Little Grumble Will Not Settle

Wren lived at the bottom of a windy hill. At the top of the hill stood a tall wooden barn, and that was where the clouds slept.

Every evening after supper, Wren put on her pyjamas. Then she put her coat and boots on over the top. At the door, Mom said what she always said.

“Have you been before bed?”

“Yes, Mom,” said Wren.

“Good girl,” said Mom. “Up we go.”

Mom was the cloud-keeper. Wren’s job was tying the clouds up for the night, and she took it very seriously.

At the top of the hill, Wren cupped her hands and called, “Clouds! Bedtime!”

Down they came out of the pink sky, big and white and puffy, bumping into each other like sheep at a gate. Every cloud had its own knitted rope, with stripes, in its very own colours. Red and yellow. Green and white. Blue and more blue.

Wren led them in one by one and tied each rope to a hook under the rafters. Up there the clouds bobbed in rows, like boats in a harbour.

Wren talked to them exactly the way Mom talked to her.

“Snuggle down,” she said. “Teeth brushed? Good. No more blowing about.”

Clouds do not have teeth. Wren asked anyway.

Mom sat by the door, knitting a new rope. She always tied the very last knot of the night, with a double bow. That was the rule.

The last cloud in was Little Grumble. He was the smallest thundercloud in the barn, round and grey, and his rope was orange with white stripes. Wren climbed the ladder and tied him to his hook, ready for Mom’s double bow.

“Snuggle down,” said Wren.

Little Grumble gave a hiccup.

Hic-flash!

A tiny flash went on and off, like a lamp. It was so small it only lit up one rung of Wren’s ladder. And the hiccup bumped his rope right off the hook.

Hic-flash! That one lit up the next rung.

“Hrrrumph,” went the big white clouds all along the rafters. They did not like being woken up.

Wren put her hands on her hips. Nobody could sleep with that going on.

“Hush now,” said Wren, because that was what Mom said. She tied the orange rope again. Then she sang the slow moon song, the one Mom sang to her.

Little Grumble liked the song. He rumbled along. Rumble-umble-umble. He rumbled louder than Wren. Rumble-umble-HIC-flash!

Off came his rope.

“Hrrrumph,” went the big white clouds.

Wren fetched the warm blanket from its peg. When Wren was wriggly, Mom always tucked a warm blanket round her. So Wren tucked this one round Little Grumble, very snug.

The blanket went soggy. Then it began to steam. Little Grumble looked like a pudding fresh out of the pot.

Hic-flash! Off came his rope.

“Hrrrumph,” went the big white clouds.

Wren sat on the bottom rung and put her chin in her hands. A song. A blanket. What else did Mom do at bedtime?

Then she remembered. She looked at Little Grumble. He was very round. He hung low and heavy at the bottom, like a wet sponge.

“Little Grumble,” said Wren. “Have you been before bed?”

Little Grumble went very still. Then he gave one small, sorry hiccup.

“You haven’t!” said Wren. “You’re full of rain. No wonder you can’t settle.”

Mom looked up from her knitting. “He’ll need somewhere the rain is wanted,” she said. “Hold tight to the orange rope. Keep him low, and come straight back.”

Wren climbed onto Little Grumble. He was soft as a pillow and only a little damp. Out through the big barn doors they floated, and down over the sleepy valley.

The moon was up. The windows below were lit yellow. Little Grumble bobbed along just above the chimneys, and Wren held the rope and laughed into the wind.

First they came to the mill. But the miller had his washing on the line: long white nightshirts and a long row of socks.

“Not here,” said Wren. “The miller’s socks would never dry.”

Hic-flash!

Next they came to the farm. The farmer had hay piled high in the yard, dry and ready for the cows.

“Not here,” said Wren. “The cows like their hay crunchy.”

Hic-flash!

At the end of the valley they found the duck pond. There was no water in it at all, only dry, cracked mud. Six ducks sat in the middle, looking cross.

“Here,” said Wren. “Go on, Little Grumble. Let it all out.”

Little Grumble rained. He rained and he rained and he rained. The pond filled up. The ducks stood up. Then they splashed and paddled and dunked their heads and quacked and quacked.

And Little Grumble got lighter and lighter, and whiter and whiter, until he was the fluffiest cloud Wren had ever sat on.

“Better?” said Wren.

Little Grumble floated home so lightly that Wren hardly had to hold the rope.

* * *

In the barn, the big white clouds were snoring softly. Wren climbed the ladder and held up the orange rope. Mom climbed up behind her and tied the very last knot of the night, with a double bow.

Little Grumble gave one more tiny hiccup.

hic.

No flash at all. Not even on one rung.

“Night night, Little Grumble,” said Wren.

Then Wren and Mom walked home down the windy hill, under the moon. Mom took off Wren’s boots and coat, and there were her pyjamas, all ready. Mom tucked her into bed, nice and snug.

“Have you been before bed?” said Mom.

Wren giggled. “Yes, Mom,” she said. “And so has Little Grumble.”

Mom laughed, kissed her nose, and turned the lamp down low.

Up on the hill, Little Grumble slept, white and light, on his orange rope. Down in the valley, six ducks slept on their full pond. And in her bed at the bottom of the hill, Wren slept too.