Kitten Catastrophe by Anna Wilson Page B

elbows.
    ‘Hi,’ I said shyly.
    Fiona looked up. ‘Ah, Bertie. This is Nev Greenshield. From the
Naturewatch
team.’
    ‘Hi,’ said Nev. He was so tall I was worried I might get a stiff neck from looking up at him. He was really skinny too: all arms and legs like a daddy-long-legs. Maybe he wore such baggy clothes to hide how thin he was. He smiled warmly. I was going to like Nev, I decided. He seemed like a real gentle giant.
    ‘Come in,’ I said, stepping aside. ‘I’ll get Dad.’
    Nev had to stoop to avoid banging his head on the door frame. Fiona followed him and I stood there, waiting.
    Fiona looked puzzled. ‘You can shut the door now, Bertie. It’s just us.’
    ‘Oh, I, er . . . I thought you might want to bring all the equipment in,’ I said, glancing out to see if they’d left any bags on the path.
    Nev held up a black bag a bit like a bulky laptop case. ‘All in here,’ he said.
    Jazz had joined us, still muttering about Bex having ‘no idea’ how to order a takeaway. She took one look at Nev and his little black bag and said, ‘Is that it?’
    I had to admit, it didn’t look very impressive.
    Fiona let out a tinkling laugh. ‘Don’t look so disappointed, dear. Nev knows what he’s doing, I can assure you.’
    Jazz curled her lip in disgust. ‘Sure,’ she said, hands on hips.
    Fergus rolled his eyes. ‘Jazz, she’s right. Nev
does
know what he’s doing.’
    ‘This is all I normally use in the field,’ Nev explained, thankfully unfazed by Jazz. ‘I’ll unpack and talk you through it, shall I?’
    Dad finally emerged. ‘Ah! You must be Nev – pleasure to meet you. I’m Nigel.’ He beamed and held out his hand. Nev took it and pumped it up and down energetically. ‘Come through into the kitchen. We’re just sorting out some supper. There’s plenty for everyone.’
    We followed Dad into the kitchen, where Bex was laying out foil dishes of steaming food. She looked rather alarmed at the number of people who were crowding into the room, but did a quick headcount and went to get plates. Fergus and I busied ourselves sorting out drinks while Jazz pestered Nev with questions about life as a cameraman. Fiona finished off most of Nev’s sentences for him. Poor guy, I thought, looking over at him. Working with Fiona must be even worse than working with that bonkers bird-watching guy on the telly, the one with the beard as big as a golden eagle’s nest and the temper like a wasps’ nest.
    Dad stepped in and offered some food round, prising Jazz away from Nev.
    ‘I’ll have something in a minute if that’s OK,’ Nev said. ‘Let’s get the gear sorted first.’
    I was quite happy to leave the mayhem in the kitchen and go with Nev into the utility room.
    ‘That’s the cat flap – what’s left of it!’ I showed him the plastic door hanging limply from its frame.
    ‘OK,’ said Nev, checking out the room. ‘I reckon if I fix the camera to the top of that cupboard and angle it at the cat flap . . .’ He started fiddling around, moving things out of the way, stepping back to look through the lens, making adjustments, pressing buttons, and so on.
    ‘Are you all right in here for a bit?’ I asked. Nev nodded, not looking up from his gadgets.
    I went to my room to find my kitten. I needed to tell her what was going on.
    ‘Jaffsie!’
    I scanned the room.
    ‘Jaffa? Where are you?’ Oh no, she hadn’t gone and done one of her famous escapology routines, had she?
    But then I heard a squeaking noise from across the landing. I tracked it down to Dad’s study.
    ‘Jaffa?’
    My cheeky little cat was curled up on Dad’s desk on top of a pile of papers: a cute, furry paperweight.
    ‘What are you doing in here?’ I admonished. ‘I shut you into my room to keep you safe.’
    ‘Borin’ in Bertie’s room all the time!’ she mewed pitifully. ‘Bertie’s door was open a teeny-tiny bit, so me did get one little paw in the gap, and me did puuuush and puuuush and use all of me’s