Read Online The Secret Cooking Club by Laurel Remington - Free Book Online

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    â€˜Pah, it wasn’t bad luck at all – he was just thick,’ the old woman says, gesturing with the heart-shaped box. Her accent sounds Scottish or Northern or something. She glowers, as if noticingViolet and me for the first time. ‘Who are you?’
    â€˜We’re looking for Mrs Simpson. Is that her?’ I point to the blanket bulge, already knowing the answer.
    â€˜What’s left of her.’ The old woman frowns.
    â€˜We brought this.’ Violet holds up the basket on her arm. ‘We thought she might be sick of hospital food.’
    The woman pops a bonbon in her mouth. ‘Nice of you, pet, I’m sure. But I don’t think she’ll be up to it any time soon.’
    â€˜Has she been awake?’ I ask.
    The woman flips through the TV channels with the remote. ‘Oh aye,’ she says, her eyes wide. ‘She’s been awake – off and on. And let me tell you, it’s hard to get any sleep when she is.’ She shakes her head and tsks. ‘Tussling with the blankets and moaning about her cat. She wants to go home, but her nephew won’t have it.’
    â€˜Nephew?’ Violet asks.
    â€˜You mean Mr Kruffs?’ I say.
    â€˜Aye, that’s him. So you know him, do you?’
    â€˜No, but I’ve seen the election posters—’
    â€˜Election.’ She snorts. ‘Well, good luck to him, that’s all I can say. Swanning in here, making her upset. I’ve thought about asking to be moved rooms, but in here’ – she laughs grimly – ‘one old dear is as good as the next.’ She settles on achannel and turns up the volume. ‘At least she’s asleep most of the time.’
    From the other bed there’s a loud groan and a rustling noise. The grey old woman under the blanket coughs and splutters, then wriggles in the bed like she’s trying to prop herself up on her elbows. Her eyes are open, but glassy, like she’s not really seeing anything in the room. Her head turns slightly and she spies the basket. She leans forward and sniffs the air. Her blue eyes meet mine.
    â€˜Mrs Simpson?’ I whisper. ‘We’ve made you some flapjacks. They’re chocolate and salted caramel.’
    The old woman sinks back into the bed. Her eyes close again, her lips drawn into a thin line. But then she seems to smile. Her breathing grows even as she goes back to sleep.
    â€˜Maybe she’ll be able to try them later,’ I say to Violet in a low voice. Violet nods and sets the basket down on Mrs Simpson’s bedside table. I reach out and touch Mrs Simpson’s gnarled hand. ‘Get well soon,’ I whisper.
    Violet and I tiptoe out of the room.

BANOFFEE
    V iolet and I don’t say much as we ride the bus back. I secretly vow to avoid hospitals in the future at all costs. I keep thinking about Mrs Simpson – a helpless bulge under a thin blanket. I know it was the right thing to visit her, but I kind of wish we hadn’t. I’d rather think of Rosemary Simpson as the amazing cook with the fabulous kitchen. She did seem to revive a little when she smelt the flapjacks, though. I hope she gets to taste them.
    Violet stares out of the window of the bus. As the sky grows darker and her reflection in the window sharpens, I’m startled to see a tear trickling downher cheek. I turn away so as not to embarrass her. The bus stops near the school and we both get off.
    â€˜So I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?’ I try hard to sound cheery.
    She shrugs. The tears are gone but there are dark hollows under her eyes. ‘OK.’
    I wait for her to turn round or walk off – I don’t even know where she lives – but she keeps on walking along beside me.
    I turn down my road. We walk together, passing several houses with ‘Emory Kruffs for MP’ signs in their windows. We reach the last two houses at the end of the terrace: my house, and Mrs