The Kitten Hunt (8 page)

I bit my lip. Secretly I would have loved it. Dad had never been a big one for hugs.

Kaboodle noticed my hesitation and put his head on one side. ‘All right,’ he conceded. ‘But what about all those times Ms P has ruffled your hair and called you
“sweetie”?’

This little cat knew me far too well.

Kaboodle waved his paw at me as if he were getting bored again and swiftly returned to the subject in hand. ‘I had to get you on your own so that I had a chance of getting a word in
edgeways. That friend of yours – what’s her name? Jazzie-some-thing? She does go on a bit, doesn’t she? Never mind. Now that you
are
actually paying attention to what I am
saying, I think it’s only fitting that we should get some ground rules established. First of all,
never
touch me without asking. Secondly, I’m really not that keen on that
so-called “gourmet kitten” muck that Ms Pinkington has left for me. I would prefer fresh tuna or sardines – can you manage that? Although I wouldn’t say no to a bit of
salmon or some more of those prawns,’ he said, purring more loudly at the thought. ‘Lastly, if that friend of yours sings one note in my vicinity
ever
again, I shall scratch her
eyes out.’

I thought that was quite harsh. Jazz’s singing wasn’t going to win that
Who’s Got Talent?
show on the telly, but still! Then something occurred to me and I drew a sharp
breath. ‘But Kaboodle, how on earth am I going to explain to Jazz that you can, er, talk? She’ll think I’ve gone loopy and probably send for the doctor and have me locked
up.’

‘Why ever would you
want
to tell her? Can’t it be our little secret?’ Kaboodle asked. If he had had eyebrows I’m sure he would have raised one.

‘Well, I kind of . . . I sort of thought that if she heard you say something when we’re together . . . well, she’d be pretty shocked,’ I ended lamely.

Kaboodle gave a miaow that sounded a bit like Dad yelling ‘Aaargh!’ at me when he’s so outraged at what I’ve done that he can’t find the words to describe how
completely exasperated he is. Like the time I put my trainers in the oven to dry out after getting caught in the rain, and then forgot that I’d put them there. ( The trainers melted and
turned into black glue. Luckily they were ve ry old and I’d almost grown out of them. Makes you wonder what they put in trainers, is all I can say. )

‘You don’t think that
idiot
friend of yours will actually be able to hear me, do you? In fact, if I’d turned purple, grown wings and started singing the National Anthem
she wouldn’t bat an eyelid. The only thing she is interested in is getting her precious money for those disgusting shoes she wants so badly,’ he hissed.

Holy Stromboli!

Kaboodle was shaking his head at me. ‘Listen. Mother told me that the feline species has been trying for years to get through to humans about the way we are treated, but most people are
just not on our wavelength. When it comes to cats, most humans are as deaf as a scratching-post.’

I managed a shaky laugh. ‘Well, OK, I suppose that makes sense,’ I said at last. Then something occurred to me. ‘What about Ms P though? Can she understand you?’

Kaboodle yawned and flicked his tail irritably. ‘Never mind about her – I think it’s time we had a little chat about
you,
Bertie.’ ‘Me?’

‘Yes. You. I’ve been watching you very closely as I said, and I happen to think I am just the friend you’ve been looking for, though I say so myself Kaboodle purred loudly and
wound himself in and out of my legs, rubbing his soft fur against me.

I couldn’t help smiling. This mini-cat had a mega-attitude, but I couldn’t help liking him. Actually, I realized, he reminded me a bit of Jazz. I chuckled softly to myself.

Kaboodle stopped his weaving movements and looked up sharply ‘What are you laughing at?’ he snapped.

‘Oh, er – I’m just a bit ticklish when you do that,’ I fibbed. I was pretty sure Kaboodle wouldn’t be chuffed at the comparison with my mouthy mate.

Then something occurred to me. ‘Kaboodle,’ I ventured. ‘I mean, Oba-wotsit—’

‘Please – if you can’t say it properly, don’t say it at all,’ he snapped.

I winced. ‘OK. Kaboodle – erm,would you like to come and stay with me while Ms P is away?’

Kaboodle purred so loudly, he sounded like an engine. ‘I would be honoured,’ he said. ‘But how will your father feel about that, I wonder?’

‘Oh, we won’t tell him,’ I said vaguely, pushing aside the nagging doubts that were rushing in to crowd my mind.

‘Well, you can count on me to keep my head down,’ said Kaboodle, pushing against me again. ‘We cats are masters of deception, you know. Now then, how about that hug? It’s
getting exceptionally chilly hanging around out here.’

K
aboodle had agreed to lie low so that Dad wouldn’t suspect anything. As it turned out I was very thankful that he was prepared to go along
with my request, because Dad came home later that day in the foulest mood I had seen him in for a very long time.

The first bad sign was the sound of the door being slammed hard enough to wrench it off its hinges and possibly take the house walls with it. Then Dad whirled into the kitchen where I had been
opening a tin of tuna for Kaboodle, scowled and banged his laptop down on the kitchen table.

A panicky sick feeling rocketed up from my stomach and swirled round my chest.

‘Multi-storey blinking car parks!’ Dad barked. ‘I’ve had it up to here with people who get their pathetic little knickers in a twist about things as deathly dull as
multi-blinking-storey-blinking-car-blinking-parks!’ he muttered crossly. ‘I am a
writer
!’ he carried on, as if to himself. ‘I should be writing epic works of fiction
or dramatic works of art to add to the nation’s canon of literary talent, not scribbling ranty little columns in that rag that calls itself a newspaper!’

I let my breath out slowly and quietly and tiptoed over to put the kettle on. ‘A cup of tea always wo rks wonders,’ as Jazz’s mum would say .

Dad sighed loudly and shook his head. ‘Sorry, love,’ he said wearily, as though he’d only just noticed I was in the room. ‘Bad day. How’re you? Hey –
aren’t you supposed to be at Jazz’s?’ he added, squinting at me.

‘Oh, I er – yeah, I
was
at Jazz’s,’ I began. I had my you’ve-caught-me-red-handed face on – a sort of a cross between a grin and a grimace.

Dad raised his eyebrows and waited.

‘But we, er, we kind of had a falling out, so I came home a bit early,’ I said lightly. ‘I’ve only been on my own for about five minutes.’ ( Thanks to Kaboodle
who’d only just gone out into the garden.)

‘You girls,’ said Dad, shaking his head. A smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. ‘Nothing serious, I hope?’

‘Nah,’ I grinned, in the hope I could coax a whole smile out of him. ‘You know what Jazz is like. Reckons she’s our school’s answer to Madonna. She was doing one of
those routines again and I kind of teased her a bit about her singing, that’s all.’

Dad laughed. ‘You can talk, Roberta Fletcher! The last time I heard you singing in the bath I thought the pipes would burst. It was more like a rusty nail being dragged across a slate
roof-tile than a sweet melody of divine tunefulness.’

‘Huh!’ I said, pretending to be offended, but feeling myself relax at Dad’s change of mood. ‘“Sweet melody of divine tunefulness”? Call yourself a
writer?’

Dad chucked his notepad at me and I whooped and ran away from him.

‘Not so fast, young lady!’ he shouted, grabbing a sponge from the sink and hurling it at me.

I snatched a J-cloth and chucked it back at him and soon we were steaming round and round the kitchen table, giggling and throwing stuff at each other. It was the best fun I’ve had with
Dad for ages.

My phone!

I froze. What if it was Jazz, calling to have a go at me? What if it was Pinkella, calling to ask about her kitty-catkins? What if it was Kaboodle – no, surely even
that
kitten
didn’t know how to use a phone . . .

‘Aren’t you going to answer it, then?’ Dad was staring at me.

‘Must be a wrong number,’ I muttered, but just in case, I scuttled out of the kitchen and went up to my room, answering the phone on the way.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello. Is that Bertie Fletcher’s Pet-Sitting Service?’ said a man’s voice.

Help! ‘Er, yes,’ I said, trying to keep my voice low so that Dad wouldn’t be able to hear.

‘Oh, good. This is Mr Smythe from number two. I received one of your leaflets a few days ago.’

‘Oh, right. Bertie Fletcher speaking! How can I help you?’ I tried to put my businesslike tone on, but it came out a bit shaky.

‘Well, I almost threw the leaflet away, as I thought it was just another piece of that junk mail that seems to be flooding our neighbourhood these days –’ Great, I’m
getting a lecture, I thought glumly. Next thing, he’ll be round here saying he wants to speak to Dad about how irresponsible I am and then – I realized he was still speaking, and that
the tone of his voice did not seem too angry or off-putting, so I tuned back in – ‘so your leaflet came in the nick of time, actually. I’m about to go away to my daughter’s
for a couple of days, you see, and I could do with your help. I’ve got two hamsters who would be very grateful if you would come and feed them and clean them out while I’m
away.’

‘Hamsters?’ Bit of an unusual pet for a grownup, I thought. But then I realized that this was a fabulous opportunity for expanding my Pet-Sitting Service. A fter all, hamsters must
be the easiest pets in the world to look after.

‘Hamsters, that’s right,’ said Mr Smythe.

‘Hurrah!’ I said happily. ‘I mean, er, that would be a pleasure, Mr Smythe,’ I added, quickly going back to my professional voice.

‘Lovely,’ he said. ‘Can you come round tomorrow morning? I’m leaving after lunch, you see, and I need to get Mr Nibbles and Houdini sorted out before I go.’

‘Mr Nibbles and—? Oh, the hamsters. I see,’ I said. And Kaboodle thought
his
name was pants!

I agreed to go round at nine, said goodbye and pressed the red button on my phone.

‘Getting a lot of wrong numbers recently,aren’t you?’

‘Dad!’

He was leaning against the door frame, his arms crossed, and he was frowning.

‘Is there something you’re not telling me, Bertie?’ he asked.

‘I, er, not really,’ I said pathetically.

Dad walked over to me, tilted my chin and inspected me closely. ‘Are you OK?’ he asked, narrowing his eyes.

‘Yes,’ I lied. What with falling out with Jazz, discovering a talking kitten and trying to run an undercover Pet-Sitting Service, I was feeling just fine, obviously.

‘Mmm,’ he said. ‘Are you sure it wasn’t a bad fight you had with Jazz?’

‘Noooo,’ I said, putting on a ‘what nonsense’ expression and shaking my head vigorously.

‘Is it – oh no – it’s not . . .
boyfriend trouble
?’ he whispered, a mixture of horror and disgust crossing his face.

‘NOOOO!’I yelled. Boyfriends? Me? URGH! Had Dad even
looked
at me lately? I wondered. I was ELEVEN for heaven’s sake, not a
hundred
and eleven (which is how old I
will have to be before I even THINK about having a boyfriend).

Dad’s forehead creased and he held up both hands as if he thought I was going to hit him. ‘OK! OK! Keep your hair on!’ he said, trying to laugh in a jokey way.

I glared at him.

Dad sighed and let his hands drop to his sides. ‘I’m sorry, Bertie. I’m just not very good at this.’ He opened his arms and beckoned to me with one hand. ‘Come
here,’ he said.

I walked tentatively into Dad’s embrace, steeling myself for a Ta lk.

He hugged me and talked over the top of my head at the window. ‘I mean, it’s obvious you’re upset about something.’ I cringed so majorly I thought my stomach would turn
itself inside out. ‘You’re getting older, Bertie, and I know there are things that girls your age normally talk to their mums about. And believe me, there’s not a day goes by when
I don’t wish with all my heart that your mum was here to talk to you. But she’s not, so you’re stuck with your old dad. Tell me – what’s up?’ he asked, pushing
me gently away from him so that he could look me in the eye. ‘I don’t know why you’re being like this, and if you don’t give me any clues, how am I supposed to know how to
help you?’

You could try not working so much and letting me have my own pet for starters, I thought bitterly, shrugging Dad’s hands off my shoulders. But one look at Dad’s face was enough for
me to know I’d never be able to say how I really felt. It was my turn to sigh. Heavily.

‘You can’t help me,’ I said finally.

‘Suit yourself.’ Dad tried to smile, but his mouth was too thin and his eyes weren’t really in it.

Then the doorbell rang and, relieved by the distraction, I hared down the stairs to answer it.

It was Jazz. And she was holding a wriggly,hissy and
very
unhappy cat.

‘Kaboodle!’ I cried.

‘Tell her to put me down!’ Kaboodle spat.

‘Look!’ cried Jazz. ‘I found him! He’s not dead!’