big.’ I showed him with my hands exactly how tiny my little Jaffa was. About the size of a grapefruit – I could still hold her in one
hand. The last time I’d held her, anyway. ‘But we don’t know exactly how old she is. She was given to us, you see. By – by the lady who owns the house you’re living
in, as it happens.’
Fergus smiled. ‘Oh, Fenella Pinkington.’
I found myself smiling too. ‘Yeah. Pinkella!’
Fergus laughed. ‘Great nickname – wish I’d thought of that! Makes sense when you see the walls and carpets. Mum’ll crack up when I tell her.’
I was horrified. ‘You can’t tell your
mum
! She might tell Pink— I mean, Ms Pinkington, and I’d hate that. She was really nice to me,’ I tailed off,
pathetically.
Fergus shrugged. I could tell he thought I was a right doofus. ‘So – your kitten,’ he prompted.
‘So?’ Was he humouring me?
‘Tell me what she’s like. Apart from being small.’
‘I – well, she’s mega-cute. I called her Jaffa cos she’s gingery-orange. Made me think of Jaffa Cakes? Oh, and she’s a bit white too. And she seemed really happy
with us to start with, and then we had to take her to the vet for her jabs and stuff, and ever since then—’
‘Sorry,’ said Fergus, interrupting my stream of babble. ‘Did you say she was ginger?’ He was looking anxious again.
‘Yeah, unusual for a female cat, I know,’ I said airily, hoping I sounded knowledgeable.
‘No, it’s not that. It’s just, I . . .’ He faltered, suddenly looking ill at ease.
‘Yes?’
‘No, really. It’s nothing. Er, listen, are you doing anything right now? Do you want to maybe go to the park or something?’
Where did that come from? I thought, my forehead creasing into a frown. Why would he want to go to the park? With me? He was definitely winding me up now.
‘No thanks,’ I said firmly. ‘I need to look for Jaffa and I don’t think she could have gone all that way.’
He chewed his lip and then said in a totally over-the-top fake careless manner: ‘It’s OK. I only asked as I was going to the park anyway. Might call on your mate Jazz and ask her if
she’s free.’
‘Fine,’ I said, turning on my heel. ‘See you around.’
‘Yeah, see you!’ Fergus called out.
‘Oh.’ I swivelled back. ‘And if you do see a small ginger kitten, you will let me know, won’t you?’
Fergus glanced away quickly. ‘Uh-huh.’ He nodded casually. Then stuffing his hands deep into his pockets, he turned round very slowly and slouched off in the direction of
Jazz’s house.
11
Now We’re Talking!
D ad was in the hall, beaming all over his face when I got in.
‘What’s up?’ I asked gloomily.
‘Look who’s here!’ he said, gesturing towards the sitting room with a ‘Daa-daaaa!’ and a flourish of his hands, as if he’d just pulled a white rabbit out of a
top hat.
Actually, it was better than that.
‘JAFFSIE!’ I yelled, my whole face lighting up with joy. I stopped myself just in time from running towards her and frightening the life out of her, and instead I tiptoed up to my
little kitten and scooped her into my arms for a gentle cuddle. ‘Where have you been?’ I whispered, rubbing my nose softly against her fur.
She whipped round and sank her tiny, needle-sharp teeth into my hand. ‘Miaaaaaow! None of Bertie’s business.’
‘Wh—aaaaaa?’ I nearly dropped her.
‘Hey, that was some noise! Did she scratch you?’ Dad asked, leaping to my side.
‘I – yes, but it wasn’t . . .’ I stammered. She
had
spoken to me, hadn’t she? Or had I imagined it in my excitement?
‘Grrrrrooowl!’ Jaffa let out a low warning snarl.
And then (I was absolutely sure of this) I heard her say something, so soft that it came out in a hiss: ‘Don’t you be telling that man
nothin’
.’
I gasped.
‘She’s hurt you, hasn’t she?’ Dad said, looking concerned. ‘Give her to me,’ he went on, stretching out his arms. ‘Blimey! Who
hand. The last time I’d held her, anyway. ‘But we don’t know exactly how old she is. She was given to us, you see. By – by the lady who owns the house you’re living
in, as it happens.’
Fergus smiled. ‘Oh, Fenella Pinkington.’
I found myself smiling too. ‘Yeah. Pinkella!’
Fergus laughed. ‘Great nickname – wish I’d thought of that! Makes sense when you see the walls and carpets. Mum’ll crack up when I tell her.’
I was horrified. ‘You can’t tell your
mum
! She might tell Pink— I mean, Ms Pinkington, and I’d hate that. She was really nice to me,’ I tailed off,
pathetically.
Fergus shrugged. I could tell he thought I was a right doofus. ‘So – your kitten,’ he prompted.
‘So?’ Was he humouring me?
‘Tell me what she’s like. Apart from being small.’
‘I – well, she’s mega-cute. I called her Jaffa cos she’s gingery-orange. Made me think of Jaffa Cakes? Oh, and she’s a bit white too. And she seemed really happy
with us to start with, and then we had to take her to the vet for her jabs and stuff, and ever since then—’
‘Sorry,’ said Fergus, interrupting my stream of babble. ‘Did you say she was ginger?’ He was looking anxious again.
‘Yeah, unusual for a female cat, I know,’ I said airily, hoping I sounded knowledgeable.
‘No, it’s not that. It’s just, I . . .’ He faltered, suddenly looking ill at ease.
‘Yes?’
‘No, really. It’s nothing. Er, listen, are you doing anything right now? Do you want to maybe go to the park or something?’
Where did that come from? I thought, my forehead creasing into a frown. Why would he want to go to the park? With me? He was definitely winding me up now.
‘No thanks,’ I said firmly. ‘I need to look for Jaffa and I don’t think she could have gone all that way.’
He chewed his lip and then said in a totally over-the-top fake careless manner: ‘It’s OK. I only asked as I was going to the park anyway. Might call on your mate Jazz and ask her if
she’s free.’
‘Fine,’ I said, turning on my heel. ‘See you around.’
‘Yeah, see you!’ Fergus called out.
‘Oh.’ I swivelled back. ‘And if you do see a small ginger kitten, you will let me know, won’t you?’
Fergus glanced away quickly. ‘Uh-huh.’ He nodded casually. Then stuffing his hands deep into his pockets, he turned round very slowly and slouched off in the direction of
Jazz’s house.
11
Now We’re Talking!
D ad was in the hall, beaming all over his face when I got in.
‘What’s up?’ I asked gloomily.
‘Look who’s here!’ he said, gesturing towards the sitting room with a ‘Daa-daaaa!’ and a flourish of his hands, as if he’d just pulled a white rabbit out of a
top hat.
Actually, it was better than that.
‘JAFFSIE!’ I yelled, my whole face lighting up with joy. I stopped myself just in time from running towards her and frightening the life out of her, and instead I tiptoed up to my
little kitten and scooped her into my arms for a gentle cuddle. ‘Where have you been?’ I whispered, rubbing my nose softly against her fur.
She whipped round and sank her tiny, needle-sharp teeth into my hand. ‘Miaaaaaow! None of Bertie’s business.’
‘Wh—aaaaaa?’ I nearly dropped her.
‘Hey, that was some noise! Did she scratch you?’ Dad asked, leaping to my side.
‘I – yes, but it wasn’t . . .’ I stammered. She
had
spoken to me, hadn’t she? Or had I imagined it in my excitement?
‘Grrrrrooowl!’ Jaffa let out a low warning snarl.
And then (I was absolutely sure of this) I heard her say something, so soft that it came out in a hiss: ‘Don’t you be telling that man
nothin’
.’
I gasped.
‘She’s hurt you, hasn’t she?’ Dad said, looking concerned. ‘Give her to me,’ he went on, stretching out his arms. ‘Blimey! Who
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