The Broomstick Collection: Books 1–4. Nathan Reed
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Table of Contents
Witch-in-Training Flying Lessons
Witch-in-Training Spelling Trouble
Witch-in-Training Charming or Whart?
Other Witch-in-Training titles
Miss Strega’s shop was not like its smart neighbours. For one thing, it didn’t have a large plate glass window with eye-catching displays of toys or trainers or books or mobile phones. On wintry afternoons, when bright lights blazed in the other shops along the High Street, Miss Strega’s shrank back into the shadows. And if anybody ever popped in to buy some clothes pegs or jam pot covers – and hardly anybody ever did – old Miss Strega bustled out from behind the counter and more or less chased them back out on to the street.
“Just closing up,” she would say. “Come back tomorrow.”
Children, hurrying home from school, were never tempted to stop and peer in to the shop’s shabby, overcrowded window. If they had, they would have seen what a heap of junk it sold; hurricane lamps, mousetraps, bird scarers and flypapers dangled on hooks above a stack of black iron cooking pots and an untidy jumble of balls of twine. Ancient-looking fishing rods and rusty garden forks leant against the door as if they had just been dumped there for the binmen to take away.
So no one noticed when a small broom was propped outside the door on the thirty-first of October. It had a short handle and a bunch of spiky birch twigs tied together at one end. A notice scribbled on a piece of cardboard was tucked into the twigs:
Jessica wouldn’t have seen it either, if a sudden gust of wind hadn’t snatched her party hat out of her hand. It was a tall, white, pointy hat, the sort that princesses wear, with a long floaty veil stuck on the top.
“Hey,” she shouted, “come back.” But the hat paid no attention. It galloped along the pavement, skirted around an old lady with a shopping trolley and somersaulted over a baby’s buggy. It sailed between the legs of a boy on roller blades, danced over the heads of the shoppers and finally came to land on the spiky twigs of the little broom.
“Flying Lessons extra,” Jessica read as she reached for her hat. “How curious.” She was just looking up at the peeling old shop sign that hung out from the wall, creaking and groaning in the wind, when a voice said: “Have you come for the broom, my dear?”
Jessica scrunched up her eyes and peered into the shop. She could see a large ginger cat snoozing on top of a pile of books which balanced precariously on the high wooden counter. And behind the counter, in front of a wall of drawers with shiny brass handles and little square labels, there was an old lady, waving at Jessica to come in. She was so small, like a little bird with twinkly