In a very tiny village, far from anywhere and closer to nowhere than everywhere else, there lived a cloud.

The cloud stretched from one side of the village to the other and loved to watch over each and every person who lived there.

Whenever the cloud heard a door open or a shutter rattle or footsteps patter, it would roll with thunderous joy. Another walker, another friend to keep me company, the cloud would think, shaking fat drops of rain from its flushed grey cheeks.

Hello down there, the cloud would shout. Are you having a lovely day?

The lady or gentleman, boy or girl below would pull a face or shake a fist at the cloud and hurry away.

The cloud could not think why.

Still, the cloud loved the village and all the villagers who lived there. When the wind blew, the cloud would hold on tight. I’m not leaving my friends, it thought hugging the village tighter and making the rooftops shiny with rain.

Then another door would open and the cloud would wave, sending a brief shower down upon the person who had stepped out.

Hello Mrs Jenkins, the cloud would say (if indeed it was Mrs Jenkins rushing through the slippery streets).

Mrs Jenkins never answered. And nor did Mr Chumney or Felix or Suzie or the postman or baker, the candlestick maker or any of the seventy-six people who lived in the village (or seventy-five if you only counted the Trembly Twins once, which some folk did).

And the reason none of the villagers answered was because nobody liked the cloud.

Each time Bilbert the Barnacle Scraper left his house he would scowl at the cloud and put a newspaper over his head. Not only did he still get wet but he could never read the front page and so always missed the really big goings-on. Bilbert didn’t like that. He didn’t like getting wet, he didn’t like his newspaper getting wet and he didn’t like the cloud.

Even old Mrs Malady, the lady from number three, didn’t like the cloud. She had the most enormous umbrella which meant she never got wet but it was so enormous that she couldn’t see where she was going and so walked three times round the village before arriving at her friend’s (who lived at door number four).

Poor cloud. Poor, poor cloud. It never meant to soak the villagers but soak them it did. Some became so wet you could almost see through them and they would squelch down the street like soggy old rags.

And so each day the cloud would rumble and say things like “HELLO, Mr Fisher” (who despite his name did not like fish and certainly did not want to swim to work like one).

And if ever the villagers tried to meet for a picnic or a dance, well the cloud would join in too and everybody would go home early.

After a while, the cloud began to think the villagers would rather it went somewhere else. Each angry shake of an umbrella was enough to make the cloud hold its breath and whisper “sorry”.

But the cloud didn’t want to go anywhere else. The cloud loved to stretch out over each and every slate, street and spire and hug them.

It just didn’t want to leave.

That is, until one day when the wind was sharp and the sun was slow to wake, and the cloud had been shouted at by all seventy-six people (or seventy-five if you only count the Trembly Twins once).

What, it thought in slowly rolling wisps of wonder, what if I just let go?

And that’s exactly what the cloud did, letting the wind carry it across the rooftops, through the streets and down the hill away from the village and all who lived there.

The bottom of the hill wasn’t so bad, thought the cloud beginning to drip into the nooks and crannies of the valley bottom. It’s warmer down here and… and…

But the cloud couldn’t think of anything else to say about the bottom of the hill and so just sagged its shoulders and began to cry.

Up in the village, the first to notice the missing cloud was Felix on his way to school in his huge yellow hat. Felix’s hat had turn-up sides which filled with water whenever the cloud tried to give him a good morning hug. That made him walk very slowly for fear the water would spill down his back and soak his trousers.

With the cloud no longer waiting to give out hugs the huge, yellow hat did not fill with water and Felix found himself skipping to the shop feeling as light (and as dry) as a feather. He was so light that he arrived at school a full twenty minutes early.

The second person to notice was Mrs Malady. She had stepped out of her house, on her way to next door (number four) and was just about to put up her huge umbrella when the lack of rain surprised her. Mrs Malady stood and looked up.

No rain.

No cloud.

And she thought, well, that makes a nice change.

As quick as lightning she went to knock at number four.

“The cloud has gone,” she told her friend. “I’m as dry as a kite.”

No cloud.

No rain.

The two villagers thought this was marvellous. In all their long lives they had never known a day without the cloud trying to hug them or give them a watery kiss.

They looked at each other and did a little dance.

Pretty soon everyone in the village was outside and they began to smile.

Then they began to dance.

And soon they were laughing so hard there wasn’t a dry eye in the village.

Tears rolled down their cheeks and landed in large splashes on the ground.

Splish-splash-splosh. The more they laughed the more the tears flowed. First a drop, then a plop, then a trickle, then a flood until water ebbed and flowed around the shoes and up to the knees of the villagers.

The higher the water rose, the happier the villagers became. From the very youngest to the very oldest, they jumped and splashed and played in the sea of laughter tears. And the more they laughed, the deeper the water became.

Until…

“Oh,” said Mr Fisher looking down.

“Oh,” said Bilbert the Barnacle Scraper looking down.

“Oh,” said the postman, the baker, and the candlestick maker, each of them looking down.

One after another, each after the last, the villagers saw their tears of laughter rising through the streets and they thought about the poor cloud.

“This isn’t so bad,” said Mr Chumney.

“This is fun,” said Mrs Jenkins.

“Maybe this is the sort of fun the cloud wanted to have,” said Suzie.

Agreeing that maybe it was, the villagers set off down the hill to where the little cloud was filling the valley with tears of a very different kind.

Mr Fisher waded right up to the cloud and, not minding how wet he was, said “Cloud, please come back to our village and be our friend. I think I would quite like to learn to fish.”

And Mrs Malady said, “I don’t get quite as much exercise now that I can see where I’m going. Please come back.”

And Felix said (and Suzie nodded in agreement) “Who likes getting to school early? Please come back.”

And Bilbert the Barnacle Scraper said “I don’t need to read the news anyway. It may be called the news but nothing new ever seems to happen. Please come back.”

The cloud felt loved. The cloud felt wanted. The cloud felt lighter than air. It rose another five feet in the air and shook like a dog, sending ripples of happiness through the crowd.

Tracing their way back along the river which flowed through the streets, the cloud and its new friends made their way back to the village, laughing all the way. Tides came. Tides went and each day and each night, the villagers would step out of their houses to hug the cloud who looked over their homes and made their faces look shiny and new.

And when nobody felt like laughing? Well the cloud would rumble and roar and send buckets and ponds of water down into the villagers’ new sea.

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Illustration courtesy of, and copyright, Suzanne Henderson. Follow her on Twitter.