At the edge of the world.
The snow battered its way into Emmas boots, biting at her skin beneath layers of wool, though in a dreamlike twist, she hadnt bought proper winter boots. Who would buy wellies in a place like this, she thought. Knee-high leather boots would be her preference, but here, she’d look utterly absurd, and besides, her dad had frozen her card.
“You really mean to live in a village?” he sneered, his mouth twisting into a scornful frown.
Her father despised the countryside, hated rambling walks, found all place without Londons comforts unbearable. And George was the samehence, Emmas decision to teach in the deepest countryside of England. She hadnt truly wanted to stay, even though she loved tents, hiking, and the romance woven into English tales of ramblers and hedgerows. But to make a home in the countryside? Out of the question. Even so, her reply was stubbornly simple.
“I want to. I will.”
“Dont be ridiculous. What will you even do there, chase after cows and sheep? I thought you and George would marry this summer, that wed be planning a proper English wedding…”
Ah, the wedding. Her dad presented George to her like a lumpish, cold bowl of porridgeso off-putting she could taste nausea. It wasnt that George was hideoushis nose was straight, his blue eyes set under neat fair brows, wavy hair always carefully trimmed, his body solid. Hed become her fathers right hand, a reliable shadow. Her dad dreamed daily of his daughter marrying such a solid, practical Englishman.
Emma, however, couldnt bear Georges lifeless voice, his fingers, round and stubby as cocktail sausages, always fiddling, always boasting of the price of his Savile Row suit, platinum watch, Mercedes… Money, money, money! It was all that interested any of them. But Emma yearned for something that snatched away your breathlike in books, like an unlikely hero on a foggy moor. She wanted scars and drama, not stability. So shed planned to escape to this remote village school, where George would never followno Wi-Fi, no hot water, barely any plumbing.
Shed chosen a little dot on the map in Yorkshire, where even the chickens wore scarves. The headteacher had been wary, doubting if one so well-qualified would endure. But the previous teacher had passed away in the autumn, and Emmas persistence had carried the day, along with certificates and reference letters.
“And what will such a young, accomplished teacher do in a village?” asked the stern woman with dazzling copper hair.
“Teach children,” replied Emma, just as sternly.
And so, surreal as a half-remembered dream, she taught. She lived in an ancient stone cottage that rattled in the wind, stoked the hearth herself. As she expected, George visited for a night, left pale and shivering, and called her, trying to convince her to come home. To him and her father, her adventure in the wild was pure foolishness.
At first, Emma found it enchanting, as if shed wandered into a Beatrix Potter painting. But then winter arrived, seeping through the windows and floors, and carrying logs became a Sisyphean task. She wanted the familiarhonestly, she didbut giving up was not in her nature. Not when she had, peculiarly, responsibility for her children now.
Twelve pupils. At first, Emma had been thunderstruckher last role was at the Kingston Childrens Centre, where the kids were sharp and creative. Here? Her class seemed hopeless at first. In Year Three, some still sounded out words by syllable, didnt do homework, made noise in lessons. But in time, Emma fell under their spell.
Samuel carved woodland animals from fallen brancheshis foxes and badgers so charming, she felt they belonged in Hamleys at Christmas. Annie wrote strange, gentle poetry. William stayed after lessons and tidied the entire class, while Ivy walked each morning with a lamb that shadowed her like a pup. The reading came along in its own way; turns out, no one had ever given them much chance, and the right books came only if she drove to the next village, as internet was just a Phantom in these hills.
Only one child remained distanther father, a figure Emma saw through a veil of swirling snow as she juggled an armful of logs.
“Good afternoon, Miss Emma Harding,” he intoned from the shadow of the gate. She found him intimidating, blunt. Never smiled. Her heart beat so wildly she feared hed hear it, interpret her unease as fright. Or was it fear at all?
“Good afternoon.”
Her voice floated above her, thinner than she liked.
“Why does Tilly only get failing marks?”
“She refuses to do the work.”
“So make her. Whos the teacher here?”
Emma was the teacher, but strongarming children wasnt her way. Tilly had autism, Emma suspected, requiring a different kind of expertise.
“Was she always like this?” she ventured.
Mr. Turner paused, shifting his weight.
“Not always. She used to work with Olivia.”
“And Olivia is?”
His face soured, as if muddied boots had just entered his drawing room.
“Her mum.”
Best not to follow up, yet Emma did.
“And where is she now?”
“In the churchyard.”
So, it was clear, as her father liked to say, the box was never locked.
She stood awkwardly, logs slipping, trying to balance grief, embarrassment, pain from a log tumbling onto her foot. She blinked away tearshalf pain, half humiliation.
“Let me help,” Mr. Turner offered.
“Im fine, honestly.”
“No, youre not.”
He carried the logs, adjusted the crooked door so it stopped sticking.
“If you need anything, you ask,” he said, and vanished.
Curious, really. Did he think a few armfuls of wood would earn Tilly higher marks? Not likely.
Thoughts of Tilly lingered. For days, Emma tried, with no luck, to win her trustfeeling both professional inadequacy and deep sympathy. She even asked the deputy head.
“Oh, hopeless case, that. Fail her, and come summer, transfer her to a special school.”
“Is that all there is to it?”
“Well send her for assessment; let them label her as they will. Nothing to be done.”
“But her father says she used to…”
“Thats old news. Her mum ran herself ragged for her. He wont manage. Dont listen to him, hell just want your sympathy”
“He doesnt appeal to you?” Emma guessed.
The deputy pursed her lips.
“Hes not a gingerbread man. Children need proper placements.”
Emma was unsatisfied. She called her favourite educational advisor, Mrs. Lydia Robinson, took advice, and then, with a cup of chamomile (she disliked it, but her own mum used to swear by it), trudged nervously to the Turner house. Her mother had died, tooshe understood the pain.
Mr. Turner greeted her brusquely.
“We dont take visitors,” he said.
Emma pursed her lips and claimed pastoral duty.
Tillys room was magicalpink walls, plush toys, piles of books. Emma envied it; her own father was a minimalist, loathing colour and clutter. Her childhood room had been taupe, the toys a parade of beige.
On her first visit, nothing much happened. She asked Tilly about her favourite books, flipped through them, asked about coloured pencils. Tilly silently fetched the pencils, mute about the books. Until the end, when Emma asked the name of the pink rabbitTilly murmured, “Flossy.”
On the next visit, Emma brought Flossy a little jumperher mum had taught her to knit, and Emma kept up the habit for memorys sake, even if the results were clumsy. Surprisingly, Tilly was delighted, slipped it on Flossy, and said, “Pretty.”
Emma suggested drawing Flossy in her new jumperTilly did, Emma wrote the name, sneaking in a misspelling. Tilly corrected it.
No sign of intellectual disability there.
“Ill come see Tilly three times a week,” Emma told Mr. Turner.
“Ive no spare cash,” he grumbled.
Emma took offence.
“Im not asking for payment.”
That settled it.
The deputy wasnt pleased.
“Cant single out one child, its bad pedagogy! Besides, it never works.”
“Ive seen such children, too,” Emma retorted. “And its too soon for hopelessness.”
Tilly was unusual, yesrarely spoke, avoided eye contact, preferred drawing to writing. But her maths was sharp, she grasped grammar instantly. By the end of term, her marks were honestly earned.
“Will you go away for New Years?” Mr. Turner asked one day, looking everywhere but at Emma, much like Tilly.
“Nowhere,” Emma stammered, her cheeks aflame.
“Tilly wants to invite you.”
StrangeTilly herself had said nothing. She rarely spoke at all. Still, if true, Emma wouldnt want to hurt her. Though spending New Year with strangers seemed a stretch.
“Thank you, Ill think about it,” Emma replied.
Her sleep was restless, her mind stuck wondering why the invitation bothered her so. After weeks with Tilly, the girl was thawingwasnt that the goal? What did it matter what Mr. Turner thought…
Emma drifted into uneasy dreams.
In the morning, George rang.
“So, when are you coming home?”
“What?”
“For New Years? Youre not really celebrating out there, are you?”
“I am!”
“Emma, enough now. Dads blood pressures up, hes beside himself.”
Her dad hadnt called once.
“He should see a doctor,” Emma snapped.
“So, you truly arent coming?”
“Im not.”
“Ugh. Well, what am I meant to do?”
“Do as you please!”
She hadnt anticipated that George would take the words literallydriving all the way with Champagne, salads, and gifts.
“If the mountain wont come to Mohammed…”
Emma was stunnedpleasantly, in this moment of foggy logic, shed never imagined George would do such a thing. Normally, he celebrated at Mayfair restaurants with music and games. Here, there wasn’t even a telly.
“Doesnt matter. Youre here, thats what counts.”
She waited for the catch, but found none. Maybe shed been utterly wrong about him?
Even more so when she found her favourite foods in the containers, and in a gift wrapbooks about teaching, a projector, a teachers diary.
“Thank you,” she said warmly. “I assumed youd bring the usual: jewellery and gadgets.”
George smiled.
“Emma, I get it now. Youre the most precious thing in my life. If you want to live in a village, then a village it is. Ive brought gems, too, mind”
He revealed a small velvet boxits contents obvious.
“May I not answer just now?” asked Emma.
George wasnt upset.
“I expected a flat refusal. I’ll wait as long as you need.”
Emma didnt know what to say, hid the box away.
Mr. Turner had her mobile, yet rang her landline.
“Have you decided?” he asked.
“Sorry. A friend arrived.”
“I see.”
And hung up.
That left her feeling low. What did he mean, “I see”? She hadnt promised anything, so how could he be hurt? Was he upset? Probably for Tilly. Any father hates to see his child disappointed.
Her thoughts chased each other in surreal loops. George noticed nothing, busy wrestling the internet to show a Christmas special.
Emma heard a sharp whistlethe kind she recognised from calling the dog. She recalled Mr. Turner whistling in that same way. Peering out, she saw him and Tilly at the gate.
A rush of blush surged over her.
“Whos that?” demanded George.
“My pupil,” squeaked Tilly. “One moment.”
Emma fetched Tillys presenta friend for Flossy, a pink rabbit girl. Her dad would call it tasteless but Emma didnt care.
Shed knitted mittens for Mr. Turner, toounsure if it was right, but she had. She grabbed the gifts and dashed outsidebareheaded, her bare ankles deep in snow, yet felt no cold.
“Tilly, love! Happy New Year! See what I bought for you!”
She handed over the bag; Tilly took out the rabbit and hugged it, glancing at her father. Mr. Turner produced two bundles, one large, one small. Tilly unwrapped the big one firsta notebook with handmade comics; at once, Emma recognised Tillys hand.
“Brilliant, thank you!”
The smaller bundle was a broocha tiny gold wren.
“Its Mums,” Tilly whispered.
Emmas throat tightened.
“Right. Well go now,” grunted Mr. Turner.
“Of courseHappy New Year!”
“And to you”
Emma longed to hug Tilly, but didnt darethe girl gripped her toy tightly, silent as a secret.
At the gate, Emma turned back. The sight of the pair pressed at her chest; she entered her cottage, blinking fast, nose sniffling.
“What was all that?” George grumbled.
Emma stared at the comic and brooch in her hand, remembering shed forgotten the mittens. And Tillys words: Mums… How Mr. Turners smile was so rare, reserved only for his daughter. That something was blooming inside her, splitting apart and coming alive. She pitied George, but lying would help no one.
She pulled the box from her pocket and passed it to him.
“Go home, George. Im sorry. I cant marry you. TrulyIm sorry.”
Georges face grew longnot used to refusal.
For a moment, Emma feared he might lash out, but instead he tucked the box away, picked up his keys, and left in silence.
Emma hastily packed food into containers, grabbed the mittens, and ran out after those strange, dear people who suddenly mattered more than anyone else in the world.
