Chapter Three
Horse Poo City
Dear Diary,
Weather: it be wet and windy, oo ar.
School: good. I like it. Teachers generally OK and everyone else friendly apart from the snooty girls in Year Eight who walk around like they own the place. Getting to know peeps but Caitlin is new BF (not instead of Natalia, but as well as.) The rules are that I am allowed two best friends, from now. I make the rules. I am Queen Rule-Maker in the life of Amy Westall. My mum thinks she is Queen but she is wrong wrong wrong, it’s me. And anyway, Natalia lives a million miles away now. She’d understand about Caitlin and want me to have a new friend.
At school today in PSHE, we had to learn how to do the recovery position in case we ever come across someone who is unconscious. Caitlin was my partner. She acted being unconscious very well because she fell asleep. I positioned one of her fingers in her nose which I thought was very funny, but our teacher, Mr Dixon, didn’t.
Went to Caitlin’s Monday after school. Her house is just off the main road at the bottom of our lane, not too far. It is heavenly. Warm. They have central heating that works and the house is new and shiny with fields behind. Caitlin’s dad owns a couple of paddocks behind their garden and that’s where he has started growing his vegetables. She has two younger brothers, one is nine, Zack, the other is seven, Joe. Both are annoying. Zack because he hogs the computer and Joe because he wanted to be in with me and Caitlin in her room, listening in to our conversations. Caitlin threw him out so then he went and banged on a drum kit in the room next door. Her mum is a nurse, which I said must be useful if there’s anything wrong with you. Nope, Caitlin said. Her mum is apparently very unsympathetic when she’s ill and says, ‘Get a hot drink, get to bed and get over it.’ Sounds like my mum. They both need to do a course on how to be nicer to their daughters.
Animal life at Silverbrook Farm:
6 happy chickens (but only because the cats aren’t allowed out – make the most of it, O clucky ones, for soon the furry fiends will be released,) though Dad has made a coop for them and to keep any foxes out.
2 miserable cats: Ginger still isn’t allowed out and is getting crosser by the minute. He entertains himself by trying a different sleeping place every day. This morning it was halfway down the stairs and I almost fell over him on my way to breakfast. Dad said that he changes places so often because of a primal instinct to keep moving so that predators won’t know where he is. I think he does it because he is trying to find a warm spot in this draughty old house and also because, like everyone else in this family, he likes to be ANNOYING.
Caitlin named our cat-visitor Cola. Like Ginger, Cola’s not allowed to roam in case she gets lost again, so she’s confined to one of the stables, which she is not happy about. As soon as we open the stable door to take her food, she’s right there ready to run out so we have to be very careful. As Dad said, she is one talkative cat and meows almost non-stop whenever anyone is in with her. Caitlin has fallen in love with her and comes by whenever she can to give her cat cuddles and meow back at her. They have long conversations in meow language. Caitlin wraps her up in her scarf and cradles her like a baby, which Cola seems to like.
One evening, I suggested putting Cola in with Ginger to see if they got on – then at least they could be miserable imprisoned cats together. Bad idea. Josh and I took Cola and tried introducing them but, as soon as he saw her, Ginger narrowed his eyes and went into ninja cat crouching position with flattened ears. There was a lot of hissing. Cola is a sweetie, her tail went down and she looked terrified. She looked up at me and made a long meooooooow sound as if to say ‘Get me out of here!’, so I picked her up and put her back in the stable whilst Josh stayed and tried to calm Mr Jealous Ginger Puss down.
‘Shame,’ I said to Josh later that night, ‘because they could have fallen in love and had kittens.’
Josh rolled his eyes. ‘Have you been watching lovey-dovey films and have romance on the brain now?’
‘No!’ I replied.
I am so misunderstood. I just want everyone to be happy and thought that the cats might have been lonely.
I hear raised voices. Mum and Dad. So goodbye dear diary. C U l8r. I must go and hide in the hall and eavesdrop.
‘We’ve no cushion of cash to fall back on,’ I heard Mum say.
‘I know, love,’ Dad replied in his weary voice.
‘What are we going to do? The bills are coming in and work isn’t.’
‘We’ll get by. We always have.’
‘On what – thin air?’
Exit Mum into the kitchen. Slamming of door. Bang.
Exit Dad out into the front, where he will probably go and stand in a field and point at fences to make himself feel better. It usually does.
Oh, I hate it when they argue. It’s often about money. Mum’s the practical one and does all the bills and stuff. I know she was worried before we left Bristol. ‘We’re taking a big risk with this move,’ she told Dad, but he talked her round. This following your heart thing needs to come with a lottery win, I thought as I crept back into my room and shut the door. I heard Josh’s door click shut across the corridor. Clearly he’d been listening in too.
On Saturday morning, Mum gave me a list of chores to do. Sadly, giving me things to do is her version of Dad’s fence pointing dance and makes her feel better. She is Ms Stricty Pants in our house, Dad is Mr Softie.
First on the list was cleaning out the stables.
‘Eeew. Do I have to? They still smell of horse poo from when Mr Watson was alive and kept a horse. Why can’t Josh clean them out?’
‘Because he has other things to do,’ said Mum. ‘He’s helping your dad in the fields.’
So not fair. I get the smelly jobs in Horse Poo City and Josh gets to roam about in the fresh air like Lord of the Manor.
The look on Mum’s face told me that today was not a day for trying to get round her. She had her ‘I’ve got a broom stuck up my bottom and am not feeling jolly at all’ face on.
I sighed and went to the utility room at the back of the kitchen, got the cleaning things, then crossed the yard dragging my feet so that anyone watching would know that in fact, I am a prisoner at Silverbrook Farm, have heavy iron manacles chained to my ankles and it is an ENORMOUS effort to pull my legs along.
Sadly no one was watching. I sighed again and went into the stable next to the one where Cola was. There were about a million years’ worth of cobwebs in there. Yuck. I really didn’t want one of them on my face so I went back out and crossed the yard, dragging my feet behind me again. I found my bobble hat and a scarf in the hall, wound the scarf around my face and went back to the stable, once again dragging my feet. I felt I was getting rather good at it and made a mental note to demonstrate the chained prisoner walk to Caitlin. I knew she’d appreciate it.
The kitchen window opened. ‘Haven’t you started yet?’ called Mum. ‘And why are you walking in that strange way?’
‘I’m pretending I have chains around my ankles and am a prisoner,’ I called back.
‘Welcome to the club. Now stop messing about and get on with it,’ she replied.
My talents are wasted on this family. I set about brushing the cobwebs away and, while I was doing it, I decided to change my fantasy from prisoner in chains to being a tiny creature stuck inside my own brain. I often make up stories to help me get through difficult or boring times. Some people think I’m mad, but it helps. I decided to imagine that the stable was my brain and the cobwebs were all the parts that made me feel frustrated and clogged up. I set to the task with super speed and, an hour later, the stable was looking brilliantly tidy (if I do say so myself). My brain felt pretty great too. I stood back to admire my work and noticed for the first time that apart from the Eau de Horse Poo scent, it was a good space. I went back into the yard. There were six stables. My newly cleaned out brain pinged with a brilliant idea. If Mum and Dad were so worried about money, why didn’t they rent out the stables? There must be lo
ads of people with horses and nowhere to put them. I got an image of horses sitting on chairs at the dinner table with knives and forks in their hooves, or propped up in the bath at bath-time having their backs scrubbed, or sleeping top-to-tail with someone and the person being pushed out of the bed because the horse was taking up all the space. I started to laugh.
Mum came out of the kitchen. ‘What’s so funny?’ she asked.
‘Oh er . . . horses,’ I replied. ‘I was just thinking, what if you had one and nowhere to put it?’
Mum looked blank. ‘And that’s funny?’
‘It is in my head. Listen, I’ve just had a BRILLIANT idea. Why don’t you rent out the stables? Mr Watson used to have a horse here and now the stables are empty. Apart from Cola, that is, and a ton of spiders.’
Mum didn’t say anything for a few moments. ‘Maybe. Yes, maybe you have something there. But we’re not really horsey people, Amy.’
‘We could be,’ I said. ‘I’ve always wanted to learn how to ride. I could even have my own pony.’
Mum rolled her eyes. ‘As if we don’t have enough on our plates at the moment with two cats and those chickens. Anyway, what do we know about horses? You probably have to have a special licence or something or . . . a stable manager. Yes, we’d need a stable manager and that would mean a wage to pay as well as food for horses. So – no, good idea but I don’t think it’s practical. We can’t afford to pay someone.’
‘What about a dog then? I’ve always wanted a dog.’
Mum sighed her weary sigh and gave me a look – the one that says ‘Don’t push your luck, matey’.
So that was that. Water poured on my bright idea. Story of my life. I have mind-bogglingly brilliant ideas and people find a reason to either a) laugh (as in my turn the stables into a leisure park idea) or b) find reasons to dismiss them as unpractical.
One day I will show the world that my ideas are genius ones and then they will all be sorry for not taking me more seriously. Oh yes.
Chapter Four
Trump Town Blues
In the afternoon, I was given time off from all the slavery for good behaviour and headed off to meet Caitlin at the end of our lane. It was a cold bright day and we decided to catch the bus and see where all the other people our age hung out at weekends.
‘I was talking to Marie Peters in Year Eight,’ said Caitlin, ‘and she told me the beach is where everyone goes. There’s probably a café there and surfers’ club and maybe even volleyball we could join in with. Should be good.’
I had my doubts about the beach because it was still February, but Caitlin was so keen to go, and I didn’t want to be lame. Plus it might be cool to meet some new friends.
‘So the plan is Mission Meet the Locals,’ said Caitlin, ‘find out where the hotspots are.’
I saluted. ‘All aboard, Captain. You lead, I will follow’
Caitlin saluted back. Luckily we didn’t have long to wait for a bus and the journey to the coast only took about twenty minutes.
The sky was starting to cloud over, but I kept my mouth zipped. There might be a café. We could get hot chocolates and check out the scene for better days.
We gazed out the window, chatting and taking in the passing scenery, and saw that there were some stunning-looking houses only a short distance from the village. They looked like they were owned by multi-squillionnaires, with terraced lawns and huge patios. Some had swimming pools and one even had a tennis court.
‘My future home,’ said Caitlin, as we passed a Tudor-style detached house within acres of garden. A teenage girl and an older man, both on horses, waited in a side lane until the bus went past. ‘Look, Amy – that girl goes to our school. She must live in one of those mega houses.’
The girl glanced at the bus then looked away.
‘She’s one of the snooty girls,’ I said. ‘She’s in—’
‘I wish I lived in a fantabulous house like that with loads of dosh,’ Caitlin interrupted. ‘Mum keeps telling me that we don’t have any until Dad gets his business up and running. Might take ages though. First he has to wait for his veg to grow and then he has to “find an outlet for his produce”.’
“My mum just wants to get a job, any job,’ I said. ‘She’s tried a few places but no joy. Her and Dad argue a lot about money. I had a brilliant scheme to rent out the stables, but as with all my ideas, she totally shut it down.’
‘She might be right. A lot of people with horses have their own stables. But maybe you could use them for something else. And if things don’t work out, we could all go and live in there, free from the boring grown-ups. We could be like the baby Jesus and Mary and Joseph.’
‘Except ours would be a Nativity scene with two grumpy cats and loads of chickens.’
‘That’s OK. We could dress up in the parts and charge people to come and look. I could be Mary and Josh could be Joseph, Ginger could be Jesus and Cola could be a camel.’
‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘All you need is some imagination.’ I was pleased to realise that Caitlin had as much of that as I did. It was a shame our parents didn’t.
When we got off the bus, there was a group of boys hanging about at the bus stop, smoking and making odd noises. I didn’t like the look of them and was about to set off when I saw that Caitlin was hovering. I should have known. There were three of them, a tall one with hair combed over his face, a ginger-haired boy, and a small blond one with a sweet spaniel by his side. The boys looked a bit gormless to me, not my type at all, though I’m not sure yet exactly what my type is because I don’t really like boys that much. As far as I’m concerned, they’re just annoying or stupid and sometimes both.
I went to stroke the spaniel, who wagged its tail happily at the attention and made me wish all over again that Mum would let me have my own dog. I listened in for a moment and heard the boys burp. I soon realised that the noises we’d heard when we got off the bus had been burps and they were having a contest to see who could do the loudest one. The tall nerdy-looking boy then did a loud fart and soon after the ginger-haired boy did the same.
The blond boy grinned at me. ‘Welcome to Trump Town,’ he said.
‘Eeeewww,’ I said and pulled on Caitlin’s arm. ‘Come on, Caitlin.’
Caitlin asked for directions to the beach and the tall one pointed us in the direction of a lane to our left while looking at us as if we were mad.
‘We’re not going swimming,’ Caitlin said. ‘We’re not that daft.’
‘Don’t you want to stay and join in the competition?’ asked the blond boy.
‘Er . . . think I’ll pass,’ I said.
The ginger-haired boy laughed. ‘Pass. Pass wind!’
All of them cracked up at this as though I’d said the funniest thing ever.
‘So juvenile,’ I said as we set off down the lane, ‘boys are so stupid. Did they really think we’d be impressed by their farting ability? Je despair.’
‘Moi aussi,’ said Caitlin. ‘But I’m sure there are some decent ones around here somewhere.’
‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘But not if Team Trumpers from Trump Town are anything to go by.’
Soon we could smell the salt air of the sea and hear the roar of the ocean, but it was hard to walk against the wind. It kept blowing into our jackets making them billow out behind us, which gave us a good laugh until I almost took off into the air.
At the end of the lane, I thought another gust was going to knock me off my feet, but at last we could see the sea. It was wild and stormy with massive grey waves crashing on to the shore. I looked up and down the beach. It was completely deserted and there was no sign of a café or a surfers’ club or shelter. It started to rain and before long both mine and Caitlin’s hair was plastered to our foreheads and Caitlin’s mascara dripping down her cheeks. So much for meeting new people and making friends.
Caitlin looked at me and laughed. ‘We’re the Soggy Girls from Sog City.’
‘I suggest we abandon the mission, Captain,’ I shouted.
Caitlin pulled her jacket tight around her. ‘Suggestion accepted,’ she called back. ‘Let’s get out of here. I am freezing.’
We ran back to the bus stop as fast as we could and luckily Team Trumpers had moved on. We caught the next bus back and, bliss, it was warm inside so we could dry off a bit. ‘We need a hot chocolate by a toasty fire,’ said Caitlin. ‘The seaside isn’t much fun during a flipping downpour, is it?’
‘Brrr, no,’ I replied. ‘I thought you said Marie Peters said it was where everyone hung out.’
Caitlin looked sheepish. ‘Er . . . she might have meant in the summer. But there has to be somewhere everyone goes in winter besides hanging out at freezing cold bus stops. Maybe a café?’
We trawled the village for a café but only found shops: a hardware store, pharmacy, newsagent’s, post office, mini-supermarket and a pub.
‘We could try the park,’ said Caitlin, pointing in the direction of some trees. ‘It’s by the river. There’s bound to be a café in there.’
The rain had softened into a drizzle so we put up our hoods and headed off. The park was no more than an expanse of lawn leading down to the river. No sign of a café. There weren’t many people about, but we could hear raised voices coming from down near the river.
‘Shall we check that out?’ said Caitlin. ‘Someone might be in trouble.’
We crept nearer and hid behind a tree – a girl and a boy, a few years older than us, were having a row.
‘Lovers’ tiff?’ I whispered to Caitlin.
‘I recognise that girl. She goes to our school,’ said Caitlin. ‘I think she’s called Poppy. I heard that her dad is some bigwig at the council.’
‘Not very friendly,’ I said. ‘She’s another of the snooty girls.’
‘Look, the boy’s got something in his hand, a bag and – it seems to be moving on its own.’
‘Something is alive in that bag!’ I said.
‘Either that or it’s a good trick,’ said Caitlin.
A Home for Shimmer Page 3