At the Edge of the World: Snow Stings My Boots and Skin, but Rita Won’t Buy Wellies—She’d Rather Wear Knee-High Boots, Though Here They’d Look Odd, and Dad’s Frozen Her Credit Card. “Are You Really Going to Live in a Village?” He Sneered—He Hates the Countryside, Nature, Anything That Isn’t City Comfort—and Gosha’s Just Like Him, Which Is Why Rita’s Heading for Rural Life. She Doesn’t Truly Want to Stay Forever, Prefers Hiking and Tents to Milking Cows, But Tells Dad She Does. He Scoffs—Wants Her to Marry Gosha, His Reliable Right Hand, Insists That’s Their Plan. But Rita Loathes Gosha’s Droning Voice, Sausage-Like Fingers, Boastful Talk of Suits, Watches, Cars—Money That’s All They Care About—While She Wants Love and Heartache, Not Predictable Stability. So She Chose to Teach in a Village School With No Internet, Hot Water, or Plumbing; Gosha Lasted One Night. Winter Arrives, Bringing Cold and Chores, but Rita Refuses to Give Up—She’s Responsible Now, for Herself and Her Small Class of Twelve, Whom She Slowly Learns to Love for Their Wood Carving, Poetry, Kindness, and Lambs. Only One Child, Tanya, Remains Distant; Her Father, Vladimir, Gruff and Silent, Appears Just When Rita’s Struggling With Firewood. Tanya’s Struggles Trace Back to Loss—Her Mum Gone, Her World Reduced—And While the Deputy Head Insists She’s Hopeless, Rita Sees Possibility, Visits Their Home, Connects Over a Pink Bunny Named Plushie. She Perseveres, Teaching Tanya in Her Own Way, Winning Progress and, Eventually, an Invitation to Their New Year Celebration. Just as Dad and Gosha try to lure her back—Gosha even arrives with champagne and gifts, offering a velvet ring box—Rita’s heart is pulled by the quiet, snowy village, Tanya’s art, and Vladimir’s tenderness. Rejecting Gosha’s proposal, she chases after those who truly matter—her pupils, her calling, and the promise of love and belonging at the snowy edge of the world.

On the Edge of the World

Snow had worked its way into my boots, biting at my skin.

Buying wellies wasnt something Id even consideredId have preferred knee-high boots, but here in the countryside, I’d look utterly ridiculous. Not that I could afford them nowDad had blocked my bank card, anyway.

Are you really going to live in some village? His lip curled in contempt.

Dad despised anything ruraloutdoor holidays, anywhere stripped of the comforts of city life. Josh was exactly the same, which is largely why I set off to the village in the first place. I never really intended to stay here forever; unlike Dad, I loved the thrill of hiking and camping, the idea of it more than the reality. Life in the village, though? Certainly not. But thats not what I told Dad.

I want to. And Im going to.

Dont be absurd. Youll be twisting cows tails for entertainment? Honestly, I thought you and Josh would marry this summer; I was preparing for a wedding…

Dad served me up Josh like cold lumpy porridgeso revolting it turned my stomach and left me queasy for hours.

Not that Josh was awful-looking; he was even sort of attractivestraight nose, keen eyes under fine brows, neat curly hair, broad shoulders. Dads right-hand man, these days, and lately Dads dream was to see me married to such a good catch.

But I couldn’t tolerate Josh. His droning voice irritated me, his sausage-like fingers endlessly fiddling with something, his bragging about the cost of his suits, his watch, his car…

Money, money, money! Thats all they seemed to care about. And all I wanted was lovethat dizzy, breath-stealing love you read about in novels. Id never felt it, but I was certain it existed. Id fallen for boys before, but those feelings faded quickly, leaving no scars. What I wanted was heartbreak, drama, not the dull predictability of Josh. Moving to a village and teaching at the school seemed utterly romantic to me. Besides, Josh would never followa village with patchy Wi-Fi, no central heating, and a septic tank? He wouldnt last a day.

So I purposefully found the most out-of-the-way village, stripped of every amenity. The headteacher was reluctant to hire me, doubting Id last, but the previous teacher had passed unexpectedly and I was persistentI marched straight to the education department and flashed my certificates and qualifications.

And what is a qualified, young teacher doing in a place like this? asked Mrs. Redgrave, stern and fiery-haired.

Teaching children, I answered, just as firmly.

So thats what I did. My little cottage had no proper heating, no indoor plumbing. I chopped my own firewood, stoked the old stove. Josh did come for one nightbut he bolted before sunrise. He called afterwards, tried to coax me back, but like Dad, thought it was another phase.

At first, I loved it here. But the winter soon arrivedthe wind rattled the cottage all night, making it cold, even under the covers. Hauling wood was a nightmare. Sometimes I longed for city life. But I was stubborn, and I had responsibilities beyond myself. Twelve pupils, my little class. At first, I was in shockat my old job at the London Youth Centre, the children had been bright and talented. Here… they seemed hopeless. Year Three, yet some read only by sounding out the words. Homework untouched; chaos in lessons! But that was just the startI grew to adore them.

Sam carved woodland animals from scraps of woodstunning foxes, badgers, rabbits thatd look right at home in Hamleys toy shop. Anne wrote haunting poetry; William tidied up the classroom after lessons, and Isla had a pet lamb that followed her like a loyal dog.

Turns out, most could readtheyd never been given the chance or the right books. I ignored the National Curriculum and brought in different storybooks, for which Id travel to the nearest market townthe internet out here was too unreliable for online shopping.

Only one student seemed unreachable. And it was her fatherMr. John FosterI noticed one blustery day as I returned with arms full of firewood, snow stinging my face and boots.

Good afternoon, Miss Margaret Foster, he called, pausing a few paces from the gate.

Ill admit, he intimidated me. His face had the hardened look of a London bouncer, never smiling. My heart raced so fiercely I worried hed see my nervesor was I afraid at all?

Good afternoon, I replied, voice squeakier than Id like.

Why has Tilly only got failing marks?

She doesnt do the work.

Then make her do it. Arent you the teacher?

I was, but I dont believe in forcing children, especially when I suspect shes autisticshe needs a specialist.

Was she always like this? I asked, just to be certain.

John hesitated.

Not always. She did everything with Olivia.

And Olivia is…?

He grimaced, as if the weather had slipped into his boot.

Her mum.

Clearly, best not ask the next questionbut I had to.

And where is she now?

The cemetery.

So that was it. As my dad loves to say, the answer opened the box.

Standing awkwardly with firewood was becoming painful, and when the top log slipped, scraping my foot, I gasped, dropped the lot, and fought back tearsof pain and of humiliation. Silly; Im an adult. Yet at that moment, I felt like a child.

Let me help, John offered.

No, really, Im fine.

I can see that, he retorted.

He carried the wood in, knocked a log against the door frame so it stopped catching.

If you need anything, just ask, he said, before disappearing.

Why had he come? Did he think a favour would earn Tilly a passing mark? Not likely…

I couldnt stop thinking of Tilly for days. No matter how I tried, I couldnt reach her, feeling both helpless and full of compassion. I asked the deputy head, Mrs. Clarke.

Oh, thats hopeless. Just fail her; come summer, well send her to a special school.

How does that work?

We put her up for a commission, let them decide. If the childs like that, we have no choice.

But her dad says she used to…

Oh, forget the past! Her mum fussed over herhe doesn’t have a clue. Dont listen to a word; hell tell you anything

You dont like him, do you? I guessed.

Mrs. Clarke pursed her lips.

Its not about liking or not. What’s important is the child gets taught in the right setting.

I wasn’t satisfied. I didn’t believe Tilly needed a special school. So I rang Mrs. Lydia Brown, my favourite advisor, took her advice, andafter calming my nerves with chamomile tea, just as Mum used tovisited Tillys house. I was petrified, but Mum swore by chamomile. My own mother was gone too, so perhaps thats why I felt connected.

John greeted me stiffly; Id half-hoped hed be relieved Id come.

Were not really entertaining visitors, John said gruffly.

I steeled myself, like Mrs. Clarke, and explained that a class teacher had to check pupils home life.

Tillys room was enchantingpink wallpaper, plush toys, mountains of books. I felt a twinge of envy; Dad always hated frills and bright colours. My nursery had been beige, every toy beige.

The first visit was awkwardI asked Tilly about her favourite books, flipped through them, asked about pencils. Tilly silently fetched them. Finally, I asked the name of her pink rabbit.

Plushie, she whispered.

On my next visit, I brought Plushie a little cardigan. Mum had taught me to knit, and Ive kept at it, though Im not talented. The wool was far too chunky, but Tilly was delightedshe dressed Plushie and quietly said, Pretty.

We drew Plushie in her new cardigan. I labelled him with a deliberate spelling mistake. Tilly quietly corrected it.

She wasnt unteachable at all.

Ill visit Tilly three times a week, I told John.

I cant pay extra, he mumbled.

I dont want money, I snapped.

That settled it.

Mrs. Clarke was not pleased when she heard.

You cant single out one child! Thats unprofessional. Its pointlessIve seen children like her.

I have, too, I interrupted. But its too soon to give up.

Tilly really was differentshe rarely spoke, avoided eye contact, preferred drawing to writing. But she could handle numbers and picked up grammar instinctively. By terms end, she earned entirely fair passing grades.

Are you going away for Christmas? John asked, eyes avoiding mine, just like Tilly.

No, nowhere, I stammered, feeling my cheeks redden.

Tilly wants to invite you over.

Curious. Tilly hadnt said a word about it. But she spoke so littleif she did want me, I couldnt hurt her feelings. Still, celebrating Christmas with virtual strangers didn’t appeal.

Thank you, Ill think about it, I promised.

I barely slept that night. What was bothering me so much? A month of working with a child and shes opening up, which is what Id hoped. Did I want this? And why did it matter what John thought…

I drifted off with these thoughts.

Josh called in the morning.

So, when are you coming up? he asked.

What do you mean?

Well, for Christmas. Surely, youre not staying in your little village?

Oh, I am!

Come on, Mag… Enough of this. Dads blood pressure is through the roof. He cant sit still.

Dad hadnt called me once.

He should see a doctor, I retorted.

So, youre actually not coming home?

No. Im not.

Oh. So, what am I supposed to do?

Do whatever you like!

I didnt expect Josh to actually actto show up with prosecco, salads and gifts.

If the mountain wont come to Muhammad… he joked.

I was gobsmackednot at all unpleasantly. Josh preferred Christmas in posh restaurants with live music and all the trimmings; here, we didnt even have a telly.

Doesnt matter. Youre what matters, he said.

I tried to spot an ulterior motive, but found none. Had I misjudged him? I wondered.

I melted a bit more when, in his containers, I found my favourite dishes, and in gift wrapbooks about teaching, a mini projector, and a teachers planner.

Thank you, I choked up. I thought youd give me jewellery or gadgets.

Josh smiled shyly.

Mag, youre the greatest treasure I have. If you want to live here, so be it. I brought gems too, mind.

He held out a little red velvet box, and its meaning was clear.

May I not answer just yet? I asked.

Josh didnt mind.

I thought youd refuse outright. I can wait.

I didnt know what to say, so I pocketed the box.

John had my mobile, but he phoned the landline instead.

Have you decided? he asked.

Sorry. A friends visiting.

I see, he grunted.

And hung up.

Suddenly, I felt wretched. What was that tone? I see… See what? I hadnt promised anythingnothing to sulk about! Was he upset? Maybe, maybe over Tilly. Shed be disappointed, what father wants that?

Thoughts swirled as Josh fussed over the weak internet, trying to stream a Christmas film.

I heard a whistlethe kind used for calling a dog. I remembered Johns whistle. I peeked outside. John and Tilly stood near the gate.

My cheeks flushed.

Whos that? Josh demanded.

My pupil, Tilly piped. Ill be back.

Id wrapped a gift for Tillya companion for Plushie, a little pink rabbit girl. Dad would call it tasteless.

And for John, Id knitted mittens. I half-wondered if I should, but I did.

Grabbing both presents, I dashed outbareheaded and in bare legs, snow leaking into my boots, but I didnt mind.

Tilly, hi! I said, awkwardly bright. Merry Christmas! Look what I got you.

She pulled out the new rabbit and hugged her tight, glancing at her dad. John offered two packages, one large, one small. Tilly opened the big oneinside was a notebook, filled with her comic drawings.

Thank you, such lovely comics!

The little package revealed a broochtiny, gold, shaped like a bird. I looked at John; he avoided my gaze. Tilly whispered,

It was Mums.

My throat clenched with emotion.

Well. Well be off, John muttered.

Of course. Happy Christmas!

And to you…

I wanted to hug Tilly, but couldntshe stood clutching her new toy, silent.

At the garden gate, I glanced backthe two silhouetted figures aching my chest.

Inside, I blinked hard, sniffed, holding back tears.

So, what was all that about? Josh grumbled.

I looked at the comic and the bird brooch clenched in my palm, realised Id forgotten Johns mittens. I remembered Tillys it was Mums… and how Johns infectious smile was reserved for his daughter alone. My heart twisted and bloomed at once. I pitied Josh, but lying to both of us was pointless.

I took out the velvet ring box, handed it back to him and said,

Go home, Josh. Im sorry. I cant marry you. I really am sorry.

Joshs face fellhe was unaccustomed to rejection.

For a moment, I thought he might lash out, but Josh just tucked the box away, grabbed his car keys, and left in silence.

Quickly, I packed the food into containers, grabbed Johns mittens, and ran out into the snow to catch up with the two people who, though strangers not so long ago, suddenly mattered to me more than anyone in the world.