A Home for Shimmer Read Free

some days, you could see for miles over fields to hills in the far distance. But for the last week, all I had seen was drizzle.
    Ginger’s the family cat, but everyone knows that he’s really Josh’s. Ginger loves my brother and follows him around the house like a dog would. He sleeps in his bed, sometimes actually on Josh’s head. Mum wasn’t too happy about him being in Josh’s room most of the time, but when she told Josh to close his door at night, Ginger howled the place down, clawed at the door and kept us all awake so Mum relented. He’s a funny cat. We think he imagines that he’s from royal blood because he always likes to sit above the rest of us if he can – on a shelf or top of cupboard – and look down on us as if we are his loyal servants – which we are – running about opening doors for him when he cries, giving him food or water when he goes to his food bowl. He’s been stuck in the house for over three weeks now, since we arrived, and he’s not happy about it but Dad said under no circumstances were we to allow him out, no matter how much he paws at the window or cries, or he might run away from our new house. We don’t want to lose him, but he’s dying to get out there and start exploring. I asked if I could have a pet of my own but Mum said no. I’ve a good mind to write to the prime minister and let him know that I am being ignored in this family on every level.
    ‘I know, Ginger,’ I said as I stroked his head. ‘
So
unfair.’
    He butted my hand with his head in reply.
    I felt so lonely when we first arrived in Compton Truit. I even cried myself to sleep the first few nights. I’m not usually a cry baby but I missed Natalia and I’d been brought to this bleak cold place where the only sign of life outside is chickens. Dad went and bought those last week. ‘This is just the beginning,’ he said and looked at me as if he expected me to do a dance of joy. Over chickens.
I know
. Mum wasn’t too pleased either. She often gets cross with Dad and says that he has his head in the clouds. She’s right. He does live in his own world. Mum’s always saying, ‘Earth to Richie, Earth to Richie . . .’ It seems like he lives in a happy world though. He looks like an absent-minded professor, with his messy dark hair and glasses, and he doesn’t care about clothes at all. He often wears odd socks or puts his jumper on inside out. He especially annoys Mum when he does his tuneless humming. It’s never a song you can recognise. I can tell how Mum is feeling about Dad by the way she comments on it. If she’s in a good mood and Dad comes in going, ‘Lala, mnn, nn,’ she will say in a normal tone of voice, ‘Richie – humming.’ If she’s in a bad mood, she will say, ‘Richie!’ then add in a sharp voice, ‘
Humming
.’ He takes notice to begin with, then forgets he’s doing it and wanders off again going, ‘Hmm, nmm, hmm, nmm.’ I don’t mind it, plus it lets me know when he’s coming, which isn’t a bad thing when I’m reading under the covers past my bedtime. Mum and Dad are an unlikely pair; opposites really. She’s small, blonde and neat and used to dress in smart clothes when we lived in Bristol, though she’s taken to wearing fleeces, jeans and wellies since we got here. With all the mud outside, we have no choice. She used to take a lot of pride in her appearance and liked the getting-dressed-up part of her job. I wonder if she misses it.
    Josh shares Dad’s enthusiasm about the move. He’s loved it here from the start. He loves the outdoors whatever the weather, unlike me who is happier inside snuggled up with a book or watching TV. Out of the window, I could see him and Dad strutting around in the land to the right of the house. Both were oblivious to the rain. All they talked about now was boring stuff like fencing or what they could do with the stables. I suggested knocking them down and building a leisure park and they both laughed as if I was joking. I