The melody of a life tangled in its own chords
Emily had been a little bird all her life. Tiny in stature, with a waist like a thimble, bright green eyes that seemed to hold a spark, and a laugh that rippled through any room, she drew the gaze of men of every age. Men have always loved women who could fit in the palm of their handthose elfsized beauties they feel compelled to protect, cradle, and cherish, as the saying goes: a small pony always becomes a colt.
Emily possessed a gift as wellher voice, a warm mezzosoprano, could fill a hall. By day she worked as a laboratory technician in a steel plant on the outskirts of Manchester, but singing was the fire in her veins. She entered every choir she could find, shy at first, then bolder, letting her soul drink deep from the well of art.
She never rushed toward marriage, and children never crossed her mind. A husband, childrenthose are shackles that steal the hours I need for song, she would tell her married friends over tea, while they nodded and slipped away to maternity leave after their first, second, then third child.
Emily vowed to give herself wholly to her voice, yet fate had other plans. In the same plant she met the workshop foreman, Arthur Sinclair, whose name she saw on countless testreport forms she delivered. The office door was always guarded by the secretary, Clara Whitfield, a woman as jealous of her bosss privacy as a cat about its yarn. Whenever Emily entered the foremans office, Clara would snatch the paperwork, smile, and say, Miss, youre free to go. Ill pass everything to Mr. Sinclair.
That routine went on until Clara fell ill. Emily, seizing the chance, knocked gently on the heavy oak door and peered inside. At the far end of a long table sat Arthur himself.
Come in, love, he said, eyeing her. What have you got for me?
Just the sample reports, Emily muttered, cheeks flushing.
Youre new, arent you? Arthur pressed, curiosity sharpening.
No, Ive been here five years, Emily replied, steady.
He gave a halfsmile, Never noticed you before. Shame. They exchanged a few jokes, and Emily left for her bench.
From that day onward she placed each report directly on Arthurs desk. When Clara recovered, she watched Emilys hands fluttering the paperwork and turned away, busily watering the office plants as if to hide her irritation.
Emily was twentyseven when a brief office romance sparked. Arthur, a respectable man, had no desire to become a headline scandal. He proposed marriage almost immediately. Emily, ever the free spirit, laughed it off. Why tie myself down with extra chores? she thought. She liked a relationship that didnt demand vows.
Arthur was stunned. Any other woman would have chased after himhandsome, sober, steady, and wellpaid. He gave Emily space to think, while the other women in the factory gossip mill whispered, Look at the foreman courting you! Dont turn him down! Youll be left alone forever!
At last Emily surrendered. Their wedding was a grand affair. In a modest bridal dress, a delicate veil, and shoes too small for her feet, she looked like a porcelain doll. Arthur beamed, but Emily kept her emotions muted, saving her energy for the stage.
The honeymoon passed in quiet contentment, after which Emily prepared for a regional tour of community halls, schools, and holiday resorts. Arthur, ever the gentleman, asked only one thing:
Emily, could you make something for dinner and iron my shirt, please?
She snapped, Tom, Im in a hurry! and fled the kitchen. Arthur kissed her nose and said, Sorry, love, Im just bugging you. Go sing.
He began buying readymade meals, learning to launder his own shirts, fry an egg, and wash the dishesanything to keep Emilys world light. He never expected her to become a housewife.
Months later Emily left the plant altogether, living off concerts and teaching. Arthur grew accustomed to his wifes artistic temperament, assuming she would never tend to a home.
One afternoon Arthur asked his new secretary, a young woman named Zoe, Could I have a coffee, please? She obliged, then shyly offered, May I bring you some scones? I baked them myself. He smiled, Thank you, Zoe. I do like them with jam. She then suggested, Shall I stitch a button on your jacket? Its about to give way. He replied, Sorry, Zoe, my wife is too busy with her singing. She has her own things to do. Zoe muttered under her breath, So the wife sings, and the husband howls like a wolf.
Zoes small acts of kindnesscanned soup, a thermos of stew, reheated piesgradually wrapped Arthur in a warm, if unwelcome, cocoon. He never crossed the line; he remained loyal to Emily, grateful for Zoes support but nothing more.
Four years into their marriage, Emilys belly swelled. She announced, Id like us to have pickled cucumbers and caramelised apples ready, a cryptic way of saying a child was on the way. Arthurs heart leapthe imagined a tiny bundle, the dream of parenthood finally within reach.
Emily, however, felt an icy dread. She consulted a doctor, hoping to avoid the burden, only to be told it was too late and she should aim for a healthy baby. Arthur, oblivious, scoured shops for the finest pram and cot, comparing price tags in pounds.
The news cracked Emilys composure. She told the doctor she wanted an abortion, but the physician said the window had closed. She swallowed the verdict in silence.
Arthur, thrilled, burst into the store, chattering about the upcoming arrival. When he later confided in Zoe, the old secretarys face fell, and she tenderly handed in her resignation, joking, Im out of cherries for my pies, Arthur. A middleaged woman named Margaret took over the desk, a seasoned veteran who knew every corner of the plant. She chastised Arthur, Youve lost a good one, Arthur! She loved you like no other! He snapped, Carry on, Margaret. No distractions.
Emily gave birth to a little girl in a Manchester hospital. The midwife, eyes wide, asked, What will you name her? Emily whispered, Never. Arthur stormed in with a bouquet, but Emily lay on the cot, tears streaming, refusing to meet his gaze.
Other mothers in the ward chatted loudly:
Girl, I gave birth to my lovers twins! My husband will never know!
My sons darkskinned; I sold goods, got robbed, now Im raising him alone.
The chatter swirled around Emily, who turned away, listening to the misery like background music.
A nurse placed a bunch of roses on the bedside table, From your husband. Emily didnt touch them; the nurse sighed and left them.
Arthur was dispatched on a twoweek assignment at a new factory site. He returned eager, racing home, expecting to cradle his daughter. Instead he found only Emily, humming a tune and flipping through sheet music.
Emily, wheres our child? he asked, bewildered.
She stared at him, voice flat, Arthur, I signed the consent form I gave up the baby.
Give up? Youre mad! Thats our blood! How could you? he roared, snatching the music sheets, tearing them apart, and hurling the shredded fragments at her face. You idiot!
Emily never saw her husband like that before. Fear clenched her, but Arthur seemed drained, as if his heart had emptied. He tossed his coat into a bag, slammed the door, and walked out into a rainsoaked Manchester night, shouting into the empty streets, Where has love gone? Help me! Passersby hurried past, engrossed in their own lives.
He spent a night at a friends flat, then returned to the plant the next day and demanded Claras phone number from the secretary, Tamara, I need to call her. The woman handed over the number, smirking, Must be about your wife.
When Emily finally gathered herself after the violent outburst, she did not chase Arthur. She sought solace in her art, boarding a retreat in the Cotswolds where a concert was arranged for her. She reconstructed the torn sheets, sang night after night, and the audience rose for encores, throwing flowers onto the stage. Her voice, freed from the shackles of a broken marriage, flew like a lark over the rolling hills.
Years slipped by. Emily left performing to become a vocal coach, despite never having formal qualificationsher experience alone made her a treasured mentor to young talent. One afternoon a colleague asked, Emily, a girl has been brought inshes talented. Can you audition her?
Bring her in, Emily agreed.
Soon the door opened to reveal Arthur, holding two girlsone ten, the other twelve. He gestured the younger to a chair, Sit, darling. The older approached Emily, and only then did he recognise his former wife.
Lord, why do I keep running into former teachers? he muttered in disbelief.
Emily, calm, replied, Lets hear her sing. The girls voice echoed Emilys own youthful timbretiny, bright, with a laugh that mirrored Emilys own.
After the audition, Emily asked, How old are you, sweetheart?
Thirteen, my names Daisy, the girl beamed.
Youre wonderful! Send your father in, will you? Emily called out.
Arthur stepped forward, Emily, youve got a brilliant daughter. I can recommend another tutor if you need. Are you married? Hows life?
Happy, married to Zoethe former secretary. We raise my daughter Daisy together with my other child, Molly, he announced, pride swelling.
Emilys eyes widened, My daughter Daisy? The one I gave up?
He shook his head, You only gave birth, Emily. Thats all. He turned and left.
A voice from the hallway shouted, Girls, lets go welcome Mum from work! Emily sat, bewildered, the room spinning with whispers of other mothers woes.
Thirteen years later, the memory of that fateful decision haunted Emily. She trudged home after a long day, her beloved cat, Maestro, leapt onto the mat, purring, demanding a morsel. She brushed him aside, muttering, Not now, Maestro. He settled by his bowl, a silent reminder that even a tiny creature could demand attention.
She sank into her armchair, wrapped in a familiar quilt, and thought, Ive played every note of my life, but the melody turned sour. No husband, no children, just an empty flat and a cold bed. I chose the wrong key. The bitter refrain lingered, a cautionary tale of a woman who sang too loudly for a world that refused to hear her heart.
