Kitten Kaboodle (5 page)

‘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.

D
ad 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 messy 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?’