Too Much Kettle for Little Cloud

Aunt Tilda lived in a crooked cottage on top of a windy hill. She made the weather for the valley below.

Today she was going to the Weather Fair, and Mo was minding the house.

Mo packed Aunt Tilda’s lunch. He packed four sandwiches, three apples and a whole cake.

“Mo,” said Aunt Tilda. “I am only going for one day.”

“In case,” said Mo.

Aunt Tilda kissed the top of his head. Then she pointed up at the ceiling.

“Look after him for me,” she said. “I want him back the same size he is now.”

“I promise,” said Mo.

Little Cloud floated up by the ceiling. He was white and puffy and about as big as a sheep. When he was sad, he rained. When he was very happy, he snowed. And when he was hungry, he rumbled a tiny thunder, just like a tummy. Brrrumm.

Aunt Tilda waved goodbye and went off down the hill, holding on to her hat. She had left a letter on the kitchen table.

“Dear Mo,” said the letter. “Here is how to mind Little Cloud.”

“Breakfast,” said the letter. “Give him one puff of steam from the kettle. Do NOT give him too much kettle.”

Aunt Tilda had drawn three lines under that bit. Three lines meant she really, really meant it.

Mo boiled the kettle. Wheeeee! A puff of steam came out of the spout, and Little Cloud floated down and gobbled it up.

Brrrumm, went Little Cloud.

“Still hungry?” said Mo. “Just one more puff.”

Little Cloud gobbled that up too. Now he looked like a sheep after a very big dinner.

“Hats,” said the letter. “He rains on any hat he doesn’t like, and he doesn’t like most of them. So I keep all the hats in the oven. I never cook in it anyway.”

Mo opened the oven. It was full of hats: a straw hat, a bobble hat, and a hat shaped like a teapot. Mo squashed his own woolly hat in with the others.

“Noon,” said the letter. “Take him for a walk on his string.”

The string was tied to a wooden clothes peg. Mo clipped the peg gently to the edge of Little Cloud. Out they went into the garden, with Little Cloud bobbing along above like a balloon.

At the bottom of the garden was the vegetable patch. The beans were droopy. The cabbages were dusty. Aunt Tilda made rain for the whole valley, but she always forgot her own garden.

“I’ll water those after tea,” said Mo.

When they got back inside, Little Cloud rumbled. Brrrumm.

“Just one more puff,” said Mo.

Now Little Cloud was as big as a pony.

After lunch he rumbled again.

“Just one more puff,” said Mo.

Now Little Cloud was as big as a cow.

And at three o’clock, and four o’clock, and five o’clock, it was just one more puff, and one more, and one more.

By teatime, Little Cloud filled the whole kitchen. He was squashed against the ceiling. He was squashed against the cupboards. He did not like being so big. He felt a little sad, his bottom went grey, and he began to rain.

Plip on the teapot. Plip on the butter. Plip, plip, plip all over Mo’s toast.

“Oh dear,” said Mo.

He looked at the letter. “Do NOT give him too much kettle,” said the letter. Mo thought about all his just-one-more-puffs. There had been quite a lot of them.

First Mo flapped a tea towel to shoo some of the cloud away. That only made the rain go sideways, straight into Mo’s ear.

Then Mo opened the window. “Out you go,” he said. “A bit at a time.”

Little Cloud tried. One small puff of him squeezed out. The rest of him stayed in. Then the small puff came back, because it didn’t want to be on its own.

Mo looked out at the droopy beans and the dusty cabbages.

“Oh!” said Mo.

He opened the back door wide. It was much bigger than the window. He took hold of the string.

“Come on, Little Cloud,” said Mo. “I know just the place.”

Little Cloud squeezed. Little Cloud squished. Then out he popped, and Mo led him down to the vegetable patch.

“Here,” said Mo. “Rain as much as you like.”

So Little Cloud rained. He rained on the beans. He rained on the cabbages. He rained on Aunt Tilda’s old boots by the shed. And the more he rained, the smaller he got. As big as a cow. As big as a pony. As big as a sheep.

The beans weren’t droopy any more. The cabbages were shiny and green. Little Cloud’s bottom went white again, and he did a twirl on the end of his string, very pleased with himself.

* * *

Back inside, Mo mopped the table and read the last bit of the letter.

“Bedtime,” said the letter. “He sleeps in the bath. Put the plug in, so he doesn’t go down the drain. He likes the rubber duck.”

Mo put the plug in and the yellow duck in the bath. Little Cloud settled down around it like a big soft pillow. He looked at the duck. Then he snowed, just a little. Four flakes landed on the duck’s head, like a tiny white hat. It was the only hat Little Cloud had ever liked.

The moon was up when Aunt Tilda came home. She saw the garden, all wet and shiny. She put her hat in the oven. Then she looked in the bath.

“He’s the same size he was this morning!” said Aunt Tilda.

“I gave him too much kettle,” said Mo. “Lots of just one more puffs. But he rained it all on your beans.”

Aunt Tilda laughed and hugged him tight.

“That is the best-looked-after cloud I ever came home to,” said Aunt Tilda.

Then she patted her tummy. “And you were right, Mo. I ate all four sandwiches.”

She tucked Mo into the little bed under the crooked roof.

“Just one more story?” said Mo.

“Just one more,” said Aunt Tilda.

When the story was over, the cottage was quiet. The last sound of the day came from the bathroom. It was a small, sleepy rumble. Not a hungry one this time. A full one, like a tummy after a good supper.

Brrrumm, went Little Cloud, in his bath, with his duck.

Everybody in the crooked cottage was dry and cozy and just the right size. Mo snuggled down under his blanket and fell fast asleep.