Authors: Anna Wilson
Kaboodle was washing his chest furiously and refusing to meet my eye. Risking being scratched into oblivion, I scooped him up, catching him unawares. Cupping his little heart-shaped face in my
free hand I said, ‘Tell – me – Kaboodle.’
‘Oh dear,’ he mewed.
I waited, holding on to him as tightly as I could.
Kaboodle wriggled slightly, but gave up when it was obvious he wasn’t going anywhere without me. ‘OK, OK!’ he squealed finally. ‘But let go of me, can’t you?’
I did as he asked and he shook himself irritably. ‘Follow me.’
Kaboodle headed into the house and made his way to the kitchen. I tried to follow in a calm and collected manner, but inside my head I was scream-ing, ‘Let me at ’em!’
We appeared in the doorway of the living room in time to see my Dad on one knee, gazing adoringly at Pinkella while she gushed, ‘Oh my darling man! You are the answer to all my
dreams!’
And Dad replied, ‘No, no, Fenella – it’s you who has made this so perfect.’
A strangled exclamation halfway between a shriek and a sob escaped from my mouth and Dad tore his eyes away from Fenella to see me standing there, my jaw hanging open, my hands limp at my
sides.
‘Bertie!’ he cried.
I turned and ran back out the way I had come, nearly stamping on Kaboodle in the process and causing him to yowl in fright. I didn’t care though. I didn’t care about anything other
than getting away from the appalling scene I had just witnessed.
Dad had asked Pinkella to marry him, and she had just accepted.
Pinkella was going to be my new mum.
I
kept on running until I reached the park where I sat down on a bench and cried and cried and cried.
A few days ago, my only worry had been Kaboodle trying to make off with Houdini and Mr Nibbles as meals on wheels. Now Kaboodle’s owner was the one trying to make off with something: my
dad. And it was pretty obvious where this left me – out in the cold. No wonder that Pink Permutation had sucked up to me so much and asked me to look after her beloved pussy-wussy-catkins.
She’d had her eye on Dad all along. She had used me to get to him. She had—
‘Berrrrrtie?’
It was Kaboodle, purring like a hairdryer on overdrive and winding his way round my legs.
‘Go away!’ I shouted.
A passing man walking his dog gave me a funny look and then walked quickly in the other direction.
‘I’m sorry,’ Kaboodle said softly.
I sighed a wobbly tear-filled sigh and scooped Kaboodle up into my arms without waiting for an invitation. I knew none of this was his fault. I couldn’t speak, though –
couldn’t tell him what was going on in my mind. I was so confused. I ended up burying my face in his fur and breathing in that dark musky smell of his.
Kaboodle purred an even deeper purr and licked my cheek with his sandpaper tongue We sat there, saying nothing, until I began to feel hungry. I didn’t want to go home though, and I
didn’t have any money. I got up and motioned for Kaboodle to follow me. I needed to move around to stop myself from freezing solid.
We walked through the park. We must have looked odd, a girl taking a kitten for a walk, but my mind was on other things.
‘What am I going to do?’ I asked Kaboodle at last. I flumped down on to another bench and settled Kaboodle back on to my lap and stroked him, as much to keep myself warm as to pet
him.
‘You know, Bertie, one good thing could come out of all this,’ Kaboodle said.
‘Oh yeah?’ I snapped. He wasn’t going to try and convince me that Pinkella would be a good mum, like Jazz had the night before, was he?
‘Well, if your dad marries Ms P, you and I will be living together,’ Kaboodle purred.
I nodded quietly. That would be cool. But it didn’t make me change my mind.
‘Let’s go to Jazz’s,’ Kaboodle suggested, breaking the silence.
I must have looked surprised at this suggestion, because Kaboodle put his head on one side and fixed me with a serious look. ‘I hate to admit it but she’s going to be more help to
you than I can ever be,’ he added sadly ‘I can’t exactly offer you a place to stay or give you any food, can I?’ He was right. All I wanted right that minute was for my best
friend to give me a hug and tell me everything was going to be OK. Minutes later I plodded up the driveway to Jazz’s front door, shivering quite violently now rubbing my arms and stomping my
feet to keep warm. Kaboodle sat by me while we waited for someone to come to the door.
‘Shouldn’t you go home?’ I muttered through chattering teeth.
‘No,’ he said simply. ‘I’m not leaving you until I know you’ll be all right.’
A light flicked on in the hall and there was the sound of running footsteps, then Jazz flung open the front door.
‘Thank goodness!’ she screamed and flung her arms round me, whipping my face with her braids. ‘We were so worried.’
‘Eh?’ I mumbled into a mouthful of hair and beads. What was Jazz worried about? She didn’t know I’d run off—
‘Bertie!’
I backed out of Jazz’s arms sharply. I was face to face with Dad.
‘No!’ I cried. ‘I don’t want to talk to you! I don’t want to see you ever again!’
I turned back to the door but Jazz had placed herself firmly in front of it and wouldn’t let me out. Dad came up behind me and put his hands on my shoulders.
‘You’re freezing!’ he said, trying to hug me.
I whirled round and pummelled my fists at him. ‘Get off me!’ I yelled. ‘Get off! Go and find your
girlfriend
and get her to give you a hug.’
‘My WHAT?’ Dad cried.
‘I tried to tell you, Mr F,’ said Jazz.
He caught hold of my elbows and shook me gently. ‘Bertie, what girlfriend?’ he asked, his voice struggling to hide an urgent tone.
‘Oh, please. You know exactly what girlfriend!’ I spat. ‘Pinkella – I mean,
Fen
-ella – Ms PINKINGTON!’ I yelled.
‘Told you,’ said Jazz.
And then Dad did something completely unexpected, and in the circumstances, totally unsettling.
He laughed.
And it wasn’t just a snort or a chortle. It was a full-on, throat-wobbling, belly-exploding, out-of-control eruption that filled the hallway and shook me to my boots. Or trainers. He let
go of my elbows and held his own sides as he fought to get his breath back.
I stood there, glowering at him, hands on hips, waiting for this bout of hysteria to stop. Jazz shrugged and pulled a face as if to say, ‘No idea what that’s all about.’
I tapped my foot impatiently.
Kaboodle, meanwhile, had gone into hiding under the coat stand and whispered, ‘I think you should phone for the vet. He looks as if he needs to be put out of his misery.’
I shot a withering look in his direction and then shouted above the ridiculous cacophony of whooping and wheezing gathering force in front of me, ‘WILL SOMEONE PLEASE TELL ME WHAT IS SO
AMUSING?’
Dad wiped his eyes extravagantly on the back of his sleeve and motioned for me to follow him.
In the kitchen he pulled up a couple of chairs, and still wheezing and hiccuping with the remnants of hysteria, he made it clear he wanted me to sit down. I did, but I was frowning hard and
feeling very confused, not to say hurt. Jazz had followed at a safe distance and stood in the doorway. Her mum appeared over her shoulder and looked as though she was about to ask what was going
on, but the expression on my face probably changed her mind. In any case, she disappeared swiftly, whispering to Jazz and dragging her away by the arm.
Dad reached across the table and took one of my hands. I tried to pull it away, but he held on firmly. ‘Listen, Bertie,’ he said, in a suddenly serious tone that forced me to look
him in the eye, ‘I am not going out with Fenella Pinkington, OK?’ He waited for my reaction. I didn’t satisfy him with one. ‘I’m not going out with
anyone
!
Bertie,you’ve got to believe me! Whatever gave you that idea?’
That’s when I really exploded. ‘OH, I’ve absolutely NO IDEA what could have given me the impression that you and that PINK PERSON were dating!’ I yelled. ‘Now, let
me see . . . could it be that you went out with her last night and shoved me over here to get me out of the way? Or that you’ve spent more time with her these past two days than you’ve
spent with me in the past year? Or that I walked in on you today while you were DOWN ON ONE KNEE AND DECLARING YOUR UNDYING LOVE FOR THE WOMAN?’ I ended, narrowing my eyes at him
witheringly.
I was pleased to see that Dad’s jaw had dropped so low that it was practically lying on the floor. And the temperature in the room seemed to have dropped a few degrees.
The only sound was the fridge humming like a demented wasp.
Eventually Dad closed his mouth. He made a throat-clearing sound and a look of bewilderment crossed his face. ‘Bertie,’ he said finally, and I hardly recognized his voice, it was so
small and hurt, ‘how could you think those things? I’m so sorry.’ He shook his head. ‘I owe you an explanation.’
I nodded a bit shakily, my lips firmly clamped in a tight line, quivering with anticipation and fear. Somewhere deep inside I knew I was being a bit dramatic, but I didn’t care.
Dad blinked, took off his glasses and cleaned them on his shirt. ‘Bertie,’ he said slowly, ‘I’ve been wo rking on something for a while. A private writing project. I
hadn’t told anyone about it because it was just a bit of a dream, really. Pie in the sky. A kind of release from the rubbish I have to write for my job. I never imagined I would actually show
it to anyone. But then I got chatting to Fenella last weekend when she came home early from her, erm, unfortunate experience in Scotland.’
He stopped and looked at me.
‘So?’
Dad took a deep breath and continued. ‘OK, let me start from the beginning,’ he said.
D
ad cleared his throat and shuffled in his chair. I bit my nails nervously. Then he began.
‘Remember Fenella said she’d gone for an audition for a film called
Love, Don’t You Know?’
he asked, ‘and she’d been rejected because the director said
she was too old for a leading role in a romantic comedy? Well, we were chatting about this and how awful and ageist it was, and then Fenella asked me what I did for a living and so I told her about
my dreary job.’
‘What has this got to do with anything?’ I muttered, getting impatient again.
Dad smiled weakly. ‘I was just getting to that,’ he said. ‘I was sympathizing with Fenella about the fact that it gets harder and harder to find interesting jobs once
you’re older, and that it was the younger writers on the newspaper who are picked to cover the best stories. Then suddenly Fenella had a brainwave.’
‘Good grief!’ I muttered. ‘Was it pink, by any chance?’
Dad raised his eyebrows and said, ‘She suggested that I have a go at writing something for her.’
‘What, an article about being “In the Pink”?’ I jeered.
‘No,’ said Dad, completely ignoring my sarcasm. ‘A play!’ His eyes twinkled.
‘A play,’ I repeated, putting my hands on my hips.
‘Yes!’ said Dad. ‘So I said,“Well, it’s funny you should say that because I’ve been writing a play for months in my spare time,” and she said,
“How thrilling!” and asked if she could read it.’ Dad paused as if he was waiting for me to say something, but when it became obvious that I wasn’t going to, he finished,
‘So that’s what we’ve been doing together.’
I still didn’t completely understand. ‘What do you mean? WHAT have you been doing together?’
‘Working on the script!’ Dad beamed. ‘Fenella took the first draft away with her last weekend and asked if we could meet up again last night. She said she would give me some
feedback and promised to be brutally honest. I was so worried that she would think it was a load of nonsense that I didn’t want to tell you about it until she had read it, so I kept it a
secret from you.’
‘Well, thanks a lot, Dad,’ I said. ‘You had a right go at me when I didn’t tell you about the Pet-Sitting Service, and then you go and keep a secret like this from me?
And
let me go around believing you and . . . that woman were going on a date!’
Dad blushed. ‘I know . I’m sorry.’ He looked down at the table and began tracing patterns on the wipe-clean tablecloth, like a child being told off by the teacher.
Poor Dad. He was so excited about this play thing. He just wanted me to be excited about it too.
I came round to his side of the table and put my arms around him and leaned my head on his shoulder.
‘I really am sorry, Bertie,’ he mumbled. ‘I’m a rubbish dad, I know – working all the time, palming you off on Jazz and her family. I just find it so hard
sometimes, keeping things going and doing that stupid, boring old job just to pay the bills. I’ve tried to do my best, y’know,’ he added softly.
I pulled away from him and hoicked myself up on to the table to face him. He looked up at me and smiled faintly. ‘Tell me about this play, then,’ I said, smiling encouragingly.
Dad’s face brightened and he said, ‘Really? You want to know?’
I nodded.
And then he told me that he’d had an idea about a year ago to write a play which was a romantic comedy, and he’d started on it in the eve – nings when I’d gone to bed. It
had become a bit of an obsession though, and soon he found himself wanting to write it at weekends too. He was struggling to meet his deadlines for the newspaper as well as scribbling at his play,
which was why he’d been so away-with-the-fairies most of the time.
‘Anyway, the great thing is that Fenella loves the idea!’ he explained. ‘And she thinks that with her contacts in the theatre and film industries and with my local contacts
through the paper, we could put on our own production of it, right here in town! And on top of that, she thinks this could be just the thing to save the old theatre that everyone’s got so
heated about.’
‘What – the one that’s going to be knocked down and turned into a car park?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ said Dad. ‘That’ll shut the old moaning minnies up – and it’ll make a much better story for the local paper too.’