At the edge of the world.
Snow is getting into Emmas boots and stinging her skin. She refuses to buy wellies its knee-high boots she prefers but she’d look ridiculous in those out here, and besides, her dad has blocked her bank card.
So, youre really going to live in a village? he asks, curling his lip in disdain.
Her father can’t stand the countryside, hates walks in the woods or anywhere without the comforts of city life. George is the same, which is exactly why Emma is heading for the sticks now. Truthfully, shes no more keen on living here than her dad, though unlike him, she loves camping, tents, and the romance that comes along for the ride.
But living here, forever, no. She tells her father otherwise.
I want to. And I will, she insists.
Dont be ridiculous. What are you going to do muck out cows all day? I thought you and George were getting married this summer, thought wed be planning a wedding…
A wedding. Dad offers up George like half-cold lumpy semolina something so ghastly she feels nauseous just thinking about it.
No, George isnt bad-looking at all, maybe even attractive: straight nose, bright eyes beneath neat eyebrows, tidy, slightly curly hair and a strong build. Hes Dad’s right-hand man, really, and lately Dads been obsessed with the idea that Emma would marry such a decent bloke.
Emma finds George utterly insufferable. His monotonous voice grates on her nerves, his sausage-like fingers twiddle things constantly, and he never stops bragging about the price of his suits, his watch, his car
Money, money, money! Nothing interests them except money. Emma longs for love heart-stopping, storybook feelings. Shes never truly felt such a thing but believes she will. Her crushes come and go, but those feelings never scar her soul. She wants scars, drama. Not George and his comfortable predictability.
So, disappearing to a village to teach at the local school seemed magical. George wouldnt follow hed freak out at the thought of no wifi, no hot water, no plumbing.
Emma chose a village that had none of those things. The headteacher nearly didnt hire her, doubted shed cope, but the previous teacher passed away suddenly and Emma, ever persistent, marched to the county education department with certificates and training portfolios in tow.
And what will such a qualified and young teacher do in a place like this? inquired a stern woman with fiery red hair.
Teach children, Emma answered, just as firmly.
And so, she does. She lives in a little cottage with no hot water or plumbing, stokes her own wood-burning stove. As she guessed, George made a flying visit, stayed one night and bolted. He calls, of course, trying to persuade her to return, but like her dad, he reckons shes just being whimsical.
At first, Emmas enchanted here. But with the onset of winter, the cottage is ice-cold and even beneath blankets its freezing; dragging in the logs is an ordeal. Truth be told, she misses home, but she never quits. Besides, shes now responsible for more than just herself. She has her pupils.
Her class is tiny only twelve kids. At first, Emma is in shock: when she taught at the Youth Activity Centre for the past year and a half, the kids were sharp and gifted. These, though By comparison, seemed hopeless. Third-year students, yet still stumbling through basic reading. Homework always ignored. The lessons noisy and chaotic. But over time, Emma fell in love with them.
Sam carves animals from wood, not crude lumps but wonderful foxes, raccoons, rabbits, and bears fit for the display in Hamleys. Annie writes poetry, Will stays after class to tidy up, and Isla is followed to school by her lamb like its a puppy.
It turns out, they could read just fine theyd simply never been encouraged enough, nor given the right books. Emma ignores the official curriculum and brings her own books in, going off to the nearest market town for them because internet is patchy and online orders are impossible.
Emmas only failed to find a way to reach one student. And her father is the very person she encounters when, face scrunched against the biting snow and arms full of logs, she sees him.
Hello, Miss Green, he says, stopping a few paces from the gate.
Shes a bit afraid of him, if shes honest. His face looks tough almost menacing, never smiling. Every time she sees him, her heart thrums so violently shes sure hell notice and know shes scared. Or maybe not scared at all?
Hello, she replies, her voice higher than intended.
Why does Tessa always get bottom marks? he asks.
Because she doesnt do anything.
So make her. Whos the teacher here me or you?
Emma is the teacher. But making isnt her style. Tessa is likely autistic, and needs specialist help.
Shes always been like this? Emma checks.
Tom hesitates.
Not always. She used to manage with Olivia.
And Olivia is?
He grimaces, as though snow has filled his boots too.
Her mum.
Its apparent not to ask the next question. But she must.
And where is she now?
Buried, Tom says bluntly.
So thats it, as Dad loves to say, simple as opening a tin.
Balancing the logs is hard and awkward, but admitting it is impossible. When the top log slips and lands square on her foot, Emma gasps, drops the rest, and fights back tears both of pain and embarrassment for looking so foolish. Ridiculous, isnt she an adult too? Odd how she doesnt feel it.
Let me help, Tom offers.
No, dont worry Ive got it, she protests.
I see that, he says, and carries them in himself, knocking a log against the doorframe just so the door stops sticking.
If you need anything, ask, he says as he heads off.
Why he came is a mystery. Maybe he thinks a few bundles of logs will make Emma give Tessa a passing grade? Not likely
Emma cant stop thinking about the girl. For days she tries, falters feeling both professionally useless and deeply sorry for the child. She even goes to the deputy head.
Oh, its a lost cause. Mark Fails, put her into a special school next summer.
How does that work?
Assessment panel, theyll send her for tests. Not much to do if a childs like that.
But her dad says she used to
Oh, what does he know! Mum mollycoddled her, he cant do it. Dont listen to him, hell tell you all sorts
You dont like him, do you? Emma realises.
The deputy purses her lips.
Hes not a gingerbread man I dont need to like or dislike him. That child needs proper teaching, in a suitable place.
Emma isnt convinced. Shes not sure Tessa belongs in a special school. So, she rings her favourite mentor, Mrs Lydia Smith, gets advice, and goes to visit Tessa at home. Shes terrified, drinks chamomile tea even though she dislikes it, just as Mum used to, claiming it calmed her nerves. Emmas mum has died too. The story hits home.
Tom greets her coldly, not as she’d imagined, as though hed be happy to see someone helping his daughter.
Were not really receiving visitors, he grumbles.
Emma tightens her lips, like the deputy, and asserts her responsibility for checking home conditions.
Tessas bedroom is lovely: pink wallpaper, cuddly toys, and stacks of books. Emma feels a pang her own father was a minimalist and detested fancy colours and frills. Her childhood room was beige, the toys beige too.
That first visit yields little. Emma asks about Tessas favourite books, rummages through them, asks about pencils. Tessa silently brings her pencils, says nothing about the books. Only when Emma asks the pink bunnys name does she reply:
Bun Bun.
Next time, Emma brings Bun Bun a cardigan. Her own mum taught her to knit, and Emma still does it in memory of her, though shes not much good the yarn is too thick and the stitches a bit wonky. But Tessa is delighted and tries it on straight away.
Beautiful, Tessa says.
Emma suggests drawing Bun Bun in the new cardigan. Tessa does, Emma purposely makes a spelling mistake in the name, and Tessa corrects her.
Shes no slow learner.
Ill visit Tessa three times a week, she tells Tom.
Ive no spare money, he mutters.
I dont want money, Emma bristles.
Settled, then.
The deputy head, on hearing about the visits, is unimpressed.
You cant single out one child, Emma thats poor practice! And its pointless, Ive seen plenty of children like her.
So have I, Emma retorts, and I know its too early to give up.
Tessa is indeed different: often quiet, avoids eye contact, prefers drawing to writing, but shes good with numbers and picks up grammar quickly. At the end of term, she gets honest passing marks not kindness, but earned.
Are you going anywhere for New Years? Tom asks, avoiding her gaze just like Tessa.
No, nowhere, Emma stammers, cheeks reddening.
Tessa wants to invite you over.
Its odd. Tessa herself says nothing, but she barely talks anyway. If she wants it, Emma doesnt want to let her down. Yet spending New Year’s with strangers is daunting.
Thanks Ill think about it, she replies.
That night Emma sleeps poorly, confused by what exactly unsettled her. Shes worked with the girl for a month, shes finally warmed up a little isnt that the idea? Why should it matter what Tom thinks…
With those thoughts, she dozes off.
Morning, George rings.
When are you coming?
What do you mean?
For New Years! You cant possibly spend it out there.
Yes, I can!
Em This is enough. Dads blood pressure is up, hes worried sick.
Her dad has never called once.
Tell him to see a doctor, Emma snaps.
So, youre not coming?
Im not.
Damn. What should I do?
Whatever you like!
Emma never expects George to do it turn up with champagne, salads, and gifts.
If the mountain wont come to Muhammad
Emma is stunned. Not in the worst way; she didnt think he was capable. George loves flashy New Years parties in posh London restaurants with live music. Here? In a house with no telly.
Well, at least youre here. Thats what matters.
She tries to find the trap. There isnt one. Maybe I was completely wrong about him, Emma wonders.
She melts further when she finds her favourite dishes in the containers, and in gift wrap: books on teaching, a projector, and a teachers diary.
Thank you, shes touched. I thought youd just bring jewellery or some gadget.
George smiles.
Em, I get it now: youre my most precious thing. If you want to live in a village, Ill live in a village with you. I did bring jewellery, too.
He produces a red velvet box. Instantly, she knows whats inside.
Can I not answer just yet? Emma asks.
George isnt offended.
I was worried youd say no outright. I can wait as long as you need.
Emma doesnt know what to say. She hides the box in her coat pocket.
Tom has her mobile, but he calls the landline.
Have you decided? he asks.
Im sorry. My friends come out here.
I see, he says, hanging up.
Her soul twists. Whats with the tone? I see Whats he see? Emma never promised anything why is he sulking? Or is he? Perhaps for Tessa. Tessas expecting her, and what parent wants their child upset?
Her head spins with it. George, meanwhile, is oblivious, fiddling with his phone, vainly trying to get internet for Christmas films.
Emma hears a whistle thats how he calls the dog. She remembers Toms whistle, peers out the window. Tom and Tessa stand at the gate.
Red flush spreads across her face.
Whos that? George demands.
My pupil, Emma mumbles. Back in a minute.
Shes prepared a gift for Tessa: a companion for Bun Bun, this time a pink bunny girl. Dad would scoff at the idea.
Emmas made Tom a gift as well, unsure if she should, but shes knitted mittens for him.
She snatches up her presents and runs outside, no hat, bare legs. Snow fills her boots and she doesnt even flinch.
Tessa, hello! Emma says, trying too hard. Happy New Year! Look what Ive got for you.
She offers Tessa a bag. Tessa pulls out the bunny and hugs it, glancing at her father. Tom produces two parcels, one big, one small. Tessa unwraps the large inside is a notebook with a comic strip; she recognises her own drawings immediately.
Thanks, its wonderful! Emma exclaims.
The small parcel reveals a bird-shaped brooch. A delicate little golden hummingbird. Emma looks up at Tom. Hes not meeting her gaze. Tessa says,
It was Mums.
A lump forms in Emmas throat.
Well, wed best be off, Tom mumbles.
Of course. Happy New Year!
To you as well
Emma wants to hug Tessa but doesnt the girl stands clutching her toy, silent.
At the gate, Emma glances back. Something aches in her chest at the sight of those two figures, and she enters the cottage blinking rapidly, sniffling.
Well, what was all that? George complains.
Emma looks at the notebook and the brooch curled in her palm. She remembers forgetting to give Tom his mittens, recalls what Tessa said: Mums And how Toms rare, infectious smile only appears for his daughter. Theres a wild blooming inside her chest now. She feels sorry for George, but lying to him and herself makes no sense.
Emma pulls the velvet box from her pocket, hands it to George, and says:
Go home, George. Sorry, I cant marry you. Please forgive me.
Georges face drains. Hes not used to rejection.
For a moment, Emma fears hell lash out. But George simply puts the box away, takes his car keys, and leaves in silence.
Emma quickly packs the leftovers into containers, grabs Toms mittens, and rushes out to catch up with those strangers who, just now, mean everything in the world to her.
