The Power of Poppy Pendle

by Natasha Lowe

  “That makes us sort of the same,” Poppy said, smiling at Marie Claire.

  “Except you have parents and I didn’t,” Marie Claire pointed out in a quiet voice. She flipped over the page to show an elderly gentleman in a long white apron. “That’s Monsieur Claude,” Marie Claire said fondly. “He owned the bakery where I worked, and what a genius the man was. It was Monsieur Claude who showed me how to take flour and water and turn them into something magical.” Marie Claire gave a long, soulful sigh. “Even today I cannot make a baguette to rival Monsieur Claude’s. Warm hands and a warm heart, that’s the key, he used to say.”

  Poppy picked at a piece of dry cookie dough that was stuck to the top of the table. “I don’t understand why you’re showing me this,” she said, not meeting Marie Claire’s gaze.

  “Perhaps,” Marie Claire spoke carefully, “perhaps because I noticed a sadness in your face when you first arrived. Something that reminded me of myself all those years ago. Like you said, Poppy, we are sort of the same.”

  Poppy wished she could tell Marie Claire the truth. It would feel so good to let out all the words crammed up inside her. To explain what it had been like living at home with the shadow of Great-Granny Mabel always hovering overhead. To admit how much she hated magic and how awful Ruthersfield was. How her parents didn’t like it when she made cookie batter instead of spells, and worst of all, how they had banned her from ever seeing Charlie again. Poppy sighed, opening her mouth, but no words would come. She didn’t want to tell too much. After all, Marie Claire was a grown-up, and even though she wanted to help, if she knew the truth, she might feel obliged to send Poppy back home. “Well, I won’t go,” Poppy whispered, biting into a raspberry jam shortbread. “I’m never leaving here,” she added fiercely, speaking louder than she’d intended.

  “Poppy,” Marie Claire began, but Poppy covered her ears.

  “I don’t want to talk about me, Marie Claire. Please, not right now.”

  “Your parents know you are safe, which is good, but I need to talk to them. You did write yesterday, chérie?”

  “I did,” Poppy said, wishing Marie Claire would stop staring at her. “But I only posted the letter today,” she confessed. “Please don’t be cross with me.”

  Marie Claire didn’t answer. She just took one of Poppy’s hands in her own and squeezed it hard.

  Chapter Eleven

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  A Glimpse Through the Window

  POPPY COULDN’T BELIEVE HOW PERFECT HER LIFE HAD BECOME. Charlie spent Friday, after school, and most of her weekend at the bakery, skipping home only for meals. Usually when she arrived at Marie Claire’s, she would find Poppy busy in the kitchen, cooking. In fact, Poppy had hardly left the kitchen, because she was so scared of being seen. Charlie liked to pull up a stool next to the big butcher-block table and watch as Poppy mixed and stirred, kneading bread dough or dolloping out cookie batter. They listened to the loud French music Marie Claire loved, gradually learning the words and singing along, even though they didn’t know what they were singing about. It didn’t matter. The girls were happy, and Marie Claire could hear them giggling away as she stood in the shop, serving customers.

  If Poppy needed one of the rare, special ingredients that Marie Claire kept on the highest shelves in the kitchen, she entertained Charlie by jumping up like a jack-in-the-box to reach them. Marie Claire did keep a stepladder handy for just such a purpose, but Poppy ignored it, springing eight feet through the air and grabbing fresh vanilla beans or French chocolate off the shelves. This was fun to watch but not always successful, and Charlie found herself showered in macaroons when Poppy accidentally knocked a box of them over as she reached for the vanilla!

  “Poppy,” Marie Claire said gently, after Charlie had left on Sunday. “There has been no word yet from your parents. If we have not heard back by tomorrow evening, I must contact them myself.”

  “No, please don’t. Oh, please don’t,” Poppy begged, staring at Marie Claire out of frightened eyes.

  Bending down, Marie Claire brushed a loose strand of hair out of Poppy’s face. “I have to, chérie. We will face this together. Everything will be all right. I promise.”

  “No, it won’t. They’ll make me go back to Ruthersfield,” Poppy said in a wobbly voice. “And I don’t want to leave here.”

  “I’m sorry, Poppy, but I have no choice.”

  Poppy saw that Marie Claire was serious. There was no avoiding this problem any longer. “Can you talk to my dad, then?” Poppy whispered. “He might understand better than my mum.”

  Marie Claire gave Poppy a hug. “Of course I will, chérie. Now try not to worry any more tonight.”

  Early the following morning, before the store opened, Poppy risked helping Marie Claire carry out loaves of walnut bread from the kitchen. As she pushed through the swinging door, her arms full of warm bread, Poppy caught a glimpse of Auntie Viv, walking past the patisserie. At least it looked like her auntie Viv, same orange hair and large, expansive bottom, but she was gone before Poppy could be absolutely sure. What made her heart start to thump and her legs go all trembly was the way the woman had hesitated a second as she glanced through the window. It hadn’t been more than the briefest of moments, a quick turn of the head, but Poppy felt queasy as she arranged the loaves of bread on a shelf. Had it been Auntie Viv, and if so, had she seen Poppy? Was she marching over to the Pendles’ house right this very instant to tell them where their daughter was hiding? Poppy groaned.

  “Are you all right, chérie?” Marie Claire inquired, coming up behind her with a tray of almond croissants. Poppy had her arms wrapped tightly around her stomach and was rocking to and fro.

  “I feel a bit sick,” she whispered, staring at the window. “I don’t feel good at all.”

  “Go and lie down,” Marie Claire suggested. “You’ve gone all pale.”

  “I think I will,” Poppy said. “I think I might be about to faint.” She hurried back into the kitchen and collapsed on her little camp bed, fear and worry knotting her stomach into tight cramps. She knew she was going to have to face her parents at some point soon, probably talk to them tonight when Marie Claire called, but this wasn’t how she wanted it to happen. Marie Claire tiptoed in and out, checking on Poppy between customers, and as the morning slipped by without any sign of her parents turning up, Poppy began to calm down. She must have been mistaken. It couldn’t have been Auntie Viv at all, or if it had been Auntie Viv, she obviously hadn’t seen Poppy. Still, a nagging doubt continued to trouble her, and she couldn’t stop her mind from replaying the moment over and over again. It was impossible to switch her thoughts off, so Poppy did what she always did whenever she was feeling upset. She baked. Buttery coffee cupcakes soon filled the kitchen with their comforting, homey smell, and by the time Charlie arrived, Poppy had almost convinced herself that she had spent most of the day worrying about nothing.

  “Marie Claire told me you weren’t feeling too well,” Charlie said, hesitating in the doorway. “Should I go so you can rest?”

  “No, no, I’m fine, really. Just a headache, but it’s gone now.” Poppy smiled, not wanting her friend to leave. “Let’s do something fun,” she suggested, trying to make things seem normal. “We can take cupcakes outside and play basketball. Although I should probably help tidy up the shop first,” Poppy said. “I haven’t been much use today.”

  “I thought you didn’t like going out front,” Charlie said.

  “Well, I don’t usually, but I hate Marie Claire having to do everything by herself.”

  “I’ll help,” Charlie offered, grabbing a broom. “I don’t mind sweeping.”

  As Poppy followed Charlie out of the kitchen, she tried to ignore the sense of uneasiness that wouldn’t, however much she wanted it to, quite go away.

  Chapter Twelve

&nbs
p; ••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

  Back Home

  AFTER MAKING SURE THAT THE CLOSED SIGN WAS UP and the door locked, Poppy started to wipe down the counter. It had been a busy day and there was nothing left in the display case except for a single misshapen croissant. Marie Claire was singing softly to herself, one of her favorite French songs, and Poppy and Charlie had just joined in when there came a sudden pounding of fists on the front door. It sounded like a hailstorm smacking against the glass. Poppy froze, gripping her dust cloth and staring at the clenched-up fist banging on the door. She couldn’t move, and when the knocking got so aggressive it was clear that the glass might break, Marie Claire walked slowly toward it.

  “No, please,” Poppy begged. “Don’t!” But Marie Claire was already sliding back the bolt. Before she had even removed her hand, the door was shoved open and Edith and Roger Pendle burst into the shop.

  “Poppy,” Edith Pendle cried out, her pale face crumpling like a squashed dinner roll. “Are you all right, sweetheart? Has she hurt you?” she sobbed, hurrying over and pulling Poppy hard against her. Poppy didn’t answer, but her eyes filled with tears as she stood there being hugged by her mother. Marie Claire was staring at the Pendles in astonishment. You couldn’t mistake Roger and Edith Pendle, not even after ten whole years. She had wondered for so long about the baby born in her shop that distant May afternoon, and now it all made perfect sense. Of course Poppy was that baby, and even though the air was thick with unpleasantness, Marie Claire found herself smiling.

  “We should have known you were behind this,” Edith Pendle accused Marie Claire, shaking with anger as she held Poppy close. “You, of all people. I hold you fully responsible. You stole our child.” She wept. “Making us think she had run off to Ribbleswold. It’s you who’s been filling her brain with all this cooking nonsense, isn’t it? From the very beginning you’ve been planning this, haven’t you, just because, just because . . .” But Edith Pendle couldn’t finish. She started to heave with fresh tears, hugging Poppy so tightly it was difficult for the girl to breathe.

  “You think you have some sort of a special claim on my daughter,” Roger Pendle said. “Well, I’m—I’m tempted to call the police and press kidnapping charges.”

  “NO!” Poppy burst out, pushing her mother away. “No, please don’t. Marie Claire didn’t kidnap me. I came here on my own. This has nothing to do with her.”

  “Oh, my poor lamb,” Mrs. Pendle said. “You’ve been brainwashed, as well. Come on, sweetheart, we’re taking you home.”

  “No, please.” Poppy panicked, looking pleadingly at Marie Claire. “Don’t let them take me. I don’t want to go.”

  “Of course you do,” her mother crooned, gripping Poppy’s arm and tugging her toward the door.

  “No, please, I’m begging you, let me stay here.” Poppy’s voice wobbled with hysteria.

  “Come on, Poppy,” Roger Pendle coaxed, shuffling about in discomfort. “This isn’t where you live, pumpkin. You need to come home.”

  “Can’t you do something?” Charlie cried, turning to Marie Claire for help. “You mustn’t let them take her.”

  “So you’re involved in this too, are you?” Edith Pendle said, pointing at Charlie. “See what I mean, Roger? A bad influence.”

  “I’m sorry.” Marie Claire shook her head sadly. “There is nothing I can do. You have to go with your parents, Poppy. And I’m sorry you have been so worried,” Marie Claire said, addressing the Pendles. “Did you not get Poppy’s letter?”

  “Oh, we got it all right,” Edith Pendle said. “Filled with a lot of nonsense.”

  “It’s not your fault. I didn’t tell them where I was,” Poppy confessed, looking at Marie Claire. “Because I knew this would happen.”

  “Oh, I hate this place,” Poppy’s mother sobbed. “Always have done, right from the very beginning. All I ever wanted was a nice hospital bed for the delivery, just like every other woman in Potts Bottom.”

  “It’s all right, Edith,” Roger Pendle murmured, putting his arm around his wife and handing her a handkerchief.

  “No, it’s not all right, it’s not. I never want to see this awful bakery again.” Edith Pendle blew her nose. “And did you tell her, did you?” She seethed, glaring at Marie Claire. Poor Poppy had no idea what her parents were talking about, and she looked helplessly over at Marie Claire.

  “It is not my job to tell Poppy that marvelous story; it’s yours. But you should,” Marie Claire said. “We all need to know our beginnings. Poppy is a wonderful cook,” she continued. “There are not many young girls who have such a passion and a talent for baking. You should be proud of her,” she finished bravely, her voice starting to quiver. “It has been a real pleasure getting to know your magnificent daughter.”

  “Proud of her,” Roger Pendle spluttered. “We’re proud of her, all right. She’s top in her class at Ruthersfield Academy.”

  “That’s right,” Edith Pendle said. Her jaw trembled with emotion as she spoke. “My daughter has been blessed with the gift of magic, and nobody, nobody is going to take that away from her, especially you.”

  “I wouldn’t dream—” Marie Claire began, but Mrs. Pendle had already yanked open the patisserie door and was pulling Poppy outside.

  “Wait.” Charlie raced after them. “Can I at least say good-bye?”

  “No, you can’t,” Edith Pendle fumed as she hustled Poppy into the back of a waiting car. “And if I ever find you communicating with my daughter again, I’ll have you arrested for, for, for interference with a witch.”

  All the strength had seeped out of Poppy’s body, and she slumped on the car’s backseat like a rag doll. Charlie was knocking against the window, but Poppy turned her head away and covered her face with her hands.

  “I thought it was you this morning,” a familiar voice said, and peeking through her fingers, Poppy saw Auntie Viv sitting beside her. “Scaring your parents half to death like that,” she tutted, leaning over to plant a kiss on Poppy’s cheek. “Still, we’re just glad you’re okay, aren’t we? Home safe now, sweetheart.” Poppy didn’t answer. She wrapped her arms around her knees and dropped her head forward, wishing she could disappear.

  Chapter Thirteen

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  A Fresh Coat of Paint and a New Wand

  WHEN THE PENDLE FAMILY ARRIVED HOME, Maxine from next door was waiting in front of their house. As Poppy got out of the car, Maxine trotted right over. “So glad you’re safe, lovey. We’ve all been worried sick about you.”

  “She’s fine, she’s fine,” Edith Pendle said, putting her arm around Poppy. “Roger wants to press kidnapping charges.”

  “Kidnapped, ohhh!” Maxine shivered with the thrill of such juicy news. “Never, Edith, really?”

  “Kidnapped, brainwashed. It’s been a nightmare, honestly.” Edith Pendle squeezed her daughter. “We’re just so pleased to have Poppy home again, so if you’ll excuse us, I’m going to tuck her up in bed.”

  “A good night’s sleep,” Maxine called after them. “She’ll be right as rain.”

  Poppy let her mother lead her into the house, her father and Auntie Viv following behind. “Now, you’re not to worry about a thing,” Edith Pendle said, hustling Poppy up the stairs. “You’ll make up the work you’ve missed in no time, and just look at this room,” she chattered on. “Surprise, surprise!” Poppy stared at her bedroom in dismay. Her Young Chef of the Year poster had been taken down, and so had the framed photographs of cakes and breads she had bought with her birthday money last May. In their place were posters of famous witches, highlighting the spectacular achievements they had each accomplished. And this was not all. The walls were no longer yellow. Instead they had been painted a purplish-plum color, and the picture of Great-Gra
nny Mabel that had always sat on the hall table was now perched on top of her bureau. Stars and moons had been stenciled all over the ceiling, and a new handwoven rug with the Ruthersfield crest on it was spread out beside the bed.

  “Where are my things?” Poppy asked in shock, noticing that her bookshelf of cookbooks had all been replaced with magical study guides.

  “This room hasn’t been redecorated in years,” Edith Pendle said cheerily. “And it’s completely our fault. I’ve been reading all about it. A good study environment is essential to young witches. It took us the whole weekend.” She smiled at Poppy. “Now I’ll bring you up some soup, lamb.”

  “And did you notice your new magic wand?” Roger Pendle asked his daughter. He pointed to a shiny black wand, tied around with a purple ribbon, that was sitting next to Great-Granny Mabel’s picture. “It’s the latest model,” he said proudly. “Very sensitive, that is. Ms. Roach only recommends them for her star pupils.”

  Sinking down on her bed, Poppy surveyed the room in silence.

  “Well, go on, Roger,” Edith Pendle hissed. “This is a good time. Talk to her.”

  “So, Poppy,” Mr. Pendle began, walking over to his daughter. He cleared his throat and glanced at his wife.

  “Say it,” Edith Pendle instructed. “You’re her father.”

  “We do need to talk about the fact that you ran away,” Mr. Pendle said, hovering next to Poppy. “We were worried sick.” He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed it over his forehead. “I was worried sick.”