Once, I dreamed of coming to you and saying I love you…
Emily Whitmore placed the last marked exercise book on the pile at the edge of her desk. Now, all that was left was to finalise the end-of-term grades in the register. Outside the staffroom windows, darkness had long since fallen, and snowflakes drifted lazily in the glow of the streetlights.
A metallic clang echoed from the corridor—the unmistakable sound of the caretaker’s bucket—followed by the wet slap of a mop hitting the floor. That would be Brenda, the school cleaner, who even the teachers called “Mrs. B,” trudging upstairs to tackle the hall. Spotting the strip of light under the staffroom door, Mrs. B muttered just loudly enough to be heard:
“Still here at this hour, trampling on my clean floors. Don’t they have homes to go to?”
The mop gave a resentful swish against the linoleum, as if agreeing with her.
“Well, Brenda, no one’s waiting for me. You’ll just have to put up with me a while longer,” Emily sighed under her breath and flipped open the register.
Forty minutes later, she snapped it shut and slotted it back into the cupboard with the others. Only then did she realise how quiet the corridor had gone. Wrapping her coat around herself in the mirror, she grabbed her handbag, gave the staffroom one last glance, and flicked the light off. The floor glistened damply under the dim emergency lighting—still not quite dry.
Downstairs, even the security desk was unmanned. She slipped into the little office, hung the key in its glass-fronted cabinet, and called out, “I’ve gone! Staffroom’s locked, key’s in the cupboard!”
Silence. No one came. But she knew the school was never truly empty. A night guard or caretaker always stayed behind.
“Goodnight!” she announced needlessly to the air, then stepped outside.
A few paces from the building, she glanced back and saw the elderly security guard bolting the doors from within.
The playground was an ice rink polished by a hundred school shoes, now dusted with a fine layer of snow. Emily picked her way carefully across and out through the wrought-iron gates.
The street was deserted, cars passing only occasionally. She quickened her step.
Emily had played school with dolls and friends as a child—of course she’d wanted to be a teacher. What else would she be, with her mum teaching English and literature? After A-levels, she sailed into teacher training.
Men on her course were rare, and those who did enrol only had eyes for the prettiest girls—a category Emily didn’t put herself in. So by graduation, she’d acquired neither a husband nor even a boyfriend.
She wasn’t bothered. There was time. People often mistook her for a sixth-former. Her mother, however, fretted. “Teaching shapes your personality,” she’d say. “The longer you’re at it, the harder it’ll be to find a decent partner.” They’d bought Emily a flat, giving her independence.
But what use was independence when the school staffroom was a sea of women? Aside from the perpetually flirty PE teacher, the gruff ex-military DT instructor (already a grandfather three times over), and the two elderly security guards, there wasn’t much prospect.
“God forbid you end up like me—married late and with just one child by forty,” her mother would lament.
As if fretting about it would conjure up a husband.
Fairy lights twinkled in windows as Emily turned down a quiet lane. She hadn’t bothered with a tree this year—why bother, when she’d just spend Christmas at her parents’ as usual? Then she heard footsteps behind her. She tensed and glanced back.
A man in a hoodie kept a short distance behind, face obscured. Gripping her handbag tighter, she sped up.
At the next corner, she ducked behind a wall and held her breath. Seconds ticked by. No footsteps passed. Finally, she peeked out—and nearly collided with him.
“What do you want?” Her voice trembled. “Stop following me, or I’ll call the police!” For emphasis, she added a shaky, “Help!”
The man pushed back his hood.
“Miss Whitmore? It’s me. Oliver Carter.” He smiled.
“Oliver?” She stared. The lanky teen from her first-ever Year 9 class had morphed into this broad-shouldered man. “Are you mugging me?”
“God, no.” He laughed. “I’ve been walking you home for days. It’s dark early, the estate’s poorly lit, and—well, it’s not the safest area. Tonight, you were especially late.”
“You’ve done this before?” Emily blinked. “I never noticed.”
“Marking took ages,” she admitted. “End-of-term grades.”
“Did the school tree go up?” he asked, still smiling.
“Yesterday.” She found herself smiling back.
“Used to love that smell—real pine, like presents and mince pies. Couldn’t focus on lessons those last days before break.” He sighed nostalgically. “Come on, I’ll walk you.”
“You really don’t—”
“I insist.” His tone turned serious. “It’s been years.”
They fell into step. Emily quizzed him about his life—odd jobs, fixing and selling computers, plans to open a shop with a mate.
“You’d know him. Jake Miller?” Oliver grinned. “So if your laptop acts up, ring me.”
At her doorstep, he glanced up. “Lights are off. No one waiting?”
“You’d make a good detective,” she teased, thanking him before turning to unlock her door.
“Aren’t you going to invite me in, Miss Whitmore?”
“It’s late. I’m knackered,” she said over her shoulder.
The next evening, her doorbell rang. Expecting her mum on one of her ‘inspections,’ Emily opened it—to Oliver clutching a bound fir tree and a printer-paper box.
“Evening. Had a feeling you hadn’t got a tree.” His grin faltered as she hesitated. “Brought baubles, too.”
“That’s sweet, but I’m at my parents’ for Christmas.” Then, watching his face fall: “Oh, come in.”
The flat filled with pine scent as he set the tree up. Decorating it, their hands kept brushing—awkward, electric. Over tea, he asked, “Can I call you Em? We’re not in school. ‘Miss Whitmore’ is a mouthful.”
She liked that he didn’t default to ‘Liz’—a name she hated, thanks to some twee childhood nickname.
“Also, I, uh, may have cyberstalked you. Saw your friends call you Em on Facebook.”
“What else do you know?” She stiffened.
He laughed. “Is it cheeky if I drop the ‘miss’? We’re not teacher and student anymore.” Before she could react: “I fancied you rotten back then. You’d go pink when handing out detentions.”
Emily didn’t know how to respond. She’d noticed his stares—but pupils crush on teachers, especially young ones. Reciprocating was out of the question.
Her first class. Her first prom. Oliver had been the only one who’d asked her to dance—a waltz, under everyone’s gaze. The other boys couldn’t manage it; her mum had taught her.
“I actually revised because of you,” he admitted. “Didn’t want to look thick in front of you. Got decent marks, then thought—right, I’ll make something of myself. Worthy of you. Dreamed of coming back one day…” He hesitated. “But I lost patience. Worried someone else might swoop in.”
She studied him. No trace of the gangly boy remained—just a handsome man with a warm, intent gaze.
“Oliver, I’m older—”
“Four years? Who cares nowadays?” He met her eyes. “Fancy spending New Year’s together? Getting to know each other properly? I’m not some obsessed kid. Give me a chance.”
*Why not?* She flushed. *He’s hardly a boy now. Mum’ll be thrilled—no more ‘biological clock’ lectures. See how it goes.*
“Alright,” she said softly.
“Seriously?” He lit up. “Brilliant. You handle snacks, I’ll bring fizz. No chance you’ll be bored.”
They stood, lingering in the silence. He broke it first.
“Best go. Tomorrow, then.”
The plea in his eyes—hope, tenderness—made her look away before she drowned in it.
Leaning against the door after he left, she pressed a hand to her racing heart.
Next day, she rang her mum. “Not coming for New Year’s. Don’t panic—I’ve got company.”
Her mother descended within minutes, demanding details. Emily omitted that her ‘company’ was a former pupil. For a woman who worked in the Education Authority, teacher-student relations—even post-school—were a hard line.
By summer term, Emily wore aBefore the next school year began, she stood at the altar with Oliver, her mother finally softening when she saw how his hands trembled as he slipped the ring onto Emily’s finger.
