The Secret Cooking Club (4 page)

THE SCENT OF CHILDHOOD

W
hen I get home, I'm surprised to see Mum sitting at the table helping Kelsie read her phonics book. ‘Where have you been?' she asks me without looking up. ‘No, Kels, there's an “l” – it's “pool”, not “poo”.'

‘I went to the library to do some homework.'

‘Oh.' She sounds disappointed. There's very little blogging material in me going to the library, but I'm sure that my sister's ‘pool'/‘poo' confusion will figure prominently in the next post. ‘Well, next time let me know, OK?'

‘OK.'

‘And I hope you're hungry, because I made
baked macaroni cheese. It's on the hob.'

‘Really?' I raise an eyebrow. Even though I'm stuffed to the gills with the most delicious, fluffy, puffy cinnamon scones I could ever imagine eating – let alone making myself – I feel kind of sorry that I missed what, in our house at least, passes for a real meal.

‘I'll have a little,' I say. ‘Sorry, I didn't know you were cooking.'

‘I wasn't going to.' She leans forwards on her elbows. ‘I mean,
me
? Cook?' she gives a little laugh. ‘But it was the oddest thing . . .'

‘What?'

‘I was in my office, and all of a sudden there was this smell.' Her brow furrows. ‘Some kind of spice – cinnamon, maybe. It reminded me of something. I don't know what really. Something from my childhood.'

‘Your childhood?' I try not to sound surprised. One thing that Mum never talks or blogs about is her childhood, before she got to teenage years anyway. Sometimes I wonder if she was ever my age.

She shrugs. ‘I guess a neighbour must have been cooking. All of a sudden, it was like I was back in my grandma's kitchen. They do say that smell is one of the strongest senses for triggering memories.' She stares at the cooker for a second.

‘That's interesting,' I say. ‘What was your grandma like? You never really talk about her.'

She blinks quickly. ‘Oh, I don't know.' She waves away my question. ‘I guess my nose is just extra sensitive today. You'd think I was pregnant or something.' She stands up and puts the kettle on, twisting her hands in what I recognize as her
I've just thought of something to blog about
way. ‘I mean, when I had you girls in my tummy, I was throwing up left and right. For all nine months of it, each time. Everything tasted like salt and' – she laughs – ‘seemed to smell like dog poo!'

‘Mummy, you said poo!' Kelsie says triumphantly.

‘Oops, I meant ‘pool' of course!' Mum points back to the book and she and Kelsie both giggle. Even I have to smile, though we are all
far
too old for that kind of joke. I serve myself a small bowl of macaroni cheese, mulling over what Mum said about how she could smell the cooking through the wall. It's kind of odd that she's never mentioned it before. I mean, before her accident, Mrs Simpson must have cooked all the time.

I sit down at the table with the bowl and take a bite. I'm so surprised that I almost choke. ‘It's
good
, Mum,' I say.

‘I made the sauce myself.'

‘You did?'

She narrows her eyes. ‘Don't look so surprised. Believe it or not, Scarlett, not everything is made in the microwave.'

Later that night, as I'm lying on my bed staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling, I think about everything that's happened over the last two days – from the yowling cat, to the kitchen and cookbook – from meeting Violet unexpectedly, to Mum's home-made cheese sauce.

Most of all, though, I think about making the scones. My mouth waters as I remember their comforting doughy taste. Because I hadn't preheated the oven, we left them in for much longer than they should have needed. I was kind of stressed out that they would be burnt. But when we took them out, they were nice and golden brown on the bottom. To me, they tasted perfect.

They looked perfect too – Violet even snapped a few pics of them on her phone.

She and I each ate two, and Violet's aunt ate one. I wrapped the rest up and stored them in a plastic container – they're still downstairs in my bag, fourteen of them. I feel a little bit mean for not sharing them with Kelsie and Mum, but I don't want to explain where they came from.

When I hear Mum's bedroom door close, I tiptoe downstairs, unwrap the scones and leave two of
them out on a plate on the kitchen table. Let Mum and her followers try to figure out who made them. She'll never guess in a million years that it was her boring old daughter. I climb back in my bed and drift off to sleep, still breathing in the phantom smell of cinnamon.

A DOLLOP OF TEARS

T
he next morning the scones are gone (with a plate of crumbs left behind on the table) and the door to the Mum Cave is shut.

The day goes slowly – the usual sort of Sunday: Mum working, me playing with Kelsie until Mum comes out and zaps dinner in the microwave, then falls asleep on the sofa . . . I creep into Mrs Simpson's house just before teatime to feed her cat, but I feel uneasy there by myself. What if her nephew comes round today after Violet's aunt talks to him? I sneak out again, wondering if I'll ever have the courage to go back there and use the kitchen. Or will the scones be our first and
last attempt?

The next morning, Mum is up and in her office by the time I come downstairs. I can hear Mum's voice, talking animatedly to someone on her mobile. By the time I'm ready to leave for school, and have got Kelsie ready too, Mum still hasn't come out. I feel kind of sad that she hasn't even bothered to come out to say goodbye to us. But when I pick up my bag (filled with a dozen scones) and leave the house, I feel better.

As class is about to begin, Violet comes up to me in the hall. ‘Do you have them?' she whispers behind her hand. I feel a little flicker of pride when I see that, behind her, Gretchen and Alison are looking in our direction.

‘Yeah,' I say. ‘I gave one – well, two, actually – to Mum. But I've got the rest with me. Do you want one?'

‘Later.' Violet smiles conspiratorially. ‘In fact, I have an idea.'

‘What?'

‘You'll see. Leave them with me. And come to the canteen at lunchtime, OK?'

I ignore a tiny stab of alarm. ‘OK.'

Worry knots in my chest later on as I walk into the canteen. On a table at the centre is a large pink and purple Easter basket. I watch as a few kids go up to
it and peer inside. There's a sign taped to the handle of the basket.

FREE SAMPLES!

My stomach clenches. I sit down at a table near the door and watch the steady stream of people going up to the basket and helping themselves. A moment later, Violet plunks down beside me.

‘Do you like my surprise?' she whispers.

I stand up awkwardly. ‘Um . . . I'll see you later, OK. I've got to see Ms Carver about an essay I wrote.'

Violet stops smiling. ‘What's up with you?'

‘Nothing.' My voice catches. ‘You didn't tell anyone that I helped make the scones, did you?'

‘No, I didn't. But what's the problem? Everybody loves them.'

I look over to the central table. People are hovering around like wasps at a picnic. Some kids are talking to other kids that I know for sure aren't their friends. The volume of chat in the room rises steadily. There were only twelve scones, but people seem to be sharing them out – even the crumbs.

‘Yeah, great. It's just . . . could you not mention my name? I mean – can you say that you
made them?'

Violet puts her hands on her hips. ‘For your information, no one saw me put them there. I thought it would be fun to have it be a secret. I'm not going to say who made them.'

‘Oh.' I feel so stupid. I can't tell Violet about why I don't want to be involved – it all just sounds so lame.

‘So, what's wrong, Scarlett?'

‘Nothing.' I turn away and leave the canteen.

I rush down the corridor. Violet could have been my friend and I've ruined it. Why can't I just tell her the truth – that I'm scared to do anything because of Mum and her stupid blog. Why did I go to Mrs Simpson's house, and why did Violet have to find me? Why did Violet have to come to our school at all?

In the girls' loos, I practically slam into Gretchen and Alison who are on their way out. ‘Hey, watch it.' Gretchen teeters backwards.

I lock myself in a cubicle.

‘You OK, Scarlett?' Gretchen almost manages to sound concerned.

‘Come on, Gretch,' Alison says.

‘I think she's crying.'

‘No I'm not!'

‘Whatever.'

I wait in the cubicle until I'm sure they're gone. A part of me knows that I'm acting totally irrational – like I'm outside my own body watching a crazy person. And then a new coldness washes over me. What if Gretchen tells Mum that she saw me crying like a big baby?

The loo door bangs behind me as I run out into the hall. Keeping my head bowed low, I push past the people in the corridor and run out of the school.

A SPOONFUL OF SECRETS

W
hat am I doing? Where am I even going? I hurry past the shops, practically knocking down an old man pulling along a battered shopping trolley. I almost get hit as a lorry grinds to a stop in the middle of the zebra crossing. All the time I'm heading towards home – but I don't want to go home. Thoughts flash into my head:
Help! My selfish daughter tried to run away
, or worse:
Help! My daughter ran away and then, unfortunately, came back!

Panting for breath, I finally stop. I'm standing on the doorstep of Mrs Simpson's house. I get the key out from under the mat, open the door and let
myself inside.

The cat is there just inside the door. I scoop it up and sob into its black fur. It purrs in my arms but flicks its tail, like it's deciding whether or not to tolerate me.

‘I'm sorry,' I say, setting it down. ‘You've got your own problems, haven't you?'

The cat struts into the kitchen, meowing for food. I follow slowly behind, my heart finally slowing in the calm quiet of Mrs Simpson's kitchen. The recipe notebook is on the bookstand where I left it. But I'm almost positive that I left it open on the scones page. Now, it's flipped open to a page on ‘Pat-a-cake Flapjacks'. There's a drawing cut from an old book and pasted on to the page of a little boy in a puffy white baker's hat. There's a hand-drawn border around him of steaming pies and iced cakes.

I flip through the notebook, my mouth watering at the possibilities: Hansel and Gretel's Gingerbread, Knave of Hearts Strawberry Tarts, The Princess and the Pea Soup, Simple Simon's Cottage Pie. But in the end, I turn back to the Pat-a-cake Flapjacks. Whatever they are – I need to make them.

Just like before, nearly every ingredient called for in the recipe is almost immediately to hand – like some kind of magic baking elf has been at
work. Next to the recipe book, there are even two bars of Belgian cooking chocolate on the worktop that I swear weren't there last time. It's definitely a little weird, but I decide to make the best of it. I put on an apron, wash my hands and get started. I even remember to preheat the oven this time.

The cat sits and watches as I work. First, I read through the recipe so I know exactly what I'm doing. Then, I measure out the ‘wet' ingredients – butter, golden syrup, a dollop of honey – into a pan. I add the brown sugar and cinnamon, and place the pan on the hob. I swirl the ingredients around with a wooden spoon over a low heat. The colours mix together – warm shades of brown and gold, marbled through with the bright yellow of the butter. The spicy scent goes straight to my head. It's fun watching all the separate parts of the mixture melt together like they've always belonged that way. When everything is uniform and liquid, I take the sticky mixture off the hob and mix in the porridge oats. The ingredients clump on the spoon. I scrape some off with my finger and taste it. It melts on my tongue, tasting wholesome and delicious.

I'm so caught up in what I'm doing that when the doorbell rings I practically jump out of my apron.

I'm not expecting to get lucky a second time. I'm sure it's Mr Kruffs, or maybe even the police. My heart starts to thud, but to be honest, what I'm most worried about is the syrup mixture getting cold before I can finish stirring in the oats.

I open the door. Standing there is the one person I didn't expect to see after the way I acted at school – Violet.

And I'm very glad to see her.

‘Can I come in?' she says.

‘Sure.' I stand aside and she comes inside the house. She sets down her school bag, and next to it, the empty Easter basket.

‘Everyone loved the scones,' she says. ‘That cinnamon – it really packed a punch. And it was even better because no one could work out who made them.'

‘That's good.' I nod uneasily. It's just so weird that the whole school was talking about the scones that I made – which is the last thing I wanted. I turn and she follows me through to the kitchen.

I go back to the pan and keep stirring the oats into the sticky mixture.

‘What are you making?' Violet looks over my shoulder.

‘Flapjacks.' I wave a sticky hand at the recipe book. ‘With Belgian chocolate on top.'

‘Yum,' Violet says. She reaches behind the
bookstand and picks up a tin that I hadn't noticed was there. ‘Look,' she says, reading the label. ‘Caramel. I love caramel.' She hesitates. ‘Maybe you could add some of that too.'

‘Maybe,' I say. ‘Can you grab me that tin?'

‘Sure.' She hands me a rectangular cake tin that I've already lined with baking paper. I scoop in the clumpy mixture and pat it down with the wooden spoon. When it's all spread out and flat, I carry the tin over to the cooker.

‘How long does it need to cook for?'

I glance over at the book. ‘Twenty-five minutes.' She opens up the oven and sets the timer. I put the tin inside. ‘Would you like some tea?' Violet asks. ‘Or there's hot chocolate. I
can
boil a kettle.'

‘Yeah, hot chocolate sounds good.' I wash my hands at the sink.

Violet fills the kettle and switches it on. I find the cupboard with the mugs. Mrs Simpson's mugs are pretty, all different colours of stoneware, some with stripes and polka dots. I give Violet a purple mug and use a blue one for me. She finishes making the hot chocolate and brings it over to the table. We sit facing each other.

‘Look, I'm sorry about earlier,' I say. ‘It's just . . . well . . .' The words stick to the roof of my mouth. ‘Lots of things.'

‘No worries,' she says. ‘I'm the one who should
be sorry.'

Something unspoken seems to pass between us – one of those weird moments where you just know what the other person's thinking, and you don't have to bother with talking. But then it's gone, as Violet asks the question I've been expecting.

‘So, your mum's really that blogger?'

‘Yeah.'
That
blogger. Enough said.

‘I hadn't heard of the blog, but Gretchen showed me. She said you guys used to be friends, but then when your mum got famous, you started acting all stuck-up.'

‘Stuck-up?' I stare at her dumbfounded. ‘Me?'

‘I said you didn't seem like that to me. And I read some of the blog.'

‘You did?' I lean forwards, feeling tense.

‘I know your mum doesn't mention your name. But everyone at school seems to know about it. I couldn't believe she wrote all that personal stuff about you. You know – the stuff about you washing your white underwear with black socks, giving your whole family head lice, and wetting the bed till you were eight.' Her face is solemn. ‘I know how I would feel . . .'

‘How?'

‘Embarrassed,' she says immediately. ‘And also kind of sad.'

I smile weakly. And then I find myself telling
Violet just how embarrassing and ‘kind of sad' it is for me for real. I tell her about Stacie, and about how Gretchen and Alison pretended to be my friends, but really they were ‘leaking' stuff to Mum. I tell her about the violin, the tap-dancing, and the ‘Mum's Survival Kit'. Then, I tell her about Dad leaving, and about Mum's online ‘victory' over him. I tell her how Mum's most popular posts are the ones about
Top ten reasons I wish I'd never had kids
; and where does that leave me? And when I've finished telling her all that, a tear falls into the lukewarm hot chocolate in the mug in front of me.

She puts a hand on my arm. ‘I didn't tell anyone that you made the scones, Scarlett. Honest.' She hesitates. ‘I wanted to, though. Because you should get the credit.'

‘I know I'm being totally lame. But it's just that I don't want anything –
anything
– to get back to Mum. I can't stand her writing about me. I—' A sob escapes. ‘I just hate it. Every week when her blog post goes up, I just want to crawl into a hole and die.'

‘Have you told her?'

‘Told her?' As soon as the words are out, I realize that, despite trying to be friendly, Violet will never understand. ‘Yeah, I did try. I told her it made everyone laugh at me. I told her that I have no friends any more, and that I don't want to do
anything if she's going to write about it.'

‘So what happened?'

‘We had a “discussion” about it. She told me her side – that she's working really hard to be successful with the blog, and get advertisers and stuff. She said that she wanted to have a job where she could support me and my sister without working long hours away from home. She tried to tell me all this stuff about online demographics and unique visitors – most of it, I didn't really understand. I told her that I supported her goals and stuff, but that the things she said really hurt sometimes. So, I thought we'd come to an “understanding”. I felt good for a few days. Until the next post came out. Guess what it was about?'

‘Your talk?'

‘Bingo.' I sigh. ‘It was called
The ungrateful teenage muse
or something like that. You can guess what it said.'

‘Yeah.'

‘The only thing that kind of works is doing nothing – and I mean nothing at all. No clubs, no activities, no friends, nothing. She can't get as much mileage out of boring as she can out of failure.'

‘Must be pretty lonely.'

‘I guess so.' I shrug.

Her heart-shaped face brightens as she smiles.
‘It's good then that you're doing something about it.'

‘Doing? What am I doing?'

‘You're cooking.' She sniffs the air as the smell of baking flapjacks gets stronger and stronger.

I lean forward with a stab of real fear. ‘Violet, please. I'm not really going to
do
anything. I can't – I mean, I'm breaking into my neighbour's house and using all her stuff. If Mum found out and wrote about it, I'd probably be arrested or something.'

‘Well, I won't tell – on one condition.' Her smile grows mischievous.

‘What's that?'

‘I want to cook with you. We can teach ourselves – just us. It will be a secret.'

‘But—' I open my mouth to protest. There are a thousand things wrong with the idea. Instead, just for a second, I let myself be swept along by Violet's enthusiasm. ‘A cooking club?' I glance around me at the amazing kitchen, mulling over the idea.

‘Yeah. A
secret
cooking club.'

‘Hmm.' I stand up as the oven beeps that it's done. ‘Can I think about it?'