One evening, Emily Whitmore placed the last marked exercise book on top of the stack at the edge of her desk. Now came the dreaded task of entering term grades into the register. Outside the staffroom window, snowflakes drifted lazily under the orange glow of streetlamps, the night having settled in hours ago.
A metallic clang echoed from the corridor, followed by the wet slap of a mop hitting the floor. That would be Doris, the school cleaner—known to everyone, even the teachers, as “Doris the Mop”—hauling her bucket upstairs to tackle the hallways. Spotting light seeping under the staffroom door, Doris sighed loudly enough to be heard.
“Still here at this hour, traipsing about, dirtying my floors… Why don’t they just go home?” The mop gave an indignant swish, as if agreeing.
*”Well, Doris, you’ll have to put up with me a bit longer. Nobody’s waiting for me anyway,”* Emily thought with a quiet sigh, flipping open her class register.
Forty minutes later, she snapped it shut with a tired thud, shelved it with the others, and paused. She hadn’t even noticed when the hallway had fallen silent. Adjusting her coat in the mirror, she grabbed her handbag, cast one last glance around the staffroom, and flicked off the light. The linoleum gleamed damply under the dim emergency bulb at the end of the corridor.
Downstairs, even the security desk stood empty. Emily slipped into the caretaker’s cupboard, hung the key in its glass-fronted cabinet, and announced to the stillness, “I’ve locked the staffroom—key’s in the cupboard!”
No answer. But she knew the school was never truly empty. Someone—the caretaker or a night guard—was always about.
“Goodnight!” she called anyway, stepping out into the cold.
A few paces from the school gates, she glanced back and spotted the elderly security guard locking up from inside.
The icy playground, worn smooth by countless pupils, was dusted with fresh snow. Emily picked her way carefully across it and out into the quiet street. Few cars passed this late. She quickened her pace toward home.
From childhood, Emily had played “school” with her dolls—and later, with friends. Teaching was in her blood; her mother had been an English and literature teacher, after all. Uni had been a breeze.
But the education faculty had been woefully short on men. And those few who *were* there only had eyes for the glamorous types—a category Emily didn’t consider herself part of. By graduation, she’d neither husband nor even a steady boyfriend.
Not that it bothered her. There was time. People often mistook her for a sixth-former. Her mother, however, fretted. “Teaching changes a person,” she’d say. “The longer you wait, the harder it’ll be to find someone decent.” So her parents bought her a flat and set her “free.”
But what was freedom when the entire school staff was female? Aside from the PE teacher—who fancied anything in a skirt—the ageing ex-soldier who taught first aid, and the two elderly security guards, options were slim.
“God forbid you end up like me—married late, with just one child by forty,” her mother would lament.
As if worrying would conjure up a husband.
Christmas lights twinkled in windows as Emily turned into a quiet side street. She hadn’t bothered with a tree. Why bother? She’d just spend New Year’s with her parents, as usual. Then footsteps sounded behind her.
She glanced back. A hooded figure kept pace a few yards away. Heart pounding, she clutched her handbag tighter and sped up. At the next corner, she ducked out of sight, pressing against the wall. Seconds ticked by. No footsteps passed.
Finally, she peeked out—and nearly collided with the man.
“What do you want?” Her voice shook. “Why are you following me? I’ll call the police!” For good measure, she added a shrill, “Help!”
The man yanked down his hood.
“Miss Whitmore—it’s me, Daniel Carter,” he said, smiling.
Emily stared. The lanky teenager from her first-ever Year 9 class had filled out into a broad-shouldered man. “Daniel? Are you—are you mugging me?” she stammered.
“Course not. I’ve been walking you home for days. It’s dark, the streets are dodgy, and you’re always late. Tonight, especially.”
“Days?” She blinked. “I hadn’t noticed. Just… grading.”
His grin widened. “Did the school do the Christmas tree yet?”
“Yesterday.” She found herself smiling too.
“Always loved that smell—pine needles and tinsel. Made the last week of term unbearable, though.” He gestured ahead. “Come on, I’ll walk you.”
Emily hesitated. “It’s just round the corner.”
“Humour me.” His tone turned earnest. “It’s been ages.”
As they walked, she asked about his life. Freelance IT work, he said—fixing computers, selling them. Plans to open a shop with a mate.
“Bloke called Tom Nichols. Ring any bells? Anyway, if your laptop’s acting up, just shout.”
At her doorstep, Daniel peered up at her dark windows. “No lights on. Means no one’s waiting.”
“You’d make a decent detective,” she quipped, turning to unlock the door.
“Not even a cuppa, Miss Whitmore?”
She glanced back. “Bit late. Rain check?”
The next day, she left school early—only for her doorbell to ring the moment she’d taken off her shoes. Expecting her mother on one of her “inspections,” Emily flung the door open—and froze.
Daniel stood there, one arm hugging a bound fir tree, the other clutching a printer-paper box.
“Evening. Had a hunch you didn’t have a tree. Brought decorations, just in case.”
She flushed. “That’s sweet, but I’m spending Christmas at my parents’.” His smile faltered. “…But come in.”
The flat soon smelled of pine as Daniel set up the tree. They decorated it, hands brushing awkwardly. Over tea, he blurted, “Can I call you Emily? We’re not in school. And ‘Miss Whitmore’ is a mouthful.”
She didn’t mind. Hated “Em,” though—sounded like some twee children’s book character.
“Saw your mates call you that online,” he added, shameless.
“What else do you know about me?”
He laughed. “Mind if I drop the ‘miss’? We’re not teacher and student anymore.” Before she could react, he added, “Had a crush on you in school. You went bright red whenever you gave me detention.”
Emily didn’t know whether to scoff or melt. She’d noticed his stares—but pupils fancied teachers all the time. Especially young ones. And she’d never have dared reciprocate.
Daniel had been in her first-ever GCSE class. At prom, he’d asked her to dance. They’d waltzed alone under the stares of classmates—none of whom could waltz. Her mother had taught her.
“You know why my grades improved? Couldn’t stand looking thick in front of you. Figured if I made something of myself, I’d… well, stand a chance.” He hesitated. “But I got impatient. Worried someone else might swoop in.”
Emily studied him. No trace of the boy remained—just a handsome, confident man.
“Daniel, I’m older than you.”
“Four years. Who cares? Times have changed.”
“You’re seriously proposing?” she spluttered.
He met her eyes. “Loved you for years. Waited to say it properly. Let’s spend New Year’s together—get to know each other now. Give me a chance. Please.”
*Why not?* Emily thought, cheeks burning. *Mum’ll stop nagging about my “biological clock.”*
“Alright,” she whispered.
Daniel lit up. “Brilliant! I’ll bring champagne. You won’t regret it.”
At the door, they hovered, eyes locked. He broke the silence first.
“Best go. Tomorrow, then.”
The look he gave her—pleading, hopeful—made her drop her gaze.
After he left, she leaned against the door, heart hammering.
The next day, she rang her mother.
“Mum, I won’t make it for New Year’s. Don’t worry—I’ve got plans.” Her mother descended immediately, demanding details. Emily omitted that her date was a former pupil. For someone in the Education Authority, teacher-student ties—even former ones—were taboo.
By summer term, Emily wore a slim wedding band and a noticeable bump. Daniel met her after school daily. Colleagues watched enviously; pupils gossiped about her floaty dresses.
But as far as Emily and Daniel were concerned? Let them talk. They were happy.
