“Wait for Me, Miss Eleanor Whitmore!”
The bell rang, and the school corridors gradually emptied. Teachers ushered lingering students into classrooms as the last echoes of chatter faded. Beyond the windows, young leaves rustled in the breeze, and the sunshine beckoned everyone outside. Eleanor Whitmore paused outside her classroom door. Like her pupils, she longed to abandon everything and wander the streets of springtime London. She sighed and stepped inside. The rowdy Year 8B class scrambled to their feet.
“Good morning. Sit down, please,” she said, moving toward her desk.
“Who’s absent today?” she asked, scanning the room with a quick glance.
Top student Emily Fairchild stood and replied in perfect English that Abigail Rowe was ill and that Thomas “Tommy” Hartley was missing. She always answered promptly, being the most fluent in the class. A murmur rippled through the room.
“James, what’s happened with Tommy?” Eleanor asked in English, though the question felt heavier in her native tongue.
James Holloway was Tommy’s neighbour.
Everyone knew Tommy’s father had been released from prison a year ago. Unemployed, he drank heavily and beat his wife without mercy. Tommy often bore the bruises when he stepped in to protect his mother. Before P.E., he’d wait until the changing room was empty to avoid exposing the dark marks on his body. Yet everyone knew the truth. James had shared the grim details.
Eleanor pitied Tommy. He was bright—sharper than most boys his age. Children from troubled homes grow up too fast. He worked hard, though English never came easily to him.
After university, Eleanor had returned to her old school to teach. She couldn’t leave her widowed mother, so she’d turned down offers from private schools in London, unlike many of her peers.
The older students were taught by a more experienced instructor. Eleanor had been given the middle years. At first, they tested her patience, but soon they grew fond of her strict skirts and the warmth that flickered beneath her serious expression. The girls copied her mannerisms; the boys masked their crushes behind cheeky bravado. This year, she’d been made form tutor for 8B.
“Miss Whitmore,” James said hesitantly, “last night, his dad got drunk again. Beat Tommy’s mum badly. The whole block heard the shouting. An ambulance took her to hospital in the middle of the night. Tommy called them after his father passed out. The police came and took his dad away. Tommy too—until they find family to take him.”
Eleanor gasped. The class fell silent, waiting for her to respond. What could she say?
“Alright. After lessons, I’ll go to the station and find out more.”
A relieved murmur spread through the room.
Tommy’s face flashed in her mind—those sharp, knowing eyes. How many times had she asked if he needed help, only for him to shake his head, terrified? Sometimes, she’d catch his gaze during lessons, and it would fluster her so badly she’d lose her place in the textbook.
The class waited.
“Right then,” she said with forced brightness, “let’s begin.”
At break, Eleanor knocked on the headmaster’s door.
“Mr. Harrison, about Tommy Hartley—”
“I know, Miss Whitmore. The police called. They’re searching for relatives. If none are found, he’ll go into care. His father’s facing time, and his mother… Well, if she pulls through. You know how it is—care homes aren’t exactly holiday camps. Hard to say what’s worse: a brute for a father or resentful kids who’ve never been loved properly.”
“I’d like to visit him. Just to see how he’s managing.”
“As his form tutor, you’ve every right. But tread carefully.” Mr. Harrison’s weary look said the discussion was over.
They permitted the visit. The interview room had peeling green walls and a single plastic chair.
“How’s Mum?” Tommy demanded the moment she entered.
Eleanor faltered. She hadn’t thought to check.
“She’s in intensive care. But she’ll be alright,” she lied.
“Will they lock him up? I hope they do,” Tommy hissed, yanking his sleeve down to hide finger-shaped bruises.
“Any other family? Aunts, uncles, grandparents?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care. Nobody wants me anyway. Thanks for coming, Miss Whitmore.” His stare made her shiver. “Can I write to you?”
“Of course.” She hesitated, then scribbled her address and number on a scrap of paper. “I don’t know if they’ll let you call, but—”
“I will. You’re kind. I like you. A lot.” His voice cracked. “I know I’m too young now. But I’ll grow up. Wait for me.”
She almost laughed at the clumsy confession, but her chest ached. She wanted to hug him, ruffle his messy hair, promise it would all be fine. But she held back—he might mistake maternal instinct for something else.
A policewoman peered in. “Sorry, but lunch is here.”
Time was up.
“Stay strong. Call or write if you need anything,” Eleanor said at the door.
“Miss Whitmore!” His voice chased her down the hall. “Wait for me.”
She nodded and left, blinking back tears. *What will become of him?*
Two days later, Mr. Harrison stopped her in the corridor.
“Eleanor, my office.”
Her stomach dropped. First names meant bad news.
“Tommy’s mother died. Buried already. They wouldn’t let him see her—closed casket. But his grandmother’s come forward. She’ll take him to Sheffield. We’ve handed over his records.”
A pause. “You’re young, pretty. The pupils adore you.” He stressed the last word. “You understand my concern?”
“No, I don’t,” she snapped, though she knew exactly what he meant. Tommy’s lovestruck glances hadn’t gone unnoticed.
“Teens get crushes on teachers—especially when the age gap isn’t vast. That boy’s starved for affection. Don’t mistake pity for something else.”
“I’m not a fool,” she muttered.
“Good. Off you go.”
Eleanor fled, cheeks burning. Tommy was clever—just unlucky in parents. At least his heart hadn’t hardened. He’d forget her in time.
She told the class Tommy was moving to Sheffield with his gran. That he’d promised to write.
The first letter arrived three weeks later—short, scribbled in uneven handwriting. Sheffield was fine. School was close. His gran was strict but didn’t hit. He missed everyone… *I’ll come back.*
Eleanor replied. Told him about exams, sent reading suggestions—C.S. Lewis, Tolkien. Kept it distant.
A year later, she met a man. Married him within six months. Moved out, asking her mother to forward any letters from Tommy. None came.
Her husband hated her job. “You could earn triple as a translator! Travel! Instead, you waste time on ungrateful brats.”
Their fights grew uglier.
One afternoon, feeling ill, she left work early. Passing a café, her phone rang. She answered her mother while absently glancing inside—and froze. Her husband sat at a table, holding hands with a younger woman.
That evening, he shouted, “You care more about strangers than me!”
“Get out.”
“It’s *my* flat, darling.”
She packed her things and moved back with her mother, who scolded her for leaving. Over dinner, nausea hit.
“You’re pregnant,” her mother declared. “Call your husband.”
Eleanor refused. The test next morning was positive. Her mother stormed to the flat, returned fuming. “The wretch denies it’s his! Says you’ve been ‘carrying on.’ Well, he’ll pay maintenance, like it or not.”
***
Six years passed.
Spring arrived early. Sunlight melted the last snow into puddles. Eleanor walked home, enjoying the warmth. Summer holidays loomed. Still too early to collect little Lily from nursery.
Ahead, a man blocked her path near a deep puddle. She stepped aside; he mirrored her.
“Hello, Miss Whitmore.”
She frowned. “Do I know you? Are you a parent?”
“Not yet.” He grinned. “Don’t you remember? It’s been ten years. I’m Tommy Hartley.”
“Tommy?!” She gaped. The skinny boy had become a broad-shouldered man.
He helped her around the puddle. They walked single-file on the narrow path.
“Fancy a coffee?” He nodded at the café—*that* café.
Inside, he said, “I’ve kept tabs on you. Finished uni, work at the steelworks. Gran died last year. Hated her at first, but…” He shrugged.
“And your father?”
“Still in our old flat with some woman. I want nothing to do with him.” His grin turned sly. “James Holloway sent me photos of you. I nearly cursed when you married.”
“So *you’re* why weThey married the following autumn, and though the gossips whispered, neither of them ever looked back.
