by Anna Wilson
Fergus shrugged and said through a cheeky grin, ‘Well, you’d hardly call him minuscule and adorable, would you?’
‘Oi, watch it, buster,’ the cat said rudely.
I swallowed nervously. I hoped he wasn’t about to kick off again.
‘Hey, you.’
I stared at the cat.
‘Yeah, you. The one with the frizzy hair and the stupid look on her face.’
Great. So he was insulting me. And I couldn’t answer back.
I gave as slight a nod of the head as I could manage in the hope that the humans in the room would not notice.
‘You gonna let me outta this hellhole, or what?’ the cat growled.
I shook my head.
Fergus let out a whoosh of breath and tapped his foot impatiently. ‘Are we just going to stand here and stare at this monster, or are we going to give him a good soaking and send him packing?’ he said.
‘NO!’ Jazz shrieked, turning on Fergus, total and utter outrage etched across her face. She seemed to have rediscovered her voice at last. ‘How can you be so MEAN? Look at the fluffy little darling! He wouldn’t hurt a flea, would you, pusskins?’ And, to our amazement, she bent down and scooped the ginormous bundle into her arms and started crooning to him as though he was a newborn baby.
Fiona tutted and said, ‘Come on, Fergie. I think it’s time to go. Are you all right to pack up here, Nev? Nigel, darling, it’s been an, er, interesting evening . . .’
Nev was scratching his head. ‘Yeah, I’ll go and get my kit and head off, if that’s all right with you guys.’ He backed out of the room and started dismantling his camera equipment.
‘Bertie?’ Fergus said, looking at me. ‘Can I stay for a bit?’
‘Whatever,’ I said. I wanted them all to leave. I wanted to go upstairs right away and confront Jaffa about her so-called tormentor. Or did I? It wasn’t her fault, and she really had been scared. In her eyes the cat was still a monster. Thinking of that made me want to console her and cuddle her and tell her it was all over and she was safe now.
Bex and Dad showed Fiona and Nev out. While they were saying their goodbyes, Jazz carried on talking the biggest load of nonsense I had ever heard from her in all the long years she had been my mate.
‘Awww, you are the softest, most scrumptiousest, delumptiousest sweetie-pie catkins dat I have ever seeeeeen!’ she squawked.
The cat broke out into the loudest fit of purring I had ever heard. ‘And you are the most gorgeous girl I’ve ever seen, babe,’ he crooned.
My pity for the animal quickly turned to disgust. Oh please fetch a bucket, someone, I thought, pulling a puking face at Fergus.
But of course he hadn’t heard what the cat had said. And he was so baffled by Jazz’s behaviour that he was just staring, dumbfounded, at the lovebirds (or should that be love-cats?), at a complete loss for words.
‘I saw yer,’ the cat to me. ‘Pulling that face. Just shut it, mate, or I’ll shut it for yer, all right?’
I clenched my fists and narrowed my eyes. Poor homeless cat he might be, but he was not going to get away with talking to me like that. My blood was boiling, and without thinking I said, ‘Watch it yourself, mate.’
‘What?’ said Fergus.
‘That cat!’ I blurted out, torn between giving the moggie a piece of my mind and preserving my dignity. ‘I know I should probably feel sorry for him, but . . . but . . . he terrorizes my little cat and causes havoc in my house for days and days, and then when he’s caught red-handed, all he can do is snuggle up to Jazz and make eyes at her as if nothing’s happened! The cheek of it—’
‘Grrrr!’ the cat growled.
‘Oh, shh, Bertie!’ Jazz simpered, frowning at me. ‘You’ve gone and upset the little pusskins now.’
‘Bertie . . .’ said Fergus, looking anxiously from me to Jazz. He was backing away from us slightly as if we were two unpredictable wild animals. ‘I, er, I should point out that this is a cat we’re talking about. Moggies don’t think things through in the way you’re suggesting. I think—’
‘You don’t think at all, buster,’ hissed the cat. ‘And for your information, I am not a moggie. The name’s Bob.’
‘BOB?’ I spat in disbelief. ‘What kind of a name is that for a cat?’
‘No way am I calling him that!’ cried Jazz. ‘This little baby’s going to be called Cupid from now on. And I’m going to take care of him,’ she added decisively.
‘CUPID?’ I was shouting now. Had the whole world gone mad?
‘Yes,’ said Jazz primly. ‘Because he’s stolen my heart.’
‘Cupid? CUPID? STUPID, MORE LIKE!’ I yelled, stamping my foot in anger.
Jazz shot me a look of utter outrage. ‘How can you be so mean to the poor little puss-cat?’
‘Er, you two—’ Fergus tried stepping in between us, but then Bob-Stupid-Cupid started kicking off.
‘You shut it right now!’ he warned me again in a low growl that was gaining in volume every second. ‘If this gorgeous babe wants to look after me and give me a new name, that’s her lookout,’ he said. ‘Happens to us cats all the time. I couldn’t give a haddock’s armpit what I’m called.’ And he rubbed his head against Jazz and purred so loudly it sounded like a swarm of dragonflies had invaded the room.
‘There, see?’ said Jazz with satisfaction. ‘He likes his name! The lickle-ickle sweetheart . . .’
Dad came back in at this point and made an announcement. ‘Bex has gone too. She had to see to Sparky. And, guys,’ he added firmly, ‘it’s getting late. We need to decide what to do with this beast.’
Bob-Cupid growled at Dad, flattening his ears and baring his teeth threateningly.
Dad took a step back and said, ‘Bex reckoned we should call the Cats and Dogs Home and take him there, but if you ask me –’ he glanced at his watch and yawned – ‘I think we should chuck the rascal out, tape up the cat flap with duct tape and go to bed. Fergus, if you want to stay you can have the camp bed in my study. Jazz, if you still want to stay, you can sleep on the pull-out mattress in Bertie’s room like you normally do. We’ll clear up the rest of the dishes in the morning.’
He stood and looked expectantly at us all.
‘Well?’ he said.
No one moved.
Cupid – Bob – whatever his name was – wriggled in Jazz’s arms. ‘No one’s chucking me out!’ he spat. ‘I’ll go quietly, thanks. I know when I’m not wanted.’
I felt a pang in my chest, in spite of my anger. I couldn’t let Dad chuck him out. It was being abandoned in the first place that had caused all the trouble. I was going to say so to Dad, but Jazz got there first.
‘Hey! You are not going anywhere, my little darling!’ she said to the wriggling bundle in her arms.
Boy, I wished she would stop all this lovey-dovey rubbish.
The cat stopped struggling and sneered at me defiantly.
I raised my eyebrows. ‘I’m not the one who suggested chucking you out,’ I hissed.
Dad sighed loudly and said, ‘You know what? I can’t deal with this right now. As long as there are no more noises and no more breakages, I think I’m just going to go to bed and we’ll sort this out in the morning. Jazz, take the cat home with you if you’re so worried about him. Do whatever you like, but just go and get some kip. All of you.’ He turned his back on us before we could protest.
I sighed noisily, but I had to agree with Dad. It was pretty clear we were not going to get a word of sense out of Jazz now that it seemed like a space-shipful of aliens had drilled a hole in her head and sucked all the brains out.
‘Come on, Fergus,’ I said wearily. ‘I’ll help you set up the camp bed. Stay down here for a minute, hey, Jazz? I’ll come back down once I’ve made sure Jaffa’s safely back in my room. I don’t want her seeing Bo— I mean Cupid. OK?’ I peered at Jazz.
But she hadn’t heard a word I’d said: her face was buried in Cupid’s tummy and she was making squeaking noises and giggling, while the cat purred so loudl
y it sounded like he was going to take off. I rolled my eyes and left the pair of them to it.
Fergus and I went up to Dad’s study. We went in quietly and saw Jaffa asleep on Dad’s papers, where I had left her. How she had not heard any of the goings-on downstairs I did not know. She looked so adorable, her eyes tight shut, her face half hidden by her skinny tail, her body rising and falling with each tiny snuffly snore.
‘How could that horrible cat hurt you?’ I whispered.
‘What are you going to do with her tonight?’ Fergus asked as we wrestled with the frame of the camp bed, trying to get it out of Dad’s cupboard without knocking the rest of the contents out on to the floor. ‘Do you want me to look after her in here?’
‘No! She’s sleeping on my bed tonight. If Jazz is so loved-up, she can take Stupid Cupid back to her place,’ I hissed. ‘There’s no way I’m giving him the chance of scaring Jaffsie again.’
‘OK. Don’t get stressy,’ Fergus teased.
I stuck my tongue out at him.
He did the same to me and then paused in thought. ‘I don’t get it, you know,’ he said. ‘I thought Jazz didn’t even like cats.’
‘She doesn’t.’ I puffed out my cheeks and blew at my fringe, which was sticking to my forehead. I gave the bed frame one last tug and finally freed it from a bunch of wire coat hangers and a collection of empty shoeboxes. I made a mental note to remind Dad of the state of that cupboard the next time he had a go at me to tidy my room.
‘Careful!’ Fergus squeaked, staggering back against Dad’s desk as he took the brunt of the frame. He glanced around anxiously. ‘Don’t think your dad would be too impressed if I knocked his scripts all over the floor.’
Jaffa lifted her head sleepily and said, ‘What is the Fergus doing, bumpin’ into things and making a rumpus-noise?’
‘Shhh, don’t worry,’ I said, reaching across and stroking her small head. ‘Go back to sleep.’ I didn’t want to tell her about Cupid just then. Not until he was safely out of the house.
Jaffa settled back snugly on to the paper pile. Dad’s desk was in a worse state than his cupboard, I noticed. I knew he was in the middle of a new play, but it looked more like he was in the middle of fifty-six new plays, if the amount of paper on his desk was anything to go by.
‘Yeah, well, he should be more tidy, shouldn’t he?’ I said in response to Fergus, with a glint in my eye. ‘Listen, what are we going to do about Jazz? It’s like she’s been brainwashed by a weird religious cult or something. Do you think she’s going to try to keep Bob – I mean, Cupid?’
Fergus narrowed his eyes. ‘Why do you keep calling him Bob?’
I blushed and looked away. ‘I . . . I dunno. He just looks like a Bob. There was this guy at my old school called Bob, and he looks a bit like him. He was a big bruiser too!’ I gave a fake laugh. ‘Anyway, you’ve got to admit Bob suits him better than Cupid.’
Fergus spluttered with laughter. ‘Yeah! Actually, almost any name would suit him better than that!’
I said goodnight to Fergus and was still sniggering as I tiptoed along the landing to my room with Jaffa in my arms. But my laughter didn’t last long.
The minute I opened the door, Jaffa went ballistic. She jammed her claws into my arms and her fur stuck up, making her look like a furry orange porcupine. I yowled at her to let go of me, and was so busy wrestling to calm her down that I didn’t see right away what she was squealing about.
‘Bertie! Bertie!’ she shrieked. ‘Jazzer got the nasty Mr Bob-Cat who been a big old bully to Jaffsie! He say I must not tell on him or he really, really goin’ to hurt me! Jazzer got the nasty Mr Bob-Cat! Bertie get the nasty cat away from Jaffsie!’
That was when I took a proper look at the scene before me. Jazz was sitting on my bed clutching a hissing, spitting Cupid while hysterically whispering at him to, ‘Shhhh!’ and, ‘Quieten down and do what Mumsie tells you,’ and threatening, ‘If you don’t be a good boy, we won’t be able to stay here.’
I quickly pulled the door shut behind me while holding on tight to Jaffa. She was desperate to escape, but there was no way I was going to let her. Immediately she proved quite how desperate she was by giving me a sharp nip, forcing me to drop her, at which point she zoomed up on top of the curtain rail, as far away from Jazz and her enemy as was possible. She was screeching with fright, mewling and whining like I had never heard before. She hadn’t been this upset even when we took her to the vet for her vaccinations.
‘Jazz!’ I yelled, opening the door to my room again. ‘What are you doing, bringing that cat up here? I told you I didn’t want to scare Jaffa. She’s gone mental!’ I turned to the cats and called out, ‘You’ve got to quieten down – both of you!’ I paid particular attention to Cupid as I said this.
‘Why are you looking at Cupid like that?’ Jazz asked suspiciously. ‘It’s your kitten that’s making all the noise.’
‘Just shut up and hold on to that . . . that animal while I try to calm Jaffa down,’ I ordered.
Jazz glared at me. ‘I thought you loved animals, Bertie. Just because Cupid has been a naughty boy, there is no need to be nasty to him. He needs love and attention just as much as Jaffa. And I am not letting him out of my sight. We need to be together.’
‘OK, so how do you suggest we organize things tonight then?’ I said bitterly, keeping one eye on Jaffa and one on Cupid. Maybe I’d go so crosseyed my eyeballs would explode, I thought angrily. That would add a nice dimension to the night. ‘I am NOT having that BULLY in my room. And I don’t think your mum would take kindly to you turning up in the middle of the night with a stray moggie under your arm,’ I added pointedly.
‘Will yer stop calling me that?’ Bob growled.
‘Well, what should I call you then?’ I shouted, forgetting myself in my anger.
Jazz didn’t notice though. She was too busy shaking her head and curling her lip at me in disdain. ‘You know what?’ she said. ‘I don’t think Cupid and I want to share a room with you when you’re in this kind of mood anyway. I’ll kip on the sofa. Cupid can keep me warm, can’t you, my little squidgy-kins?’
I let out a whoosh of air and threw my head back in exasperation. ‘ANYTHING,’ I roared, ‘for a bit of peace and quiet and sanity around here.’
17
New Home Sweet Home?
The next morning I found Fergus in the kitchen, clearing up the remains of the meal from the night before. He had swept up the fragments from the broken plate and had even put the kettle on and laid the table for breakfast.
‘Least I could do.’ He smiled bashfully. ‘I couldn’t help thinking you might like a hand. And I’m not sure you’re going to get any help from Jazz. She just stormed out into the garden, after I tried to explain that she would have to let us find a home for the cat.’
‘What?’ I mumbled blearily. My brain was not fully in gear yet after the disrupted night I’d had. Even once Jazz and Bob-Cupid had finally gone downstairs, my poor traumatized kitten had refused to come down from the curtain pole and it had taken a lot of persuading to stop her hysterical mewling. I was bushed. I rubbed my eyes and ran a hand through my hair.
Fergus leaned the broom he was using against the edge of the table and grabbed the dustpan and brush. As he knelt to gather the small pile of rubbish he’d swept up he said, ‘The thing is, I know your dad thought the cat belonged to a family who’d moved away, but I was thinking that we should at least put up posters or something. Just in case. I mean . . .’ He hesitated. ‘I remember how upset you were when Mum took Jaffa in, thinking she was a stray.’ He looked up at me.
I let slip a small smile. Of course, I knew that Dad’s presumption had been correct, because Bob – sorry, Cupid – had said as much himself. He had been abandoned by his owners. I just wasn’t sure I wanted his new owner to be my best friend. For a start it would mean he would be living a bit too close for comfort. What if he took it into his head to keep on coming round to terrorize Jaffa whenever he felt like it?
I decided to play along with the poster idea.
‘Yeah, you’re right. We probably should make some posters.’ I yawned and stretched. ‘Give me that.’ I gestured to the dustpan full of grot. ‘I’ll get rid of it and you make some tea. When Dad gets down we can hatch a plan.’
‘What’s this? Not another plan?’ Dad had emerged, looking as rough as I felt: his hair sticking up in freaky clumps and his eyes baggy with lack of sleep. He was cleaning his glasses on the edge of his pyjama top and blinking like a tortoise coming out of hibernation.
Fergus busied himself with the mugs and tea bags, probably embarrassed at the sight of Dad in his PJs. I cringed – couldn’t he at least have pulled on jeans and a T-shirt? ‘Er, yeah, we were just talking about finding out who B— the cat’s real owners were,’ I said. Go and get dressed! I shouted at him in my head.
Dad peered at me and then put his glasses on. ‘Ah, that’s better,’ he said. ‘I can see who I’m talking to now . . . Blimey, Bertie, you look a sight!’
‘Huh!’ I retorted. ‘You can talk.’
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Fergus said, a bit too loudly.
Dad’s face changed abruptly from miffed-with-his-daughter to chuffed-with-his-guest. ‘That would be lovely, Fergus,’ he beamed, managing nevertheless to shoot me a narrow-eyed look at the same time. He pulled back a chair and plonked himself down, yawning again.
‘So,’ I said, carefully taking a mug of tea from Fergus. ‘Are you sure that cat belongs to the Morrises?’
Dad shrugged, gulping his scalding tea. His glasses steamed up. He swallowed painfully and then said in a rasping voice, ‘Not one hundred per cent sure.’
‘Fergus thinks we need to be certain,’ I said.
‘It would be awful if we found him a new home while all the time there was a family out there missing him like crazy,’ Fergus added.
