**A June Tale**
It all started with a pair of children’s shoes—ones my friend Lily had left drying on her windowsill, having no balcony of her own—tumbling down to the flat below.
“I told you this would happen one day,” grumbled Lily’s mum, who often popped round to mind her granddaughter. “How on earth will you get them back? I’ve said a hundred times, there’s no sense splashing through puddles when you’ve nowhere to dry the shoes and no spare pair!”
“Mum, it was a June shower! There’s nothing lovelier than dancing in the rain!”
“This June’s been uncommonly wet.”
Lily leaned out the window—sunlight streamed down, and sure enough, the shoes had landed on the balcony below. They’d only recently moved into this new building, and neither Lily nor her mother had ever caught sight of their downstairs neighbour. Rumour had it he was an elderly bachelor.
The pair often lamented the flat’s design. “What’s the point of that man having a balcony? He never uses it! They should’ve put one on our floor—we’re the ones with wet shoes to dry!”
“Go and knock now, then. What’s little Amelia supposed to wear to nursery tomorrow?”
Amelia, a curly-haired three-year-old entirely unbothered by her footwear dilemma, was attempting to toss her stuffed bunny out the window—until her gran snapped it shut and wagged a warning finger.
Meanwhile, Lily had already gone downstairs.
“No answer. As usual.”
Her mother sighed. “Mrs. Thompson from the first floor said he’s a bus driver. Good luck guessing his shifts!”
“I’ll try again later,” Lily muttered.
She went down several times that evening, but the neighbour was never home. Thankfully, a kind friend dropped off an old pair of trainers her son had outgrown—they’d do for nursery.
Amelia was far from pleased with the replacement shoes. But as days passed, neither Lily nor her mother managed to catch the elusive neighbour.
“Maybe he doesn’t even live here?”
“Oh, I saw his light on last night—around two,” chimed in Mrs. Thompson, who’d popped in to borrow sugar and chat. “I was chasing that rascal of a cat of mine—he refused to come indoors.”
“Two in the morning? We were long asleep,” Lily admitted, baffled.
“Why not leave him a note? Slip it under his door—‘Your balcony’s got our shoes, kindly return them, as we never find you home.’”
“Brilliant! No wonder you’re the building’s chairwoman!”
So they did. Amelia proudly added a scribbled bunny at the bottom: “My bunny’s portrait!” Then, with all the ceremony of a royal decree, they delivered the folded note.
The knock came that same evening.
“The neighbour!” Lily and Amelia cried in unison (Gran had left, and Mrs. Thompson had said her goodbyes), rushing to the door.
There stood a tall, decidedly not elderly, blue-eyed man in bus driver’s uniform, holding out the shoes and toys. “Found these on my balcony. Yours?” He glanced at Amelia, who nodded furiously. “Did you see Bunny’s picture? Want to meet the real Bunny?” Caught off guard, he nodded mutely.
As Lily thanked him, Amelia was already tugging him toward her room, chattering: “I don’t have a daddy, but Mummy makes the best hot chocolate!”
“Hot chocolate, eh? I’m rather fond of it myself,” he said, valiantly keeping up. Lily brightened.
“Would you like some? I’ve got a secret recipe. Do you take cinnamon?”
“I shouldn’t intrude, but I’ve never refused cocoa—my nan made it with cinnamon when I was small.”
One mug led to another, and before they knew it, midnight had crept up on them. Even Amelia, now tucked in, had sleepily declared, “Come back—we like you!” as they’d said goodnight.
Lily and George talked on—of childhood treats, of June rains, of how driving cross-country coaches had been his boyhood dream. Then a summer downpour began, sudden and loud, washing in the scent of blooming trees. George started. “Right—I’d best go.”
“Do visit again!” Lily blurted, nearly adding, like her daughter, that they’d taken to him.
He did visit again. And again. Until he stayed for good.
“She makes his work cocoa just how I taught her! And they both adore walking in the rain,” Gran confided to Mrs. Thompson a year later, pushing a pram with Amelia’s baby brother.
Mrs. Thompson sighed wistfully. “I do love cocoa…”
