The Power of Poppy Pendle (8 page)

“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 breath, 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.

“This 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

L
ATER, 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.”

“So can I?” Poppy called after her. “Bake some cookies, that is?”

“Well, I can’t promise we’ll sell them, but all right, go ahead,” Marie Claire agreed, glancing back to give Poppy a friendly smile. As she opened the shop door, she whispered under her breath, “What have I gone and done? This could be a complete disaster.” But Marie Claire was still smiling as she wrapped up a loaf of chocolate butter bread and handed it over to her customer.

Poppy had been thinking about caramel cookies for a long time now. How they would taste and how she would make them. There were no recipes for caramel cookies in any of her cookbooks, so she made one up as she went along. Plenty of butter and brown sugar, a pinch of salt, and some fresh vanilla beans ground to a powder.

“Whatever you’re making, it smells fantastic,” Marie Claire said, untying her apron and collapsing into a chair. Each day she closed the patisserie for two hours at lunchtime.

“Try one,” Poppy said shyly, offering Marie Claire a cookie.

“
Mon Dieu!
You made a lot,” Marie Claire gasped, staring at the counters. “A lot of cookies and a lot of mess!”

“I’m sorry. I got a little carried away, but I’ll clean it all up, I promise,” Poppy assured her. She felt nervous as she watched Marie Claire chew. The French woman didn’t say anything for what seemed like an awfully long time. Then she gave a brisk nod.

“Excellent, Poppy. Arrange some on a plate and we’ll see how they sell.”

“Really? You’re going to put my cookies in your shop?” Poppy spun around in excitement, knocking a bag of flour onto the floor. “Oh my goodness. I’m so sorry. I’ll sweep that right up,” she said, reaching for a broom. “I’m just so happy! I can’t believe it. I’m a real cook.”

Marie Claire laughed. “Please let me sweep. It will be quicker.”

“Are you sure? It is my mess.”

“Quite sure,” Marie Claire said, tugging the broom out of Poppy’s hands. “Why don’t you take that basketball of yours out back? I put up a hoop for my son when he was younger. He used to play all the time before he left for college. It will be nice having it used again.” She smiled at Poppy. “Go on, some fresh air will do you good.”