The Umbrella Who Was Afraid of the Rain

In an old house at the edge of a little town, in the cupboard under the stairs, there lived a brand-new umbrella. She was yellow, as yellow as a dandelion, with a wooden handle curled like a hook. There was just one trouble: she was terribly afraid of the rain.

The moment the first drop appeared on the windowpane, the umbrella went whoosh! and hid behind Grandma’s heavy coat.

"Drip-drop, plop!" she whispered. "I’d better stay in the cupboard!"

On the hook next to her hung the old black Umbrella. In his long life he had seen downpours, and hail, and even a real storm, when the wind turned him inside out like a flower. Ever since then one of his spokes had stuck out a little crooked, but he had never learned how to be gloomy.

"Why are you hiding, little one?" he would ask. "Rain is our job."

"But what if I get wet?" squeaked the little umbrella. "What if my colour runs and I turn grey instead of yellow? What if my seams come unstuck and I fall to pieces?"

"Well, I haven’t fallen to pieces," the Umbrella would smile.

"You’re big and brave. And I’m small and new."

So whenever Grandpa Petro, who owned the house, went out in bad weather, he took the old Umbrella. And the yellow umbrella stayed in the cupboard. Nice and dry. And just a little bit sad, because the cupboard was dark and boring.

A whole summer went by like that. Then one autumn day the sky frowned like a grumpy bear. Grandpa Petro took the Umbrella and went to the neighbour’s for some milk. The cupboard door was left open. And the porch door didn’t shut all the way: on the threshold, the Umbrella had caught his crooked spoke on the doorframe. So the door stayed open a crack, creaking softly in the wind.

"Sit tight," the Umbrella said with a wink as he left. "I’ll be back soon."

Boom! went the thunder. Shhhhh, the rain came pouring down in buckets. The yellow umbrella peeped carefully out of the cupboard. There was a window in the hallway, and the rain was lashing against it so hard that the glass rang.

"Oh dear, oh dear," she whispered. "Good thing I’m at home."

Then she saw it: under the old linden tree across the road stood a little girl in a green jacket. No hat, no umbrella. Her plaits were wet, her little nose was red. The girl looked this way and that and rubbed her eyes with her fist.

"Mummy!" she called. "Mummy, where are you?"

But the downpour swallowed her voice like a hungry fish.

The umbrella trembled in every spoke.

"It’s wet out there," she said to herself. "It’s cold out there. My colour will run out there..."

The girl sniffed and hugged herself tight.

The umbrella looked at her. Then at the dark cupboard. Then at the girl again.

"Drip-drop, plop..." she began, and stopped.

Hop! She jumped down off her hook. Hop-hop-hop, she bounced along the hallway on her handle. She squeezed through the gap in the door, and a cold drop landed right on the top of her head.

Plip!

The umbrella squeezed her eyes shut. Any moment now... any moment now her colour would run...

But nothing happened. The drop rolled down, and there wasn’t even a tiny spot left on the yellow cloth.

"Oh!" said the umbrella in surprise.

And off she hopped across the road, straight through the puddles (splash, splash!) all the way to the linden tree. She stood in front of the girl, gathered all her strength and click! she opened up as wide as she could. A yellow circle lit up above the girl, like a little sun in the middle of the grey rain.

The girl’s mouth fell open.

"Wh... whose are you?"

"My very own," answered the umbrella. "Hold on to me tight!"

The girl grabbed the handle. And the rain drummed on top: tap-tap-tap, rat-a-tat-tat!

At first the umbrella shrank. Then she listened. Why, this was music! As if someone were playing on her like a tambourine.

"Tap-tap-tap!" she laughed. "That tickles!"

The girl smiled too. For the first time that whole day.

"What’s your name?" asked the umbrella.

"Solomiyka. I was running after a little ginger cat, and then... then I didn’t know where I’d got to." And her lip began to tremble again.

"And where do you live?"

"Next to the bakery. There’s always smoke coming out of its chimney, and it smells of bagels."

The umbrella stretched up as tall as she could, so tall that Solomiyka had to stand on tiptoe. From up there she could see wet roofs, chimneys, fences... And there, two streets away, white smoke was curling out of a tall chimney. Even through the rain came the warm smell of fresh bread.

"That way!" cried the umbrella, and she pulled Solomiyka forward.

It was hard going. The wind blew and blew; it wanted to tear the umbrella out of the girl’s hands and turn her inside out. But she held her spokes tight, ever so tight.

"I won’t let go!" she puffed. "I won’t let go of Solomiyka!"

Splash, a puddle. Splash, another one. Solomiyka jumped over them, and the umbrella sailed above her, yellow and merry.

Under the awning by the bakery stood a woman in a red headscarf, calling for the whole street to hear:

"Solomiyka! Solomiyka-a-a!"

"Mummy!" Solomiyka rushed to her.

Mummy swept her daughter up in her arms, held her close and kissed the top of her wet head.

"Where have you been, my little sunshine?"

"The umbrella brought me back!" said Solomiyka. "A yellow, yellow one!"

Mummy looked around. But there was nobody under the awning. Only some small round marks glistening on the wet cobblestones. Hop-hop-hop, and round the corner.

The umbrella hopped into the hallway just as the garden gate creaked. She barely had time to hang herself back on her hook, and she was still dripping: drip, drip, drip. A good-sized puddle had gathered under the cupboard.

Grandpa Petro came in, shook out the Umbrella, looked at the puddle and scratched the back of his head.

"Well, I never. Is the roof leaking?"

The old Umbrella looked at his yellow neighbour and smiled slyly.

"Well? Did you fall to pieces?"

"No," said the umbrella. "And my colour didn’t run. Look, I’m even yellower!"

And it was true: washed by the rain, she was simply shining.

"I was scared," she admitted quietly. "But then Solomiyka was so cold... and somehow I forgot to be afraid."

"That’s how it goes," said the Umbrella, and he touched her gently with his crooked spoke.

The umbrella looked at that crooked spoke. Then at the porch door, which was still creaking: creak, creak. Then at the spoke again.

"Wait a minute," she said slowly. "Why didn’t the door shut today?"

"Who knows," answered the Umbrella. "The wind, I expect."

"Then why did you wink?"

The old Umbrella cleared his throat.

"Well... I did get caught," he admitted. "Just a teeny bit on purpose. I thought you might at least peep out onto the porch and look at the rain. Who knew you’d run across the road and take Solomiyka all the way home!"

The umbrella was so surprised that she popped open. Click!

"So you planned it all?"

"I only left you a crack in the door, little one," smiled the Umbrella. "Crossing the road, you did all by yourself."