A June Story
This whole thing started when a pair of kids’ wellies, which my friend Lottie had left drying on her windowsill (since she didn’t have a balcony), tumbled right off.
“I *told* you this would happen one day,” grumbled Lottie’s mum, who often popped round to help with the little one. “How on earth are you going to get them back now? I’ve said it a hundred times—no jumping in puddles! Nowhere to dry them, no spare pair!”
“Mum, it was *June* rain! Walking through puddles is half the fun!”
“This year’s June’s been proper soggy, though.”
Lottie leaned out the window—the sun was shining, and sure enough, the wellies had landed on the balcony below. They’d only just moved into this new building, and neither Lottie nor her mum had ever seen the neighbour downstairs. Rumor had it he was some old bachelor.
The two of them often griped about the flat’s design. “Why’d that bloke even need a balcony? He’s never out there! Should’ve given it to our floor—we’ve got nowhere to hang laundry!”
“Go on, ring his bell now. What’s little Evie meant to wear to nursery tomorrow?”
Evie—a curly-haired three-year-old who wasn’t too fussed about her footwear crisis—was busy trying to chuck her stuffed bunny out the window. But Gran snapped it shut just in time and wagged a finger at her.
Meanwhile, Lottie had already trotted downstairs.
“He’s not in. As usual.”
Her mum sighed. “Mrs. Hodgson from the first floor said he drives a coach. Good luck figuring out his shifts!”
“I’ll try again later,” Lottie muttered.
She went down a few more times that evening, but no luck. In the end, a soft-hearted mate of Lottie’s dropped off some outgrown trainers her son didn’t need—they’d do for nursery for a day or two.
Evie was *not* impressed with her “new” shoes. But with no other choice, the next day—and the day after—Lottie and her mum kept checking downstairs, never catching the neighbour home.
“Maybe he doesn’t even live here?”
“Oh, I saw his light on last night—around two,” chimed in Mrs. Hodgson, who’d popped by to borrow sugar and gossip. “I was chasing my cat, the little menace, wouldn’t come in.”
“Two in the morning? We were fast asleep,” Lottie said, baffled.
“Why don’t you just leave a note? Slip it under his door—‘Our wellies are on your balcony, can you bring them up?’ Simple!”
“Bloody hell, why didn’t *we* think of that? You’re a lifesaver—no wonder you’re the building’s busybody!”
So they did. Scribbled a note, with Evie adding a doodle of her bunny at the bottom (“A *pictuuure* of BunBun!”). They marched downstairs like it was a royal decree and slid it under the door.
The knock came that same evening.
“It’s *him*!” Lottie and Evie yelled in unison (Gran had left by then, and Mrs. Hodgson had toddled off). They raced to the door.
There stood a *very* tall, *not-at-all* old, blue-eyed bloke in coach-driver uniform. He smiled, holding out the wellies and a toy. “Found these on my balcony—yours?” He glanced at Evie, who nodded and immediately launched in: “Did you see BunBun’s picture? Wanna meet the *real* BunBun?” The poor chap looked shell-shocked but nodded.
As Lottie thanked him, Evie was already dragging him by the hand to her room, her chatter floating back: “I don’t got a daddy, but Mummy makes *the best* hot chocolate!”
“Hot chocolate, eh? I’m partial to it myself,” he managed. Lottie brightened.
“Fancy a cup? I’ve got a secret recipe. Do you like cinnamon?”
“Ah, I shouldn’t intrude—but I’ve never turned down cocoa. My nan used to make it just like that, with cinnamon.”
One cuppa led to another, and before they knew it, Lottie and George (turns out he wasn’t a “Gennadiy” after all) were still yakking at midnight. Evie, half-asleep, mumbled, “Come back, okay? You’re *nice*,” before conking out. But they kept talking—about nans, about biscuits with cocoa, about loving June rains, about how driving coaches had been his childhood dream.
Then a summer downpour burst overhead, loud and sudden, washing in the scent of the blooming trees outside. George jolted up. “Blimey—I should go.”
Lottie, mirroring Evie, blurted, “Come round again!” Nearly adding, *We like you.*
He did come back. Again and again. Until he never really left.
“She still makes his cocoa thermos for work—taught her myself, didn’t I? And they *both* splash in puddles now,” Gran confided to Mrs. Hodgson a year later, pushing Evie’s baby brother in his pram.
Mrs. Hodgson sighed dreamily. “I do love a good cocoa.”
