What if it rains?

On Friday there was a question on Vera’s poster. Somebody had written it in pencil, small but right across the backrest: WHAT IF IT RAINS?

Vera tried to rub it out. The pencil grew paler. So did the green felt-tip. A faded patch was left in the bench.

She stopped rubbing.

‘You should say your bench is waterproof,’ said Joep.

‘Benches aren’t.’

‘Then make it waterproof.’

He said it as though there were a button for that.

Vera drew a roof above the chestnut tree. It barely fitted on the paper. One corner went through the notice about Miep pinned beside it.

‘There’s already a tree,’ said Eef.

‘That won’t stop all the rain.’

‘Will a roof?’

Vera looked at her drawing. She’d certainly managed to hide quite a lot of rain beneath it.

That afternoon she stood at the gate with her poster. Safia said the candidates could ask other children what they thought of their plans. Vera found that harder than drawing. You couldn’t rub a child out if they said something unpleasant.

The first child walked straight past. The second asked whether eating would be allowed on the bench. Vera didn’t see why not. The third wanted to know how many children would fit.

‘Four,’ she said.

‘Big ones too?’

‘I think so.’

A boy from the oldest class said he might vote for her if there was a roof. Vera nodded before she’d thought about it. He looked pleased and walked off.

‘With a roof,’ Vera said quietly to herself.

The words already felt heavier than when she’d drawn it.

Across the playground, Joep helped Eef fasten her poster to the fence. Eef had brought a tape measure. She used it to mark the width of a small wheelbarrow on the ground. Puk stood inside the shape and said it was her house.

Vera looked back at her tree. Perhaps a big piece of plastic could be a roof. Or a parasol. Her mum had once bought a parasol that fitted in a box. The box hadn’t even been very big.

Then she heard a rattling noise. Bram from the woodworking club was coming past with a handcart full of short pieces of wood. Vera knew him from a craft afternoon. He could saw wood straight without cutting away half a forest first. She thought that was clever.

‘Can I ask you something?’ she said.

Bram stopped the cart. ‘If it’s about a new axle, I’ll be asking you something back.’

Vera showed him her poster.

He studied the bench. ‘Nice spot.’

‘Could you make one like that?’

‘Perhaps. How big does it need to be?’

Vera stretched out her arms. ‘About this big.’

Bram stretched his arms out too. His bench was instantly much bigger than hers.

‘Measurements are useful,’ he said. ‘Otherwise we’ll all draw a different bench.’

Vera lowered her arms.

‘It needs to fit four children. And cushions. And a roof.’

‘A roof?’

She pointed.

Bram looked at the chestnut tree, where the drawn roof ran right through the branches. ‘That tree already gives you shade. For a roof you’ll need posts. Strong fixings too. You don’t want the lid falling on somebody’s head when the wind blows.’

‘It isn’t a lid. It’s a roof.’

‘That would fall rather harder, then.’

He said it calmly. That made it sound worse.

‘How much money have you got?’ he asked.

‘A hundred and eighty euros.’

‘For everything?’

Vera nodded.

‘The club could look for spare wood for a sturdy bench. But a bench and a safe roof for that much? I wouldn’t count on it.’

Vera lowered the poster a little. Now the roof was hidden behind the side of the cart.

‘I haven’t really promised it,’ she said.

She’d only nodded. A nod wasn’t a whole sentence. Yet she could hear the boy again: if there’s a roof.

Bram took a pencil from his jacket pocket. It was almost as short as the scraps of wood in his cart.

‘Start with what you need,’ he said. ‘Somewhere to sit. Somewhere to keep the cushions dry. Perhaps you could keep them indoors. Take your measurements. On Monday we can see what’s possible.’

He gave her the pencil. ‘Still enough left in that to draw something decent.’

Vera didn’t laugh straight away. Then she took it.

She walked through the gate. The boy from the oldest class was by his bicycle. Vera wanted to pretend she hadn’t seen him. They’d only just spoken. Couldn’t she tell him tomorrow?

But by Monday he might have told other people her bench would have a roof. Then there would be more people to tell.

‘About that roof,’ she said.

The boy rested a hand on his saddle.

‘I don’t know yet. It costs a lot. I need somebody to work it out first.’

He looked at her poster. ‘So there might not be one?’

‘There might not.’

‘Then I don’t know if I’ll vote for you.’

Vera nodded. This time her nod meant exactly what she intended.

At home she spread the poster on the kitchen table. She crossed out the roof with an enormous X. Her mum asked whether the bench was on a treasure map.

‘It’s an election poster.’

‘That can involve a search too.’

Vera took a fresh sheet and drew the tree again. The bench got a hollow space beneath the seat. Underneath she wrote: KEEP CUSHIONS DRY. After that she put a question mark.

A question mark wasn’t much good on a poster. It made her look as though she didn’t know her own idea.

But at least she knew what to ask Bram on Monday.