things had
been lately, even if I was going to have to sit through this rubbish.
We snuggled down and Jazz fiddled about with the remote. The screen blazed with light and noise and I groaned inwardly as a bunch of people with weird clothes and horrible hair started screaming
and whooping and yelling about how being on
Who’s Got Talent?
was their ‘dream come true’ and it had been ‘just the most incredible journey’ and how it had
‘changed their lives forever’. Jazz was whooping and yelling in agreement and seemed to have completely forgotten that I was there.
I was just thinking that maybe I should slip away quietly and get back to Jaffa, when Jazz’s mum came into the room.
‘Hi, Bertie! Haven’t seen you for a while. You OK?’
I nodded. ‘Yes, thanks.’
‘Great!’ She smiled her huge, glossy smile which always made a warm feeling spread like sunshine inside me. ‘Want to hear some interesting news?’
Jazz frowned. ‘Shh!’ she snapped.
Jazz’s mum went over to the TV and turned it off, silencing her daughter’s protests with a don’t-start-with-me-young-lady look in her big brown eyes. ‘You shouldn’t
be watching telly on a lovely day like this!’
‘B-but—!’ Jazz started.
‘Jazz,’ Mrs B said, a dangerous note of warning creeping into her voice. Then she looked at me and grinned apologetically. ‘So, as I was saying. You know those new
neighbours?’
Jazz crossed her arms and flicked her head back stroppily. ‘What about them?’ she said, trying to sound like she didn’t give a stuff.
But her eyes were shining. I focused on not smirking. Jazz couldn’t wait to meet that boy she’d told me about. It was so obvious.
Mrs Brown immediately drew herself up to her full height, squaring up to her daughter. It was always a pretty impressive sight when Jazz and her mum had a face-off. I quite enjoyed being a
spectator, but deep down was relieved I was not involved. Put it this way: when Jazz’s mum was putting on her tough act, I could see where her youngest daughter got it from.
‘I thought Bertie would like to know – seeing as she’s going to be living opposite these people,’ Mrs Brown began tartly, ‘that Mr Smythe told me—’
‘Mr Smythe! Whoo! Hamster Man!’ Jazz crowed, putting her hands up to her face as if she were nibbling a carrot and twitching her nose in a realistic impression of a giant
hamster.
‘Ja-azz!’ I protested, embarrassed at her impersonation. It was true, Mr Smythe did act as rodenty as his hamsters, Houdini and Mr Nibbles, but even so it was mortifying seeing Jazz
take the mickey out of him in front of her mum.
‘Sor-reeeee!’ Jazz drawled, wobbling her head at me.
Mrs Brown sucked her teeth. ‘OK, OK, I know he’s a bit strange. But he’s always been friendly to me. And anyway, he gave me some good advice about looking after guinea
pigs,’ she said, looking at me. ‘Heaven knows no one in
this
household seems to be taking an interest.’ She glared at Jazz. ‘Anyway, I’m getting off the point.
Mr Smythe says that the removal vans may arrive tonight, ahead of the family. You should probably tell your dad, Bertie. Oh yes, and he said these people may only be here for a short time –
they’re renting Fenella’s place. She’s not going to sell her house in case she wants to come back.’
My heart fluttered like a trapped moth at the words ‘come back’. Did this mean I might see Kaboodle again soon? I would love to be able to ask him more questions about Jaffa. Where
had she really come from? How come I couldn’t seem to understand her? How could I get her to calm down and be less skittish around me? But my excitement faded at Mrs Brown’s next
words.
‘ – but it seems that’s not going to be any time soon. Her career’s really taken off since your dad wrote that play for her, Bertie, and she’s been offered loads of
work. Apparently she’s got to travel a lot, so she’s decided to let out her
been lately, even if I was going to have to sit through this rubbish.
We snuggled down and Jazz fiddled about with the remote. The screen blazed with light and noise and I groaned inwardly as a bunch of people with weird clothes and horrible hair started screaming
and whooping and yelling about how being on
Who’s Got Talent?
was their ‘dream come true’ and it had been ‘just the most incredible journey’ and how it had
‘changed their lives forever’. Jazz was whooping and yelling in agreement and seemed to have completely forgotten that I was there.
I was just thinking that maybe I should slip away quietly and get back to Jaffa, when Jazz’s mum came into the room.
‘Hi, Bertie! Haven’t seen you for a while. You OK?’
I nodded. ‘Yes, thanks.’
‘Great!’ She smiled her huge, glossy smile which always made a warm feeling spread like sunshine inside me. ‘Want to hear some interesting news?’
Jazz frowned. ‘Shh!’ she snapped.
Jazz’s mum went over to the TV and turned it off, silencing her daughter’s protests with a don’t-start-with-me-young-lady look in her big brown eyes. ‘You shouldn’t
be watching telly on a lovely day like this!’
‘B-but—!’ Jazz started.
‘Jazz,’ Mrs B said, a dangerous note of warning creeping into her voice. Then she looked at me and grinned apologetically. ‘So, as I was saying. You know those new
neighbours?’
Jazz crossed her arms and flicked her head back stroppily. ‘What about them?’ she said, trying to sound like she didn’t give a stuff.
But her eyes were shining. I focused on not smirking. Jazz couldn’t wait to meet that boy she’d told me about. It was so obvious.
Mrs Brown immediately drew herself up to her full height, squaring up to her daughter. It was always a pretty impressive sight when Jazz and her mum had a face-off. I quite enjoyed being a
spectator, but deep down was relieved I was not involved. Put it this way: when Jazz’s mum was putting on her tough act, I could see where her youngest daughter got it from.
‘I thought Bertie would like to know – seeing as she’s going to be living opposite these people,’ Mrs Brown began tartly, ‘that Mr Smythe told me—’
‘Mr Smythe! Whoo! Hamster Man!’ Jazz crowed, putting her hands up to her face as if she were nibbling a carrot and twitching her nose in a realistic impression of a giant
hamster.
‘Ja-azz!’ I protested, embarrassed at her impersonation. It was true, Mr Smythe did act as rodenty as his hamsters, Houdini and Mr Nibbles, but even so it was mortifying seeing Jazz
take the mickey out of him in front of her mum.
‘Sor-reeeee!’ Jazz drawled, wobbling her head at me.
Mrs Brown sucked her teeth. ‘OK, OK, I know he’s a bit strange. But he’s always been friendly to me. And anyway, he gave me some good advice about looking after guinea
pigs,’ she said, looking at me. ‘Heaven knows no one in
this
household seems to be taking an interest.’ She glared at Jazz. ‘Anyway, I’m getting off the point.
Mr Smythe says that the removal vans may arrive tonight, ahead of the family. You should probably tell your dad, Bertie. Oh yes, and he said these people may only be here for a short time –
they’re renting Fenella’s place. She’s not going to sell her house in case she wants to come back.’
My heart fluttered like a trapped moth at the words ‘come back’. Did this mean I might see Kaboodle again soon? I would love to be able to ask him more questions about Jaffa. Where
had she really come from? How come I couldn’t seem to understand her? How could I get her to calm down and be less skittish around me? But my excitement faded at Mrs Brown’s next
words.
‘ – but it seems that’s not going to be any time soon. Her career’s really taken off since your dad wrote that play for her, Bertie, and she’s been offered loads of
work. Apparently she’s got to travel a lot, so she’s decided to let out her
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