The Mural at Number Twelve

The low wall outside Number Twelve had been plain grey for as long as Maya could remember. Now Mr James had put out brushes and pots of paint. “A mural,” he said. “Something cheerful. That’s the plan.” Maya brought a drawing of a giant fish. Owen arrived with a sketch of a rocket.

Mrs Evans studied both drawings. “A garden would be nice,” she said. “Flowers along the bottom.” “A fish needs water,” Maya replied. “And a rocket needs space,” said Owen. Mr James looked from one picture to the other. His cheerful wall was becoming complicated before anyone had painted it.

Owen drew a line down the middle of a big sheet of paper. “Half fish, half rocket.” Maya shook her head. “Then my fish has half an ocean.” Mrs Evans pointed to the bottom. “And where do the flowers go?” Owen put down his pencil. “This is a very small wall.”

They sat on the grass with their drawings between them. Maya noticed the round window on Owen’s rocket. “That looks like the eye on my fish,” she said. Owen turned her drawing sideways. “And that fin looks a bit like a wing.” Mrs Evans leaned closer. “What about a flying fish?”

The new drawing made Mr James laugh. A huge fish flew above a garden, carrying a tiny rocket on its back. Owen added stars. Maya drew a swooping tail. Mrs Evans made flowers that looked as if they were blowing in the fish’s breeze. “That,” Mr James said, “is certainly cheerful.”

On Saturday they painted. Mr James marked the big shapes, and the children filled them in from the ground. Maya’s sleeve brushed a wet patch of blue. Owen dropped a red spot where a leaf should have been. “Ladybird,” said Mrs Evans, adding six tiny legs. Owen grinned. “I meant to do that.”

When the paint was dry, they stepped across the lawn to look. The flying fish stretched nearly the whole length of the wall. Its rocket passenger pointed towards a cluster of stars. A neighbour stopped at the gate. “I’ve never seen one of those before,” she said. “Neither have we,” Owen replied.

Maya gathered the empty paint pots while Owen rinsed the brushes with Mr James. Mrs Evans stood beside her flowers. “Next time,” she said, “perhaps a butterfly.” Owen looked at Maya. “With wheels?” he asked. She picked up their first two drawings. “We’d better save these.”