The Courage of Cat Campbell

by Natasha Lowe

  “Mamma, is that true?” Cat said in alarm. “You actually chose Madeline Reynolds?”

  “Maxine!” Poppy fumed. “Was that really necessary? Or do you just enjoy frightening Cat by bringing up Madeline Reynolds? Because this wouldn’t be the first time, would it?”

  “All I said—” Maxine began, but Poppy cut her off.

  “I know what you said. And have you forgotten that it was you who scared Cat to tears when she was only four years old? Four!” Poppy shouted. “Right here in the bakery. She hadn’t even heard of Madeline Reynolds, but you had to go and tell her in vivid Maxine detail all the awful things she’d done. How she’d washed away half of Italy with one of her spells.” Cat’s mother rarely lost her temper, but the way she swished her braid over her shoulder and grabbed a croissant made Cat wonder if she was about to throw it at Maxine. “Do you know I still have to check under Cat’s bed sometimes, just to make sure Madeline Reynolds isn’t hiding there? Which by the way is impossible,” Poppy added, “because Madeline Reynolds is locked up in Scrubs Prison and is never ever getting out.” She put her hands on the counter, crushing the croissant, and took a couple of deep breaths. “Honestly, Maxine, I have never understood why you felt the need to tell Cat about her in the first place.”

  Cat noticed the look Maxine gave her mother, as if they both shared a secret and weren’t saying. “Well, I thought Cat should know,” Maxine said with a huff. “Having such a big interest in magic the way she always has.”

  “You gave her nightmares for years,” Poppy shouted, as Marie Claire came hobbling out of the kitchen. “So why you’d go and mention her again is beyond me.”

  “Is everything all right?” Marie Claire said. She slipped an arm around Cat’s waist. “What is going on?”

  “Maxine was just leaving, weren’t you?” Poppy snapped, marching over to the door and opening it.

  “Well, really!” Maxine said, and clutching her basket against her, she scurried out of the bakery.

  Cat gave a nervous laugh. “I thought you were going to throw that croissant at her head, Mamma! You looked so mad.”

  “Honestly, Maxine drives me nuts,” Poppy said, managing a smile at Cat. “Always stirring the pot. Let’s not waste another breath on that woman.”

  “And I haven’t had nightmares about Madeline Reynolds for years,” Cat pointed out. “I just like you to check under my bed sometimes because it’s part of our old routine.”

  Marie Claire cleared her throat. “So how was school today?” she asked in her softly faded French accent, tactfully changing the subject. She had lived at the bakery with Cat and her parents for as long as Cat could remember, helping her mother with all the cooking and keeping them company when Cat’s father, Tristram, was off having one of his adventures.

  “I have to dress up as my favorite person in history and write a paper about her,” Cat said.

  “And who will you choose?” Poppy asked, straightening a row of cupcakes.

  Cat wanted to say Mabel Ratcliff, her great-great-grandmother who had invented a way to harvest star power and had helped design one of the first rocket broomsticks to fly to the moon. But what she was most well-known for was her amazing quick-growing hair potion that came in a wonderful array of colors. Curly autumn leaf, which was a lovely deep red, and burnt caramel, which looked all glossy and smooth and made you want to lick it. Because of Mabel Ratcliff’s hair invention, baldness was a thing of the past, and even though Cat hadn’t inherited the family magic gene, she was still unbelievably proud of her great-great-grandmother. “I’m not sure yet,” Cat began, knowing that if she mentioned Mabel Ratcliff, her mother’s face would get that tight, stressed look, the way it always did whenever Cat brought up anything to do with witchcraft. And she hated upsetting her mother. They could talk about everything else in the whole world, except Cat’s love of magic.

  “Maybe Antonia Bigglesmith?” Cat said, thinking her idea out loud. “She was the first woman to fly an airplane all the way across the Indian Ocean, all by herself.” The shop bell tinkled and a group of Ruthersfield girls walked into the bakery. Cat couldn’t help staring at their smart purple uniforms with the thin gold trim around the edges. “Antonia Bigglesmith was an adventurer just like Dad,” Cat continued quietly.

  “Well, Tristram would approve of that!” Poppy said. “No one loves adventure more than he does.”

  Cat swallowed the ache in her throat. She missed her father so much when he was traveling. His research as a botanist took him all over the world. At this very moment he was off exploring the mountains of Zangezur, looking for a rare type of plant that one of the local tribes claimed had extraordinary healing properties.

  “You know my dad used to have an old pilot’s cap,” Poppy said. “It was one his father wore in the war. You should ask Grandpa if he still has it,” she suggested. “That would be perfect for your costume.”

  “Oh, Mum, that’s a great idea! Can I go now?” Cat said, wanting to take a look at the broomsticks parked out front, before their owners flew off.

  “Just be back in time for dinner,” Poppy called after her as Cat hurried out of the shop. “The Parkers are coming.”

  Propped up against the wall of the bakery were four brooms. Three were made of a light, honey-colored wood, and one was a dark cherry. Cat ran her hands up and down the cherry one, feeling the smoothness of the grain beneath her fingers. She closed her eyes, imagining what it must be like to swoop across the sky.

  “Excuse me, that’s mine,” one of the Ruthersfield girls said, grabbing her broom from Cat. “Please don’t touch it.”

  “I’m sorry,” Cat murmured, stepping back. “It’s just so beautiful.”

  The girl didn’t answer. She climbed on and turned her head away, waiting for her friends to mount. Then, with a chorus of giggling, the four girls swooped into the air, following the path alongside the canal. Cat stared after them, watching the girls shrink to the size of purple birds. It was only then that she wondered why her mother had picked Madeline Reynolds for a biography project. Why not Mabel Ratcliff or some other wonderful witch? Madeline Reynolds was the worst storm brewer in history. What possible appeal could she have had for her mother? Cat wished Maxine Gibbons hadn’t mentioned it.

  Chapter Three

  * * *

  An Exciting Discovery

  CAT LOVED TO VISIT HER grandparents in their little brick house on Pudding Lane. She set off in the same direction as the broomstick riders. The Ribbald Valley, where Potts Bottom nestled, was tinged with autumn colors, and in the distance, Cat could see the swell of fields and hills, still speckled with purple heather. As she walked, she threw a stone across the canal, trying to hit the woods on the other side. At one time, back in the last century, the canal had been a bustling waterway, but now the most traffic it ever got was the odd pleasure barge or a family of ducks floating down.

  Her path veered off to the right, and Cat started to run, heading up the well-worn track into town. She wound her way through the narrow streets. A lot of the homes in Potts Bottom had been built close together, so you could often see neighbors chatting over fences and washing flapping on clotheslines. Cat always took the same route, balancing on top of garden walls with the speed and agility of a cat. She even looked like one, with her sleek marmalade-colored hair and green eyes. Occasionally Cat managed to reach number 10 Pudding Lane without once touching the pavement. There was one big leap between Mrs. Miller’s house and Maxine’s where Cat often fell, but she loved the challenge of trying, even if she did sometimes end up with scraped knees. This afternoon, though, Cat leaped across perfectly, imagining she was flying on a broomstick.

  “Catkins!” Granny Edith cried, opening the door. “What a lovely surprise!” She spread her arms wide, and Cat flew into them.

  “I’m doing a project on Antonia Bigglesmith, Granny, and I need a costume. Mamma thought Grandpa might still have an old pilot’s cap of his dad’s, which would be perfect.”

  “Oh, I do
n’t know,” Granny Edith said, shepherding Cat into the kitchen. “Roger, it’s Catkins,” she called out, switching off the television.

  Cat smiled at her grandfather, who was sitting at the table with a cup of tea. She kissed the top of his silvery hair, thick and soft as a lion’s mane thanks to Granny Mabel’s hair potion.

  “How’s my favorite granddaughter?” Roger Pendle said, getting to his feet. He always greeted Cat that way, which she found rather funny because she was their only granddaughter. “Did you bring me some of your mum’s coconut cupcakes?”

  “Now, don’t go pestering Cat for cupcakes, Roger. It’s not like you need any.”

  “Sorry, Grandpa, I forgot,” Cat said, noticing that her grandfather’s cardigan did seem to be having difficulty stretching across his middle.

  “Cat’s here on a mission,” Edith Pendle said. “She wants that old pilot’s hat of your dad’s. You know the one, with the furry flaps.”

  “Oh, I’ve no idea where that is.” Roger Pendle shook his head. “You did that big clean-out a few years ago, Edith.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t have thrown the cap away. It’s probably in the attic somewhere, if you felt like having a look, Cat.”

  “Bit of a mess up there,” Roger Pendle said. “And you better watch out for spiders, Catkins!”

  “That’s not funny, Grandpa!” Cat said, trying hard not to smile. She’d always had a powerful fear of spiders, and one Christmas dinner a few years ago, Grandpa Roger had got a trick plastic one in his Christmas cracker. Cat still got embarrassed, thinking about how loud she had screamed when she saw it, knocking her bowl of pudding onto the floor. Even though most of the spiders she came across were small, harmless things, it still made her palms sweat and her skin tingle whenever she saw one scuttling around on its hairy legs. “Will you come up with me, Gran?” Cat said. “Show me where to look?”

  “I’m not sure I know, dear. Just have a poke about. It’ll be in one of the boxes.”

  Granny Edith led Cat upstairs. At the top of the landing was a narrow door with an old-fashioned key in the lock.

  “I can never get this thing to turn,” Granny Edith said, jiggling the key about. “It always sticks for me.” She gave a frustrated huff. “You have a go, Cat.”

  Cat grasped the large iron key. She wiggled it back and forth a few times, and finally managed to twist the key around. Pressing the handle down, Cat tugged the door, which opened with a stiff creak.

  “Well done, Kitty Cat.” Granny Edith reached inside and flipped on the light switch. “Now, be careful going up.”

  The stairs to the attic were narrow and steep. Cat pressed against the walls as she climbed. A gritty layer of dirt covered each tread, and she guessed that her grandparents hadn’t been up here in quite some time.

  “If you can’t find the cap, just give me a shout,” Granny Edith called up.

  “Don’t worry, Gran, I’ll be fine,” Cat replied, stepping into the attic. A powerful tang of mothballs greeted her. The air was so thick with dust Cat could almost taste it. Looking around, she saw a cradle and high chair that must have been used by her mother when she was a baby, an old sewing machine, a stack of checkered suitcases, and piles of cardboard boxes. Wispy cobwebs dangled from the beams, but they were ancient and tattered and spiders hadn’t lived there in a long time. This felt like Christmas, Cat decided, picking her way across the floor. Who knew what treasures might be hidden in these boxes? Although Cat found out pretty quickly the answer to that was not many. Being careful to keep an eye out for spiders, she unearthed some gardening tools, a set of brown spotted china, some old hairbrushes, and three boxes of Train Spotter magazine. There were a couple of bulging plastic bags slumped in a corner. Cat rooted through them, pulling out a sparkly beaded dress that smelled of Granny Edith’s face powder and a green velvet jacket full of moth holes, but no pilot’s cap.

  Giving a sigh of disappointment, Cat glanced around the attic. Where would Granny Edith have put the cap? she wondered. On the far north side, Cat noticed a small window built into one of the eaves. It was covered in grime, so there was little light coming through, but enough for Cat to see a crawl space underneath. Being careful not to tread on any loose boards, she made her way across to it. Getting down on her knees, Cat peered into the crawl space. Tucked right at the back so they were difficult to see were two cardboard boxes. Coughing from the dust, Cat tugged them out, one at a time. This looked like the sort of place you would keep something important. And sure enough, when she opened the first box, underneath a mound of loose papers and maps, Cat pulled out an old aviation cap. The leather was stiff and cracked with age, and moths had nibbled the fur around the edges, but it would be perfect for her costume. There was even a pair of goggles to go over the cap, and with the maps as accessories she would look just like Antonia Bigglesmith!

  This was fantastic, and maybe, if she were lucky, Cat thought, she would find a vintage flying jacket in the next box. Tugging open the flaps, Cat peered inside. There were some neatly folded clothes on top, and underneath them a pile of books. Not quite understanding what she had discovered, Cat put the clothes aside and lifted out the books one at a time. “Simple Spells,” she whispered, blowing off the dust and reading the title. Cat paused and looked again to make sure she hadn’t been mistaken. A spell book! A real spell book! She could feel her heart pounding in her chest as she pulled out The Fine Art of Wand Technique, Practical Magic, The Compendium of Witchcraft Cookery, and with a muffled shriek of delight, a heavy, thick volume called Advanced Magic.

  Where had all of these books come from? Cat puzzled. It was only when she took out a stack of composition notebooks and journals that she realized what she had found. These were her mother’s things from Ruthersfield. The books she had used to study magic. On the front of them all, in rather messy handwriting, was her mother’s name and the name of the class. There were notebooks for spell chanting, potions class, palm reading . . . and Cat stared at each one in amazement. “Oh, my goodness,” she whispered. “Flipping fish cakes!” Cat’s mouth had gone dry and she was breathing loud and fast.

  She picked up a purple cardboard folder with “Miss Jenkins’s History Class—Biography Project” written across the top. Inside were some photocopies of old newspaper articles clipped together, and underneath them on lined white paper was her mother’s essay, titled “The Life and Times of Madeline Reynolds, by Poppy Pendle.” A large red A was scrawled in the margin, which showed what a good student her mother had been. And she had clearly done her research. Unclipping the articles, Cat shuffled through them. The headlines jumped out at her in bold black print.

  SHOCK AND HORROR AS WITCH PRODIGY BREWS UP HISTORIC STORM.

  HUNDREDS LOSE THEIR LIVES WHEN MADELINE REYNOLDS WASHES AWAY HALF OF ITALY.

  CROWDS CHEER AS WORLD’S MOST EVIL WITCH IS LOCKED UP IN SCRUBS.

  WHAT MADE A RUTHERSFIELD ALUMNA GO OVER TO THE DARK SIDE?

  Cat shoved the clippings back inside the folder and slammed it shut. This was too disturbing for her to read any more. She pushed the folder under the crawl space as far back as it would go, needing to get it out of her sight. Surely her mother must have been assigned Madeline Reynolds for this project, because no one in her right mind would choose to study such an evil witch, would she? Cat had to admit that she was definitely not over her childhood fear, and under normal circumstances she would have bolted out of the attic fast. But these were not normal circumstances, and she had no intention of leaving now. Who knew what else might be hidden in the box? Taking some deep, calming breaths, Cat reminded herself that Madeline Reynolds was safely locked away in Scrubs Prison. And she, Cat Campbell, had just made the discovery of a lifetime.

  Reaching for the clothes, Cat shook out a skirt, sweater, and jacket. They were a deep royal purple, although the sweater had faded with time. But there was no mistaking the logo on the jacket pocket, a cauldron with two crossed broomsticks and the words “Ruthersfield Academy” embroidered in cursive s
cript underneath. Cat held the uniform up to her face, inhaling magic and dreams and all the things she wanted so badly. A faint smell of baking clung to it, which didn’t surprise Cat one bit. She dug her hand into one of the jacket pockets and pulled out some fossilized crumbs. What if she put it on? Cat thought, glancing around the attic. No one would know. It couldn’t do any harm. Quickly and with shaking fingers, Cat slipped on the Ruthersfield uniform. The clothes fit her perfectly, and smoothing down the skirt, she twirled around, wishing there was a mirror in the attic so she could see her reflection. “Hello, I’m a witch. I go to Ruthersfield,” Cat whispered, wishing with all her heart that this was true.

  Kneeling beside the box again, she felt around inside to see what else was there. “A mini practice cauldron!” Cat squealed, lifting out a small brass pot with a handle. It had drips down the side from a long ago spell, and Cat wondered what her mother had made. She balanced the cauldron on top of the books, admiring it for a moment, before running her hands around the bottom of the box. Stuck to the cardboard, right along the edge so Cat almost missed it, was a long, thick object that felt a bit like a giant pencil. Peeling it free with her fingernails, Cat held it up and shrieked, clamping a hand over her mouth because she didn’t want her grandparents coming up. It wasn’t a giant pencil at all. It was a magic wand! Her mother’s old magic wand, Cat guessed, covered in bits of lint and fluff and something that still felt sticky. Knowing her mother, she had probably used it to stir cake batter.

  “A real wand!” Cat whispered, waving it about. “A real magic wand.” Her heart was racing as she pointed it across the attic. “Alicadaze,” Cat said, spinning around and pointing it at the window. “Abercazoo, Zapadido.” Nothing happened, of course. She tapped the wand against her leg and waved it at the high chair. “Fluttertijack, Mollyticock,” Cat cried out, longing to say magic words and do magic things. A yearning so strong and deep swept over Cat that she leaned against the window, pressing her face to the dusty glass. This was all she had ever wanted, to be a real witch and go to Ruthersfield Academy. But that was never going to happen. Cat almost wished she hadn’t found these things. None of this was real. It was dress up, pretend, and she slid to the floor in dejection. She was no more a witch than she was Antonia Bigglesmith.