The Kitten Hunt

by Anna Wilson

  It took me a moment to realize that Pinkella had stopped wibbling and that she had asked me a question, and then it took me another moment to realize that she was offering me actual, real money.

  ‘I – er . . .’ I hadn’t given one single thought to how much I would charge for this Pet-Sitting Service – what an idiot! Some Business Wo man of the Year I was turning out to be. I could just see the angry potato man saying, ‘YOU’RE FIRED!’ in a booming voice, and it was not a picture that did much for my self-confidence or ability to think clearly under pressure.

  ‘Erm – sort of a pound a day?’ I said.

  ‘My goodness, you do come cheap!’ she trilled. ‘Well, I think you’d better come round and be formally introduced to Kaboodle as soon as possible. He can’t wait to meet you, can you, little kitty-kins?’

  ‘I’ll have to check with my dad,’ I said, my head still spinning, even though I actually had no intention whatsoever of checking with Dad.

  ‘Good girl,’ said Pinkella. ‘You can pop by any time. I’ll be in – I’ve still not packed my suitcases yet and I must practise my lines. Toodle-oo!’

  Toodle-what?

  I said goodbye and pressed the red button on my phone.

  ‘Yes, yes!’ I cried, thumping the air, and doing a little victory dance. My first customer! I had to tell Jazz.

  The doorbell rang, jolting me out of my cheery prancing. I jumped and dropped my phone, narrowly missing the loo.

  ‘Ber-tie!’ Dad was calling me.

  I unlocked the bathroom door, opened it and peered out. ‘Ye-es?’ I said, feeling a bit sick. What if it was Pinkella, come round right away to talk to me in person?

  ‘Are you still on the loo?’ Dad yelled. This immediately made my sick feeling turn into a grumpy one. That man has made being an embarrassment into an Olympic sport, I thought.

  ‘Hey, Bertie!’

  Phew! That didn’t sound like Pinkella.

  ‘Jazz?’ I said, coming down the stairs.

  ‘Mum thought you might like to come round to ours for tea.’

  ‘Yay! Dad – can I?’ I looked at him with my most pleading face. This would solve all my problems at once! I could say I was going to Jazz’s, but just pop in on Pinkella on the way. Plus I loved going for tea at Jazz’s. It was so full-on and noisy, with her little brother, Ty son, zooming round the place making aeroplane noises and the rest of the family all talking at once. Quite a lot different from my silent-as-the-tomb-type house.

  Dad didn’t look as though he would even be able to say what day it was, let alone take much notice whose house I was at, I realized as I inspected his face. He had his Deadline Head on, which meant he had an article that needed to be handed in to the Daily Ranter very soon and it was stressing him out. Poor Dad. He looked terrible – as if he had not slept for more than about ten minutes all week. Why hadn’t I noticed this when he picked me up from school? I thought guiltily. I had been too wrapped up in my own thoughts about pet-sitting and money-making. I chewed my lip.

  His hair (which is curly like mine, a lthough there’s not as much of it) was sticking up on end in a rather woolly sheep-type fashion, which is what it does when he runs his hands through it a lot, and his eyes had sunk further into his head than is normal for a human being. The skin around his eyes was also quite dark. Actually, he looked more like a slightly baffled owl than a sheep.

  Come to think of it, I should have realized something was up that morning as he had drunk fifteen cups of coffee one after the other while muttering, ‘What am I going to write? What am I going to write?’ These are the usual signs that a deadline is on the horizon, or indeed is charging towards Dad from the horizon at about one hundred miles an hour.

  ‘Sure. Be back by seven,’ he said finally, distractedly running his hands through his hair.

  ‘What’s up?’ said Jazz, as we closed the front door behind us. ‘When I arrived you looked like you’d just won a year’s supply of chocolate and now you look as if you wish you hadn’t eaten it all in one go!’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Just a bit worried about Dad,’ I muttered. But I fixed a grin back on my face and said brightly, ‘But listen. This is a zillion times more interesting!’ I told her about Pinkella and Kaboodle.

  ‘Kaboodle? What kind of weirdo name is that?’ she said, curling her top lip in her you’ve-just-said-something-random expression.

  ‘I know – not the coolest—’ I agreed.

  ‘And you didn’t ask for a POUND a day, did you?’ Jazz interrupted.

  ‘Ye-es.’

  ‘You doofus! A poxy pound a day! No wonder she wants you to look after her dear little pussy-cat. You should have said a fiver – and you should have asked for a deposit! Don’t you know anything about business?’

  ‘But I don’t care about the money, Jazz!’ I exclaimed. ‘Don’t you get it? I’m finally going to have a pet to look after I’m going to get to feed him and cuddle him and play with him! YAY!’ I cried, dancing round and round.

  ‘No need to be freaky about it,’ said Jazz, but she was grinning. ‘So can I be your business partner then?’ she asked, putting on a posh voice.

  ‘You can be my official assistant,’ I said, hugging her ‘I told Pinkella I needed a new one.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Never mind – come on, let’s go round there now Kitten-sitters R Us!’

  4

  Welcome to the House of Pink

  You would have thought Jazz and I were celebrities the way Pinkella welcomed us.

  ‘Roberta!’ she cooed, opening her arms wide.

  Please don’t hug me, I cringed.

  She hugged me Tight. Urgh. My face was pressed into her pongy pinkness and I nearly gagged on her overpoweringly sick-making flowery perfume.

  ‘Ro-who?’ said Jazz.

  I wriggled away as politely as it is possible to wriggle away from someone you don’t know that well, and scowled at Jazz warningly

  ‘And the beautiful Jasmeena!’ said Pinkella, reaching out and cupping Jazz’s chin in her spiky, jewel-covered fingers. ‘What gorgeous eyes you have, sweetie!’

  It’s true, Jazz does have gorgeous eyes. They’re like those shiny chocolate drops in the sugar casing, and they’re huge. She’s got mega eye – lashes too. If I didn’t know better I’d say she had false ones, but they’re not – her whole family’s got them. I’ve always been really jealous of the way Jazz can use her chocolate-drop eyes to get pretty much whatever she wants from people.

  It seemed she wasn’t going to use them on Pinkella though: she scowled and her smooth brown cheeks darkened as she squirmed out of Pinkella’s clutches. ‘I prefer “Jazz”,’ she said sourly. ‘So where is Noodle?’

  Pinkella dissolved into fits of hysterics about nothing in particular, as far as I could see. ‘Oooh! You are cute! Follow me – I think Kaboodle is having a little nap on his cushion.’

  Jazz raised her eye brows at me, a definite sign that her already unenthusiastic opinion of Pinkella was not improving by the minute. She held up one hand to me and splayed out the fingers, mouthing, ‘A fiver!’

  I put a finger to my lips and frowned at her.

  Pinkella came back out into the hall with a small soft bundle of gorgeous black and white fur. ‘Here he is, the little darling,’ she said, nuzzling her powdery face into the kitten’s coat. ‘You were sleeping, weren’t you, my little koochy-koo? But you must wake up and meet these lovely girlies who are going to be looking after you while Mummsie is away.’

  Kaboodle raised his small, neat head and stared at us, his ears alert and his yellow eyes widening into deep pools of cuteness. That shivery feeling overtook me again. It was almost like static electricity, like when you walk on a nylony carpet and then touch something metal; and once again I was absolutely convinced that Kaboodle was trying to tell me something. But what?

  ‘Would you like to take him, Roberta sweetie?’ Pinkella asked, holding him out to me.

  I was really nervous now. What if I dropped him? What if
looking after him was going to be a nightmare? What if—?

  Pinkella softly dropped him into my hands, a tiny parcel of warm kittenness, purring fatly, pushing his head against my arm as if he was stroking me! That purr was such a warm, friendly sound. The shivery sensation settled down into a soft buzz and I let out the breath I’d been holding in. He liked me.

  ‘Look at you!’ said Jazz, pointing a chewed-off purple-painted fingernail at me and laughing. ‘Don’t go all soppy on me now!’

  ‘Hisssss!’ Kaboodle jerked his head away from me and spat at Jazz. I was so freaked, I nearly dropped him.

  ‘Now, now, Kaboodle darling,’ cooed Pinkella. ‘Don’t be a naughty boyThese sweet little girls will look after you just like Mummsie does.’

  I tentatively stroked Kaboodle’s back to try and calm him down. The fur on the back of his neck had gone spiky and he felt tense and uncomfortable in my arms. ‘Shh, it’s all right,’ I whispered in one flattened ear. ‘I promise I’ll take care of you.’

  Jazz rolled her eyes and waggled her head at me, setting off the beads in her hair. ‘You are too much!’ she drawled. ‘Chatting away to that little kitty-cat like he understands every word. You kill me!’

  ‘Oh but he does understand, don’t you, Kaboodle sweetie-pie?’ said Pinkella.

  I would have joined in with Jazz and rolled my own eyes, but before I could say anything, Kaboodle twisted his head around to look up at me. And I was sure, absolutely positive, that he winked.

  I gasped and flicked a glance at Jazz. Had she seen it too? But she was still laughing at me and shaking her head as if I was a complete nut-brain. Which I was beginning to think I was . . .

  Imagine if I told Jazz that this adorable little cat had just winked at me! She would take one look at me and circle her finger round next to her brain and say, ‘Tick-tock, tick-tock, curly-wurly CUCKOO!’ or something equally intelligent and insightful.

  Instead I forced a grin and said, ‘Looks like he does understand me, Ms P!’

  Pinkella beamed. ‘Well, it certainly seems you two – sorry, three,’ she added hastily, seeing the set expression on Jazz’s face, ‘are going to get along like a house on fire. Now, I hope you don’t mind but I’ve drawn up a short list of things to remember while I’m away, and I’ve left the number of the hotel I’ll be staying at too, just in case.’

  Normally I hate it when grown-ups fuss like that. It’s so annoying; it’s like they think we can’t handle things on our own even though we seem to manage OK – catching buses to and from school, doing our homework and getting to after-school clubs on time . . . This time, though, I wasn’t listening. I was totally focused on the warmth in my arms, listening to Kaboodle purring and thinking: this is what I have been waiting for.

  What if Pinkella is right and he can actually understand every word we say? I wondered dreamily, as Pinkella and Jazz wittered on to each other somewhere in the vague and cloudy distance. Wouldn’t that be cool?

  But then I realized it would all be a waste of time unless I developed the magic gift of being able to talk to animals, like that Doctor Dolittle guy I’d seen in a film once. I shook my head. I would end up as bonkers as Pinkella if I wasn’t careful.

  I became dimly aware of Pinkella handing Jazz a piece of paper and saying, ‘If you think I’ve missed anything, or there’s anything you don’t understand, please don’t hesitate to call.’

  ‘Oh, right, thanks,’ I muttered, and reluctantly handed Kaboodle over to Pinkella, who was beaming at him with outstretched arms.

  ‘That’s right, come to Mummsie,’ she crooned through puckered lips. ‘Mummsie’s got to get as many cuddles as she can before she has to leave poor little Kaboodle, hasn’t she?’

  Jazz shot me a look of utter contempt and said, ‘Well, thanks, Ms P. I think we know what to do. There’s just one small matter we have to discuss before we go, though.’ She looked meaningfully at Pinkella with one eyebrow raised.

  ‘What’s that, sweetie?’ Pinkella asked, still cooing over Kaboodle.

  Jazz coughed and said, ‘Er – we at Bertie Fletcher’s Pet-Sitting Service always require a down payment before taking on any job—’

  ‘Jazz!’ I couldn’t believe this.

  But Jazz shook her head at me and frowned. ‘It’s like protection against you changing your mind or anything?’ she added, putting a hand on one hip and rattling her bangles officiously.

  Pinkella chewed her bottom lip. If I hadn’t been so worried she was about to bawl us out for being cheeky, I would have said she was trying not to laugh.

  ‘Of course, dear. How much did you say it was going to be?’ she asked, looking at Jazz, not me, I noticed.

  ‘Five—’

  ‘A pound a day,’ I said firmly, ignoring Jazz’s fierce stare of disbelief.

  ‘That’s right, I remember now,’ said Pinkella. She set Kaboodle down on a hideous bubblegum-pink cushion and fiddled in an equally gross-coloured handbag for her purse. ‘Here you are – I’ll give you five pounds for now, and we’ll settle up when I come back. How does that sound?’

  ‘Great,’ said Jazz, stepping in front of me and snapping up the money.

  I rolled my eyes, but decided not to say anything.

  ‘Now – one last question, Ms P.’

  ‘Yes, Jasmeena?’

  ‘What do we do if Kaboodle catches a mouse or something?’ she asked, pulling the corners of her mouth down and giving an exaggerated shudder.

  I flinched. I had not thought of that. Jazz was right – cats did that kind of thing all the time.

  Pinkella looked appalled. ‘Oh dearie me, Kaboodle is far too much of a little baby to do that sort of thing, aren’t you, darling?’ she asked, looking at her kitten who was now back on his silky pink cushion, washing his front paws very carefully. He looked up as Pinkella spoke and blinked slowly as if he was thinking about what to say in response ‘There, you see!’ said Pinkella triumphantly ‘He says of course he wouldn’t!’

  Jazz gave me a sideways glance and pursed her lips.

  I cleared my throat loudly and said, ‘Well, that’s all right then,’ and made a move towards the door. ‘Have a good time in Scotland, Ms P! I said cheerfully. I still couldn’t bring myself to call her Fenella. ‘Hope you get that part in the film.’

  ‘Thank you, Roberta, said Pinkella, beaming. ‘I’ll be back in a fortnight. And good luck with Kaboodle – although I’m sure you won’t need it. He’s such a well-behaved little boy’

  ‘Miiia-oow!’ Kaboodle answered in a kittenish mew.

  Was he agreeing with her?

  Jazz hardly waited until the door was shut on us before giving her verdict.

  ‘That woman is a serious fruit-loop!’ she crowed.

  ‘Shut up!’ I hissed nervously. ‘She might hear you!’ I glanced hastily over my shoulder to see if she was still standing in the doorway. But I needn’t have worried. Pinkella was at the living-room window, Kaboodle held in a firm embrace, and – oh no, dear me, no . . .

  ‘She’s making him wave his ickle-wickle paw at us!’ Jazz screamed hysterically, pointing at the insane scene in front of us.

  I nodded and smiled stiffly at Pinkella and waved back at her and Kaboodle. ‘Stop it, Jazz,’ I said out of the cor ner of my forced grin. ‘Just think of the money.’

  Jazz grinned at me, pirouetted and did a snaky dance move with her arms, singing, ‘Oh yeah!’ and flourishing the five-pound note at me.

  I grinned back and then turned to take one last careful look at Kaboodle before heading to Jazz’s house.

  And that time, he definitely did wink. No doubt about it.

  5

  Gourmet Delights

  Dad would have liked Pinkella’s note. It was in the most beautiful handwriting; the letters were perfectly even with not a crossing-out in sight. They were also written in smart black fountain-pen ink, not scrabbly pencil or biro, which is what I would have used. Dad is always going on about how messy my writing is. ‘Messy writing shows a mes
sy mind, he says. He also says that I need to ‘Pay more Attention to Detail’. In fact, that’s one of his favourite sayings. That and: ‘Tone of Voice!’

  Funnily enough, the way I tend to respond to being told to ‘Pay Attention to Detail’ often invites the comment ‘Tone of Voice!’ straightaway afterwards.

  Anyway, Pinkella would win the Attention to Detail Award no problem, and not simply because of her handwriting. This was what she had written:

  Jazz whistled long and low after reading the note through and shook her head. ‘That cat doesn’t know he’s born!’ she said. ‘I wish Mum treated me that well.’

  ‘What – fancy the odd sachet of Feline Good, do you?’ I teased.

  Jazz pushed me sharply on the arm and squealed, ‘GROSS!’ And she started dancing round, singing out the song they use in the ad for Feline Good on the telly:‘Feline Good! Der-der-der-der-der-der-der! You know that it’s good now! Feeeee-line Gooood!’

  ‘Put a sock in it,Jazz,’I grinned. ‘It’s bad enough on the ad, without your caterwauling version.’

  She spun round and pointed at me, holding her other hand to her face as if it were a mike. ‘Ha! Cat-erwauling! I like that, babe. Hey, you know what?’ she said, dropping her hands and fixing me with a ser ious look. ‘They do say that there are people in those pet food factories who actually have to taste the pet food before it goes to the shops?’

  ‘Urgh, Ja-azz!’ I protested. ‘Now who’s being gross? That stuff stinks! There’s no way in a million years that anyone would actually taste it.’