Read Online The Power of Poppy Pendle by Natasha Lowe - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Natasha Lowe
Ads: Link
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.”
Cautiously opening the kitchen door, Poppy stepped outside. She found herself standing in a small courtyard with a basketball hoop attached to one wall. Flowers had been planted in big wooden barrels, and purple clematis climbed freely up the back wall of the bakery. A small round table and chairs were tucked into a corner, shaded by a green umbrella. It was a lovely, tranquil place, and Poppy played ball until Marie Claire joined her, carrying a tray of sandwiches and lemonade. They sat at the little table and ate slowly, chatting about recipes.
“Perhaps now would be a good time for me to call your parents?” Marie Claire said when Poppy had finished her lunch. “I do need to talk to them, Poppy.”
“No.” Poppy shook her head vigorously. “I mean, not yet.” Her bottom lip started to tremble. “It’s awful at home. You’ve no idea how horrible it is.”
“Do they know how you feel about things?”
“I’ve tried to tell them, but they don’t listen to me,” Poppy said, staring at the table.
“You should write it down,” Marie Claire suggested gently. “Sometimes it is easier for parents to hear what their child is saying in a letter. It might help them understand how you are feeling. And then I can speak with them about it.” Marie Claire sounded so confident and sure that Poppy suddenly felt a small glimmer of hope. Maybe this kind, lovely French person could convince her parents that she wasn’t meant to be a witch. That magic was not her destiny. But that brief wishful thought quickly vanished. Her mother and father would never agree to such a thing. Poppy knew that. She was quiet for a long moment, and then she slowly nodded. Besides, it wasn’t Marie Claire’s problem, it was hers.
“Okay,” Poppy agreed. “I’ll write to them.” That couldn’t hurt. But what she didn’t tell Marie Claire was that she had no intention of letting her parents know where she was. They would march right down to the patisserie and drag her back home.
“You are doing the right thing, Poppy,” Marie Claire said, leaning over to pat Poppy’s hand. “And ask them to contact me, straightaway. Then we can sort all this out.” She gave Poppy a reassuring smile. “There’s a postbox outside the back gate.”
Later on that afternoon Poppy sat down at the big wooden table in Marie Claire’s kitchen, and after chewing the end of her pencil for a few minutes, she began to compose a letter to her parents, explaining why she had run away.
Dear Mum and Dad,
Please don’t be mad at me. I am safe and very happy. The kind lady I am staying with would like to talk to you, but before she telephones I want to tell you why I ran away. I hope you will understand and not be cross.
Ever since my first day at Ruthersfield, I’ve been so miserable at school. I keep trying to tell you how much I hate magic but you don’t seem to hear. So let me spell it out for you: I DO NOT WANT TO BE A WITCH. The other girls tease me because I’m not like them, and call me names because I love to bake all the time. That’s why having Charlie as my friend is so important. I was really, really, lonely until I met her, and you can’t take Charlie away from me. You just can’t.
Every day I wake up and feel sad because I know how much you hate it when I cook. I can’t even talk to you about recipes I invent, because it makes you angry.
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.”
Cautiously opening the kitchen door, Poppy stepped outside. She found herself standing in a small courtyard with a basketball hoop attached to one wall. Flowers had been planted in big wooden barrels, and purple clematis climbed freely up the back wall of the bakery. A small round table and chairs were tucked into a corner, shaded by a green umbrella. It was a lovely, tranquil place, and Poppy played ball until Marie Claire joined her, carrying a tray of sandwiches and lemonade. They sat at the little table and ate slowly, chatting about recipes.
“Perhaps now would be a good time for me to call your parents?” Marie Claire said when Poppy had finished her lunch. “I do need to talk to them, Poppy.”
“No.” Poppy shook her head vigorously. “I mean, not yet.” Her bottom lip started to tremble. “It’s awful at home. You’ve no idea how horrible it is.”
“Do they know how you feel about things?”
“I’ve tried to tell them, but they don’t listen to me,” Poppy said, staring at the table.
“You should write it down,” Marie Claire suggested gently. “Sometimes it is easier for parents to hear what their child is saying in a letter. It might help them understand how you are feeling. And then I can speak with them about it.” Marie Claire sounded so confident and sure that Poppy suddenly felt a small glimmer of hope. Maybe this kind, lovely French person could convince her parents that she wasn’t meant to be a witch. That magic was not her destiny. But that brief wishful thought quickly vanished. Her mother and father would never agree to such a thing. Poppy knew that. She was quiet for a long moment, and then she slowly nodded. Besides, it wasn’t Marie Claire’s problem, it was hers.
“Okay,” Poppy agreed. “I’ll write to them.” That couldn’t hurt. But what she didn’t tell Marie Claire was that she had no intention of letting her parents know where she was. They would march right down to the patisserie and drag her back home.
“You are doing the right thing, Poppy,” Marie Claire said, leaning over to pat Poppy’s hand. “And ask them to contact me, straightaway. Then we can sort all this out.” She gave Poppy a reassuring smile. “There’s a postbox outside the back gate.”
Later on that afternoon Poppy sat down at the big wooden table in Marie Claire’s kitchen, and after chewing the end of her pencil for a few minutes, she began to compose a letter to her parents, explaining why she had run away.
Dear Mum and Dad,
Please don’t be mad at me. I am safe and very happy. The kind lady I am staying with would like to talk to you, but before she telephones I want to tell you why I ran away. I hope you will understand and not be cross.
Ever since my first day at Ruthersfield, I’ve been so miserable at school. I keep trying to tell you how much I hate magic but you don’t seem to hear. So let me spell it out for you: I DO NOT WANT TO BE A WITCH. The other girls tease me because I’m not like them, and call me names because I love to bake all the time. That’s why having Charlie as my friend is so important. I was really, really, lonely until I met her, and you can’t take Charlie away from me. You just can’t.
Every day I wake up and feel sad because I know how much you hate it when I cook. I can’t even talk to you about recipes I invent, because it makes you angry.
Similar Books
