The Melody of a Life, or a Butterfly
Rosie Clarke had been a tiny Rosie all her life. She stood a head shorter than most, with a waist that seemed to vanish in a glass, eyes bright as fresh spring leaves, and a laugh that could light up any room. Men of every age took notice; they adored the petite women, the little birds they felt compelled to shelter, to cradle, to keep safelike a colt in a stable.
Rosie possessed a gift that set her aparther voice. A true mezzosoprano, it filled every space she could find. By day she laboured as a laboratory technician in the Manchester Chemical Works, but singing was the fire in her veins. She joined every choir, every local music club, and slowly stepped onto modest stages. At first timid, then with growing confidence, her soul thirsted for art and would not be quenched.
She never rushed to marriage, and children never crossed her mind. In her view they were responsibilities that would swallow the hours she needed for song. When will I have time to sing and simply be? she would say to her married friends, who nodded sympathetically before disappearing into maternity leave after their second or third child.
Rosie planned to devote herself entirely to music, yet fate had other plans. At the factory she met the head of her department, Andrew Sinclair, a stern but fair foreman. She delivered lab reports to his office, always escorted by his secretary, Zoe Harper, who guarded the door like a jealous spider. Zoe would snatch the paperwork, smile, and say, Miss Clarke, youre free. Ill pass everything to Mr. Sinclair. No need to worry. Thus Rosie never saw the man herselfuntil one day Zoe fell ill.
With the office door ajar, Rosie knocked gently and peered inside. At the end of the long table sat Andrew Sinclair, his eyes sharp as he asked, Come in, miss. What have you got? She stammered, Just the test reports He pressed, Youre new here? She replied, No, Ive been here five years. He smiled thinly, I hadnt noticed. Their conversation drifted from work to jokes, and Rosie left, heart pounding.
From then on she placed the reports directly on Andrews desk. When Zoe recovered, she turned away from Rosie, busied herself with watering the office plants, and pretended not to see the young woman approaching.
Rosie was twentyseven.
A brief affair blossomedbrief because Andrew was a man of principle, not the kind to flaunt himself in gossip columns. He suggested they marry outright. Rosie laughed it off at first; why tie herself down? He was handsome, steady, a good providerwhat more could a woman ask? Yet Andrew, surprised by her refusal, gave her space to think.
Friends at the factory clamoured, Hes courting you! Why are you turning him down? Youll waste your life alone! Under their relentless pressure Rosie finally surrendered.
The wedding was a grand affair. In a modest ivory dress, a veil, and childsize shoes, she looked like a porcelain doll. Andrew beamed with pride, while Rosiethough she smiledkept her emotions guarded, preserving her energy for the stage.
After a brief honeymoon, she prepared for a regional tour of community halls, holiday resorts, and school concerts. Andrew, ever the gentleman, asked only one thing: Rosie, could you make something to eat and iron my shirt, please? She snapped, Tom, Im in a hurry! He kissed her nose and said, Sorry, love, Im just pestering you. Go sing! He repeated this mockstern request until it became a joke between them.
Andrew learned to order readymade meals, to wash his own clothes, to scramble eggs, and to wash the dishesanything to keep Rosies world free of domestic chores.
Time passed. Rosie left the factory, living off her voice and traveling the county for performances. Andrew grew accustomed to a wife who sang, not who cooked.
One afternoon, Andrew asked his secretary to bring him a cup of tea. Zoe, eager to impress, offered, May I tempt you with my homemade jamfilled pastries? He smiled, Thank you, Zoe. I do love a good cherry tart. She then suggested, Let me stitch a button on your coat; its about to pop off. He sighed, Zoe, my wife has no time for me. Shes busy with her own work. She muttered under her breath, Of course, the wife sings while the husband barks like a wolf.
Zoes pastries disappeared, the button stayed sewn, and she began slipping Andrew soups in jars, stews in thermoses, and freshbaked cherry pies. He never noticed how her care wrapped around him like a warm blanket, but he never crossed the linehis duty to his wife remained clear. He was grateful for Zoes kindness, yet his heart still belonged to Rosie.
Rosie, engrossed in her soaring ambitions, missed any subtle shift in her marriage. Andrew, however, began to compare Rosie to Zoe in his mind, and Zoes quiet charm seemed to outshine the petite singer on paper. Though Zoe was no beauty queen, her humility and devotion won him over more often than not.
Four years had passed, and the couples household still consisted of just the two of them. Rosie never spoke of children. Then, one bright morning, her face flushed with a new glow. She asked Andrew to stock up on pickled cucumbers and caramelised applessigns, she thought, that an stork might soon visit.
Andrew could hardly contain his joy. A child! Our dream finally! he exclaimed, racing to shops to compare prices for prams (£120) and cribs (£85).
Rosie, however, felt dread. She visited a doctor, hoping for an abortion, but the physician said it was too late and urged her to bear a healthy child. Andrew knew nothing of this turmoil.
In the weeks that followed, Andrew confided in Zoe, still treating her like a trusted confidante. Zoe, hearing the news, sighed and handed in her resignation.
Zoe, whats happening? Youre leaving? Andrew asked. She replied, My cherries are gone, Tom. No more pies for you. A replacement secretary, Margaret Hayes, a seasoned woman in her late fifties, arrived and scolded Andrew, Oh, Andrew! Youve lost a good one. Zoe loved you like no other! He barked back, Work, Margaret! Focus on the job!
The birth finally camea little girl. The midwife cooed, What a voice she has! Shell be a singer, no doubt. What shall we call her? Rosie cut her off with a sharp, No name. Andrew burst into the delivery room with a bouquet, but Rosie stayed on the cot, tears streaming down her cheeks.
The other new mothers in the ward tried to console her. Whats the matter? Why are you crying? they asked. I dont want this child! she sobbed. Their chatter turned to jokes about lovers, twins, and missed chances, each story louder than the next, while Rosie turned away, listening to their laughter as if it were a cruel soundtrack.
A nurse handed Rosie a bouquet from her husband, Hes waiting, hes so nervous, look at these roses! Rosie never took them. The nurse shrugged and left them on the bedside table.
The next day Andrew was sent on a twoweek assignment to a new plant. He could not ask for leave; the launch was critical. He returned home, sprinting from the station, imagining the little girl waiting for him. But when he burst through the door, he found only Rosie, hunched over a music score, humming.
Wheres our daughter? he asked, bewildered.
Andrew, sit down. I I signed an adoption waiver, Rosie whispered, eyes fixed on the floor.
Waiver? Youve gone mad! That child is ours! How could you? he roared, grabbing the pages of music, tearing them apart, crushing them in his fist, and flinging them at her. You idiot!
Rosie had never seen her husband like this. Fear seized hershe thought he might kill her. Yet Andrew seemed drained, as if his heart had run out of steam. He grabbed a duffel bag, tossed his coat in, slammed the door shut, and walked out into the cold night, shouting into the empty streets, Where has love gone? Who can hear me? Nobody stopped; everyone hurried past, lost in their own concerns.
Later, staying over at a friends house, Andrew stormed back to work and demanded Zoes number from the new secretary, Mrs. Patel, I need Zoes telephone for a matter. She handed it over, thinking, What matter? A quarrel with his wife, perhaps?
When Rosie finally recovered from the shock, she didnt seek Andrew. She buried herself in music, retreating to a coastal retreat where a concert was arranged for her. She reconstructed the torn scores, sang them again and again, receiving standing ovations, bouquets, and calls for encores. The applause drowned the memory of her broken marriage.
Years slipped by. Rosie hung up her performance shoes and opened a modest vocal studio. Shed never earned a formal music degree, but her experience was enough to teach eager youngsters. One day a colleague asked, Rosie, a girls been brought to me. Shes talentedcould you hear her? Rosie welcomed the request.
A few minutes later, a man entered the studio with two girls, ages ten and twelve. He placed the younger on a chair, Sit, little one. The older approached Rosie, and then it struck herAndrew, now a familiar face, stood there with his daughters.
God, why does fate throw me back into this? he muttered, eyes wide.
Calm down, Tom, Rosie said, forcing a smile. Lets hear the child.
The audition went on; the girl sang with a voice that mirrored a young Rosietiny, bright, laughing exactly as she once had. After the song, Rosie asked, How old are you, sweetheart? The girl replied proudly, Thirteen, my names Katie. Rosie encouraged her to stay, but Andrew interjected, Tom, you have a talented daughter. Ill recommend a good teacher if Im not the right fit. Youre married, arent you? Whos your wife? He glanced at Zoe, now a distant memory, Were raising Katie together with my exsecretary, Zoe.
What? That child I gave birth to? Rosie gasped.
You gave birth to her, Andrew insisted, then hurried away, Goodbye, teacher! As the door shut, a voice from the hallway called, Girls, lets go meet Mum!
Rosie sat, head spinning, realizing she had just spoken to her own daughter.
Thirteen years later, the weight of that decision still pressed on her. She trudged home after a long day, only to be greeted by her beloved cat, Maestro, who purred at the doorstep. Not now, Maestro! she snapped, shooing him away. The cat sauntered to his bowl, eyes pleading. She thought, What have I left? No husband, no children, a cold flat, an empty bed. My lifes song has played its last note.
She wished she could rewind time, but summers never come twice. She ran through the melody of her life, note by note, and only a sad, unfinished tune remainedno castles in the air, just the echo of a song that never found its final verse. Sitting in her armchair, wrapped in a familiar blanket, she whispered the old fable of the grasshopper, Did you sing all the summer? Now what?
The curtain fell on Rosies story, a tragic aria of ambition, love, and loss.
