The Tale of June
It all began with a pair of children’s shoes—perched on the windowsill because there was no balcony—tumbling down to the ground below.
“I told you this would happen one day,” muttered Lyla’s mother, who often popped by to look after her granddaughter. “Now how will you get them back? I’ve told you a hundred times not to splash about in puddles. No place to dry them, no spare shoes!”
“Mum, it was a June shower! Walking through puddles is half the fun!”
“This year’s June has been dreadfully wet.”
Lyla leaned out—the sun was shining now, and sure enough, the shoes had landed on the balcony below.
It was a new building, and they hadn’t lived there long. Neither Lyla nor her mother had ever seen the neighbour downstairs. Rumor had it he was some old bachelor.
They often grumbled about the building’s design. “Why give that man a balcony when he never uses it? Should’ve put one on our floor—we could do with the drying space!”
“Go on, ring his bell. What’s little Emmy going to wear to nursery tomorrow?”
Emmy, a curly-haired three-year-old, was far more interested in launching her stuffed bunny out the window than in footwear dilemmas. But her gran snapped the window shut just in time and wagged a warning finger.
Meanwhile, Lyla had already knocked downstairs.
“He’s not in. As usual.”
Her mother sighed. “Mrs. Higgins from Flat One said he drives a double-decker—good luck guessing when he’ll be home next.”
“I’ll try again later,” Lyla muttered.
She went back that evening, and again the next day, but still no sign of him. A kind friend lent Emmy a pair of outgrown trainers—they’d do for nursery.
Emmy scowled at the unfamiliar shoes. But needs must, and so Lyla and her mother kept trying, with no success.
“Maybe he doesn’t even live there?”
“Oh, but I saw his light on last night—past midnight,” chimed in Mrs. Higgins, who’d dropped by to borrow sugar and gossip. “I was chasing my rascal of a cat—wouldn’t come in for love nor money.”
“Midnight? We were fast asleep,” Lyla said, baffled.
“Why not leave a note? Slip it under his door—‘Dear neighbour, our shoes are on your balcony, would you mind returning them? We can never catch you at home.’”
“Brilliant! No wonder you’re the building’s chairwoman!”
And so they did. Emmy scribbled a bunny at the bottom—”A portrait of Mr. Flopsy!”—and they solemnly delivered the note.
The doorbell rang that same evening.
“It’s him!” Lyla and Emmy cried in unison (Gran had left, and Mrs. Higgins had toddled off) and rushed to answer.
On the threshold stood a tall, blue-eyed man—not old at all—in a bus driver’s uniform. He smiled and held out the shoes and toys. “Found these on my balcony. Yours?” He looked at Emmy, who nodded and babbled, “Did you see Mr. Flopsy’s picture? Wanna meet him?” The neighbour blinked at the onslaught but nodded.
As Lyla thanked him, Emmy was already dragging him by the hand to her room, her chatter floating back: “I don’t have a daddy, but Mummy makes the best cocoa!”
“Best cocoa, eh? I’m rather fond of cocoa myself,” he said gamely. Lyla brightened.
“Would you like some? I’ve got a secret recipe. Do you take cinnamon?”
“Well, I shouldn’t intrude, but I never say no to cocoa. My nan used to make it just so—cinnamon and all.”
One cup led to another, and before they knew it, it was midnight. Emmy, tucked in bed, murmured sleepily, “Come again—we like you,” while Lyla and George talked on—about childhoods, rainy Junes, and how driving cross-country coaches had always been his dream.
Then summer rain pattered suddenly against the window, sweet with the scent of blossoms, and George started. “Best be off!”
Lyla, echoing Emmy, said, “Do come round again!”—nearly adding, like her daughter, that they liked him very much.
And he did come again. And again. Until one day, he didn’t leave.
“She packs him cocoa for his shifts—my recipe, mind! And they both adore walking in the rain,” Gran confided to Mrs. Higgins a year later, pushing a pram with Emmy’s baby brother.
Mrs. Higgins sighed dreamily. “Lovely, that cocoa…”
