawls out of her special cookbook at night and holes up in one of the cupboards?'

‘No, of course not.' I don't tell him that actually, we've all wondered why the kitchen is always well stocked with food.

‘Well, think about it. She doesn't drive, and the supermarket is too far away for her to walk there.'

‘So . . .'

‘So I have food delivered to her – or, at least, my PA takes care of it. Every week, like clockwork. And not just from the local supermarket, since I know how my aunt appreciates real food. It's from a gourmet market – they even put everything in the cupboards where it belongs, or out on the worktop, in case it might encourage her to try cooking something again. It's not cheap, believe me. But I don't want my aunt to starve, now do I?'

‘No . . .' I admit, as I'm struck by a new possibility. What if Mr Kruffs is genuinely concerned for his aunt? We've only met her a few times – surely he must know lots of things we don't. What if before we met her she wasn't eating? And she did have a fall that put her in hospital . . .

‘And now she's gone missing and you're here. She doesn't have any “friends” any more that live close by. So where is she?'

‘I don't know,' I concede. ‘And I can see why you're concerned.' I look at my friends. Everyone nods worriedly. ‘But honestly your aunt seems OK. When we've been around her, she's seemed happy and she's eaten the stuff we've cooked for her. So maybe she's doing better than you think?'

He gives me a long look, and I can feel sweat beading up on my brow. I raise my chin and try to sound like a grown-up. ‘Mr Kruffs, would you like to stay a bit longer and have some of the supper we've been cooking. It's just salad and pasta with home-made sauce – the recipe is from your aunt's special book.' I think of what Mum would say in her blog and take a deep breath. ‘It might be a good idea if we all sit down and talk.'

THE WARNING

H
e stares at me. I stare back. The others look at me – surprise and shock on their faces. My heart bangs inside my chest.

‘OK,' he says. ‘Let's talk.'

What have I done?

Violet and Alison practically flatten each other in their hurry to set an extra place at the table. I'm amazingly relieved when Gretchen gestures for our ‘guest' to take a chair and sits down opposite him. She sits up tall, looking every inch the cool, calm, collected PTA rep and future lawyer that all the grown-ups love.

Mr Kruffs crosses his arms, looking for a
moment like he's sorry he accepted the invite. I bring the huge wooden bowl of freshly tossed salad over to the table and sit down next to Gretchen.

‘So, Mr Kruffs . . .' Gretchen is saying, ‘how's the campaign going?'

‘It's going just fine.' His eyes snag on me.

‘That's what my dad says. You may know him – Alan Sandburg, QC.'

‘He's your father?' Mr Kruffs straightens up in his chair.

‘Yeah.' Gretchen smiles smugly. ‘He says that you're a real champion of the “grey vote”.'

‘Of course,' Mr Kruffs says. ‘Our elderly people are important members of society. We need to respect and value them.'

‘And I suppose you'll have to travel up to London a lot if you're elected.'

‘That's right. I'll be there most of the time. I've got a trip there planned for early next week.'

‘Don't you have any family here?' I ask. Violet and Alison sit down and I pass Mr Kruffs the salad bowl.

He serves himself a generous plateful. ‘I'm divorced,' he says. ‘So, no. Other than Rosemary, of course.'

‘It's so nice of you to care so much about your aunt,' Violet says. It sounds like she means
it. I frown.

Mr Kruffs spoons on some oil and vinegar dressing and passes the salad bowl on to Alison. ‘Whether you believe it or not, I do care about her. As I said, Aunt Rosemary is my only relative. Once she was almost like a mother to me. But her health has been getting worse lately. She's scattered and forgetful and sometimes she's unsteady on her feet. Of course she won't talk about it, but I think she may be suffering from dementia.'

‘And what is that exactly?' Gretchen says.

‘In simple terms, it means that she's losing her memory.' Mr Kruffs takes a bite of salad and chews thoughtfully. ‘It happens to lots of old people. There's no cure, and she'll only get worse and worse. She might forget to turn off the hob, or she might forget to get dressed or feed the cat – or even eat regular meals. She's a danger to herself, and I can't always be around to look in on her – even if she wanted me to.'

We all eat our salad in silence. I mull over what he's just said.

‘These tomatoes . . .' Mr Kruffs muses. ‘I must say, they do taste very fresh.'

‘Your aunt grows them in her garden,' Violet says. ‘They're totally organic.'

‘My aunt
grows
them?'

‘Yeah.'

He narrows his eyes and finishes off his plate of salad. When he's finished, Alison jumps up and brings over the steaming bowl of spaghetti. It smells delicious, but I know I can't eat another bite. Not until I confess to what happened.

‘Mr Kruffs, there's something you need to know,' I say, trying to keep my voice steady. ‘Your aunt didn't leave the hob on that time it caught fire.' I grip the edge of the table. ‘We did – accidentally. She was teaching us how to cook Eggs Benedict from her special recipe book. We forgot to turn off the gas and it was my fault that the tea towel caught fire. Not hers.'

Mr Kruff's face twists into a scowl. ‘What did you say?'

‘I said – we started that fire, not your aunt.'

He sits back, stunned. ‘I could call the police right now. What you did was dangerous and stupid – not to mention a waste of public resources.'

‘It was dangerous and stupid,' I admit. ‘But . . . it was an accident. It won't happen again.'

I bite my tongue waiting for the explosion that I'm sure is coming. Will he jump up and push over the table, shattering everything on the floor? Will he really call the police, or drag us out himself?

So I'm surprised when he reaches for the bowl of pasta, and serves himself a heaping pile.

‘Here's the sauce,' Gretchen says. Her hands are
shaking as she passes him the bowl.

He dips the ladle in the sauce, holds it up and looks closely at it, before gooping it over the pasta. Then he takes a bite, barely chewing it before diving in to take another. The rest of us watch in stunned silence – in a few seconds, he's demolished half the portion.

He sets down his fork and wipes his mouth with a napkin. ‘It was brave of you to confess,' he says.

My friends and I all breathe at once.

‘Not that it changes anything,' he says, serving himself more pasta. He passes the bowl to Gretchen, who takes a small portion for herself and hands it to Violet.

‘It doesn't?' I croak.

‘No.'

I swallow hard. ‘But maybe Mrs Simpson doesn't really have dementia or whatever. If she's a little scattered sometimes, it might just be because she's old. And maybe she's sad about her daughter too.'
My Little Cook
. Gretchen gives me a sharp jab with her elbow. I ignore it. ‘When did she die?' I say.

‘Two years ago,' Mr Kruffs says. ‘It was a car accident.'

Violet breathes in sharply.

‘It was quick and painless – so they say, but she was Rosemary's only child. No parent should have
to outlive their child.'

‘Did Rosemary's daughter like to cook?' I ask.

‘Like to?' He nods. ‘She was amazing. She went to cooking school in Paris and Switzerland, and became a professional chef in London. The restaurant where she worked was awarded a Michelin star while she was there. I remember the Christmas dinners they used to cook together – it was like a banquet there was so much food. And all of it was perfect.' He smiles faintly. ‘They were happy times.'

‘It's just
so
tragic,' Alison wails, as she spoons sauce on to her pasta.

‘Yes,' I say. The food comes round to me. ‘But that doesn't mean that Mrs Simpson is crazy or losing her memory. Maybe she's just sad – or lonely – or bored. Maybe she just needs something else to do.'

Mr Kruffs shakes his head. ‘As I say, her health is suffering. She needs to be looked after. And I can't do that. There are some very nice places out there with very nice people. Whatever you might have heard' – he snorts, sounding annoyed – ‘and people say some idiotic things about homes for the elderly . . . well, there are a lot of good, kind places where older people are very happy. And safe. She'd make new friends too. It's just what she needs.'

‘But we're her friends,' I say, feeling more and more upset. ‘That's got to count for something?'

‘“Friends” that practically burn down her house?' He glares at me. ‘I think she can do without those, don't you?'

‘It was an accident!'

‘But it happened.'

I cross my arms. ‘I know you're her nephew, but you can't just make her leave her home and go into one of
those
places.'

‘Actually, I can.' His eyes glint coldly. ‘I have her power of attorney, which means I can make decisions on her behalf. And I own a share of this house.'

‘But it's cruel! She doesn't want to go—'

Gretchen elbows me even harder this time. I snap my mouth shut and stare sullenly down at my plate.

‘I understand what you're saying about your aunt, Mr Kruffs, really I do.' Gretchen passes him back the bowl of pasta. ‘My grandma was in poor health and needed care before she died. A carer came to visit her every day. And Dad installed a panic button in case something happened when the nurse wasn't there.'

Mr Kruffs fills his plate with seconds. ‘I don't think that's going to be enough. In the last few months I've become convinced that she needs round-the-clock care.'

And then you can sell her house?
I open my mouth
again but Gretchen cuts me off with a look.

‘It's just something to think about.' Gretchen sounds like a real adult. ‘An option.'

Mr Kruffs doesn't answer. He's back to eating the pasta like it's going out of style. I inhale the steam coming from my plate. Now that Gretchen's taken charge, I take a small bite. The fresh herbs and the spices of the sauce tingle on my tongue, the vegetables full of delicious flavour. The homemade pasta is silky and rich.

‘This food . . .' Mr Kruffs says, wiping his mouth on a napkin, ‘is delicious.'

‘Oh, do you think so?' Violet smiles brightly. ‘I'm so glad. Your aunt would be proud to hear you say so.'

He shakes his head in disbelief.

The bowls of pasta and sauce get passed around again, and the food is gone in a few minutes. ‘Would you like some pudding?' Gretchen offers him.

‘Unfortunately, I'm going to have to pass,' Mr Kruffs said. ‘I must dash. The fact is, my aunt is still missing. I have to phone around and try to find her.'

‘Has she done it before?' Violet asks.

He pauses before answering. ‘A few times. Unfortunately, any old friends she has are scattered here and there. She's gone to complete strangers' houses before, looking for people she
used to know who died years ago.'

‘Oh.' I don't really have a good answer to that.

‘Is it OK if we stay to do the washing-up?' Alison asks. ‘We'll check to make sure that everything is turned off and we'll lock up.'

‘You do that,' he says. ‘But from now on, you need to find somewhere else to do your cooking – do you understand?'

‘Yeah,' I say. The breath leaves my body like a punctured balloon.

‘I'm leaving for London next week for a day or so,' he continues. ‘Tuesday morning, early. If she's not back home by the weekend, I'm calling the police.'

‘Fair enough,' Gretchen says.

I nod.

‘Thanks for eating with us.' Violet cheerfully changes the subject. ‘I think we all understand each other much better now.'

‘It's been . . . interesting.' Mr Kruffs runs a hand through his dark hair. He nods curtly at us, and turns and walks out.

As soon as he's gone, the four of us open our mouths as if to talk at once, and yet no one speaks. Violet clears the plates from the table and Alison runs a sinkful of hot soapy water.

‘What now?' I find my voice and turn to
Gretchen.

‘You didn't help things by getting annoyed like that,' she scolds.

‘And you sure were a Miss Goody-Two-Shoes sucking up to him like that—'

‘I can't believe you told him about the fire!'

‘Well, we can't let him keep believing that she did it, can we!'

‘OK, OK,' Violet intervenes. ‘That's enough. We need to think about what we do next.'

‘We have to hope Mrs Simpson comes back,' Alison says. ‘If he has to call the police, it will make things a lot worse for her.'

‘Alison's right,' Gretchen says. ‘There's not much we can do unless we find her.'

‘But if she does come back, then how do we know we can trust
him
?' I say.

Gretchen smiles cryptically. ‘Once she's back, I think Mr Kruffs will come around to our way of thinking.'

‘What makes you so sure?' I snap. ‘He seemed like a total creep to me.'

Gretchen rolls her eyes. ‘Honestly, Scarlett. Don't you ever read your mum's blog? She's always saying that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach.'