The Secret Cooking Club Read Online Free Page B

sounds straight-forward enough, but suddenly I start to feel nervous.
    What business do I have breaking and entering, and using Mrs Simpson’s things? And worse, what makes me think that I can possibly bake anything? I’ve never really tried before, except once. I wanted to surprise Mum with a cake for her birthday so I bought a mix at the corner shop. It turned out that I didn’t have enough eggs, and the butter was as hard as a rock. The mixture ended up all powdery and lumpy. Then I left it in the oven too long, and it came out charred and practically on fire. I threw it in the bin before Mum even knew I’d tried.
    I take a deep breath – I’m here now so I may as well have a go. Most of the ingredients I need – flour, butter, baking powder, salt – are already set out on the worktop, along with a jar of Ceylon cinnamon. Strange that I didn’t notice them lastnight. It’s almost like Mrs Simpson had been getting ready to bake scones. It makes me feel a bit creepy – almost like she’s here with me in the kitchen, looking over my shoulder, making sure I do it right. I peek quickly behind me. There’s no one there.
    â€˜Silly,’ I say aloud. Everything seems normal again. Finished eating, the cat curls up in its basket next to the cooker and begins licking its paws. I wash my hands and grab a rose-patterned apron from a hook by the fridge. Before I can lose my nerve, I put it over my head and tie it round my waist. I’m ready.
    I’ve never been one of those kids who liked playing in sand, making mud pies, finger painting or generally making messes. So that might be why I’d never guessed how satisfying it could be to measure out ingredients that by themselves look like nothing, put them into a bowl, then stir them together. Peering out of its basket, the cat keeps an eye on my progress.
    At first the mixture is lumpy and dry, and all my worries come back that I’ve done something wrong. I think about adding more milk, but I decide, just this once, to trust the recipe. I keep on stirring. The smell of cinnamon goes to my head, and for some reason I feel happier and calmer than I’ve been in ages. When the dough is a soft mass inthe bowl, I sprinkle some flour on the worktop to start rolling it out.
    But all of a sudden, disaster strikes. The doorbell rings, and a key turns in the lock.

A TASTE OF CINNAMON
    S omeone’s here! Panicking, I look around. I could dash out of the back door, but I’d be trapped in the garden, and besides, the kitchen’s a mess and it’s obvious what I’ve been doing. The cat jumps up from its basket like it’s trying to figure out how to cover for me. I pull off the apron and start trying to clean up – for all the good it’s going to do. And then I hear a woman’s voice: ‘Look, I’m sorry if you’re bored, but I have to do this. You said you wanted to come. Next time, stay at home.’
    I don’t hear a reply because the front door closes and something – a handbag maybe? – thunks tothe floor. Then there’s the sound of heels clicking in the hallway. I look around for a place to hide – the broom cupboard? The hearth? Inside the oven?
    The knob on the door turns. I stand there paralysed, my heart thundering. The cat comes up beside me, the fur on its back standing up. The door opens. I come face to face with just about the last person I was expecting to see . . .
    Violet.
    â€˜Oh, you scared me!’ Her hands fly to her mouth. ‘I . . . I didn’t know anyone was here.’
    â€˜Um, yeah.’ I smile through my teeth. ‘I was just . . . just—’
    â€˜Violet? Is there someone in there?’
    Frantically, I gesture at the cat.
    â€˜No, Aunt Hilda. Just a cat.’ Violet gives a fake-sounding sneeze for effect.
    â€˜All right,’ Aunt Hilda says. ‘I’m going to start with the upstairs.