by Nancy Warren
There was a long pause. It was pure agony.
Elspeth stepped forward. “So it’s with sadness that I have to say that today Poppy will be leaving the tent.”
Even though I’d expected to hear my name, I was still caught by surprise. From beside me, Florence pulled me in for a hug, and before I knew it, the whole group had enveloped me in a massive bear hug. And just like my brain and body had separated while I was baking earlier, I felt myself float up and watch the scene as if it was happening to someone else.
For so many weeks, this had been my ultimate fear. My whole reason for coming on to the show was to find out about my birth parents. I’d been determined to stick around in Broomewode Village for as long as it took. However, I’d come to love the competition, to look forward to another week creating baked goods under the harsh eyes of two judges, two comedians and eventually millions of home viewers around the world. And now here I was, leaving the tent for good. By all rights, I should be devastated. But instead, a massive wave of relief flooded through me. I realized that I was proud of myself! I didn’t think I’d have it in me to get this far. I’d taught myself how to bake and pushed my skills further than I thought they’d ever go. I’d exhausted myself in the process. But I did know that I’d gotten better. Much better. Not bread week good, but good enough to get to week six. And that was enough for me.
I was brought back down to earth by the sound of crying.
“Florence,” I said, turning to her in surprise. “Don’t cry!”
She let out a sad sob. “But you’re my best friend here. How am I going to do this without you?”
“Ditto.” It was Gerry. “I need you here, Pops. You can’t leave Broomewode Village. Who will I talk to? I don’t want to spend my days scaring the guests at the inn. It’s so lonely. And boring. I’m bored of out my mind here.”
He looked so forlorn, it was like I’d been sucker-punched in the stomach. I wanted to tell him that I hadn’t forgotten my promise. I was going to help him pass over to the other side.
Before I even had time to pretend I wasn’t listening to a ghost, Fiona rushed me outside to record my exit interview.
My exit interview. I’d watched the other contestants film theirs, never once thinking about what my parting words would be. I should have prepared for this moment. Shame I was too busy burning bread to think about it properly.
The sun hit me with its full force as I followed the camera and sound men. I welcomed the fresh air, taking deep lungfuls. The tension eased in my body. I didn’t have to worry about bread anymore. Or cameras following my every move as I sweated it out in the tent. It was a simple joy but one I felt so deeply.
“Here’s good,” the cameraman said, pointing to a spot by the side of the great tent. A great oak was on my left, its leafy branches swaying gently in the afternoon breeze. I waited as the rest of the crew set up the shot and let my eyes travel over the vista before me. In the distance, Broomewode Hall glowed golden just like the first time I’d set eyes on its glorious turrets and lead-lined windows. But today it looked less imposing and more familiar. It was weird, but the great hall had something of a homely feel about it now.
I let my eyes wander farther. Abundant flowerbeds, meticulously groomed lawns, the ornamental lake—it was so beautiful. I didn’t want to start welling up. A runny nose and puffy eyes in front of millions of viewers? No, thanks. This was the last time I was going to need to hold it down and be strong for the cameras. I wasn’t about to let it all hang out now.
I pulled myself together and braced myself for the emotional questions I knew were heading my way. I wished they’d given me a minute to go and see Gina, have a hug and a makeup refresh. I’d barely slept, spent hours in that hot, sweaty tent, and now I had to face the cameras and put a brave face on my defeat. I just hoped that my exhausted face didn’t scare the viewers.
But just as I’d resigned myself to looking my worst, I saw Gina running over from the tent, waving a lip gloss in her hand. “Stop, stop!” she called out. “Don’t you dare begin filming without me.”
I laughed, so pleased to see my best friend. She stopped in front of me and took my face in her palms. “You were amazing,” she said quietly but firmly. “Amazing. I can’t wait to sit down with a Chinese takeaway and tell you how proud I am of you. But first things first. Let’s fix this face.”
Gina pulled out a compact powder and bronzer and got to work on my face. I closed my eyes and let her do her thing. Gina always knew how to get the best out of my features.
A minute later, she whispered that she was done and stood back. “Perfect.”
I grasped her hands and thanked her for having my back. Or my face, I should say.
The camera team cleared their throats very loudly. Gina spun round and good-naturedly told them off. “Okay, okay, I’m leaving!” She laughed.
The camera started rolling, and one of the assistant producers locked eyes with me. “How are you feeling, Poppy?”
I took a breath. Here it was. My final segment on The Great British Baking Contest. “In a way, it’s a massive relief. You’re under so much pressure in the tent, and I knew this week I’d reach the limit of my abilities. I knew bread week would be my weakest, and it was.”
I stopped and laughed at myself.
“But I’m gutted, of course. I don’t want to say goodbye to everyone. Getting to spend time with the other bakers every weekend has been incredible. I’ve made some amazing friends here. Friends for life. They’ve taught me so much.”
I paused for a moment, reflecting on all the friendships I’d made both in and out of the tent. A whole witches’ coven. I was so lucky to have so many wonderful people in my life. How could I feel sad?
“The other bakers have become like family, really,” I continued. “They’re so supportive and encouraging. We all rally round each other. I’m adopted, and so the idea of family is so important to me. I’m so lucky to have found my people.”
I swallowed. I hadn’t meant to get so personal. Do not well up, Poppy. But despite myself, I felt tears prick my eyes.
The cameras cut and the crew thanked me, saying it was a perfect exit speech. “The audience will eat it up,” Fiona added, who’d been watching from afar.
“More happily than my bread sculpture, I’m sure,” I joked.
I thanked everyone and was about to return to the tent to clear up my seriously messy workstation when I saw Elspeth waiting by the lake.
I excused myself and said I’d be right back.
At the sight of the great Elspeth Peach, baking judge extraordinaire and self-appointed fairy witch mother, my heart sank. I felt like I’d let her down.
Despite the heat, Elspeth looked as cool and calm as ever. She gave me a sad smile as I approached and reached out with both her hands to grasp mine. The jolt of electricity that shot through my arms was stronger than ever. I remembered when I’d feared that jolt. Now it was calming, reassuring. A link to my sisterhood.
“You lasted a very respectable amount of time,” Elspeth softly.
I nodded. “Longer than I’d even hoped. I’m sort of proud of myself, really.”
“Take comfort, Poppy dear. You couldn’t win, not being a witch and with Jonathon and me being watched so carefully by the Witches’ Council. But you did very well to come this far.”
I was so shocked, my mouth fell open. Had my bread not been as bad as I’d thought? “Wait, Elspeth. What are you saying? Did you ruin my bread by magic?”
Elspeth laughed. “No, dear. I’m afraid you managed to ruin it all on your own.”
Oh. Great.
“But I’m very sorry to see you go. Once we realized you were a witch, we couldn’t let you win. However, Jonathon and I agreed not to interfere until we had to. If you’d made it to the final round, we’d have sadly chosen the non-magic contestant over you.”
It made sense, but since I wasn’t using magic in my baking, it would have felt unfair. I bet the witch judges were relieved they hadn’t be
en forced to make that choice. Lucky for all of us, I’d failed all on my own. No, I reminded myself. Not failed. I’d worked my butt off and come further than I’d believed.
I was calling that a win.
“I hope you’ll visit Broomewode Village now that you have friends here and continue your search for your birth parents.”
“Yes,” I said resolutely. “I think my focus wavered. I was trying so hard to stay in the competition. Now I can put all my energy into my search. I know so much more than I did a few weeks ago. It’s time to join the dots and get back on the trail.”
Elspeth hugged me and told me to keep in touch. “You’re part of the coven, Poppy, which means you’re never alone. Your sisters are always here for you. You never know when you’ll need us.”
Even though I’d been booted off the show, I felt like the luckiest witch in the world with a woman like Elspeth Peach looking over me.
I walked back to the tent with a spring in my step. I had a clear plan. See if Eve and Susan could help with the Gerry problem, get back on track with the search for my dad, and speak to DI Hembly and Sgt. Lane about Eloise’s comment. If York was her hometown, then it could really help the investigation.
It wasn’t until I was saying goodbye to all the crew that Elspeth’s words echoed in my ears: with Jonathon and me being watched so carefully by the Witches’ Council. What on earth did she mean?
Chapter 13
Leaving the tent for the final time, I tried to hold on to the feeling of lightness that had come over me when I was voted off the show. But hearing that the ruling body of witches was watching Elspeth had re-opened my curiosity about my role in the coven and how my birth parents fitted into the picture. It was like the questions that had been plaguing me last week were suddenly allowed to fly into my head now that I was no longer trying to keep my place in the competition.
And as my mind began to wander, I tuned out of the chatter of the group as they made their way back to the inn. Something Eloise had said to me on Friday reentered my brain. She’d been talking about being the best at baking and becoming renowned for one type of cake and had mentioned making the local papers. The local papers—why hadn’t I thought about looking at the archives for an obituary that might help me find my dad? I hadn’t had time last week to follow up on Gerry’s suggestion to find a record of deaths in the area in the last twenty-five years since I was born. But now was the time. Gerry was right: How many young men could have died around here in any given year? Or perhaps he wasn’t so young. It was hard to tell with a ghost. But I was counting on there not being too many men in the area who’d died in the last twenty-five years while in the prime of life. Surely I’d be able to narrow it down?
I needed to know what had happened to my dad. I knew that he’d been pretty young when he died. And I felt in my gut that he was a local man, not someone visiting, despite what Katie Donegal had told me about my mom taking trips to London on weekends. His ghost was in Broomewode Village, and it was here for a reason—more than to pop up every so often to warn me to get away from this place.
So I did a Poppy special: told the others I needed some alone time to process what had happened today. “I’ll join you in the pub in an hour or so.”
I could see that Florence was about to protest, but Maggie put a hand on her shoulder, shaking her head. “It’s been an emotional rollercoaster for all of us this week. The least we can give Poppy is some time to herself,” Maggie said.
“Just stay safe,” Gaurav added. “We know what happens when you wander off.”
I promised everyone I’d keep my phone on ring and be with them soon. “And you can have a glass of fizz waiting for me.”
“A bottle, darling,” Florence promised.
I turned away from the group and took out my phone. A quick search online led me straight to the local newspaper archives. It looked to be a tiny building next to Broomewode library, a few streets away from the Italian deli and grocer. The answer to the mystery of my dad’s identity could have been here all along, right under my nose. I cursed myself for not thinking of it sooner. I’d been too caught up in the competition.
With Broomewode Hall in the distance behind me, I made my way into the center of the village, the streets cobblestone now, soon reaching the rows of charming houses and little shops with flats above. There was the charity shop where I’d once coveted a crockery set but never had the time (or spare cash) to return and purchase it; the deli where Florence bought her chestnut flour; a butchery; the post office; Reginald’s Broomewode Smithy. A new thrill raced through me. Soon I’d have more time to explore this community. I loved Norton St. Philip, but there was a special (well, let’s face it—magical) something about Broomewode Village. There was so much more to this village than I’d even begun to uncover. Each new walk through its grounds brought a new discovery. It was like the place held me in an embrace, everything cast in a golden haze, the air always clean and filled with the perfume of blossoms. I wanted to return to the woods and explore the land around the stone circle. I’d always loved forests as a child. The alive, mossy scent, the rough texture of old bark, pine needles beneath my feet and all the little creatures scurrying across the earth, over fallen branches and crisp leaves. Being in nature was an endless joy to me and an inspiration for my baking and my design work.
Then there were the lakes and streams where I’d seen visions. I was a water witch, so it made sense that I’d be drawn to my element.
Of course, I’d have to work again soon. My bank balance was worryingly low after so many weeks buying baking produce and turning down graphic design work in favor of slaving over my electric mixer. But reality could wait till next week. For now, I allowed myself to be immersed in the beauty of the village, the rows of hanging baskets bountiful with bright blossoms, the sounds of the birds chirping and the faraway shrieks of kids playing in the playground. A gentle breeze softened the rays of the sun, and for a moment, I felt peaceful. Peaceful but determined.
I checked my phone again and took a left turn. The newspaper office was tucked behind the main street. I saw the library first. A small building with a grand attitude, the library was built from the same golden Somerset stone I’d come to recognize around these parts, but its entrance was embellished with two colonnades, above which gold letters read “Public Library.” I would have loved to slip between its doors and browse the shelves, but that luxury would have to wait. It was the library’s little neighbor that was my destination.
Broomewode News had a far less fancy front and was clearly a repurposed cottage. It wasn’t very impressive to look at, but I knew better than anyone that it was what’s inside that counts. Although there wouldn’t be any cream cheese frosting or sweet jam inside, this innocuous structure could help unlock the secrets of my past.
I walked through the doors, my excitement rising. Was it possible that I was just a few steps away from discovering my birth dad’s identity? There was a bored-looking woman sitting at a desk who glanced up when I entered. “Can I help you?”
“I wonder if I could look at your archives,” I said.
“Whatever for?”
She looked as though it was a very strange request. Why had I not prepared a story? I couldn’t tell this woman I was hoping to find my father in dusty old files. I was trying to think of something to say when a chubby man with curly red hair and a beard walked in the front door. He looked as hot as I’d felt in the tent. His short-sleeved shirt was creased and bore sweat rings under the arms. His face was the color of a ripe apple. I’d seen him at the initial press events in the village. He was a reporter. He glanced at me, then did a double take. I hoped he’d keep walking but he stopped. “You’re one of the bakers,” he said.
No point denying it. I nodded.
“We’re not allowed to report on the progress, but hard luck. I heard you got voted off today.”
No point denying that, either. “Thanks.”
His eyes began to sharpen. “You here to give us a sc
oop? Dark secrets in the competition tent?” He seemed to be joking but also not. Like he doubted I was here to unfold some juicy story but remained hopeful.
I immediately told him I was here on a private matter.
“She wants to search the archives.”
“Whatever for?” he asked.
Now that I’d had that couple of minutes, I felt more prepared. “Obituaries,” I said in what I hoped was a casual way. “I think I had family from around here.”
His eyes narrowed again. “I thought you were adopted.” He might be a reporter in a small town, but he was sharp. He must have read all the bios of all the contestants and remembered them. Impressive.
“I am. My adoptive mother had a cousin who lived here. I promised I’d search for information about him while I was here, and now I have time. Unfortunately.”
“Do you know when he died?”
Oh, this was getting messy already. “I’m not exactly sure. I have a range of dates.”
He shook his head. “This isn’t the British Library. Anything older than ten years is on microfiche, and we need to know what year and date to pull the right paper. The old issues are in file drawers and boxes. You have to make an appointment.”
“I couldn’t have a quick look now? I’m leaving tomorrow.”
He and the woman behind the desk exchanged a glance. “You’ll be here hours. There’s no quick look when you go through old microfiche.”
That was disappointing, but then I was so tired right now, and I didn’t want to keep the rest of the contestants waiting. What if they thought I was a sore loser? I supposed I could make an appointment and return when I felt fresh.
“Wait,” the woman behind the desk said. “What about Mavis?”
I turned back. “Mavis?”
The reporter nodded. “Mavis. She’s like human microfiche. She’s been here since King Arthur reigned. Knows most everyone. Writes the obits. She might remember your mother’s cousin. It’s always possible.”