could coax a whole smile out of him. ‘You know what Jazz is like. Reckons she’s our school’s answer to Madonna. She was doing one of
those routines again and I kind of teased her a bit about her singing, that’s all.’
Dad laughed. ‘You can talk, Roberta Fletcher! The last time I heard you singing in the bath I thought the pipes would burst. It was more like a rusty nail being dragged across a slate
roof-tile than a sweet melody of divine tunefulness.’
‘Huh!’ I said, pretending to be offended, but feeling myself relax at Dad’s change of mood. ‘“Sweet melody of divine tunefulness”? Call yourself a
writer?’
Dad chucked his notepad at me and I whooped and ran away from him.
‘Not so fast, young lady!’ he shouted, grabbing a sponge from the sink and hurling it at me.
I snatched a J-cloth and chucked it back at him and soon we were steaming round and round the kitchen table, giggling and throwing stuff at each other. It was the best fun I’ve had with
Dad for ages.
My phone!
I froze. What if it was Jazz, calling to have a go at me? What if it was Pinkella, calling to ask about her kitty-catkins? What if it was Kaboodle – no, surely even
that
kitten
didn’t know how to use a phone . . .
‘Aren’t you going to answer it, then?’ Dad was staring at me.
‘Must be a wrong number,’ I muttered, but just in case, I scuttled out of the kitchen and went up to my room, answering the phone on the way.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello. Is that Bertie Fletcher’s Pet-Sitting Service?’ said a man’s voice.
Help! ‘Er, yes,’ I said, trying to keep my voice low so that Dad wouldn’t be able to hear.
‘Oh, good. This is Mr Smythe from number two. I received one of your leaflets a few days ago.’
‘Oh, right. Bertie Fletcher speaking! How can I help you?’ I tried to put my businesslike tone on, but it came out a bit shaky.
‘Well, I almost threw the leaflet away, as I thought it was just another piece of that junk mail that seems to be flooding our neighbourhood these days –’ Great, I’m
getting a lecture, I thought glumly. Next thing, he’ll be round here saying he wants to speak to Dad about how irresponsible I am and then – I realized he was still speaking, and that
the tone of his voice did not seem too angry or off-putting, so I tuned back in – ‘so your leaflet came in the nick of time, actually. I’m about to go away to my daughter’s
for a couple of days, you see, and I could do with your help. I’ve got two hamsters who would be very grateful if you would come and feed them and clean them out while I’m
away.’
‘Hamsters?’ Bit of an unusual pet for a grownup, I thought. But then I realized that this was a fabulous opportunity for expanding my Pet-Sitting Service. A fter all, hamsters must
be the easiest pets in the world to look after.
‘Hamsters, that’s right,’ said Mr Smythe.
‘Hurrah!’ I said happily. ‘I mean, er, that would be a pleasure, Mr Smythe,’ I added, quickly going back to my professional voice.
‘Lovely,’ he said. ‘Can you come round tomorrow morning? I’m leaving after lunch, you see, and I need to get Mr Nibbles and Houdini sorted out before I go.’
‘Mr Nibbles and—? Oh, the hamsters. I see,’ I said. And Kaboodle thought
his
name was pants!
I agreed to go round at nine, said goodbye and pressed the red button on my phone.
‘Getting a lot of wrong numbers recently,aren’t you?’
‘Dad!’
He was leaning against the door frame, his arms crossed, and he was frowning.
‘Is there something you’re not telling me, Bertie?’ he asked.
‘I, er, not really,’ I said pathetically.
Dad walked over to me, tilted my chin and inspected me closely. ‘Are you OK?’ he asked, narrowing his eyes.
‘Yes,’ I lied. What with falling out with Jazz, discovering a talking kitten and trying to run an undercover Pet-Sitting Service, I was feeling just fine, obviously.
‘Mmm,’ he said. ‘Are you sure it
those routines again and I kind of teased her a bit about her singing, that’s all.’
Dad laughed. ‘You can talk, Roberta Fletcher! The last time I heard you singing in the bath I thought the pipes would burst. It was more like a rusty nail being dragged across a slate
roof-tile than a sweet melody of divine tunefulness.’
‘Huh!’ I said, pretending to be offended, but feeling myself relax at Dad’s change of mood. ‘“Sweet melody of divine tunefulness”? Call yourself a
writer?’
Dad chucked his notepad at me and I whooped and ran away from him.
‘Not so fast, young lady!’ he shouted, grabbing a sponge from the sink and hurling it at me.
I snatched a J-cloth and chucked it back at him and soon we were steaming round and round the kitchen table, giggling and throwing stuff at each other. It was the best fun I’ve had with
Dad for ages.
My phone!
I froze. What if it was Jazz, calling to have a go at me? What if it was Pinkella, calling to ask about her kitty-catkins? What if it was Kaboodle – no, surely even
that
kitten
didn’t know how to use a phone . . .
‘Aren’t you going to answer it, then?’ Dad was staring at me.
‘Must be a wrong number,’ I muttered, but just in case, I scuttled out of the kitchen and went up to my room, answering the phone on the way.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello. Is that Bertie Fletcher’s Pet-Sitting Service?’ said a man’s voice.
Help! ‘Er, yes,’ I said, trying to keep my voice low so that Dad wouldn’t be able to hear.
‘Oh, good. This is Mr Smythe from number two. I received one of your leaflets a few days ago.’
‘Oh, right. Bertie Fletcher speaking! How can I help you?’ I tried to put my businesslike tone on, but it came out a bit shaky.
‘Well, I almost threw the leaflet away, as I thought it was just another piece of that junk mail that seems to be flooding our neighbourhood these days –’ Great, I’m
getting a lecture, I thought glumly. Next thing, he’ll be round here saying he wants to speak to Dad about how irresponsible I am and then – I realized he was still speaking, and that
the tone of his voice did not seem too angry or off-putting, so I tuned back in – ‘so your leaflet came in the nick of time, actually. I’m about to go away to my daughter’s
for a couple of days, you see, and I could do with your help. I’ve got two hamsters who would be very grateful if you would come and feed them and clean them out while I’m
away.’
‘Hamsters?’ Bit of an unusual pet for a grownup, I thought. But then I realized that this was a fabulous opportunity for expanding my Pet-Sitting Service. A fter all, hamsters must
be the easiest pets in the world to look after.
‘Hamsters, that’s right,’ said Mr Smythe.
‘Hurrah!’ I said happily. ‘I mean, er, that would be a pleasure, Mr Smythe,’ I added, quickly going back to my professional voice.
‘Lovely,’ he said. ‘Can you come round tomorrow morning? I’m leaving after lunch, you see, and I need to get Mr Nibbles and Houdini sorted out before I go.’
‘Mr Nibbles and—? Oh, the hamsters. I see,’ I said. And Kaboodle thought
his
name was pants!
I agreed to go round at nine, said goodbye and pressed the red button on my phone.
‘Getting a lot of wrong numbers recently,aren’t you?’
‘Dad!’
He was leaning against the door frame, his arms crossed, and he was frowning.
‘Is there something you’re not telling me, Bertie?’ he asked.
‘I, er, not really,’ I said pathetically.
Dad walked over to me, tilted my chin and inspected me closely. ‘Are you OK?’ he asked, narrowing his eyes.
‘Yes,’ I lied. What with falling out with Jazz, discovering a talking kitten and trying to run an undercover Pet-Sitting Service, I was feeling just fine, obviously.
‘Mmm,’ he said. ‘Are you sure it
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