**A June Story**
This tale began when a pair of little wellies, which my friend Emily had left to dry on her windowsill (having no balcony of her own), tumbled straight down.
“I *told* you this would happen one day,” muttered Emily’s mum, who often popped round to help with her granddaughter. “How on earth will you get them back? I’ve said a hundred times—no splashing in puddles! Nowhere to dry them, no spare shoes!”
“Mum, it was a *June* shower! There’s nothing nicer than a good paddle!”
“This June’s been downright soggy, though.”
Emily leaned out the window—sunshine beamed down, and sure enough, the wellies had landed on the balcony below. It was a new flat, and neither Emily nor her mum had ever met the downstairs neighbour. Rumour had it he was some ageing bachelor.
Mother and daughter often grumbled about the building’s design: “Why on earth does *he* need a balcony? He’s never out there! Should’ve given it to *us*—we’re the ones with wet shoes to dry!”
“Well, go knock on his door, then. What’s little Sophie supposed to wear to nursery tomorrow?”
Sophie—a curly-haired three-year-old entirely unconcerned about her footwear crisis—was attempting to lob her stuffed bunny out the window. But Grandma snapped it shut just in time and wagged a finger.
Meanwhile, Emily had already trotted downstairs.
“Not home. Again.”
Her mum sighed. “Mrs. Jenkins from Flat 1 says he’s a bus driver. Good luck figuring out his schedule!”
“I’ll try again later,” Emily muttered.
She did. Several times. Still no neighbour. Thankfully, a soft-hearted mate dropped off her son’s outgrown trainers—good enough for nursery, just till the wellies resurfaced.
Sophie *loathed* them.
Over the next two days, Emily and her mum kept knocking, but the man downstairs remained as elusive as sunshine in November.
“Maybe he doesn’t *live* here?”
“Oh, I saw his light on at two in the morning,” offered Mrs. Jenkins, who’d popped round to borrow sugar (and gossip). “I was chasing that devil of a cat—refused to come indoors.”
“*Two* a.m.? We’re asleep by then!” Emily sighed.
“Why not slip a note under his door? ‘Dear Mr. Bus Driver, our wellies are on your balcony. Fancy returning them? Yours sincerely, the soggy family upstairs.’”
“*Why* didn’t we think of that?” Emily slapped her forehead. “No wonder you’re *building manager*!”
They wrote the note. Sophie contributed a scribbly bunny portrait (“Bunny’s face!”) and solemnly delivered it downstairs themselves.
The knock came that evening.
“It’s *him*!” they shrieked (Grandma had gone home; Mrs. Jenkins had toddled off) and raced to answer.
On the doorstep stood a towering, decidedly *not* old, blue-eyed bloke in bus-driver uniform. He held out the wellies and a toy. “Found these on my balcony. Yours?” He addressed Sophie, who nodded eagerly. “Did you see Bunny’s picture? Wanna meet *real* Bunny?” The poor man blinked but nodded.
As Emily thanked him, Sophie was already yanking him toward her room, babbling: “I *haven’t* got a daddy! But Mummy makes *brilliant* hot chocolate!”
“Hot chocolate, eh? I’m rather fond myself,” he managed.
Emily brightened. “Fancy a cup? I’ve got a secret recipe. Cinnamon?”
“Oh, I shouldn’t—but I *never* say no to cocoa. My gran used to make it just like that.”
One cup led to another, and before they knew it, Emily and George (his actual name) were chatting till midnight. About grandmas. About biscuits. About *his* childhood dream of driving long-haul coaches.
When a summer downpour startled them, George jumped up. “Best be off!”
“Come back soon!” Emily blurted, nearly adding—just like Sophie—”We like you.”
He did come back. Often.
Then he stayed.
“*She* packs him cocoa for his shifts—*my* recipe, mind! And they *both* love walking in the rain,” Grandma confided to Mrs. Jenkins a year later, pushing a pram with Sophie’s baby brother.
Mrs. Jenkins sighed dreamily. “I *do* love a good hot chocolate…”
