The Power of Poppy Pendle (10 page)

“I can’t help it.” Poppy shrugged. “It doesn’t happen much. Usually when I’m feeling really happy about something.” She smiled at her friend. “It’s probably because you’re here.”

“Except I’ve got to go in a minute, because we’re having supper with my gran,” Charlie said. “She lives over in Ribbleswold. But can I come back and see you tomorrow, after school?”

“Come whenever you like. Marie Claire won’t mind, and I’d love it.” Poppy was silent for a moment. “Charlie, could you do me a favor?” she said, pulling a creased envelope out of her pocket. She offered it to her friend, who took the sticky paper gingerly in her fingers, trying to avoid the streaks of frosting.

“What is this?”

“It’s a letter,” Poppy explained. “To my parents. I told Marie Claire I would write to them. The only problem is, I can’t post it, can I, because if I do, they’ll see it’s been mailed from Potts Bottom. Then it won’t take them long to find me, not with a private investigator looking. So I’m thinking you might post this from Ribbleswold if you’re going? It’s a much bigger town than Potts Bottom.” Poppy hesitated a moment. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, Charlie. It’s just an idea.”

A wide, gap-toothed grin spread slowly across Charlie’s face. “Of course I’ll mail it for you, Poppy. It’s a brilliant idea! And I’m sure that private investigator will have a lovely time looking for you all over Ribbleswold!”

Later, when Charlie had gone home and Marie Claire was sitting in the kitchen with Poppy, sampling the raspberry jam shortbreads, she pushed an old photo album across the table. “I thought you might like to look through this,
chérie
. Mmmmm, by the way, these are superb!” Marie Claire said, kissing the fingertips of her left hand. “Maybe a touch more vanilla,
n’est-ce pas
?”

“Yes, you’re right,” Poppy agreed, opening the leather cover of the photo album and breathing in an old-fashioned smell of dust and lavender water. “Who is that?” she said, staring at a black-and-white picture of a sad-looking young girl. The girl was dressed in a tartan school uniform and had a beret perched on top of her tightly braided hair.

“That’s me,” Marie Claire murmured. “Before I ran away to Paris.”

“You ran away?” Poppy looked up, startled.

“I was brought up in an orphanage in Bordeaux,” Marie Claire explained. “My parents were both lost in a boating accident, you see, so I was put in the orphanage because there was no one else to take me. It was an awful experience, and the food—” Marie Claire wrinkled up her nose. “It was unbearable.” She leaned over and lightly touched a finger to the photograph. “We were all sent to a strict school where the teachers beat us for everything, even smiling. No one listened to us or cared about our dreams.”

“How terrible.”

“It was,
chérie
, and I couldn’t wait to get away, so one night, when everyone was sleeping, I packed my bags and left. Hitched a ride all the way to Paris.”

“What did you do when you got there?”

“Like you, I found a job working in a bakery. It was the smell that enticed me. I had never experienced anything like it, certainly not in the orphanage, which always stank of wet socks and boiled cabbage. The bread they used to give us was so stale and dry it scratched your mouth when you ate it. And it had no smell. But standing outside that patisserie in Paris . . .” Marie Claire breathed deeply as if she could still sniff the long-ago air. “The scent was intoxicating. I stood there all morning, smelling fresh bread baking and feeling like I had come home.” She paused for a moment, studying the photograph, and then glanced up at Poppy thoughtfully. “When I finally gathered enough courage to go inside, the owner gave me a job washing pans. I didn’t mind though,” Marie Claire remarked. “Just like you,
chérie
, I got to spend all my time in the kitchen, surrounded by those wonderful scents.”

“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

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

A Glimpse Through the Window

P
OPPY 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.”