MELODY OF LIFE OR BUTTERFLY
Gwendolyn Thornhill had been called Gwen all her life. She was diminutive, waist as narrow as a bottle, eyes bright green and eversparkling, with a laugh that caught any man’s eye. Men of every age fancied petite women; they wanted to shield, cherish, and hold them as one would a delicate doll. As the old saying goes, a little pony always brings forth a colt.
Gwen also possessed a rare gifther voice, a true mezzosoprano, could fill any room. She sang wherever she could. By day she laboured as a laboratory assistant in a Manchester textile mill, but her heart belonged to song. She entered every choir she could find, gradually earning her place on modest stages, first timid, then bolder. All her soul thirsted for art, and art was her sustenance.
She never hurried toward marriage, nor even thought of children. Such plans were never in her ledger. Gwen regarded herself as wholly selfsufficient. Husband, offspring those were chores that would steal the hours she needed for melody and joy. She voiced this to her married friends, who nodded wisely and then retreated to their own nursery dutiessome for the first child, some for the second, some for the third.
Thus Gwen resolved to devote herself entirely to singing. Yet life has its own script. At the same mill she met the head of the weaving floor, Arthur Sinclair, to whom she regularly delivered laboratory reports.
Every time she approached his office, the clerk, Emily Hart, guarded the doorway with jealous vigilance. When Gwen entered the little vestibule, Emily would snatch the reports, thank her, and, with a smile, say, Miss, you may go. Ill pass everything to Mr. Sinclair. So Gwen never actually saw the boss.
One day Emily fell ill. Seizing the chance, Gwen knocked gently, entered, and found Arthur himself seated at the long desk.
Come in, miss. What do you have for me? he asked.
Just the sample reports Gwen stammered.
New here, are you? he pressed.
No, Ive been here over five years.
He smiled, a little rueful, and they chatted. From then on Gwen placed the reports directly on his desk. When Emily recovered, she would turn away from Gwen as if to water the office plants, ignoring her entirely.
Gwen was twentyseven at the time.
A brief office romance sparked. Arthur was a responsible man who never yearned for scandalous headlines. He quickly suggested a proper marriage. Gwen, ever the free spirit, laughed it off. Why add extra burdens? she thought. She was content with a relationship that demanded no vows.
Arthur, taken aback by her refusal, expected any other woman to chase him like a lovesick hound. He gave her space to ponder. Meanwhile, the other women in the mills break room pestered her: Such a fine gentleman courtesies you! Dont turn him down! Youre getting old, youll be left to spin alone!
At last Gwen yielded. The wedding was a grand affair. In her bridal gown, veil and childsize shoes, she resembled a delicate doll. Arthur beamed with pride. Gwen, however, kept her emotions guarded, reserving her vitality for the stage.
After a harmonious honeymoon, she prepared for a regional tour of concerts, holiday homes, sanatoria, and schools. Arthur, ever the supportive husband, asked only, Gwen, could you make something for dinner and iron my shirt, please?
She snapped, Tom, Im in a hurrynothing but the next note!
Arthur kissed her nose, Forgive me, love, Im just pestering you. Go sing! He repeated this pattern countless times. Soon he began buying readymade meals, learning to wash his own shirts, fry an omelette, and wash the dishesanything to spare Gwen the domestic grind.
Time passed. Gwen left the mill, living on her voice and frequent provincial tours. Arthur, accustomed to a creative wife who shunned housekeeping, settled into his own routine. One afternoon he asked his new secretary for a cup of tea. She complied promptly and then ventured, Mr. Sinclair, may I offer you a scone? Freshly baked with jam.
He smiled wearily, Thank you, Emily. I do love a good raspberry scone.
She then suggested, Shall I stitch a button on your coat? It looks about to pop off.
He sighed, Emily, my wife has little time for me; shes busy with her rehearsals.
She muttered under her breath, Of course, the wife sings, the husband howls like a wolf.
Thus Emily began sliding little comforts into Arthurs day: a jar of cold soup, a thermos of broth, a hot meat patty, and always raspberry scones. She became his quiet caretaker, though he never crossed the line into infidelity. He remained grateful, yet his devotion to Gwen never wavered.
Emily, modest and sincere, loved Arthur wholeheartedly, believing that patience would eventually reveal who truly mattered.
Arthur, however, grew more attentive to Emily, sometimes comparing her to Gwen in his mind, and finding that Gwen could not match Emilys easy charm, though Emily was no beauty queen.
Four years of marriage had passed, and the Thornhill household still comprised just the two of them. Gwen never spoke of children. Then, one day, she announced she had grown plumper, rounder, and asked Arthur to stock up on pickles and stewed applesa sign, she joked, that a stork might soon arrive.
Arthur could scarcely contain his delight; a child seemed the ultimate dream. Yet Gwen received the news with little joy. She consulted a physician to avoid the unwanted burden, only to be told it was too late and she should aim for a healthy baby. Arthur remained blissfully unaware.
He scoured shop windows for the finest pram and cot, checking prices in pounds. Gwen, resigned to the unexpected diagnosis, kept her composure. Arthur, still seeing Emily as a sisterinspirit, shared his happiness with her, prompting Emily to submit her resignation with a sigh, My raspberry jam is finished, no more scones for you.
A new secretary, a middlingaged woman named Margaret Blake, took over. She knew everyones business and, with a cheeky grin, chided Arthur, Ah, Sinclair! Youve let a good clerk slip away! Emily loved you like no other!
Arthur curtly replied, Work, Margaret! No distractions.
Months later Gwen gave birth to a little girl. The midwife cooed, What a vocal little thing! Shell be a singer one day! What shall we call her?
Gwen snapped, Nothing!
Arthur rushed in with a bouquet, but Gwen did not rise. She sat on the cot, sobbing bitterly as the other mothers whispered, Whats the matter, dear?
I do not want this child! she declared, her voice shaking. The other women exchanged glances and offered their own tales of love, loss, and stray children, each laughing or lamenting in turn.
A nurse handed Gwen a bunch of roses from Arthur, who paced the ward, nervous and hopeful. She ignored the flowers; the nurse placed them on the bedside table.
The following day Arthur was sent on a work trip he could not decline. He returned two weeks later, racing home, eager to see his daughter, hoping she would resemble Gwen. Instead he found only Gwen, humming a tune and flipping through sheet music.
Wheres our child? he asked, bewildered.
Arthur, sit down, please. Isigned the relinquishment papers, Gwen replied, eyes averted.
Relinquishment? Have you lost your mind? Thats our blood! How could you? he shouted, his fury mounting. He snatched the music sheets, tore them to shreds, and hurled the fragments at her. Here are your notes, you fool!
Gwen had never seen her husband so enraged. She feared he might harm her. Yet Arthur seemed spent, gathering his belongings into a sack, slamming the door, and wandering aimlessly through the streets, shouting into the void, People! Where has love fled? Help me! No one paused; all hurried on.
He spent a night at a friends house, then returned to work, demanding Margarets help: Give me Emilys number; I must call her.
Margaret, sensing his turmoil, handed over the number with a dry comment about their affairs.
When Gwen finally recovered from the shock, she chose not to chase Arthur but to lose herself entirely in her art. She retreated to a seaside resort, where a concert was arranged for her. Free as a bird, she repaired the torn sheets and sang anew; the audience rose for encores, showering her with flowers. She toured the countryside for years, then retired from performing to become a vocal coach, though she had never held a formal music degree. Her experience, however, proved sufficient to guide young talent.
One afternoon a colleague approached her, Gwen, a girl has been brought to me. She seems talented. Could you audition her? Her father is with her.
Bring her in, Gwen agreed.
Soon a boy entered the studio with two girls, aged ten and twelve. Arthur, older now, pointed the younger to a chair, Sit, little Molly. He leaned toward the elder and, to his astonishment, recognised his former wife.
My word, why do we cross paths with a former teacher? he muttered.
Calm down, Tom. Lets hear your daughter, Gwen said, uneasy.
Arthur took the younger by the hand and left the room. Gwen began the audition. The girls voice was strikingly reminiscent of Gwens own childhoodsmall, precise, with a mischievous laugh.
How old are you, sweetheart? Gwen asked.
Thirteen, and my name is Lucy, the girl replied proudly.
Wonderful voice! You may go, but invite your father back in, Gwen said.
Arthur reentered.
Tom, youve got a talented daughter. I could recommend a good coach if Im not the right fit. Youre married, arent you? Hows life? Gwen pressed.
Married and content. My wife is Emily, my former secretary. Were raising my daughter Lucy and our shared child, Molly, Arthur replied with a hint of pride.
My daughter Lucy? The one I gave birth to? Gwen gasped.
Just the one you gave birth to, Arthur emphasized, then hurried out.
From the hallway came the shouts of the other girls, Girls, lets go meet mum after work!
Gwen sat, her mind a tangle of memoriesshe had just spoken to her own child. Thirteen years had passed since the fateful day she signed away that little girl, now called Lucy, who called another woman mum. The blame fell solely upon herself.
That evening, as she trudged home after work, a cat named Minstrel leapt onto her path, purring expectantly. She brushed him aside, Not now! The cat trotted to the kitchen, settled by his bowl, as if to say, I know youre upset, but Im hungry.
What have I left? No husband, no children, an empty flat, a cold bed. Perhaps I played the wrong notes in my life. she mused.
If only she could turn back the clock! But summer does not return twice a year.
Gwen replayed the melody of her entire life, note by note. A melancholy tale, built on castles of air and a past without much grace.
Sitting in her armchair, wrapped in a familiar quilt, she reflected on an old fable about the grasshopper: Did you sing all summer? Thats the point The echo of that proverb lingered as the fire crackled, a quiet reminder of the music that once defined her.
