by Natasha Lowe
The smell was intoxicating as the cakes baked, but when they came out of the oven, Charlie was disappointed to see how plain and unfancy they looked.
“Aren’t you going to frost those?” she asked, watching Marie Claire pack them into a white paper bag and twist the edges shut.
“No frosting, but we must hurry. I want Poppy to eat one while they are still warm.” Charlie didn’t ask any more questions, because as they came out of the patisserie, she saw Ms. Roach hurrying down the street toward the shop. Rapidly pulling Marie Claire into an alleyway, Charlie hid there while Ms. Roach banged on the patisserie door, calling out Charlie’s name and peering through the glass. Finally, after a few more minutes, the headmistress gave up and left, but her determined, purposeful stride was not exactly comforting.
“She must know I’m with you,” Charlie whispered nervously. “It won’t be long before she finds us.”
“Quickly then,” Marie Claire said, cradling the bag of cakes in her hands. “Let us get to Poppy first.”
Thankfully, there were no police cars or other vehicles cruising around by the canal. “Should we look in the window and see if she’s there?” Charlie whispered.
“No, we shall go straight to the front door and knock,” Marie Claire said. “You can come with me, Charlie, but I have to give the cakes to Poppy myself, and you must promise me something,” she added sternly.
“What?” Charlie said. Marie Claire looked so serious.
“If anything happens to me, I want you to run straight home. Don’t hang around, just go.” Marie Claire’s voice was strained. “It’s important, Charlie. I need to hear you promise.”
“I promise,” Charlie mumbled, chewing on her nails.
Not surprisingly, there was no answer when they knocked on the door. In fact, no noise came from inside the cottage at all. “Maybe she’s gone out again,” Charlie whispered, secretly hoping that this might be the case.
“Poppy,” Marie Claire called softly. “Are you home, Poppy?” But her words were left unanswered. The silence was so thick Charlie found it hard to breathe. “I’m going in,” Marie Claire mouthed, slowly turning the handle. She pushed open the door, and there, sitting on her packing crate, staring right at them, was Poppy. Her hair hung in long unwashed clumps around her face, and her school uniform was so dirty and ripped it was hard to distinguish the colors. But it was Poppy’s eyes that disturbed Charlie the most: those dull, cold eyes that seemed to look right through you without really seeing.
“Bonjour, Poppy,” Marie Claire said, taking a step toward her. Poppy hunched over, like a snail retreating into its shell. She raised her magic wand in the air. “I’ve brought you something special,” Marie Claire continued in a gentle, singsong voice. “A little treat I made myself.”
As she talked, Marie Claire stepped closer, holding out the white paper bag of cakes. “We’ve missed you, Poppy,” she said, and Poppy pushed backward on her packing case, scraping the rough wood across the floor. Now she was pressed up against the far wall with nowhere else to go. A gruntlike moan escaped from Poppy’s throat, reminding Charlie of the sound a wounded animal might make. She still held her wand up, as if for protection.
“Here,” Marie Claire coaxed, taking a cake from the bag and offering it to Poppy. Her movements were slow and cautious. “Take a taste, chérie. It’s still warm.” Poppy pulled back her arm, and something in her face, perhaps the tensing of her jawline, made Charlie scream.
“No! Please don’t. It’s me—Charlie.”
Ignoring the cry, and showing no emotion whatsoever, Poppy sucked in a mouthful of stale air and started to speak. She got as far as “Consti—” when Marie Claire bravely lunged forward and shoved the little cake in Poppy’s mouth. For the first time surprise registered in her expression, and she blinked, as if suddenly realizing there were other people in the room. Charlie and Marie Claire watched as Poppy chewed and swallowed. Then something extraordinary happened. Poppy’s arm went slack and she dropped her wand onto the floor. With shaking hands, Poppy picked the remains of the cake out of her lap where it had fallen and took another bite. This time she closed her eyes, and Charlie could see tears leaking out of them. Tears that went on and on, streaming down her face unchecked. Marie Claire crouched down and put an arm around her shoulders. “You are remembering, chérie?”
“Yes,” Poppy sniffed, opening her eyes and looking at Marie Claire for the first time. “I remember this taste, the feel of the cake in my mouth. I remember being born and you wrapping me up in a warm cloth and how happy I felt. How full and content.” She let her tears fall and blinked through them in wonder. “Am I the baby you told me about?”
“You are,” Marie Claire said. “You were born right on my patisserie floor in the middle of a beautiful May afternoon. It was a wonderful moment, and the first thing you did was reach out and grab for a bag of these very almond cakes.” Marie Claire laughed at the memory, and Charlie laughed too. Not that she understood what was going on. She was just so relieved to hear Poppy’s voice again. “So you see,” Marie Claire continued, “you were destined to be a cook from the very beginning. I believe you have to be born in a bakery to acquire your kind of passion.”
“It’s too late now,” Poppy croaked, her voice sounding rusty from not being used. “I can’t go back. I can’t change things. I don’t know how.”
“Yes, you can,” Marie Claire persisted. “And we’re here to help you.” She settled herself more comfortably on the floor. “Now, don’t speak for a moment, please, just listen. I’ve been doing some serious thinking. My awful old landlord won’t renew my lease, but I’m not ready to get out of the bakery business just yet. And you have always wanted to own a cake shop. So here’s my idea. This little cottage would make a perfect patisserie. I could live upstairs and you could live with me. If I present your case very carefully to the authorities, I am sure they would agree.”
“Oh, Marie Claire, that’s a brilliant idea,” Charlie cried, hopping about the floor. “I’m so excited, and you know my dad would help out with the carpentry and stuff. He’s good at all that kind of thing, and my mum could make curtains and tablecloths.”
“No.” Poppy shook her head mournfully. “It won’t work,” she whispered. “I’m a witch. That’s why I’m here. I can’t ever be anything else.”
“Yes, you can,” Marie Claire insisted. “You can be whatever you want to be. I was always told that I should study accounting because I was good at math. That’s what my nasty old teachers used to say. Well, I hated math. I might have been good at it, but I never enjoyed it. I can imagine nothing worse than sitting in an office all day, staring at numbers.”
“It’s too late,” Poppy said again, her head drooping forward. “No one will believe me. They all think I’m evil. I don’t know how to make things right.”
“Yes, you do,” Marie Claire said. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t have remembered being born in my bakery. You are a kind, good person, Poppy. You just need to open up your heart again.” She patted Poppy’s knee and tucked the bag of almond cakes onto her lap. “All I ask is that you eat up the rest of these cakes. If, when you’ve finished them, you still feel there is no hope, then we’ll leave you in peace. You can live your life as you wish.” She sighed. “Turn people to stone, fill yourself up with those revolting Twirlies. But you should know,” Marie Claire cautioned, “that the police are looking for you.”
“Please go,” Poppy whispered, hanging her head still farther so that it was resting on her knees. “I’d like to be alone.”
“Come,” Marie Claire said, getting up and taking Charlie by the hand.
“No!” Charlie tugged her arm free in dismay. “We can’t go. I’m not leaving her.”
“There’s nothing more we can do,” Marie Claire said. “It’s up to Poppy now.”
“Poppy, please,” Charlie begged. “Come with us. Don’t stay here by yourself.�
� But Poppy didn’t answer. She was as still and immobile as a stone statue. The only sound was the muffled sniff, sniff of someone softly crying.
Chapter Twenty-Three
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
A Visit from the Police
WAS SHE REALLY BORN IN YOUR BAKERY?” CHARLIE ASKED as they walked slowly home.
“She was, although I didn’t see her again after that, not for ten whole years,” Marie Claire said. “Not until she turned up on my doorstep, and that’s when I sensed we had met before. Perhaps it was something in her eyes,” she remarked, linking her arm through Charlie’s. “Eyes are very telling. Of course, I only knew for sure when her parents came storming into my shop to take her back.” She glanced down at Charlie and gave a small smile. “You couldn’t forget Mr. and Mrs. Pendle in a hurry.”
“Do you really believe that’s why she loves to cook?” Charlie asked. “Because she was born in a bakery?”
“Well, it makes sense, don’t you think, chérie? With a passion like Poppy’s, it has to come from somewhere, and she certainly didn’t get it from those parents.”
“So what will happen now?” Charlie said, feeling her throat constrict and her eyes grow damp.
“We shall just have to wait and see,” Marie Claire said rather more briskly than she intended. It was hard not to notice just how many trees in Potts Bottom had stone birds perched in their branches.
When Charlie got home, her parents met her at the door, both of them looking worried. “Charlie, this is getting out of hand,” her father said straightaway. “It’s time you talked to the police.”
“I’m quite sure they’ll be round here soon enough anyway,” Mrs. Monroe added. “By now that headmistress from Ruthersfield will certainly have told them you know where Poppy is.”
“I’ll have to hide,” Charlie yawned, suddenly feeling exhausted. “Don’t tell them I’m here, please, Mum.”
“We have to,” Mrs. Monroe stressed. “This is the police, Charlie. We can’t conceal your whereabouts.”
“Yes, you can. I’m your daughter.” And crawling under the sitting room sofa, Charlie curled up into a tight ball and fell asleep.
It was a flashlight shining in her face that woke her up. “Come out of there please, miss,” an official-sounding voice said. Charlie blinked, staring into the spotty face of a policeman. He didn’t look much older than Charlie herself. She squeezed her eyes shut and lay still for a few moments, hoping he might go away. Unfortunately, he didn’t, and when Charlie peeked again, he was still on his hands and knees, watching her.
“We’d just like to ask you a few questions, miss.”
“Don’t worry, Charlie. You’re not in any trouble,” her mother reassured her as Charlie crawled out from under the sofa.
“You just need to tell us where Poppy is,” a second policeman, who looked almost as young as the first, said. The spotty policeman flipped open a notebook and cleared his throat.
“Can you tell us where Poppy Pendle might be hiding?” he questioned, his face reminding Charlie of a large cheese pizza.
“I’m a bit thirsty,” Charlie said, trying to stall for time. “Do you mind if I just get a drink of water?” The policeman nodded his permission, and Charlie hurried into the kitchen. As she stood at the sink, filling a glass with water, she glanced out of the window and saw that her goose had moved again. He wasn’t standing under the apple tree, and she looked around the garden, searching to see where he had settled. Charlie leaned forward and opened the window, hitching herself up on the sink and peering farther out. She shrieked in surprise because there was her goose, directly beneath her. Only he wasn’t made of stone anymore. Soft, smooth white feathers covered his body. At the sound of her voice, the goose tilted his head up and looked right at Charlie out of inquisitive brown eyes. He ruffled his feathers, gave a little nod with his beak, and waddled back across the garden. That’s when Charlie felt a large, sweaty hand grip her shoulder, and the spotty officer’s voice said, “Don’t try to escape.”
“I’m not,” Charlie said truthfully, still staring at her goose. She couldn’t quite believe he was real, and if he was real, she couldn’t quite believe what this meant. Poppy had reversed the Stop It Now Spell! She was back from the dark side, and Charlie smothered a soft squeal. “I just needed a little air,” she confessed, shivering with excitement. “It’s awfully hot in here, don’t you think?”
“Get down, please,” the officer ordered, escorting Charlie off the sink. He held her firmly by the arm and led her back into the living room.
“Charlie, really!” her mother admonished. “You’ll just make matters worse. Please cooperate.”
“Yes, Mum,” Charlie said, smiling at the policeman, whose name was PC Plunket, according to his shiny brass badge.
“So where is Poppy Pendle?” PC Plunket asked again, pencil poised above his notebook. “We have been informed by Ms. Roach that you know of her whereabouts.”
“That’s right,” Charlie agreed. “I do. Is Poppy in trouble?” she asked innocently.
“You mustn’t pretend, Charlie,” her mother said. “The police know everything.”
“Oh?” Charlie attempted to look puzzled. “What’s she done?” Charlie asked, stalling for time.
“Don’t play games, young lady,” PC Plunket commanded, holding up his hand for silence. “Miss Pendle has been charged with turning six individuals to stone,” he announced gravely. “She is also under suspicion for the disappearance of PC Flower. These are serious offenses, and a warrant has been issued for her arrest.” He gave Charlie a hard stare. “Poppy Pendle is an extremely dangerous young woman, and we need to find her as quickly as possible before any more crimes are committed.” Charlie smothered a laugh and skipped over to the door. PC Plunket was right behind her. “Stop right there, Miss Monroe,” he barked. “You do not leave these premises.”
“I was just going to take you to Poppy’s,” Charlie said, looking up at PC Plunket out of wide, innocent eyes. “Only I’m terrible at giving directions, so I thought I’d show you the way myself.”
“Did you now?” PC Plunket thought hard for a moment, trying to see where the catch in this suggestion was. He frowned and scratched his spotty chin. “Very well,” he agreed at last. Then as an afterthought he added, “But you’ve got to hold on to my hand, because I’ll not have you running off again.”
“We’ll come too, if that’s all right with you, Constable?” Mr. Monroe said.
“Dad, there’s really no need.” Charlie smiled at her father and winked. “Everything’s under control.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
The Return of Poppy Pendle
THERE SEEMED TO BE AN AWFUL LOT OF BIRDS THAT were fluttering about town. The air was full of singing, and Charlie noticed that all the birds on the telephone wire were now hopping about in a delirious frenzy.
“You would think it was the first day of spring,” PC Plunket’s partner commented. His name was PC Nobs, and he kept staring about in bewilderment. “Something seems different,” he said in a puzzled tone, “but I can’t put my finger on it.” A cat darted out in front of them, chasing its tail in circles. Squirrels raced up and down trees, and a family of ducks flapped about the sky as if they couldn’t decide in which direction to fly.
Charlie, holding on to PC Plunket’s warm, sweaty hand, led the police officers straight to Marie Claire’s patisserie. She walked fast because it was embarrassing, holding hands with a policeman, and she didn’t want anyone to see her. “She’s in here?” PC Plunket said in disbelief. “You know, harboring a fugitive is a serious offense.”
“Oh no,” Charlie giggled, shaking back her frizzy mass of hair. “I just wanted to bring Marie Claire along
with us. She’s a close friend of Poppy’s too.”
“We’ve been trying to get ahold of Ms. Marie Claire Gentille for questioning too,” PC Plunket remarked, banging on the glass door. He gave Charlie a suspicious look. “It seems you both know rather a lot about Poppy Pendle.”
Marie Claire was happy to accompany the police officers and Charlie. Especially when Charlie mouthed the word “Goose!” at her and scrunched up her face in what was clearly an expression of joy. Marie Claire even agreed to hold PC Plunket’s other hand. “What a beautiful day it is,” she declared, exchanging knowing smiles with Charlie. “The birds seem awfully cheerful.”
“That’s just what I was saying,” PC Nobs agreed eagerly. “I wonder what’s making them so noisy?”
“Well now, will you look at that,” PC Plunket exclaimed, coming to an abrupt stop as they reached the top of the canal path. Shining in the sun, all white enamel and polished chrome, was the oven. “Who would throw away a cooker like that?” he asked. “It looks like it’s in excellent condition.”
“Peculiar,” PC Nobs agreed, scratching at his head.
“It’s more than peculiar. It’s downright suspicious, and look at all this food,” PC Plunket remarked. “Bags of flour and sugar, bars of chocolate. Eggs.” He grimaced after stepping on a dozen. “I’ll get to the bottom of this later,” he said, wiping gooey yolk off the bottoms of his shoes. “I hope you know where you’re leading me, Miss Monroe, because we don’t have all day to waste marching about the countryside.”
“Right there,” Charlie said, pointing at the abandoned cottage. Except it didn’t look all that abandoned. Smoke was coming out of the chimney, and the yard appeared to be swarming with animals. A red-tailed fox was lying in the sun, and grazing beside it was a speckled roe deer. Rabbits and squirrels darted about in the long grass, and perched on all the tree branches were noisily singing birds. Even the canal was busier than usual as a family of ducks and two regal swans floated by.
