The Secret Cooking Club (17 page)

THE SHOWDOWN

10 October: 9 p.m.

Thanks to everyone who's signed up to follow my new blog. I look forward to cooking lots of lovely things together.

Last time I told you about my neighbour – she had an accident and was taken to hospital. I went to her house to feed her cat and found a very old, very special handwritten recipe book dedicated to ‘My Little Cook' – which turned out to be her daughter. So I thought, ‘Why not give cooking a try?'

The first thing I made was cinnamon scones. They were so fluffy and spicy and delicious – you just HAVE to try them. Here's the recipe, by the way.

Oh, and be careful with the oven and the knife – you might need a grown-up to help.

Makes 14–16 scones

450g self-raising flour

Big pinch of salt

100g butter

50g caster sugar

1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

250ml milk

For the tops:

20g caster sugar mixed with ½ teaspoon ground cinnamon

Preheat the oven to 220°C/gas mark 7 and lightly butter a baking tray. Sift the flour and salt into a mixing bowl, add the butter and rub it in with your fingertips until the mixture looks like breadcrumbs. Stir in the sugar and cinnamon, then add the milk and stir the mixture together quickly using a round-ended knife. As soon as the mixture comes together into a soft dough, put it onto a lightly floured work surface and divide the dough in half. Try not to handle the dough any more than necessary. Lightly shape each half into a block shape, then very gently roll each half into a rectangle about 22cm long, 8cm wide and 2cm thick. Using a large chef's knife, cut
each rectangle from one end to the other into triangles that measure about 6cm across the base. Transfer the triangles to the baking tray and sprinkle the sugar and cinnamon mixture generously over the tops. Put the tray into the hot oven, on a middle to high shelf, and bake for 10–12 minutes, until the scones are puffed up and turning golden on top. Place the tray on a wire rack to cool a little. You can eat them warm or leave them to cool completely, but they are best eaten on the same day. Nicest of all is to eat them warm, cut in half, spread with a little butter and then with any leftover cinnamon sugar sprinkled over the melted butter.

Oh, and definitely don't forget to preheat the oven. It works much better that way.

Thanks for reading this and I hope you enjoy making the scones. And maybe you can do what my friend and I did – we left them in the canteen at school without telling anybody who made them. Just say: ‘Free samples from The Secret Cooking Club.'

Happy baking!

The Little Cook

When I'm finished writing, I upload one of Violet's photos of the scones we made. So far, blogging is kind of fun – not as fun as cooking, but I can see why Mum likes doing it. It's a way to connect with people – something that seems a little easier
to do on the web than in real life.

As I look around my bedroom, I think about how much my life has changed since I started The Secret Cooking Club – not to mention a day ago when I sat in the library and actually flirted – FLIRTED! – with Nick Farr. And even though he had to leave to go to his rugby practice, knowing that I'll see him again makes all the good things seem real.

Monday afternoon, as I walk home from school, I'm still excited (and only a little nervous) at the prospect of Nick joining the club. I just know that we can make his mum an amazing birthday cake. But as I turn on to my road, my good feeling fizzles away. The black Mercedes is parked in front of Mrs Simpson's house – it's Mr Kruffs!

I quicken my pace towards the sound of loud voices that are coming through Mrs Simpson's open door.

‘This is the last straw, Rosemary. I can't go on worrying like this.'

‘But I rang you on Friday – you didn't have to come here and you don't have to worry about me.'

‘But I do worry – you know that. I need to know that you're safe. Now get your things and come with me.'

‘No, I won't. I'm not going anywhere.'

My heart jolts in my chest. Mum said she would take care of Mrs Simpson and deal with Mr Kruffs. Where is she?

Then I remember. She had a meeting with Boots today over the final packaging of her ‘Mum's Survival Kit'. And now Mrs Simpson is all alone to face him!

I march up the steps to the house.

‘It's for your own good, you know that! I'm just trying to help. Just come and have a look. It's a lovely place, I swear—'

‘What's going on here?' I try to make my voice sound older.

Mrs Simpson is slumped on her sofa, her nephew pacing the room in front of her. Her face is a mask of defiance.

‘You?' Mr Kruffs gives me a glare that could melt glass. But just then, I have an idea. I reach into my pocket and take out mum's old mobile phone. Before anyone even moves, I've snapped a photo.

‘Yes, me.' I smile grimly. ‘Scarlett.'

‘What are you doing with that?' He nods at the phone in my hand.

‘Just a picture that the “grey vote” might be interested in,' I say. ‘Since you're acting for your aunt's
own good
like you said.'

Rosemary lifts her cane almost like a ‘thumbs up' gesture. ‘Scarlett,' she says. ‘You always seem
to be in the right place at the right time.'

‘I try.' I grin at her.

Mr Kruffs checks his watch. ‘This is ludicrous, Rosemary. You know I have to go to London tomorrow.'

‘She's not stopping you,' I say, trying not to let my voice squeak with nerves.

‘Stay out of this.' He waves his hand like I'm a pesky fly.

‘But Emory . . .' Mrs Simpson's voice gains strength, ‘I've been trying to tell you. You don't have to worry about me any more. I've found people to look after me. New friends. Scarlett and her mother.'

‘Oh? Friends that set your kitchen on fire? And I don't see any mother – where is she then?' he says. ‘When I came here just now, you were out wandering in the street. Why did your “new friends” let you do that?'

‘I wasn't out wandering,' she protests. ‘I was coming back from the corner shop. I needed more flour – we're baking a cake.'

‘Baking a cake?' Mr Kruffs dark eyes look ready to pop. ‘Since when do you cook again, Rosemary? I thought all that died with Marianne.'

She opens her mouth, then closes it again. Her lips begin to quiver.

‘That's so cruel!' I blurt out, stepping forward.
‘Talking about her daughter like that. That's just awful.'

‘All right, all right.' He backs down. ‘I shouldn't have said that. But
you
don't seem to have a clue why I'm here.'

‘You're right,' I say. ‘Mrs Simpson told you to go – so why
are
you still here?'

‘Please stop, both of you,' Mrs Simpson says sternly. ‘This isn't helping.'

Mr Kruffs and I both look at her, then at each other. In an instant, he pulls himself back into politician mode. I swallow hard, trying to think about how Gretchen would act.

‘You seem to think I'm some kind of monster,' he says to me, his voice quieter, ‘when really all I want to do is get my aunt somewhere safe. I called in a few favours and found her a place at a fantastic care home. It's only about fifteen minutes from here. She'll have her own room, with round-the-clock care. There are lots of social events, and even a kitchen where she could cook if she wants. This is her one chance – places like this don't crop up very often. I only want her to go over there this evening and have a quick look. If she likes it and then sells the house, she could be settled there for the rest of her life. She wouldn't have to worry about anything ever again.'

I breathe out slowly. ‘She doesn't want to go.
She wants to stay here, in her own home. And we're going to look after her. Between Mum, and me and my friends, and maybe hiring a carer to help out – we can do it. And she's going to look after us too. Kind of like a grandma.'

Mrs Simpson hobbles forward and takes her nephew's arm. ‘It's true, Emory,' she says. ‘Catch your train tomorrow and don't worry about me. I'll ring you up and you can join us for dinner sometime later this week.'

He shakes his head in temporary defeat. ‘All right, I'll go – for now. But I think you're all living in cloud cuckoo land.'

I step aside as he blusters out of the door and slams it behind him.

It takes me a second to realize that I'm shaking. I steady myself against the door frame. Rosemary sinks back on to the sofa like a tired, wounded animal. We look at each other.

‘He's awful to you,' I gulp.

She closes her eyes and rubs her temples. ‘He just wants to do the right thing,' she says. ‘But I'm so tired of fighting. Maybe I should just—'

‘No, Mrs Simpson, don't give up. You can't. It's too bad that Mum wasn't here. She would have sorted him out.'

‘You did a pretty good job yourself.' She opens
her eyes. The fire seems to be relit in them.

‘Thanks.' I smile. ‘And don't you worry about a thing. I've got this.' I hold up the phone. ‘Evidence that he's bullying you. He won't want that getting out.'

She squeezes my hand. ‘Keep it if you like, but I don't think you'll need it. Now, where are those friends of yours?'

I check my watch. ‘They should be here any minute,' I say. ‘And by the way, that new member I told you about is going to be joining us tonight. His name is Nick. Are we still OK to help him make a cake for his mum?'

‘By all means,' Mrs Simpson says, giving me a little wink. ‘There's no reason why a boy shouldn't make a cake, or benefit from what else you're learning if he's interested. Though in my experience, we'd better start tripling the recipes . . .'

Right on cue there's a knock at the door. My heart lurches for a moment as I worry that maybe Mr Kruffs has come back. To my relief, I open the door and find that it's The Secret Cooking Club there in force: Violet, Gretchen and Alison – and standing behind them, Nick Farr. ‘Hi, Scarlett,' he says. ‘You OK?'

‘Yeah,' I say, my cheeks turning crimson. ‘I am now.'

HUNDREDS AND THOUSANDS

‘
W
ow, this place is amazing,' Nick says, on entering Rosemary's Kitchen.

‘Thank you, young man,' Mrs Simpson says. She smiles at him and then at me, a twinkle in her eye. ‘Now, I understand that today we will be baking cakes.'

‘Yeah,' Nick says. ‘It's for my mum. She's turning forty.'

‘A spring chicken,' Mrs Simpson says.

‘Mum went to art college before she had kids. She used to be a painter. I'm thinking we could make a cake with lots of different coloured layers. Is that kind of thing possible?'

Mrs Simpson beams. ‘I'm glad I bought two extra bags of flour if that's what you want.' She waves her cane. ‘And if you want colour, try the bottom cupboard by the cooker. I'm sure this young lady' – she points her stick at Violet – ‘will be happy to help you with the decorating.'

Smiling proudly at the compliment from our mentor, Violet goes to get the icing colours.

We mix, colour and bake, mix, colour and bake. Six layers in different flavours and rainbow colours; three separate cakes. A big cake for Nick's mum, a small cake for us, and a big rectangular rainbow cake for school. It's hard work, and even Nick the star rugby player is sweating before long. The first layers come out of the oven to cool, and Mrs Simpson oversees the decoration assembly line led by Violet and Alison. They've made three different kinds of icing – fondant, royal and buttercream, and have filled at least a dozen different piping bags to decorate the cakes. Rosemary's Kitchen looks like a cross between an artist's studio and a swish London bakery. I take one set of cake tins to the sink to wash them out.

‘Here, let me help with that,' Nick says.

‘Sure,' I say, handing him a cake tin.

‘I can't believe how much fun this is.' He picks up a sponge and cleans off the tin. ‘It's kind of like science lab and my junior chemistry set all rolled
into one.'

‘It is fun,' I say. ‘And I'm so glad you joined us.'

Just then, our sudsy fingers touch under the water and my whole body starts to tingle. Nick looks at me, and I blush. The moment is over, but it happened. Me, touching a boy's hand!

Two hours later, our special cakes are finally finished. We cut open our small cake, and everyone marvels at the rainbow layers in vivid colours. And more importantly, it tastes delicious.

Nick has brought his camera, and when we're done sampling our creations, he sets it on automatic timer. We all cluster behind the table around Mrs Simpson. The cakes look fantastic – white icing, decorated with rows and swirls of rainbow icing, glitter flower petals, and multi-coloured sprinkles called ‘hundreds and thousands'.

‘Smile!' Nick says. The camera flashes. We're all sticky and messy and happy, and there are sprinkles everywhere – hundreds and thousands.

‘You girls – and boy – have a real flair for baking,' Mrs Simpson says. It's high praise coming from her, and we all look at each other and smile. The problems of the day seem long banished into the cloudy night outside.

‘I'll be back tomorrow to collect the one for school,' I say.

‘Are you selling it?' Mrs Simpson asks.

‘No,' Violet says. ‘We'll give it away. “Free samples from The Secret Cooking Club.”' She smiles.

‘You have a good heart,' Mrs Simpson says. ‘All of you.'

‘Thanks,' I say. At that moment I feel like I can do anything.

At home that night, I find Mum upstairs in her room. She's fast asleep, and while she's kicked off her shoes on to the floor, she's still dressed in a beige linen suit, slightly crumpled.

I kiss her forehead and she stirs in her sleep. ‘Scarlett?' she murmurs.

‘Yes, Mum, it's me.'

Her eyes open. ‘I'm sorry I wasn't downstairs earlier. I was just so tired.'

‘That's OK. I texted you that I was going to be late too.'

‘Oh, I should have checked. I guess I'm not very good at being a mum.'

‘It's OK, Mum.' I take her hand and give it a quick squeeze. ‘How was your meeting with Boots?'

‘Good, thanks for asking. They liked my ideas for the marketing campaign, and they're going to run with it.'

‘Great, Mum.' I let go of her hand and turn
to leave.

‘How's Rosemary? Did you see her?'

‘Um, she's fine.' I go over to the bed and sit on it. ‘But Mr Kruffs came over. He was really angry – a total bully. I tried to help Mrs Simpson stand up to him, but it was really hard.'

Mum props herself up on one elbow and pushes her hair from her face. ‘I should have been here. Rosemary should have someone to watch over her. But . . .' She sighs. ‘I don't even spend enough time with you and your sister. How can I look after Rosemary too?' She breathes out wearily. ‘I had no business promising her anything really – it might mean I've only gone and made things worse.'

‘We just need to find someone to look in on her every day. Like a nurse or a carer. Gretchen says that's what they did for her grandma.'

‘But who's going to pay for that? Can Mrs Simpson afford it?'

‘Well, she can pay some of it, I think. But I've thought of another way we might be able to help.'

I tell Mum my idea. She listens intently, her face lighting up.

‘That's sounds like a really interesting idea, Scarlett.' She pauses for a moment, her brain ticking into blogging mode. ‘I've got a few suggestions if you want to hear them . . .'