Kitten Smitten (13 page)

‘Fine,’ I cut in quickly. This was just the diversion I needed, even if it involved ‘Bex’, I thought irritably. ‘We’ll be in the kitchen.’

Dad was already dialling the number for Paws for Thought. I vaguely wondered why he hadn’t needed to look it up in the telephone directory, but was too preoccupied with the purring bundle
in my arms to follow this thought through.

I scurried to the kitchen and shut the door behind me, then, lifting Jaffa to my face, I said, ‘So tell me, am I imagining it? Or can you really talk?’

Jaffa’s icy blue eyes closed in a slow blink and then she stopped purring and in a tiny muffled voice said, ‘Of course me can talk. You ninny.’

I laughed out loud. ‘Ha! I knew you could. I knew Kaboodle wouldn’t have left me with a cat that couldn’t talk!’

Jaffa’s ears went flat and she hissed in annoyance. ‘All cats talk, silly-billy. Humans too busy rushy-rushy to notice.’

I frowned. ‘That’s not true,’ I said. ‘I’ve been trying to get you to talk to me ever since you arrived.’ Jaffa lifted one paw and examined it absent-mindedly
before spreading out her toes to wash in between them.

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ I blurted out. ‘I know you cats like to think before you act and wash before you think and all that, but I think I’m entitled to an
explanation, don’t you?’

Jaffa wriggled and said tetchily, ‘Me want go down!’

I tutted, but set her down gently on the table and drew up a chair so that we could face each other more easily. ‘So?’ I persisted. ‘Why didn’t you talk to me before
now?’

‘Like the horrid iron-claw lady say – kittens not talk right away,’ she said, with an edge to her voice that seemed to imply that I really was incredibly stupid.

I frowned, puzzled. Horrid iron-claw lady?

‘Me not going there again. Ever,’ Jaffa added emphatically.

Aaaah! Light dawned in my dim and befuddled brain. ‘You mean the vet?’ I said. ‘That wasn’t her claws: we took you to the vet for an injection!’ I almost laughed,
but saw that Jaffa was giving me an if-you-were-a-mouse-I-would-kill-you-right-here-and-now look. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said hastily. ‘I really am. I know injections are nasty, but
it’s only so you don’t get sick.’

‘Me nearly
was
sick after nasty lady stuck claws in me,’ Jaffa said, her voice getting more audible the more indignant she became. She thrust her tiny pink nose in the air.
‘And there was horrid long twisty-turny scary creature too.’

The snake! I hadn’t even realized Jaffa had noticed it in all the excitement.

I thought she was about to turn her back on me in a sulk, but she opened one eye and then said, ‘You
sure
I not go again to this –
vet
person . . .?’

I chewed my lip. I couldn’t really promise that, could I? What about the follow-up vaccinations Dad had mentioned? And what if Jaffa ever got sick or needed an operation or something?

‘There’s nothing to worry about, Jaffa,’ I said in as soothing a voice as I could manage.

Jaffa opened her other eye and stretched her mouth into what looked strangely like a smile. She purred long and loud and nuzzled her soft head against my hand. ‘All right,’ she said.
‘But who is the “Jaffa” you keep sayin’?’

I giggled. ‘That’s you! It’s the name I chose for you.’

Jaffa sat back on her haunches, her eyes half closed as if she were thinking hard. ‘No, no, no . . .’ she said, shaking her head slightly. She turned swiftly and gave her shoulder a
lick. ‘Me Perdita. Mum said.’

Panic lurched in my stomach. Did Jaffa even know that she’d been taken from her mum? She was still such a tiny baby. Maybe she didn’t realize? What had Kaboodle told her? Was that
why she’d disappeared for so long – to try and find her mum?

‘Er, yes, that’s what your mum called you, but we humans are muppets when it comes to cat names,’ I improvised, remembering the disparaging way Kaboodle used to talk about my
human failings. ‘We, er, we can never pronounce names like Per-per-wotsit. So we always give our cats a new name when they come to live with us. So you’re Jaffa,’ I explained.

Jaffa stood up quickly and arched her back in alarm. ‘Livin’ with you? Me not stayin’ here
all
of the times!’ she said. ‘Me come and go when me wants. That
is what cats does. Mum said.’

A lump rose in my throat. I put out my hand and tried to stroke her to reassure her, but she hissed and backed away. ‘Jaffa,’ I said gently, ‘you do live here. This is where
your home is – and your food,’ I added, thinking this might persuade her.

‘But me gets food in other place too,’ she said, puzzled. ‘And me not called Jaffa there.’

‘Er – what other place?’ I asked, the lump in my throat growing larger by the second.

‘Other place,’ Jaffa repeated, her head on one side as if shrugging. ‘Prawns in other place,’ she added. And I was positive she smiled as she said this.

‘Jaffa,’ I said slowly, ‘I need to know where this other place is.’

‘Why?’

‘Because – because I need to tell the people there that you’re my cat.’

‘Why?’

‘Because they have to know that they shouldn’t feed you.’

‘Why?’

‘Because, for a start, we’re not even sure you should be eating prawns yet.’

‘Why?’

I gritted my teeth. This was like talking to Jazz’s little brother.

‘Because you’re only small, that’s why. And it’s my duty to look after you and feed you and love you.’

I gathered her into my hands before she could let out another ‘why’ and held her close to my face.

She softly licked my cheek with her pink sandpaper tongue.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘Me stays here if you is the food-person.’

Phew! Thank goodness, I thought, letting her rub her face against my cheek. She seemed to have got the message. Maybe everything was going to be all right now that Jaffa and I could understand
one another.

How wrong could I be?

D
ad came into the kitchen just as I had found the prawns in the fridge and w as about to set them in front of Jaffa.

‘Stop!’ he cried, rushing over and snatching the dish away. ‘I spoke to Bex and she said it wasn’t a good idea. She said you have to introduce new food slowly in case
Jaffa gets sick.’ I bristled. ‘Yeah, well, “Bex” would say that, wouldn’t she?’ I was getting really fed up with Dad quoting that woman all the time, like she
was some kind of pet guru. I’d promised Jaffa the prawns. If I went back on my promise, she wouldn’t trust me and might try and run off again.

Dad frowned. ‘Tone of Voice, young lady,’ he admonished. ‘I think Bex knows what she’s talking about. She’s got cats herself, you know, and she’s run Paws for
Thought for ages – ten years, I think she said.’

‘Good for her,’ I muttered, but catching the increasingly grumpy look on Dad’s face, I rolled my eyes and said, ‘OK, OK. What about cream then? Or a tiny bit of
tuna?’

‘Me luuuuurve crrrrream!’ Jaffa purred, rubbing her head against my ankle.

I started in surprise. Who were these people who were giving her prawns and cream? I wished I could get my hands on them. If Jaffa only got boring old kitten food at our place, she was sure to
go off again in search of something more tasty. And if what ‘Bex’ said was true, they were setting me up for a whole bunch of problems: what if Jaffa got sick and I had to take her back
to the vet even sooner than I had to for the injections? She would never forgive me, and then I’d lose her for good.

Dad was chattering away at me as these thoughts bounced around inside my brain. I was so steaming angry – with the mystery catnapping people, with Dad and with blinking ‘Bex’
– that I didn’t catch everything he’d said and only heard: ‘So I think you could give her a tiny amount, but only as a treat.’

‘Sorry?’ I said, irritably.

Dad sighed and shook his head. ‘I
said
you can give her one prawn as a treat and then maybe every day we could introduce a little more variety into her diet.’

‘Right,’ I said abruptly, unimpressed.

‘OK, well, “Thanks, Dad, for finding all that information for me.” “You’re welcome, Bertie. Any time.”’ H e glared at me, but I busied myself with
chopping one measly prawn up into lots of tiny bits so that it looked like more, and arranged it on a saucer for Jaffa.

Dad huffed and finally left the room when it became clear I was not in a chatty mood.

‘Maybe you’ll cheer up now Jaffa’s back?’ he called over his shoulder.

Maybe, I thought. But the rate at which Jaffa had wolfed down the prawn and the pleading way she was now looking up at me left me with a sinking feeling that I had rather a big competition on my
hands.

It turned out my sinking feeling was not just that. It was fact. Jaffa disappeared again the next day while Dad was hanging out the washing.

‘Dad!’ I yelled at him. ‘How could you have left the door open AGAIN? After all I’ve just been through.’

Dad’s face darkened. ‘Don’t talk to me like that,’ he warned. ‘I think you’re being a little bit dramatic, Bertie. It’s not as if Jaffa didn’t
come back, is it? And you’re going to have to get used to her coming and going as she gets older. Listen,’ he said, holding up a hand as I started to protest, ‘I’m getting
fed up with all the SAS tactics necessary to keep Jaffa inside, to be honest. How do you think I am supposed to do the laundry if I keep having to close the door behind me? I need to be able to
come and go without watching my back all the time.’

‘You could have shut Jaffa in another room first!’ I wasn’t going to be shouted down that easily. Dad didn’t know what I knew about the ‘other place’. And I
could hardly tell him, as I didn’t have any proof other than the fact that my kitten had told me.

‘Bertie, I’m sick of this. If you become this frazzled every time Jaffa goes out for a pee or to chase a mouse or something, maybe you’re just not cut out for
cat-ownership,’ he snapped.

I froze. ‘B-but you love Jaffsie,’ I said in a quiet voice, not unlike Jaffa’s own.

Dad’s shoulders relaxed and he came over and gave me a hug. ‘Of course I do, darling,’ he said. ‘And I’m sorry, that came out wrong because you shouted at me and I
lost my rag. But, Bertie love, you’ve got to try and get some perspective on this. Jaffa’s not a dog: you can’t keep her on a lead. I know we’re supposed to try and keep her
in, but if she’s as determined as this to get out, I don’t see what we can do. She’ll come back again, I promise.’

I drew back from his hug and gave him a sceptical look.

‘And if she doesn’t come back right away,’ Dad said wearily, ‘I’ll go looking for her myself, even if it means knocking on people’s doors, OK? Now, go and do
something useful like tidying your bedroom – or give Jazz a call and sort out your differences, eh? I’ve got to get on.’

I grunted and left the room while he whisked around, tidying up the kitchen. I went into the sitting room, grabbed a book and flopped on to our low window sill. It wasn’t the comfiest of
seats, but it meant I could pretend to read while keeping an eye out on the road to see if Jaffa was darting between our neighbours’ houses.

I tried to distract myself by reading a couple of lines of my book, but I’d never been much of a reader and it took too much concentration to get back into the story. Besides, my bum hurt,
perching on the window sill like that. I couldn’t settle. I threw the book down and pulled out my mobile to check my messages.

Nothing. No voicemails either. Jazz wasn’t going to be making the first move then, I thought miserably.

I toyed with the idea of going round there on the pretext of asking if she’d seen Fergus. It might have been fun to see the look on her face if I casually mentioned that I’d met him
and that he’d asked me to the park. But I knew where that would lead, and I wasn’t up for a fight. I thought about saying I’d help her get into the auditions for
Who’s
Got Talent?
That would make her sit up and take notice of me. But then I didn’t exactly have any grand plans about how I was going to make that happen.

As these crazy thoughts fizzed and popped in my mind, I paced around the room, circling the carpet the way Dad does in his study when he’s stuck on a scene and doesn’t know what to
write. I was making my third or fourth tour of the room when I heard a soft ‘Meeeeew’ from outside.