The Power of Poppy Pendle (9 page)

Cautiously opening the kitchen door, Poppy stepped outside. She found herself standing in a small courtyard with a basketball hoop attached to one wall. Flowers had been planted in big wooden barrels, and purple clematis climbed freely up the back wall of the bakery. A small round table and chairs were tucked into a corner, shaded by a green umbrella. It was a lovely, tranquil place, and Poppy played ball until Marie Claire joined her, carrying a tray of sandwiches and lemonade. They sat at the little table and ate slowly, chatting about recipes.

“Perhaps now would be a good time for me to call your parents?” Marie Claire said when Poppy had finished her lunch. “I do need to talk to them, Poppy.”

“No.” Poppy shook her head vigorously. “I mean, not yet.” Her bottom lip started to tremble. “It’s awful at home. You’ve no idea how horrible it is.”

“Do they know how you feel about things?”

“I’ve tried to tell them, but they don’t listen to me,” Poppy said, staring at the table.

“You should write it down,” Marie Claire suggested gently. “Sometimes it is easier for parents to hear what their child is saying in a letter. It might help them understand how you are feeling. And then I can speak with them about it.” Marie Claire sounded so confident and sure that Poppy suddenly felt a small glimmer of hope. Maybe this kind, lovely French person could convince her parents that she wasn’t meant to be a witch. That magic was not her destiny. But that brief wishful thought quickly vanished. Her mother and father would never agree to such a thing. Poppy knew that. She was quiet for a long moment, and then she slowly nodded. Besides, it wasn’t Marie Claire’s problem, it was hers.

“Okay,” Poppy agreed. “I’ll write to them.” That couldn’t hurt. But what she didn’t tell Marie Claire was that she had no intention of letting her parents know where she was. They would march right down to the patisserie and drag her back home.

“You are doing the right thing, Poppy,” Marie Claire said, leaning over to pat Poppy’s hand. “And ask them to contact me, straightaway. Then we can sort all this out.” She gave Poppy a reassuring smile. “There’s a postbox outside the back gate.”

Later on that afternoon Poppy sat down at the big wooden table in Marie Claire’s kitchen, and after chewing the end of her pencil for a few minutes, she began to compose a letter to her parents, explaining why she had run away.

There was nothing in the letter they didn’t already know, but maybe, just maybe, Poppy thought wistfully, they would read it and understand. When she had finished, Poppy folded up the pages and slid the letter into an envelope. She printed “Mr. and Mrs. Pendle, 10 Pudding Lane, Potts Bottom” on the front. It was only as she was about to creep out to post it that Poppy realized her parents would see where it had been mailed from. Then they would know she was still in the village, and be bound to find her. Not sure what else to do, Poppy slipped the letter into her pocket.
For now,
she told herself.

The caramel cookies were a huge success. They sold out completely. “Everybody loved them,” Marie Claire said as they tidied up the shop at the end of the day. “One woman told me they were the best-tasting cookies she’d ever eaten.”

Poppy, who was pushing a mop enthusiastically across the floor, couldn’t stop smiling. “I feel so at home, Marie Claire.” She breathed in deeply. “Even the smell of this bakery is comforting. It makes me feel like a baby inside, all safe and warm.”

“Maybe that’s because you’re standing right where a little girl was born,” said Marie Claire.

“Right here?” Poppy looked down, as if there might still be traces of a baby left on the floor. “A real baby?”

“As real as they get,” Marie Claire said, remembering that strange and special day. “She ate a whole bag of my almond cakes. I’ve often wondered what happened to her.” She sighed and shook her head. “The parents never did come back to tell me. Ah well, it is as it’s destined to be, I suppose.” Poppy didn’t really understand what Marie Claire meant by this, but she could tell that the Frenchwoman was lost in her thoughts.

A peaceful silence settled on the shop until Poppy said softly, “It must have been wonderful for your son to grow up here.”

“He liked it well enough, but Pierre is not a cook. Flying is his great love.” Marie Claire gave a resigned smile. “He would help out when I needed it, of course, but there was no passion there. That’s what a truly great baker must have,” she said, holding both hands over her heart. “Passion!”

“Kibet fallow da,” Poppy burst out. “That was our school motto. It means to follow your passion.”

“And so you are,
chérie
. Love is what makes my bread so good, and you have that passion. You have great talent.”

“Do I really?” Poppy said, hardly daring to believe what Marie Claire was telling her.

“Indeed you do, child.” And if Poppy could have smiled any wider, her face would have split in two. “I will help your parents understand,” Marie Claire continued. “Perhaps we can arrange it so that you can make your special caramel cookies every Wednesday after school. It will be something nice for the customers to look forward to.”

“Oh, and I could make coconut cupcakes on Mondays.” Poppy suggested, clapping her hands with enthusiasm. “Or coffee cupcakes, perhaps. I have a wonderful idea for coffee cupcakes. And how about chocolate melt-aways on Thursdays? Everyone always loves those. And raspberry jam shortbreads on Fridays?”

Marie Claire shook her head and laughed. “One recipe at a time, Poppy, one recipe at a time. It all sounds quite delicious though,
chérie
. I am sure you will make the customers very happy!”

The next day Poppy woke at four o’clock to help Marie Claire get started on the bread doughs. She loved being in the kitchen at such an early hour, the heavy quiet and the dark outside. At around five thirty she put a tray of cherry scones in the oven, and when the sun rose Poppy and Marie Claire sat by the window nibbling on the fresh, warm pastries. It was a perfect moment. And so the day began.

Poppy was careful not to appear in the front of the shop. She couldn’t risk having nosy old Maxine from next door see her and report back to her parents. It was most important she stay hidden in the kitchen, out of sight.

Chapter Ten

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Surprise

L
ATE ON THURSDAY AFTERNOON, MARIE CLAIRE
APPEARED
. in the kitchen, a puzzled look on her face. “There is a person out front wanting to see you, Poppy.”

“Are you sure?” Poppy said, sinking down on a chair. Her mouth felt as if it were full of cotton wool. “Maybe they meant someone else? It can’t be me,” she added shakily.

“She asked if someone called Poppy was here,” Marie Claire stated, watching Poppy closely. Then holding out her hand, she said in a gentle voice, “Come,
chérie
. There is nothing to fear. I will take you.” Getting unsteadily to her feet, Poppy clasped Marie Claire’s warm, flour-dusted hand and followed her out of the kitchen.

It was such a relief to see Charlie’s smiling face that Poppy didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She started to do both as Charlie skipped behind the counter and wrapped her friend up in an enormous hug. “I’ll be upstairs if you need me,” Marie Claire said softly. She gave Poppy a long, thoughtful look. “No reason why we shouldn’t close a few minutes early today.” And flipping over the
OPEN
sign, she left the girls in peace.

“Where have you been? I waited outside Ruthersfield yesterday and today and you weren’t there. I thought you were sick until this funny man came by my house, asking all these weird questions about you. A private investigator,” Charlie said, lowering her voice.

“How do you know he was a private investigator?” Poppy whispered, even though they were alone in the shop.

“He showed me his card. It had ‘PI Jones’ on it or something like that.”

“So what did he ask?” Poppy worried, chewing the end of her braid.

“How long I’d known you. If I had any idea where you might have gone. That kind of thing.” Charlie paused and glanced at Poppy. “Then he told me to call him right away if I heard anything from you. He said your parents had hired him to find you because they don’t want anyone to know that you’ve run away and they don’t want the police getting involved just yet.”

“Of course they don’t,” Poppy said sadly. “That would be far too revealing, wouldn’t it? Their own daughter running away because she doesn’t want to be a witch. What would Ruthersfield Academy think about that?”

“You’ve really run away, then?”

“Yes, and I’m not going back, Charlie. You must promise not to tell.” Poppy gripped her friend’s hands. “Honestly, I’ll die if I have to go home. I love it here. I’m so happy.”

“Of course I won’t say anything,” Charlie promised. “I’m just so glad I’ve found you. It’s been miserable, Poppy. Finally I make my first real friend and then she goes and disappears on me.”

“How did you know where I was?” Poppy asked. “I haven’t left the kitchen.”

“Your chocolate cookies gave you away.” Charlie grinned, holding up a white paper bag. “One bite and I knew who had made them. So I asked that nice lady if you were the cook.”

“Well, I’m so pleased you did,” Poppy said, realizing how much she had missed her friend, even though it had been only two days.

A sudden flash of purple caught Poppy’s eye, and she saw a girl in a Ruthersfield uniform walking by the shop. Poppy gasped and immediately dropped to the floor. “Come on, it’s not safe here. Let’s go out back.” Crawling on her hands and knees, she pushed her way through the swinging door into the kitchen.

“You can’t hide here forever,” Charlie said, following behind her friend.

“Yes, I can,” Poppy said, getting to her feet and brushing flour off her knees. “I’m never leaving Marie Claire’s.”

“Where do you sleep?” Charlie asked, and Poppy pointed to the camp bed in the corner. Soft flannel-covered pillows and sheets gave it a cozy feel, and her cookbooks were stacked on a little wooden shelf beside it.

“In the kitchen?”

“Oh, I love it, Charlie! It’s warm and it smells so good.” Poppy took some butter that was softening on the counter and emptied it into a mixing bowl. “The best part is, I get to cook all day long.”

“No more magic?” Charlie said a little wistfully.

“Nope!” Poppy shook her head. “Never again. I threw my wand away.”

“You did?”

“Don’t look so shocked, Charlie. You know I hated doing magic.” Poppy started to giggle as she spooned powdered sugar into the bowl. “Raspberry jam shortbreads, I think.” As she stirred the butter and sugar together, a swirling rainbow cloud formed and rose out of the bowl. It hovered above the table for an instant before popping and sending down showers of multicolored candy sprinkles.

Charlie laughed. “I thought you said no more magic! How do you do that?” she asked, pressing a finger into the sprinkles and tasting them. “Mmmm, sweet.”