Read The Secret Cooking Club for Free Online Page B

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.
    â€˜Can I come in?’ she says.
    â€˜Sure.’ I stand aside and she comes inside the house. She sets down her school bag, and next to it, the empty Easter basket.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜What are you making?’ Violet looks over my shoulder.
    â€˜Flapjacks.’ I wave a sticky hand at the recipe book. ‘With Belgian chocolate on top.’
    â€˜Yum,’ Violet says. She reaches behind thebookstand 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.’
    â€˜Maybe,’ I say. ‘Can you grab me that tin?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Look, I’m sorry about earlier,’ I say. ‘It’s just . . . well . . .’ The words stick to the roof of my mouth. ‘Lots of things.’
    â€˜No worries,’ she says. ‘I’m the one who shouldbe 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.
    â€˜So, your mum’s