A speech for the wind

On Saturday the village square smelled of waffles and wet rope. There had been a brief shower. Bennie put Miep in a spacious pen beside the school garden, with a bowl of water and shade from the chestnut tree. Nobody was allowed to feed her or pick her up. Her election poster hung on the pen; the goose herself didn’t have to wear anything.

‘A chain of office is awkward when you’re swimming,’ Joep explained to a small boy.

Vera had written three things on a slip of paper. The reading bench would have a storage lid with dry cushions underneath. There would be a box for books beside it. Anyone could sit there at break, even if they weren’t reading.

‘So it’s just a bench,’ said Joep.

‘Yes. It is.’

His speech was two pages long. Vera spotted her name followed by knows nothing about football. She pointed.

He crossed it out. ‘It was a joke.’

‘Make a joke about yourself, then.’

After a moment’s thought, he wrote: I don’t know much about sitting still.

The real mayor appeared beside their stall. She was a small woman with muddy shoes. Her bicycle was outside the bakery with a flat tyre.

‘Where’s my colleague?’ she asked.

Miep dipped her beak in the water and sneezed. The mayor nodded. ‘Some of our meetings start like that.’

Ms Safia called the candidates to the low stage. Joep put his speech on the table, on top of Vera’s slip. The empty ballot box stood beside it. A collecting tin kept the papers in place.

The baker was about to put a coin in the tin when a gust of wind tore down one end of the bunting. Joep grabbed the bunting. The baker lifted the tin. Every speech took off at once.

Vera caught one sheet. It said, Thank you for listening.

The rest sailed towards the garden. Miep sprang up and began to honk. Loudly. A toddler dropped his empty cup. She honked at the papers, at the cup and, just to be certain, at a passing cyclist.

‘Her speech has started early,’ said the mayor.

Joep wasn’t laughing. His pages had landed among the young lettuces behind the pen. Everyone could read the enormous letters: I PROMISE THAT WE WILL WIN.

‘That isn’t a plan,’ Vera whispered. ‘That’s a hope.’