Kitten Smitten

by Anna Wilson

  Immediately Dad said this, Jaffa jabbed me – hard – with her pointy claws, leaped out of my arms and disappeared out of the kitchen, a blur of white and orange.

  ‘Yow! Go after her, Dad!’ I screamed, rubbing my arm.

  Dad swivelled his head back and forth, the spoon still in one hand. He looked like a crazy meerkat up on its hind legs staring manically with huge wide eyes. It would have been funny if I weren’t in such a panic.

  ‘Where’s she gone?’ Dad shouted. He darted out of the room into the hall and then sped around the house, checking in all the rooms under tables, chairs, wardrobes, beds.

  I chased after him, shouting, ‘This is your fault, Dad! You should never have mentioned the vet.’

  Dad stopped in his tracks and glared at me. ‘What are you on about?’ he demanded. ‘What’s the vet got to do with this?’

  I huffed dramatically. ‘You know what a horrendous time she had this morning, and then you go and tell her she’s got to go back there in four weeks’ time!’

  Dad put his hands on my shoulders and stared into my eyes. I was vaguely aware of the spoon dripping sauce down my back. ‘Bertie,’ he said slowly, ‘Jaffa is a kitten. She can’t understand us.’

  Whoops! ‘Y-y-yeah, I know that,’ I faltered and looked shiftily away. ‘It’s just . . . why else would she shoot off like that the moment you mention the vet?’ My voice was rising and I could feel my chest knotting in panic. I didn’t want Dad to start suspecting anything about my attempts at cat-communication, but on the other hand, I had to get my point across. He couldn’t go round saying things that might possibly upset Jaffa. ‘Sh-she was quite happy and cosy in my arms until you said the word ‘injection’, that’s all. You know what they say about cats and their sixth sense . . .’ I tailed off before I dug myself in any deeper.

  Luckily Dad seemed more concerned about me being upset than losing my marbles. ‘She’s probably hiding in a corner somewhere,’ he said calmly. ‘After all, she is so small – she could get into the narrowest gap.’

  I nodded miserably. It wasn’t as if Jaffa could get out of the house. I glanced into the utility room.

  ‘Dad! Why is the back door open?’ I shouted.

  Dad whirled round and ran into the garden. ‘Oh no!’ he breathed. ‘I opened it to get rid of the smell of onions. You don’t think—?’

  ‘Well, we haven’t found her inside, have we?’ I snarled. ‘Thanks a bunch, Dad. You know we have to keep her in – she’s too young to go roaming the streets,’ I added, borrowing one of Dad’s own favourite phrases.

  He blanched. ‘I’ll go out now and see if I can find her. You stay here and watch the lunch and keep an eye out in case she’s still in the house somewhere.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Please, Bertie,’ Dad said anxiously. ‘She may still be in the house, and there’s no point in the two of us wandering around out there.’

  I could tell he felt really guilty. There was no point in me saying anything else. I would just have to sit tight and wait.

  But of course I didn’t just sit there – I scoured the house from top to bottom. I stood in the bathroom, staring at the ceiling and thinking maybe I should go up into the loft, although I knew that was a fruit-loop idea, as how could a kitten open the latch, get the ladder down and close the latch behind her? But then I’d known stranger things, such as escaping hamsters. And snakes.

  I shuddered.

  I couldn’t bear the thought of Jaffa out there somewhere, lost and scared and all alone. What if she’d run out into someone’s garden and got herself locked in a shed or a garage? What if it was dark and cobwebby? What if she’d been chased by a dog? She’d had enough frights for one day. So had I. I kicked the side of the shower in frustration and then jumped as a high-pitched screaming noise started up in the kitchen.

  ‘The smoke alarm!’

  I raced back down the stairs.

  It was our lunch. I’d left it stewing away, and the sauce had boiled down and become a dark solidifying gluey mess.

  Not that I cared. I wasn’t hungry. Where was Dad? When was he coming back? Would he come back with Jaffa?

  I suddenly felt very small and alone. It crossed my mind that if I still had a mum, she would have stayed with me while Dad went out looking for Jaffa. She would have given me a cuddle and kept me calm. And the lunch would not have been ruined.

  A sob rippled through me as I went to fetch a mop and poked the handle end at the smoke alarm to switch it off, then opened the windows to let the smoke out. No point in keeping the house closed up any more. Jaffa wasn’t there, I knew. I put the pans to soak in the sink and flopped down on the sofa in the sitting room and waited, tears streaming down my face.

  ‘Jazz!’ I said out loud. I should call her and tell her what had happened, then she could keep an eye out for Jaffa too. But then I remembered what she’d said about me being obsessed with the kitten and not interested in anything else.

  Still, it was worth a shot, wasn’t it? She was my best friend after all, and she might just be able to help. Especially if she knew how upset I was.

  I picked up the house phone and dialled her number, praying she’d be in. Praying that she’d want to talk to me.

  I’d just pressed the last number when the front door opened.

  ‘Dad!’ I put the phone down. He was carrying a bundle of something and looking very hot and bothered and he had streaks of dirt down the front of his T-shirt.

  ‘H-have you got her?’ I stammered.

  ‘Yes,’ Dad said, looking sheepish. ‘She was hiding under a car over the road, outside number 15! I went all round the close, and then I saw something flashing under the car as I came round the corner – a pair of bright blue eyes, as it happened. Thank goodness she’s OK.’

  ‘How on earth did you get her out from under the car?’ I asked.

  ‘By sliding under it and talking to her and reassuring her,’ he said, flushing a deep red. What? I was glad I hadn’t been out there in the street with him. What if someone had seen him? ‘I’m beginning to think you might be right about her understanding every word we say,’ Dad added.

  My heart bounced into my mouth and did a backflip. ‘Really?’

  ‘I don’t mean literally,’ he laughed shakily, ‘but put it this way: when I spoke to her in a calm voice and told her everything would be OK and that I was really, really sorry and wouldn’t let her see that bossy old bat at the vet’s again, she came slinking towards me and let me pick her up.’

  ‘But – well, is that true? About not going back? What about the injec—?’

  ‘Don’t!’ Dad said. And then he lowered his voice until he was all but mouthing the words: ‘We’ll talk about it later.’

  I nodded, feeling slightly daft that we were whispering in front of a cat. I held out my arms to Jaffa and Dad put her gently in the palms of my hands and hugged me to him. Good old Dad.

  ‘Welcome home, little sweetheart,’ I breathed. ‘Don’t you go running off again, OK?’

  Jaffa blinked at me and nuzzled my hand with her fluffy head and I felt that heart-racing vibration again. That faint, kitten-style purr.

  Everything was going to be all right. Wasn’t it?

  7

  Hot Gossip

  Ever since the Great Escape, I had been on constant alert, walking around the place like a cat on hot coals in case Jaffa tried to do a runner again. And Dad wasn’t much help because he was really busy with meetings about his latest play.

  ‘Why don’t you call Jazz and at least ask her to come round?’ he said. ‘She could help you keep an eye on Jaffs and it would be company for you.’

  But I couldn’t quite face speaking to Jazz just then. She hadn’t exactly tried to get hold of me since our last conversation (if that’s what you’d call it). Besides, I had Jaffa; I wasn’t lonely.

  ‘It’s OK, Dad,’ I tried to reassure him. ‘I’ve got my hands full with this bouncy kitten! I promise not to open the door or answer the house phone whil
e you’re out. I’m nearly twelve, for goodness sake!’

  When I had Jaffa in my sights and wasn’t worried about her running off, it was fun hunkering down with my kitten with no one else to distract us. I made her some toys from bits of string and paper and spent hours dragging them across the floor and giggling every time she pounced on them. She always looked so proud of herself when she ‘caught’ one.

  She was so cute the way she practised fighting and hunting with shadows, bees and flies. And there was nothing snugglier than curling up in front of the telly with that bundle of fluff on my lap.

  But I had to admit, apart from her purr, which was getting louder by the day, Jaffa did not seem to want to (or be able to) talk to me.

  ‘Come on, little Jaffsie,’ I coaxed. ‘Tell Bertie what you’re thinking, eh?’ I tickled her under her white chin.

  Her purrs increased in volume and she closed her eyes ecstatically, her mouth turned up in what I was sure was a Cheshire Cat grin.

  ‘You like that, don’t you?’ I tried again.

  Her smile widened and she opened one eye.

  I stopped tickling and Jaffa immediately opened both eyes and sat up straight. She put her head on one side and let out a whining mew.

  ‘Oh, so you don’t want me to stop tickling?’ I asked.

  She blinked and rubbed her head against my hand. This was beginning to feel like a conversation! My heart skipped a beat.

  ‘So? Shall I do it some more?’ I pressed on. But apart from purring louder than ever, she didn’t say a word.

  After two days of this, I had to admit that I was getting bored and was in desperate need of some human company.

  So on the third morning, when Dad announced he would be at home, I swallowed my pride and decided to go and see Jazz. What was the worst that could happen? I aked myself, ignoring the nerves that were fizzing around inside me.

  ‘Dad, I’m going round to Jazz’s, OK?’ I peered round the door to his office. Dad was staring at his laptop as if it possessed the key to the secrets of the universe.

  ‘Mmm?’ he said, blinking at me like a dormouse coming out of hibernation.

  ‘You all right?’ I asked. I narrowed my eyes. He looked even more dopey than usual. I hoped he wasn’t getting ill. The last time Dad was ill, he went to bed and pulled the duvet over his head and I thought he was going to die. Turned out to be a cold, but you would have thought he needed open-heart surgery the way he carried on. Jazz’s mum says it’s called Man Flu – Jazz’s dad gets it every winter, apparently.

  ‘Me?’ Dad asked, blinking again. ‘Yeah, I’m – I’ve got a bit stuck on the next scene, that’s all. All those meetings have disrupted my schedule and I’ve literally lost the plot – hahaha! Er, what did you say about Jazz just then?’

  I rolled my eyes at his bad pun. ‘I said I’m going round there, OK? We – er – we need to talk.’

  Dad shook his head. ‘If you say so. Where’s Jaffa?’ he added distractedly.

  ‘I just checked: she’s asleep on my bed. I’ve shut her in there and put a litter tray by the door so you don’t have to bother with her till I get back. I’ll be home for tea,’ I added.

  Dad nodded. He was staring at the screen again. I doubted he’d listened to a word I’d said.

  As I walked round the corner to Jazz’s house, I felt more and more anxious about seeing her again. For the first time in the whole of our friendship, I didn’t really know what I was going to say to her, but I made myself keep putting one foot in front of the other all the way to her house.

  I took a deep breath and rang the doorbell before I could change my mind and leg it back home.

  The door was flung open so fast I gasped and stepped back.

  ‘JA-AZZ! It’s Bertie – you know, the one you were getting all stressy about,’ shouted Ty, Jazz’s younger brother.

  What did that mean?

  Jazz hurtled down the stairs and pushed her brother out of the way. This did not look good. Maybe I should have called first after all. Maybe she wouldn’t want to see me, especially if she was so ‘stressy’ about me that she had told her family about it.

  In one swift gesture, Jazz confirmed all my suspicions: she crossed her arms tightly and stood with one hip sticking out, her lips pursed, creating what can only be described as her seriously-not-amused pose.

  ‘Hi!’ I said. Bit pathetic, but what else was I supposed to say?

  ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘Er . . . hi,’ I repeated.

  ‘Right, is that all? Only I’m kind of busy right now.’

  My stomach squeezed in on itself. I dug my fingernails into the palms of my hands to keep a hold on things.

  ‘Oh,’ I said. Great. It seemed I had lost the power of speech.

  ‘Okaaay,’ Jazz said slowly, looking somewhere over my shoulder as if I was becoming invisible. ‘I’m going to close the door then. It’s getting draughty.’

  ‘Jazz, look! Huckleberry’s climbing up my tummy – whoo. It tickles!’ Ty had re-emerged and there was something crazy going on inside his sweatshirt. It was jumping and wriggling and, wait, was it squeaking too?

  Jazz whirled round and let rip at her brother. ‘Tyson Brown, I’m going to KILL you! Come here!’

  But too late – Ty and the wriggling sweatshirt were off down the hall at full pelt, Jazz screeching after him like a hawk on the attack.

  The door was still open, so I thought I might as well go into the house. I was pretty intrigued about what Ty had done that was making Jazz so mad. And I couldn’t help feeling grateful to him for distracting his sister from giving me the cold shoulder.

  The shrieking and yelling from the kitchen brought Jazz’s big sister, Aleisha, tearing downstairs.

  ‘What on earth—? Oh, hi Bertie.’ She stopped when she caught sight of me and smiled. ‘Good to see you – you and Jazz made up then?’

  Made up? So Jazz had told her whole family we’d had a fight? I must have looked shocked, because Aleisha blushed and stammered, ‘Oh, right, none of my business. But hey, I’d better go and see what the brats are brawling about now. You coming?’

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to now: the noise from the kitchen had reached a new level of hysteria, and added to Jazz’s yelling and Ty’s protestations there was a shriller, more distressed squeaking.

  ‘Break it up, you two!’ Aleisha shouted above the commotion, waving her hands in the air like a referee at a football match. And then: ‘Oh my— Ty, put Huckleberry down NOW!’

  The noise from Jazz and her little brother ceased immediately, and Tyson dropped what he had been wrestling from Jazz’s grasp.

  I screamed. A brown furry thing the size of my shoe ran past me and zipped under the dresser, squeaking furiously as it went.

  ‘Upstairs!’ Aleisha barked at her brother. ‘And you had better coax the poor thing out from under there,’ she told Jazz. ‘You’ll be lucky if it doesn’t have a heart attack after what you two have just put it through.’

  ‘He’s a HE, not an it,’ said Ty sullenly, but catching the steely look in his older sister’s eyes, he ran out of the room.

  Jazz was already on her knees looking under the dresser and muttering something about new trainers getting dirty.

  Aleisha raised one eyebrow at me and said, ‘Good luck,’ and then swept out of the room after Ty.

  Jazz was reaching her arm as far as she could under the dresser and calling out in a high-pitched voice, ‘Come on out, Huckleberry. Come on, cutie-pie. I’m sorry. The nasty boy’s gone now.’

  I shuffled from foot to foot. I had obviously picked a really bad time to come round, but I was pretty hacked off that Jazz wasn’t explaining who or what Huckleberry was. It was obvious he was some kind of animal, but Jazz didn’t have any pets. So why was she suddenly looking after one and why hadn’t she told me?

  ‘Jazz – who is Huckleberry?’ I asked loudly, getting down on my knees beside her.

  She frowned up at me, her arm still stretched out underneath the dresser,
moving from side to side. ‘As if you care,’ she snapped.

  ‘Of course I care!’ I protested, irritation rising up inside me. I sat up and slumped back on to my heels. ‘Jazz,’ I said trying to keep my feelings under control, ‘I’ve obviously done something to really upset you, but believe me, if I knew what it was I’d sort it out—’

  Jazz rolled her eyes. ‘Well, if you don’t know what it is, I can’t help you.’

  She sounded like one of our teachers. I snapped. ‘Listen, Jazz, if you’re going to get all high and mighty with me, forget it. I was going to offer to help you with whatever you’re doing down here, cos after what Aleisha said about heart attacks it sounded serious. But you know what? I think I’ll just go home and leave you to it.’

  I pushed myself up and dusted my jeans down, giving Jazz time to apologize. She didn’t, so I walked out of the room.

  I was heading for the front door, steam coming out of my ears, when I heard her shout, ‘I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Come back, Bert. Please?’

  I turned round to see a dusty, dishevelled Jazz standing in the doorway to the kitchen, cradling a dusty and dishevelled lump of brown fur in her arms.

  Curiosity welled up enough to quash my annoyance, so I walked towards her. It wasn’t until I was up really close that I saw what it was that Jazz was holding.

  ‘Say hi to Huckleberry,’ she said, smiling faintly.

  My stony heart melted.

  ‘Oh my goodness! What a gorgeous little thing!’ I raced over and held out my hands. ‘Can I have a cuddle?’

  Jazz handed the creature over (a little quickly, I noticed). ‘Sure,’ she said.

  Huckleberry had started up a huge racket the minute he was put into my arms, squirming around, squeaking and trying to nibble my sleeve. I giggled. ‘He’s a wriggler, isn’t he?’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ said Jazz with feeling. ‘It turns out guinea pigs are not the nice quiet easy pets I thought they were going to be. Rats with attitude, if you ask me.’ (I chewed my lip to stop myself from smirking: not so long ago, when I first set up my Pet-Sitting Service, Jazz had said she hoped we would get to look after guinea pigs because she ‘luuurrved’ them.) ‘Also turns out my brother has the attention span of the average fruit fly and has already given up on Huckleberry, so it’s down to Guess Who to look after him.’