by Natasha Lowe
“Are you sure Miss Pendle’s inside?” PC Plunket asked. “I believe this area’s been searched already.”
“Absolutely certain,” Charlie confirmed. “I saw her just yesterday.”
“Then I ask you all to stand back, please, because she’s armed and dangerous. This is a matter for the police.” PC Plunket clambered over the stone wall and stood with his shoulders pulled back, surveying the cottage. “Get down!” he suddenly yelled, grabbing for his truncheon as a rustling noise came from behind the holly bush. Out crawled PC Flower, looking dazed and slightly sick. He stood up and stumbled around, as if he’d just gotten off a spinning ride at the fair. “She’s in there. I’ve f-f-f-found her,” he stammered.
“Flower, are you all right?” PC Plunket called out. “What on earth is going on? Where have you been, man?” He glanced back at Charlie and Marie Claire as if they might have an answer, but the two of them simply shrugged.
“Wild, crazy eyes,” PC Flower wailed softly, picking a holly leaf out of his hair. “She’s insane. She’s t-t-t-t-t-terrifying. We need more reinforcements.”
And that’s when the front door was flung open, sending PC Flower scurrying back behind the holly bush with a panicked cry. “You’re under arrest,” PC Plunket shouted bravely, huddling down in the tall grass.
“I thought I heard voices,” Poppy Pendle called out, leaning against a broomstick. Her hair hung in two tidy braids, and her face had been scrubbed so clean it was as pink and polished as a rosy apple. Poppy’s eyes sparkled. “I was just making crepes in the fireplace if anyone would care to join me.”
“You’re under arrest,” PC Plunket repeated, scrambling up and marching toward the house. PC Nobs followed him. “We’re coming in.”
“Yes, please do,” Poppy said, waving at Charlie and Marie Claire. “Everyone’s invited. And I’m so sorry I scared you,” Poppy said, putting her hands on her knees and calling over to the holly bush. “I honestly didn’t know what I was doing. Please come out and have some crepes, won’t you?” PC Flower’s face appeared, looking more perplexed than ever. He gave a frantic shake of his head and darted quickly out of sight.
“Hand over the broomstick,” PC Plunket instructed, holding his truncheon aloft as he stepped inside the cottage. “And no funny business.”
“It doesn’t sweep very well, I’m afraid,” Poppy apologized. “But you’re welcome to have it. I only wanted to tidy up in here, but the bristles aren’t really designed for sweeping.”
“This will be held as evidence,” PC Plunket said, “and you no longer have a license to fly. Your learning permit has been canceled.”
“Really? That’s great.” Poppy looked pleased. “You mean I never have to get on a broomstick again?”
“Magic wand as well, please,” PC Plunket barked. “From this moment on you are not, under Yorkshire law, allowed to practice witchcraft.”
“Hurray!” Poppy shouted, tossing the spotty-faced policeman her magic wand. “What happens if someone tries to make me?” she added as an afterthought. “What if I’m given a new wand?”
“You are banned from the practice of magic forever,” PC Plunket said in his gravest voice.
“Yay! I’m free,” Poppy cried out, skipping over to Charlie and Marie Claire, who were wandering around the cottage in amazement. All the cans and Twirlie bar wrappers had been swept into a corner, and a small fire was burning in the hearth. On top of it rested a wide, flat stone, and beside the fireplace was a glass measuring jug of thick, creamy batter.
“Miss, are you Poppy Pendle?” PC Plunket seemed confused. “Poppy Pendle of Ten Pudding Lane?” He was opening and closing a pair of handcuffs as if he didn’t quite know what to do with them.
“Yes, that’s me,” Poppy answered.
“Then hold out your hands because you’re under arrest.” Just at that moment PC Plunket’s telephone started to ring, and he patted his pockets in a fluster, trying to find it. “PC Plunket speaking,” he said a little breathlessly. “Oh yes, sir, we have, sir. I’ll be bringing her in shortly. And we’ve recovered PC Flower, safe and sound. It appears he’s had some sort of nasty shock, but I can’t get much out of him. A nice hot bath and some chicken soup should do the trick.” There was a long pause on PC Plunket’s end while he listened at length to whatever the other person had to say. When he hung up, he looked even more confused. “That was Officer Kibble,” he announced. “It appears that PC Crud and PC Nuttle are no longer made of stone.”
“Fantastic!” Marie Claire and Charlie shrieked together, throwing themselves on Poppy.
“I knew you could do it,” Marie Claire whispered, squeezing both girls in a tight hug.
“What about the workers at Super Savers?” PC Nobs inquired. “The stock boy and the manager?”
“All back to normal. Although”—and here PC Plunket lowered his voice a notch—“it seems Mrs. Smegs, the manager’s wife, is not too happy about that. She told Officer Kibble she preferred her husband being stone. Much easier to take care of, apparently.”
“So you won’t be needing those,” Marie Claire said, pointing at the handcuffs that PC Plunket was still playing with. “I mean, you can’t arrest Poppy for a crime that doesn’t exist anymore.”
“Mmmm.” PC Plunket pondered this for a moment, and then he said gruffly, “There’s still the matter of stolen food.” He pulled out his notebook and flipped over a few pages. “Eighteen cans of mystery meat stew, twenty-four boxes of Twirlies, and thirty-two packets of Fudge Monkeys.”
“That was me, I’m afraid,” Poppy confessed. “And when you put it like that, I’m just horrified. Was it really thirty-two packets of Fudge Monkeys?”
“Thirty-two,” PC Plunket repeated, snapping his notebook closed.
“It appears all the evidence is over there,” PC Nobs added, nodding at the pile of rubbish Poppy had swept into the corner.
“Well, that is certainly a terrible crime I’ve committed,” Poppy agreed. “Anyone who eats twenty-four boxes of Twirlies and thirty-two packets of Fudge Monkeys should be locked up for life. I’ve no defense, I’m afraid, except to say I must have been out of my mind.”
“You were out of your mind,” Marie Claire defended stoutly, “but if you repay the store for the food you took, it is not a jail sentence.” She glared at PC Plunket.
“Oh, I’ll give it all back to Super Savers, every penny,” Poppy reassured him. “Only it might take me a while to get my bakery up and running.”
“You’re really going to start a bakery?” Charlie said, her cheeks flushing pink with excitement.
“If Marie Claire is serious about living here with me,” Poppy said, cutting a shy glance in her direction. “I can’t do this alone.”
“You don’t have to,” Marie Claire whispered, and her eyes glistened brightly with tears. “You don’t have to.”
“There is the small matter of Mr. and Mrs. Pendle,” PC Plunket mentioned, picking at one of his spots. “Poppy is a minor and she cannot leave home without their permission.”
“Then I will get it,” Marie Claire said boldly. “I shall sort this all out so everything is legal. Don’t you worry, Officer Plunket.”
“And what about school?” PC Plunket asked.
“Oh no,” Poppy groaned. “I can’t bear it. Just the thought of Ruthersfield makes me feel sick. I never want to go back there again.”
“You don’t have to,” PC Plunket informed her. “You’ve been expelled, I’m afraid. In fact, Ms. Roach has requested that you never set foot on the academy grounds again.
“Yaaaay!” Poppy and Charlie screamed, hugging each other and jumping up and down.
“Which still leaves the question of schooling. You are very much a minor, Miss Pendle, and some sort of education will be required.”
“Can I go to the elementary school with Charlie?” Poppy suggested. “I could bake in
the afternoons and help out on weekends until I’m old enough to take over.”
“That seems like an excellent arrangement,” Marie Claire said, trying to hustle the policemen out of the cottage. “So is there anything left to discuss?”
“I do have one last question.” PC Plunket shuffled his boots about in embarrassment. “Will you be selling those chocolate cookies that melt in your mouth when you open your new bakery?” His face blushed tomato-sauce red. “I loved those cookies,” he sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. “You made them once at Patisserie Marie Claire.”
“I didn’t make them,” Marie Claire explained. “Poppy did, so you will have to ask her.”
“Thursdays,” Poppy said with a smile. “I shall make them every Thursday.” And PC Plunket looked delighted.
“Those were the best-tasting cookies I ever had,” he admitted. “They cheered me right up, even after Officer Kibble had been shouting his head off at all of us.” PC Plunket fiddled with his badge for a moment, then said, “If you ever want my mum’s brownie recipe, I’m sure she’d give it to you. They’re the fudgy kind. She makes them when it rains as a bit of a treat.”
“Oh, that would be lovely,” Poppy said. “There’s nothing nicer than a good squidgy brownie.”
Poppy asked if the policemen wanted to stay for crepes, but they said they had better be going. “More criminals to catch,” PC Plunket joked, winking at Poppy. “And I’d better get poor old PC Flower home.” He waved her magic wand in the air and said, “How do you use this thing, anyway?”
“You can’t unless you’re magic.”
“Won’t you miss it at all?” PC Plunket couldn’t help asking.
“Nope.” Poppy gave a decisive shake of her head. “Flying on a broomstick makes me feel sick, and I’d much rather make cookies than potions.” She gave PC Plunket the full benefit of her most dazzling smile. “This is the happiest day of my life so far,” Poppy told him. “And it’s only just begun.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
A Bit of a Stony Problem
THE LITTLE TERRACE HOUSE ON PUDDING LANE HAD a sad, abandoned look about it. Weeds had overtaken the front garden, and the milkman obviously hadn’t been getting the message that no one was home. There were about thirty full milk bottles clustered around the doorstep. Marie Claire gave a brisk knock on the front door, but after she’d waited a while and knocked again, it was clear that no one was going to answer.
“Perhaps we should just leave,” Poppy said. “They obviously don’t want to see me. I’ve let them down, and they’re never going to forgive me.”
“Well, they’re in,” Marie Claire pointed out. “I can see them through the kitchen window. Poppy followed Marie Claire’s gaze and felt her knees go weak and start to buckle. That was just how she had left them.
“Please, let’s go,” Poppy pleaded, but it was too late. Nosy old Maxine from next door was trotting eagerly up the path. She had on bedroom slippers, a dressing gown, and her hair was full of rollers.
“The police are looking for you,” she exclaimed, gasping for breath, but before she could utter another word, Marie Claire smoothly broke in.
“Everything’s under control now, so if you would be kind enough to open the door for us.”
“You’re in a great deal of trouble, Poppy Pendle. A great deal.”
“All sorted out actually,” Marie Claire said. “I suggest you go and call the police station. They’ll be able to give you the details. Ask to speak to PC Plunket. He’s in charge of this case.”
“I know who PC Plunket is,” Maxine said suspiciously, getting out her key and opening the Pendles’ front door. She was about to step inside, but Marie Claire slipped by her fast and stood in the doorway, her arms folded across her chest.
“Thank you. That will be all.” With an aggrieved sniff, Maxine spun around and marched off down the path.
“I’ll be calling PC Plunket right away,” she threatened. “So let’s hope what you’ve told me is true.”
“Come on,” Marie Claire whispered, reaching for Poppy’s hand. “That woman is an old busybody. Let’s get this over with before she comes back.”
The house was too quiet, and Poppy sensed, even before she entered the kitchen, what they would find. “Mon Dieu!” Marie Claire cried out softly, staring at the two stone figures. “They have not changed back.” She turned to look at Poppy, as if searching for an answer. “How can this be?”
“I don’t know.” Poppy gave a nervous shrug.
“But everyone else is just fine,” Marie Claire murmured, stepping up to Mrs. Pendle and touching her stone hand. “Perhaps you are still angry with them?” she suggested. “Perhaps you had more fury behind this particular spell than the others?”
“I’m not angry anymore,” Poppy whispered, putting her arms around her father’s waist. It was so much easier being with her parents when they couldn’t talk back. She looked over at her mother’s anguished face, full of pain and heartache, and Poppy wished that she hadn’t disappointed them so. Life would have been completely different if only she’d wanted to be a witch. “Maybe they’re still mad at me,” Poppy said. “What about that, Marie Claire? Perhaps they have to stop being angry as well?”
“I don’t know,” Marie Claire sighed. “I just don’t know, but the question is, what shall we do with them both? We really can’t leave them here. It doesn’t seem right.”
“No, and they are still my parents,” Poppy acknowledged, trying not to look at the space where the oven used to be. She could feel herself starting to get mad again. Taking a deep, calming breath, Poppy said, “Let’s bring them with us. That solves the problem, doesn’t it? They can come live in the cottage, or outside might be better,” she added quickly. “The cottage is rather small.”
“Yes.” Marie Claire nodded her approval. “We’ll find just the right spot for Edith and Roger, and I’m sure Charlie’s father would be happy to give them a ride over in his truck.”
“Oh, he doesn’t need to do that.” Poppy grinned. “I can carry my mum and dad.”
“They’re solid stone,” Marie Claire pointed out. “You couldn’t possibly lift one of these, let alone two.”
“Watch me,” Poppy said, picking up Roger under one arm and Edith under the other. She could see through the window that nosy old Maxine was hovering about in her front garden, raking up some nonexistent leaves and glancing over at their house every few seconds. Poppy hesitated a moment and then headed toward the back door. “It might be better if we go out this way,” she suggested, hitching Edith up a bit and trying not to let her slip. It was hard to keep a good grip around her mother’s waist.
Thank goodness it was a Sunday afternoon and most of Potts Bottom’s residents were either slumped in front of their televisions watching football or finishing up Sunday lunch. The streets were deserted, and a powerful smell of roast meat hung in the air.
“Careful,” Marie Claire said, steadying Poppy as she tripped and stumbled forward, almost dropping her parents on the ground. “You don’t want them to break, now.”
“No, that wouldn’t be a good idea,” Poppy agreed, slowing down her pace. Her shirt had come untucked and she could feel her socks slipping, but it was hard not to skip when she felt so happy.
“Have you always been this strong?” Marie Claire said.
“Ever since I was a baby.” Poppy grinned. “Must have been the almond cakes you gave me when I was born.”
“Well, those are good, but they’re certainly not full of any special powers.” Marie Claire laughed. “My guess is that sort of strength comes from being magic.”
“Yes,” Poppy sighed wistfully. “They can take away my wand and broomstick, but they can’t take away my magic.”
“You shouldn’t want them t
o,” Marie Claire said with force. “It’s a part of who you are. A big part. That’s what makes you, you,” she said, stabbing at the air with her finger. Poppy opened her mouth to say something, but Marie Claire hurried on. “We can’t change who we are, Poppy, but we can choose what we do.”
Poppy thought about this for a moment, and then shaking back a clump of hair, she burst out, “Well, I choose to be a baker.” It sounded so good that she said it again and then again, shouting the words louder and louder each time. “I CHOOSE TO BE A BAKER.”
“Good choice.” Marie Claire smiled. “Really good choice!”
Chapter Twenty-Six
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Happily Ever After
POPPY’S OPENED FOR BUSINESS ON MAY 3, the day Poppy turned eleven. It had taken almost a year to renovate the bakery, but it was the best birthday present Poppy had ever had. Marie Claire moved out of the patisserie and for an embarrassingly small sum of money had purchased the little cottage down by the canal. With a great deal of help from PC Plunket (who couldn’t wait for the bakery to open), Charlie’s dad had put on a new roof and replaced all the windows. In fact, PC Plunket proved to be excellent with a hammer. He hung drywall, built a new set of stairs, and in return Poppy promised to save him a dozen chocolate melt-aways every Thursday. Best of all, PC Plunket tactfully didn’t mention the fact that two life-size stone statues looking remarkably like Edith and Roger Pendle had been positioned on either side of the bakery’s front door. It was clear that Poppy Pendle had come back from the dark side, so why make a fuss? That was most people’s opinion. Even Auntie Viv didn’t seem to mind. She and nosy old Maxine drank coffee and gossiped together now most mornings, ever since Viv had moved into the house on Pudding Lane. It did seem a shame to waste all that lovely space with no one living there anymore, and her little flat was the size of a postage stamp.