**A June Tale**
It all began when the little wellies my friend Poppy had left drying on her windowsill—since she had no balcony—tumbled down below.
“I told you this would happen one day,” muttered Poppy’s mum, who often dropped by to mind her granddaughter. “How will you fetch them now? I’ve said a hundred times, there’s no sense splashing about in puddles. Nowhere to dry them, no spare pair!”
“Mum, it’s just a June shower! A proper joy to walk through, really.”
“This year’s been wetter than most.”
Poppy leaned out the window—sunshine streamed down, and sure enough, the wellies had landed on the balcony below. It was a new building; they hadn’t lived there long, and neither Poppy nor her mum had ever seen the neighbour downstairs. Rumour had it some old bachelor lived there.
The pair often grumbled about the flat’s design. “What’s the point of giving him a balcony? He’s never out there! Should’ve given it to our floor—we’ve nowhere to hang a thing!”
“Go on, ring his bell now. What’s little Lily to wear to nursery tomorrow?”
Lily—a curly-haired three-year-old entirely unbothered by her lack of shoes—tried to toss her stuffed rabbit out the window. But Gran snapped it shut and wagged a finger.
Meanwhile, Poppy had already gone downstairs.
“He’s not in. As usual.”
Gran huffed. “Mrs. Whittaker from number twelve said he drives lorries. Good luck guessing his shifts!”
“I’ll try again later,” Poppy muttered.
She went down twice more that evening, but no sign of him. Their kind-hearted neighbour Alice brought round an old pair of trainers her son had outgrown—they’d do for nursery a day or two.
Lily scowled at her new shoes, but what choice was there? The next day, and the day after, Poppy and Gran kept checking—still no neighbour.
“Maybe he doesn’t live here at all?”
“Saw his light on last night—near two in the morning,” said Mrs. Whittaker, popping in for sugar and a chat. “Chasing my wretched tabby, Bertie. Refused to come in.”
“Two in the morning? We were fast asleep,” Poppy said, baffled.
“Honestly, why wait? Slip a note under his door. Explain the wellies on his balcony, ask him to return them.”
“Why didn’t we think of that? Brilliant! No wonder you’re building chair!”
So they did. They wrote the note, Lily joining in with a scribbled bunny at the bottom: “My rabbit!” Gran and Poppy solemnly delivered it.
The knock came that same evening.
“It’s him!” they cried in unison (Gran had left, and Mrs. Whittaker gone home) and raced to the door.
There stood a tall, blue-eyed man—not old at all—in lorry driver’s gear. He smiled, holding out the wellies and a toy. “Found these on my balcony. Yours?” he asked Lily, who nodded and babbled, “Did you see my bunny drawing? Want to meet Mr. Flopsy?” The poor chap blinked but nodded.
As Poppy thanked him, Lily was already dragging him by the hand to her room, chattering, “I don’t have a daddy, but Mummy makes the best hot chocolate!”
“Hot chocolate, eh? I’m partial myself,” he said gamely. Poppy brightened.
“Fancy a cup? Secret family recipe. Do you take cinnamon?”
“Wouldn’t say no. My nan used to make it just so.”
One cup led to another, and before they knew it, midnight chimed. Even Lily, tucked in, called sleepily, “Come again! We like you.”
They talked for hours—Poppy and James—of childhood treats, of June rains, of how driving lorries had been his boyhood dream. Then a summer downpour burst forth, fragrant with blossoms, and James started. “Best be off.”
“Come again!” Poppy said, echoing Lily—nearly adding, “We like you,” too.
He did come again. And again. Until he stayed for good.
“She still brews his thermos for work—taught her myself! And they both adore rainwalks,” Gran confided to Mrs. Whittaker a year later, pushing Lily’s baby brother in his pram.
Mrs. Whittaker sighed wistfully. “I do love hot chocolate.”
**Lesson learned: Sometimes the smallest mishaps—a lost wellie, a scribbled note—steer life’s quietest blessings right to your door.**
