The Secret Cooking Club (19 page)

So by the time all of us pitch up to our first class (late), it seems that things are going well. I somehow manage to make it through the morning and
all of a sudden, it's lunchtime.

As I leave the classroom, I can already hear the noise from down the hall in the canteen. Violet and I lock arms and go there together. As soon as I go through the door, I gasp. It's like a cooking flash mob. The tables are covered with baked goods – either The Secret Cooking Club has far more members at school than I know about, or else the dinner ladies had a go at cooking their own recipes and puddings. Everyone is standing around chatting and laughing, waving trays, not bothering to queue up in any orderly fashion. I'm happy to hear the clunk of coins in the ‘pay what you want' collection box that we set up.

Then someone throws open the door that leads to the school lawn outside, and people begin filtering out for an impromptu autumn picnic. It's against school rules to do so, but the teachers don't try to stop us – they carry their plates full of food outside and sit down on the benches along with everyone else. Luckily, the day is still bright and sunny with a mostly blue sky and little puffy white clouds.

I grab a tray and edge forward into the clump of kids in front of the pudding table (I'm way too on edge to tackle any real food). Someone taps me on the shoulder and I turn round. Instantly, the butterflies take flight in my stomach – the way
they always do whenever I'm around Nick Farr.

‘This is fantastic, Scarlett,' he says. His smile is amazing, his eyes shiny.

‘Thanks,' I say, blushing. ‘Not that
I
had anything to do with it – but, I'm sure that
The Little Cook
appreciates your help with the website.'

‘No problem.' He laughs. ‘And I saw your mum's new post today promoting the bake-a-thon. She really has turned over a new leaf.'

‘Well . . .' I roll my eyes. ‘It's early days.'

‘Listen . . .' He leans in closer and my heart practically stops. ‘My brother and his wife got me two tickets to see One New Direction – you know, the tribute band? I was wondering . . .' His voice suddenly falters. ‘I mean, if you're not too busy . . .'

‘I'd love to go,' I practically gasp. ‘When is it?'

‘The Sunday after next. I can email you the details.'

‘That would be great.'

All of a sudden I'm in the midst of the crowd up at the food table. I feel Nick take my hand and squeeze it, and then we get separated. I look around for him, my hand tingling, but he's gone.

I let the full implications of what just happened wash over me like a warm bath.
Nick Farr
asked me out to a concert.
Nick Farr
likes
me
!!!

The whole world feels like it's in slow motion around me. I grab a samosa, a fruit tart and a
chocolate brownie, unaware of all the noise and the people pushing around me. I still feel like I'm flying as I take my plate outside and find Violet, Alison, and Gretchen sitting in a circle on a blanket on the grass. The others reach out their hands and we all slap high-fives. I sit down and take a bite of the fruit tart that Alison made – her speciality dish.

‘Ummm. Delicious.' I close my eyes to savour the taste, and try to lock Nick's face into my mind.

When I open my eyes again, the sky is suddenly dark as a cloud passes over the sun. A few people look up and hold out their hands as the first raindrops start to fall.

THE SECRET INGREDIENT

B
y the end of the day, I'm exhausted but happy. I managed to sneak out of class for a toilet break at one point and checked our site on my mobile phone to see how the online bake-a-thon was doing. Hundreds of photographs had been uploaded, and nearly two dozen recipes. Best of all, we'd raised almost £3,000 so far for a charity that helps elderly people, and that's before anywhere near all of the pledges have been collected.

After school, I log on to the blog and officially declare the bake-a-thon a success. I can't wait to get back home and tell Mum and Mrs Simpson.
Violet stays to help me collect our dishes and baskets. Gretchen and the others go off to collect the dishes we left at other locations. But when Violet and I come out of the school building, I'm surprised to see Mum waiting at the loading zone in her blue Vauxhall Astra. We hadn't arranged for her to pick us up. Even though she's now a ‘whole new mum', she wouldn't just have randomly decided to come and collect us. She leans out of the window to call to me, and it's then I notice that her cheeks are streaked with tears.

‘Mum!' I cry. ‘What's up? Are you OK? Is Kelsie OK?'

‘Yes, yes, we're fine.' My sister is in the back of the car playing a Mickey Mouse game on Mum's iPhone. ‘Get in the car,' Mum says. ‘We need to go to the hospital.'

‘Hospital?' Violet and I say at the same time. We look at each other, our faces stricken.

‘What's happened?' I say to Mum. But in my heart, I've already guessed.

‘It's Rosemary,' Mum says. ‘Come on – get in.'

Violet and I shove our things in the boot and climb inside. Mum drives quickly. No one tries to talk over the squeaky voice of Mickey Mouse. As I stare out of the window at the traffic and people walking on the pavement, Violet reaches over and puts her
arm around me. I bury my face in her hair.

We get to the hospital car park and find a space. I can't believe that just this morning we were here, worrying about our bake-a-thon of all things, and maybe even feeling a little smug that this time we weren't here to visit anyone. How quickly things change.

Mum half drags Kelsie along by the hand, and Violet and I follow behind. It takes me a second to register that Violet's got a basket of leftover baked goodies over her arm. We enter the lobby and Mum talks to the receptionist. She tells us to follow the yellow line – we're going to a different ward than last time. We go up in the lift and keep walking. The yellow line finally stops before a forbidding-looking door:
Intensive Care Unit
.

‘But this can't be right,' Violet says. ‘I mean, she was fine. She was . . .' Her voice trails off, helpless.

Mrs Simpson was sick. Really sick. And we hadn't even known it.

The set-up inside is nearly the same as the other ward we visited: the same busy nurses; the torturous-looking medical machines in the hallway; doorways to tomb-like rooms. There's an awful smell of disinfectant that doesn't quite hide the ‘something else' underneath. I bite my lip to keep it from quivering.

Mum speaks to one of the nurses. The woman
barely looks up from her computer screen. ‘Are you family?' she asks.

When Mum doesn't answer right away, I step forward. ‘Yes,' I say. ‘She's my grandma.' The words sound completely right.

The woman waves us to a bank of chairs across from the desk. ‘Please take a seat,' she says. ‘The consultant is on his way to speak to you.'

‘But can't we see her?' Violet says.

The woman narrows her eyes like she's not used to argument.

‘We'll wait,' Mum says.

We all take seats in the uncomfortable moulded plastic chairs. The room seems to swirl in front of my eyes. ‘I . . . I don't understand,' I say.

Mum puts her hand on my arm. ‘Rosemary collapsed just after lunch. She managed to press the panic button on that pendant we gave her. I went over right away and found her sprawled on the kitchen floor. She'd been picking herbs – mint, sage and rosemary – they were all around her. She was unconscious.' Mum's voice catches. ‘Of course, I called an ambulance immediately.'

‘Yeah . . .' What can I say?

She opens up her handbag and takes out a white envelope. ‘And I found this on the table in her kitchen – right where she fell.' Mum's eyes glisten
with tears. ‘It's got your name on it.'

My hand trembles as I take the envelope. I stare down at the writing, the loopy letters of my name swimming before my eyes.

‘She wrote you a letter,' Violet says. ‘Open it.'

But I hesitate a second too long. A man in a white lab coat comes into the waiting area. He looks down at his clipboard, and then at Mum. ‘Claire Cooper?' he says.

I shove the letter in the pocket of my jumper.

‘Yes.' Mum stands up nervously. ‘Kelsie, switch that thing off.' She reaches for the iPhone.

‘You're Mrs Simpson's family?' the doctor asks.

‘Yes.' This time Mum doesn't pause.

‘Well, I'm sorry to have to tell you that the news isn't good. Mrs Simpson came in for some tests last week. She'd been having headaches and feeling weak, as I expect you knew. She knew that her condition was getting worse.'

‘But she didn't tell us any of this,' I blurt out. ‘I mean, I know she had some headaches, but doesn't everyone?'

The consultant nods. ‘It was quite sudden as these things go. The blood pressure in her brain has been steadily rising. And today she had a major stroke.' He takes out a folder from under the top sheets of the clipboard. He shuffles a few papers, and then hands Mum a photograph. I peer
over her shoulder. It's a grainy black and white scan of a skull.

‘You can see the clot here – this dark mass.' The doctor points to a spot on the photo. ‘And now she's slipped into a coma. I'm afraid that she's already beyond our reach.'

I look at him in disbelief. ‘But, I don't understand. You mean she's . . . ?'

‘Can we see her?' Mum asks.

‘Of course, this way.'

My legs are unsteady as I stand up to follow the consultant. This time it's my turn to grip Violet's hand for dear life. Mum walks next to us, her jaw set grimly. Kelsie shrinks behind her.

As we begin heading down the hall, there's a pounding on the door to the ward and I hear a man's loud voice. ‘Let me in, please. Someone let me in.'

The nurse at the desk looks annoyed as she buzzes the door. A whirlwind of a man in a black suit blusters inside.

‘Emory,' Mum says in a choking voice. ‘You're just in time. We're going in to see her.'

Seeing Mum seems to calm him a little. He comes over to her and kisses her on the cheek. ‘I'm so glad you're here,' he says, ruffling Kelsie's hair. He glances at me and Violet. ‘All of you.' The sadness in his eyes is genuine.

I look at the floor, unable to answer him. The doctor taps his foot impatiently. I lead the solemn procession behind him down the hall.

As we walk down the corridor, I force myself to look inside a few of the open doors to prepare myself for the worst. Just like last time, there are televisions blaring loudly, and wizened patients lying with tubes sticking out in all directions. I begin to feel dizzy as we walk.

The doctor leads us to a single room at the end of the corridor. I pause at the door and look inside. Mrs Simpson's frame is small and frail in the centre of the bed. Her skin is pale, her breathing even. She looks almost serene. The only tube coming from her is from a little finger cuff that leads to a quietly bleeping monitor.

At that moment, I lose it. I rush away from the room and a few metres back down the corridor, leaning against the wall and gasping for breath. The tears rise like a tidal wave inside me. The light blurs to dark in front of my eyes.

A hand grasps my arm to steady me. I blink and find that it's Emory Kruffs standing there.

‘Scarlett . . .' he says quietly.

‘You were right,' I say with a hiccuppy sob. ‘She should have been in a home with nurses to look after her round the clock. I should have listened – persuaded her. If she'd gone to the nice home like
you wanted her to, then maybe this wouldn't have happened.'

He gives me a kindly smile and shakes his head. ‘No, Scarlett,' he says. ‘I think
you
were right all along. She was old and ill – even I didn't know quite how ill – and this would have happened anyway. At least she was able to spend her last days where she wanted to be – at home. She was able to pass her gifts on to you and your friends – and that meant a lot to her.' His eyes fill with tears. ‘I'm glad that, in the end, she stayed where she was, surrounded by her memories, and' – he squeezes my hand – ‘by people she loved.'

I nod solemnly. In that moment, we seem to reach a kind of understanding. Maybe even a truce.

‘Come on.' He gently tugs my arm. ‘It's time to say goodbye.'

I allow myself to be led back down the hall and into the room. Violet and Mum are seated there on either side of Mrs Simpson, each holding one of her hands. Kelsie is standing behind Mum, her face almost hidden behind Mum's hair. Violet isn't crying, but her head is bowed. I recall how she was there with her mum at the . . . end.

She looks up when I enter. I can see the pain there in her purple-blue eyes. ‘She's looks very peaceful,' Violet says, trying to smile. ‘You know, like they say – on her way to a better place
and all that.'

I shake my head. Wherever Mrs Simpson has gone, it can't be better than her lovely kitchen.

‘I'm so sorry, Scarlett,' Mum says. And I can tell immediately that she means more than just about Mrs Simpson.

‘No, Mum, it's OK.' My voice is remarkably steady. ‘Um, do you mind if I sit with her for a minute with Violet?'

‘Of course, go ahead. I'll be just outside.' Mum stands up and shifts places with me in the small room. As she ushers Kelsie out of the room, Emory Kruffs takes Mum's hand and they walk out together.

‘Mrs Simpson,' I say in a whisper. ‘Rosemary?'

There's no response other than the breathing. I grasp her wrinkled, arthritic hand. It's cool and slightly clammy. I look over at Violet. She's set the basket she brought with her on the spare visitors' chair.

I let go of Mrs Simpson's hand for a second and stand up. ‘We brought you something.'

I go over to the basket and remove the cloth. I feel like Little Red Riding Hood, except this time I know full well that the wolf is already at the door.

‘We've got scones, and a few flapjacks and chocolate-covered gingerbread people.' I smile through my tears. ‘I know you like those.' I take the
basket back to the bedside. I hold up one of the ginger biscuits under Mrs Simpson's nose. The delightful smell seems to fill the room as if they were just out of the oven. Cinnamon, sugar, golden syrup, spicy ginger. And something else is there too, underneath it all. I suddenly remember the letter that Mum found. I hand the cookie to Violet and fumble in my pocket.

I open the envelope and unfold the paper. It's only a few lines, written in Mrs Simpson's handwriting. I read it aloud in a soft voice:

My dear Scarlett,

I' m sorry if I didn't tell you just how short my time with you was going to be. But I thought it was probably better that way. I haven't known you very long, but I know that you already possess everything you need to become the young woman that you want to be.

The recipe book is yours, and I hope that you will keep it always and remember the times we had and all that we shared. Please don't be sad about me, but live your life to the fullest, and I'll be with you always. And as for the secret ingredient – you only have to look inside yourself to find it. And believe . . .

   Love always,

        Rosemary Simpson

Tears roll down my cheeks as I finish the last line. Violet begins to sob softly. And just behind me, I'm aware of three other people who have crowded into the room – Gretchen, Alison and Nick. It's only fitting that all The Secret Cooking Club should come here at the end, to say thank you to her for what she brought into our lives.

One by one, my friends all touch Mrs Simpson's hand – say goodbye, before going out of the room, leaving her in peace. Violet lingers at the door for a second before joining the others.

And then there's just me.

All of a sudden, I feel Mrs Simpson's hand underneath mine give a little jerk. Immediately I sit forward, hope flickering for an instant. Her eyes are still closed but her lips move slightly and a word comes out of her mouth: ‘Marianne.'

Her hand grips mine more tightly for a second, and something like a smile plays over her lips. The heart rate monitor begins to drone a flat, steady tone.

She's gone.