One evening, while grading papers in the hushed silence of the staffroom, Eleanor Hastings placed the last marked workbook atop the pile by the edge of her desk. The streetlamps outside cast a dim glow through the frost-laced windows, and snowflakes drifted lazily in the night air.
A clatter echoed in the corridor—the custodian, Margaret Wilkins (whom even the teachers called “Maggie”), had arrived with her bucket and mop. Spotting the light beneath the staffroom door, Maggie huffed loudly, “Sittin’ in there till all hours, traipsin’ over my clean floors. Why don’t they just go home?” The mop groused against the linoleum, as if in agreement.
*No one’s waiting for me. You’ll have to endure me a little longer, Maggie,* Eleanor sighed inwardly before opening the register.
Forty minutes later, she snapped it shut, shelved it with the others, and only then noticed the absence of noise outside. She pulled on her coat before the mirror, grabbed her handbag, and, after a final glance around, flicked off the light. The corridor floor still gleamed damply under the dim emergency bulb.
Downstairs, the security booth stood empty. Eleanor let herself into the tiny office and hung the key on the glass-fronted cabinet. “Left the staffroom locked, key’s inside!” she called, her voice startling the quiet. No one answered. But she knew the school was never truly empty—someone always stayed overnight.
“Goodbye, then!” she announced, stepping out into the cold.
A few paces away, she turned to see an elderly security guard locking the main doors behind her. The playground ice, trodden smooth by countless schoolchildren, now lay dusted with fresh snow. Carefully, she crossed the yard and passed through the iron gates.
The streets were deserted. Even cars were scarce. Eleanor quickened her step.
As a girl, she had played school with dolls and friends, dreaming of becoming a teacher. What else would she be, with a mother who taught English and literature? University had been effortless. But the faculty had been mostly women, and the few men only noticed the pretty ones—a category Eleanor never placed herself in. By graduation, she had neither a husband nor even a sweetheart.
It didn’t trouble her. She had time. People often mistook her for a sixth-former. Her mother, however, fretted—certain that teaching stamped a woman too plainly, making it harder to find a proper match as the years passed. Her parents had bought her a flat, gifting her freedom.
But what use was freedom when the school faculty was nearly all women? Aside from the P.E. instructor—who fancied himself a charmer—the aging caretaker, and the two security guards, there were no prospects.
“God forbid you end up like me—married late, one child by forty,” her mother would lament.
But did fretting ever summon a husband?
Glittering Christmas lights blinked in windows, though Eleanor hadn’t bothered with a tree. Why bother? She’d celebrate at her parents’ as usual. Turning down a quiet lane, she heard footsteps behind her. Unease prickled her skin. She glanced back—a man in a hooded coat, face shadowed, followed at a distance. She clutched her bag tighter and walked faster.
At the next corner, she pressed herself against a wall, breath held. Seconds passed. The man didn’t appear. Finally, she peered out—and collided with him.
“What do you want?” Her voice shook. “Stop following me! I’ll call the police!”
The man pushed back his hood. “Miss Hastings, it’s me—Daniel Whitmore.” He smiled.
Eleanor blinked. The tall, broad-shouldered man bore little resemblance to the awkward boy from her first-ever class.
“Do you mean to rob me?” she whispered, eyes wide.
“Of course not. I’ve been walking you home for days. Dark early, no streetlamps—it’s not safe.” His voice softened. “Tonight, you stayed late.”
“You’ve done this often?”
“Didn’t you notice?”
“I was marking papers,” she admitted.
“Did the school already put up the tree?”
“Yesterday.” She finally smiled.
“I always loved that smell—pine and tinsel. Could never focus those last days before Christmas.” He gazed at her. “Let me walk you the rest of the way.”
“You needn’t bother.”
“I want to.”
They walked slowly, Eleanor asking after his life. He repaired and sold computers, he said, saving to open a shop with a friend.
“You know him—Simon Clarke.”
At her door, he hesitated. “I’ve never seen a light on when I pass. No one waiting?”
“You’d make a fine detective,” she teased before thanking him and turning to leave.
“Won’t you invite me in, Miss Hastings?”
“Too late. I’m exhausted.”
The next day, she left school early. Before she’d even changed, the doorbell rang. Expecting her mother, she opened it—only to find Daniel gripping a bound fir tree in one arm and a printer-paper box in the other.
“I thought you might not have one,” he said, grinning.
“I wasn’t planning to. I’ll be at my parents’.” His smile faltered. “But—come in,” she relented.
The flat filled with the scent of pine as he set up the tree. They decorated, hands brushing, both flustered. Over tea, Daniel asked, “May I call you Ellie? Outside school, it feels odd not to.”
She liked that he hadn’t chosen “Nell.” She’d always hated it—too much like some twee storybook heroine.
He laughed. “I saw your friends call you that online.”
“What else do you know about me?”
“May I switch to ‘you’? We’re not teacher and student anymore.” Before she could protest, he added, “I fancied you rotten in school. You blushed whenever you gave us F’s.”
Eleanor didn’t know what to say. She’d noticed his stares, but pupils often idolised teachers—especially young ones. It wasn’t proper to reciprocate.
He had been her first class. At graduation, he’d asked her to dance—the only one who could waltz. She’d learned from her mother.
“I studied harder because of you. Didn’t want to look a fool. Thought if I made something of myself, I might…” He trailed off. “But I couldn’t wait. Worried someone else might get there first.”
She studied him—no longer a boy, but a man. His sharp features softened by warmth.
“Younger than me,” she murmured.
“Only four years. Does it matter?”
“You’re serious? Marriage?”
“Waited this long, haven’t I?” His voice roughened. “Give me a chance.”
*Why not?* she thought. *Parents will be thrilled. No more lectures about dwindling time.*
“Alright,” she said softly.
“Really?” His face lit up. “I’ll bring champagne. It’ll be brilliant.”
They stood, locked in silence. Finally, he cleared his throat. “I should go. Tomorrow, we’ll plan.”
His gaze held such hope she had to look away.
At the door, heart racing, she leaned against it after he’d gone.
The next day, she phoned her mother: “I won’t be coming for New Year’s. No—I won’t be alone.”
Her mother arrived instantly, demanding details. Ellie omitted that it was a former student—unthinkable for a woman in the school board.
By summer term, Ellie wore an engagement ring and a rounding belly. Daniel met her after school each day. Colleagues watched, wistful. Pupils whispered about her flowing dresses.
And whatever anyone thought—Ellie and Daniel were happy.
