The Power of Poppy Pendle

by Natasha Lowe

  “She doesn’t recognize the opportunity she’s got.” Maxine from next door sympathized over a cup of tea later that afternoon. “What an honor it is to go to Ruthersfield. You’ve done everything for Poppy, Edith.”

  “We have.” Mrs. Pendle nodded, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. “And Ruthersfield’s not cheap, let me tell you! I’m not complaining, mind you, but I do wonder sometimes if Poppy really appreciates what we’re giving up for her.”

  “Yes, and I’ve never heard you complain once,” Maxine remarked.

  “Well, you want what’s best for your child, don’t you, and that Charlie—” Mrs. Pendle inhaled, gripping the edge of the table so tightly her knuckles turned white. “I’m sure she’s the one who’s been putting ideas into Poppy’s head, turning her against her magic.” She leaned forward. “I don’t mean to sound hard-hearted, Maxine, but Poppy is not to see that girl again.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t agree more. She’ll thank you in the long run,” Maxine murmured.

  “And all this nonsense with cooking,” Mrs. Pendle said, watching Maxine help herself to one of Poppy’s dream bars. “I can’t take it anymore. It has to stop.”

  “Mmmmmmm,” Maxine moaned, chewing slowly on the dream bar. It was one of Poppy’s own creations. “These are sensational, though. You can’t deny she cooks like an angel.”

  Picking up the plate of chocolate marshmallow fingers, Mrs. Pendle walked over to the sink and dumped the whole lot in. Then she turned the water on full blast and shoved the rest of the dream bars down the trash disposal.

  When Mr. Pendle got home from work that evening, Mrs. Pendle met him at the door, sniffing tearfully. He took off his shoes and put on his slippers while his wife told him exactly what to say. “You must be firm with her, Roger. For her own good. I’ve tried to explain things to Poppy, but she needs to hear it from her father.”

  “Right.”

  “She has to understand we know what’s best for her.”

  “Okay.” Roger Pendle looked a little puzzled.

  “Tell her we won’t put up with any more of this nonsense. Make it clear she can have Ruthersfield girls over whenever she wants, but not that Charlie person from the elementary school, and no more baking.”

  “Well, now, that’s a bit harsh, isn’t it?” Mr. Pendle blew his nose.

  “But it’s so disruptive to her studies.”

  “Not even the odd cookie or something? After she’s done her homework?”

  “She’s a witch, Roger. That’s what she needs to be concentrating on now. Unfortunately, it’s never just the odd cookie with Poppy.”

  “Yes, you’re right,” Mr. Pendle agreed. “We must be firm.” And squaring his shoulders, he marched upstairs to talk to Poppy.

  “Well, how did she take it?” Mrs. Pendle asked over dinner that evening. Poppy had refused to leave her room and join them.

  “Oh, she understands,” Mr. Pendle said, forking up shepherd’s pie and trying hard not to taste what he was swallowing. It was Super Savers’s own brand and had the smell and texture of canned dog food. “She’s a bit upset, of course,” he added, stirring his dinner around. “But not as angry as I was expecting. I have to say I’m rather proud of myself. Yes.” He straightened his tie and smiled across at his wife. “I believe she took it very well, Edith.”

  Upstairs in her room, Poppy threw some clothes into a pillowcase along with her favorite cookbooks and basketball. A deep sadness swelled inside her. She couldn’t stay here anymore, not after the awful conversations with her parents. Besides never seeing Charlie again, her father had told Poppy in the nicest possible way that she wasn’t going to be allowed to do any more cooking, either. “And I love to bake,” Poppy whispered. “I just love it.” The thought of never making another cupcake again was too much for her. Wiping away the last of her tears, Poppy ripped out a blank page of her spell journal and scrawled across it in purple ink.

  Dear Mum and Dad,

  I have run away from Potts Bottom. Please don’t try to find me, because I’m not coming home. Ever. I don’t want to be a witch and I hate magic. I HATE IT. I’ll never be like Great-Granny Mabel.

  Love, Poppy

  Leaving the note lying on her bed, Poppy softly opened her bedroom window and looked down. If only her parents could accept who she was and be happy for her. If only they didn’t care so much about her magic. But they did, and there was nothing Poppy could do to change that. She hesitated a moment as she pondered the drop. It was too far to jump, but she had no intention of walking downstairs and out through the front door. Her parents would find a way to stop her. With a resigned sigh, Poppy picked up her magic wand and quickly conjured up a rope ladder. She didn’t like using magic, but this was an emergency. Then, throwing the pillowcase over her shoulders, and without a backward glance, she scrambled to the ground.

  Lights were shining through the kitchen window, and Poppy could see her parents staring at the television. The opening credits for Magic in the Family were just starting up, and a box of disgusting, artificially flavored, chocolate-filled chocolate cakes called Fudge Monkeys sat between them. Poppy blinked back tears, refusing to cry anymore. A torrent of hot anger suddenly swept through her, and the force of such powerful emotion scared Poppy. She was right to run away. This sort of anger wasn’t good. Not wanting anything more to do with magic ever again, she hurled her wand with all her strength into some rhododendron bushes. It landed with a soft plop, and turning to give one final look at the house on Pudding Lane that had been her home for the past ten years, Poppy clambered over the garden fence and started to head toward town. Although she felt scared and alone, Poppy kept on walking. She had to be able to bake.

  Chapter Eight

  ••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

  Patisserie Marie Claire

  POPPY KNEW EXACTLY WHERE SHE WAS GOING. Patisserie Marie Claire had no lights on, but coming from the apartment above was the sound of opera music. Giving a gentle knock, Poppy held her breath and waited. There was no response. Feeling her heart start to race, she knocked more loudly. She kept on knocking until a door in the back of the shop opened and a woman appeared. It was the same woman Poppy always saw serving behind the counter. She was wearing an elegant pink silk dressing gown. As the lights flicked on, Poppy could see that she didn’t look too happy at being disturbed. “We’re closed,” the woman said, unlocking the front door and folding her arms across her chest. She frowned and studied Poppy, a puzzled expression on her face.

  “I know, and I’m really sorry to disturb you, but I was wondering if you needed any help.”

  “It’s so late,” the woman said in a faded French accent. “Help with what? Have we met before? You seem familiar to me.”

  “I-I don’t think so,” Poppy stammered, shifting about from foot to foot. Her socks had slipped down again, and she wished she had tucked in her shirt before knocking. “I just thought you might need some help with the baking?” Poppy knew how she must look with her pillowcase full of stuff. “I’m a good cook, I really am.”

  The woman stared hard at Poppy, taking in her tearstained face and messy hair. “Are you sure I haven’t seen you somewhere before?”

  “Well, I walk by here quite a lot,” Poppy admitted.

  “What is your name, child?”

  “P-Poppy.”

  “Shouldn’t you be at home doing your homework, Poppy?” the woman asked suspiciously. “You seem awfully young to be out looking for work.” Poppy felt her face grow warm. This wasn’t going the way she had hoped at all. Blinking back tears, Poppy stood up really straight. At least she was tall for her age. Maybe the woman would think she had graduated.

  “I am older than I look. I go to, I mean, I used to go to Ruthersfield Academy. I’ve left now,” Poppy said, sounding flustered. “Magic wasn’t really my thing.” The woman didn’t look convinced, and Poppy took a deep bre
ath, trying to steady her voice. “I want to learn how to be a proper baker,” she added with passion. “Just like you.”

  “Just like me!” the woman mused, giving a small smile, but still not opening the door any wider.

  “Here, try one of these,” Poppy said, taking a rectangular-shaped cookie from her pocket. It had crumbled at the edges and was covered in bits of fluff. The woman sniffed it cautiously.

  “Go on, please try it,” Poppy begged. “Almond butter crunch. It’s my own recipe.”

  The woman nibbled a corner and chewed. Then she took a proper bite and closed her eyes. People often did that when they tried Poppy’s cooking. “This is delicious. It’s buttery and crunchy. . . . C’est magnifique.”

  “Does that mean I can stay?” Poppy asked hopefully. “Just for the night?”

  “Do your parents know you’re here?” the woman said.

  Poppy stared down at the ground, trying to decide how to answer. She chewed on her thumbnail and finally whispered, “They didn’t want me to make a career out of baking.” She swallowed the lump that had risen in her throat, and in a trembly voice added, “I can’t go home. I just can’t. And I’ve nowhere else to go.”

  “Ahhhhhhhh.” It was a long, drawn-out ahhhhhh. The woman nodded. “I believe I understand now. Well, you had better come in,” she said kindly, stepping aside so Poppy could pass. “It’s not good to be wandering the streets at this hour.”

  The woman, whose name was Marie Claire Gentille, took Poppy through to the kitchen, where all the pastries and breads were made. It was spotlessly clean and an enormous dishwasher hummed softly. Marie Claire frowned. “I’m afraid my little apartment is tiny, and I don’t really have anywhere for you to sleep. But just for tonight I can make you a bed up in here.”

  Poppy hoped she wasn’t going to start crying again. “I would so like to stay here and help you with the baking, please.” She dropped her pillowcase on the floor and her basketball rolled out. Poppy clasped her hands together. “Please, please, please let me stay,” she pleaded.

  Marie Claire narrowed her eyes, watching Poppy closely. She didn’t answer straightaway. The silence grew and grew, until finally, just as Poppy couldn’t bear it any longer, Marie Claire said softly, “You will need to call your parents right now and tell them where you are.”

  “I’ll do it, I promise,” Poppy said in a rush. “But you don’t understand what they’re like,” she whispered, chewing the end of her braid. “You have no idea.”

  Marie Claire’s voice was serious. “Maybe I don’t. But it is important you let them know you are safe, Poppy.” She held Poppy’s gaze steadily.

  “Okay.” Poppy nodded, understanding that she had no choice about this.

  “Very well, then, chérie.” Marie Claire offered Poppy a tissue. “Perhaps for a few days, until we sort this out, I could do with a little help in the kitchen.”

  “Oh, thank you, thank you,” Poppy said, realizing she had been holding in her breath all this time. She shivered with happiness. “I can’t believe I’m actually going to be working at Patisserie Marie Claire!”

  “But first you must call your parents,” Marie Claire said, handing Poppy a slim, scarlet phone. “And then I can speak with them myself.”

  “Oh, no!” Poppy shook her head, looking scared. “You can’t do that. Please. Not yet.”

  Marie Claire rested a hand lightly on Poppy’s shoulder, her eyes full of sympathy. “All right, Poppy,” she said. “I will give you a little privacy while you talk. If you need me, I shall be in the shop.”

  Poppy had no idea what she was going to say. The phone rang and rang, and Poppy guessed that her parents were probably still watching Magic in the Family. She knew how much they hated being disturbed during their favorite shows. When she heard her mother’s loud voice announcing, “You have reached the Pendle family, Roger and Edith and our brilliant little witch. Please leave a message after the beep,” Poppy whispered into the mouthpiece, “It’s me. I’m okay and I’m not coming home, so please don’t worry.” She sniffed and pressed the off button, relieved that she had kept her promise to Marie Claire. Her parents were bound to come looking for her, but she was safe at the patisserie for now.

  “You won’t be all that comfortable,” Marie Claire remarked, looking around the kitchen with her hands on her hips. “Give me a moment, though.” She disappeared upstairs and returned with a camp bed and blankets. “We can set this up over here,” Marie Claire said, putting the bed down in a corner of the room. “That way you’ll have your own little space.”

  “Oh, it’s perfect!” Poppy told her. “I’ll be so warm, and it smells delicious. Kitchens are my favorite places in the world. I can’t believe I’m actually going to be sleeping in one!”

  “Like little Cinderella!” Marie Claire smiled, shaking her head. “Except you’ll be covered in flour and not ashes! And I must warn you,” she added. “I get up at four every morning. That’s when I bake all my breads and croissants.”

  “I don’t mind,” Poppy said. “Honestly, I’d love that. I really would. I’m dying to know how you make croissants. And once I’ve learned how to get the breads and things started, you could sleep in later,” Poppy chattered. “I’d bring you tea in bed.”

  Marie Claire laughed softly. She spread the blankets over Poppy’s bed. “Try to get some rest now, chérie. You must be tired. And tomorrow we will be up extra early because on Wednesdays I make a wonderful chocolate butter bread.”

  Poppy lay down on the camp bed. Even though it was narrow, she slept soundly and didn’t wake up until the sound of Marie Claire’s singing roused her. It was still dark outside, and Marie Claire handed her a steaming cup of milky coffee. Poppy sipped cautiously. She had never had coffee before, but this was delicious. It would make a wonderful flavoring for cupcakes, she decided.

  “I slept really well, Marie Claire,” Poppy said, getting out of bed at once. Her braids were messy and she had gone to sleep in her clothes. But Poppy couldn’t stop smiling.

  “I am glad. You look rested.” Marie Claire smoothed a hair back from Poppy’s face. “And later on when it is not so early, we need to talk, chérie.” Poppy gave a vague nod in reply. “I will help you work this out,” Marie Claire reassured her. “Everything will be fine.”

  “I know it will be,” Poppy answered softly. “Because I’m here now.”

  “Right, then, first we will work on our bread doughs,” Marie Claire said, scooping flour into an enormous bowl. “They need the longest time to rise. Now, take this chocolate and chop it for me, please.” Poppy did as she was told. Soon the kitchen was filled with the rich, yeasty smell of bread rising and baking. Marie Claire showed Poppy how to roll out croissant dough and shape it into crescents. Some were left plain. Others they filled with almond paste or stuffed with custard and raisins. Poppy learned to make a soft, buttery bread dough called brioche, into which they stirred chunks of bittersweet chocolate. “My famous chocolate butter bread,” Marie Claire said, putting a tray of loaf pans into the oven. “People come from many towns all over to buy this. I only make it on Wednesdays.”

  “If people love it so much, why not make it every day?”

  “Then it wouldn’t be so special”—Marie Claire winked—“and on Wednesdays everyone needs a treat. It is a day when sad things often happen, I have found.” Poppy laughed, although she wasn’t sure if Marie Claire was joking or not.

  After the chocolate butter bread had finished baking, Marie Claire cut them each a slice. “Now we taste to make sure it is good.” She motioned for Poppy to sit down. “You should never eat standing up or walking around. It is not good for the digestive system. Plus, you never taste your food properly if you are moving about. We want to sit and concentrate.” Marie Claire closed her eyes and took a bite. Poppy copied her. She could feel the warmth of the morning sun streaming through the windows.

  “Thi
s is perfect,” Poppy sighed, chewing slowly. The bread was soft and airy. You could really taste the creamy French butter Marie Claire insisted on using. Chunks of dark chocolate melted on Poppy’s tongue. When she swallowed, she knew this was one of the most delicious things she had ever eaten.

  “That’s my dream,” Poppy whispered with longing. “To cook like that and have a bakery of my very own.”

  “And I’m sure one day you will,” Marie Claire replied, gently touching Poppy’s arm. “But now it is time to set up the shop. We open in thirty minutes.”

  They filled the glass cases and window displays with trays of breads and pastries. Then Marie Claire handed Poppy a pink-and-white-striped apron. “Put this on, chérie. We wear these when we serve.”

  “Oh no, I couldn’t!” Poppy froze behind the counter. She was staring through the window and her eyes were full of panic. People had already started to gather outside, and standing at the front of the line was nosy old Maxine from next door. “I don’t want to be out here,” Poppy said, and dropping her apron on the floor, she hurried back into the kitchen.

  Chapter Nine

  ••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

  Caramel Cookies

  LATER, WHEN MARIE CLAIRE APPEARED IN THE KITCHEN DOORWAY, Poppy explained, “I’d much rather wash dishes, and my math is terrible. I don’t want to handle the money.”

  “Really,” Marie Claire mused, watching Poppy scrub away at a mixing bowl. Drops of brown water had sloshed onto the floor, and when Poppy put the bowl in the drying rack, streaks of chocolate still clung to it. “You’ll get lonely, being in here all by yourself.”

  “No, I won’t,” Poppy said. “I love your kitchen, and perhaps when I’ve washed up these pans, I could start baking cookies?” The shop bell tinkled.

  “I must go,” Marie Claire said, turning to leave. “Someone needs serving.”