A June Tale
This story began when a pair of children’s wellies, which my friend Poppy had left drying on her windowsill (since she had no balcony), tumbled straight down.
“I told you this would happen one day,” muttered Poppy’s mum, who often popped round to babysit her granddaughter. “How on earth are you going to fetch them now? I’ve said a hundred times—no more puddle-jumping! Nowhere to dry them, no spare shoes!”
“Mum, it was a June shower! Splashing about is half the fun!”
“This year, June’s been nothing but rain.”
Poppy leaned out the window—the sun was shining, and sure enough, the wellies had landed on the balcony below. It was a new building, and they hadn’t lived there long. Neither Poppy nor her mum had ever seen the neighbour downstairs. Rumor had it he was some old bachelor.
The pair often grumbled about the flat’s design: “What’s the point of giving him a balcony? He never uses it! Should’ve put one on our floor—we’re the ones with soggy shoes to dry!”
“Go on, ring his bell. What’s little Rosie supposed to wear to nursery tomorrow?”
Rosie—a curly-haired three-year-old entirely unbothered by her footwear dilemma—was attempting to lob her stuffed bunny out the window. Gran swiftly slammed it shut and wagged a finger.
Meanwhile, Poppy had already trotted downstairs.
“He’s not in. As usual.”
Poppy’s mum sighed. “Mrs. Thompson from the first floor said he’s a bus driver. Good luck guessing his shifts!”
“I’ll try again later,” Poppy muttered.
She checked all evening, but no luck. Thankfully, a kind friend dropped off an old pair of trainers her son had outgrown—they’d do for nursery. Rosie, however, was unimpressed.
For days, Poppy and her mum kept knocking, but the neighbour remained elusive.
“Maybe he doesn’t even live here?”
“I saw his light on at two in the morning,” volunteered Mrs. Thompson, who’d stopped by to borrow sugar and chat. “I was chasing that rascal of a cat of mine—wouldn’t come in.”
“Two AM? We were asleep,” Poppy said, baffled.
“Why not leave a note? Slip it under his door—‘Dear Neighbour, our wellies are on your balcony. Please return them, as we keep missing you.’ Simple!”
“Genius! No wonder you’re the building’s chairwoman!”
So they did. Rosie contributed too, doodling her bunny at the bottom: “This is Mr. Hops!” With ceremony, they delivered the note.
The doorbell rang that same evening.
“It’s him!” Poppy and Gran chorused (Mrs. Thompson had already left), racing to answer.
On the doorstep stood a towering, decidedly not-old, blue-eyed man in bus driver’s uniform. “Found these on my balcony,” he said, grinning and holding out the wellies—and the bunny. “Yours?” Rosie nodded, then blurted, “Did you see my drawing? Want to meet Mr. Hops?” The neighbour, momentarily stunned, nodded silently.
As Poppy thanked him, Rosie was already tugging him toward her room. Over her chatter—”I don’t have a daddy, but Mummy makes the best hot chocolate!”—the neighbour managed, “Hot chocolate, eh? I’m a fan.”
Poppy brightened. “Fancy a cup? I’ve got a secret recipe. Do you like cinnamon?”
“Bit cheeky, but I’d never say no. My nan used to make it just like that.”
One cuppa led to another, and before they knew it, Poppy and George (not Gennady, apparently) were still chatting at midnight. Even Rosie, now tucked in, had mumbled sleepily, “Come again—we like you.”
They talked nonstop—about childhood dreams (hence the bus-driving), June rains, and the merits of digestives vs. custard creams. Then a sudden summer downpour arrived, filling the air with the scent of blooming linden trees. George jolted up. “Blimey—better go!”
Poppy, echoing Rosie, said, “Do come back!” narrowly avoiding adding, “We like you.”
He did come back. Again and again. Until he never left.
“She still makes him hot chocolate before his shifts—taught her myself! And they both adore stomping in puddles,” Gran confided to Mrs. Thompson a year later, pushing a pram with Rosie’s baby brother.
Mrs. Thompson sighed dreamily. “I do love hot chocolate…”
