The melody of a life that seemed more a strange dream than a story unfolded in a quiet English town, where the wind whispered through the sootgray chimneys of a steel plant near Sheffield.
Ethel had spent every year of her short, sprightly life as a pocketsized bundle of curiosity. She was barely fivefoottwo, her waist as narrow as a thimble, her eyes bright green like fresh spring leaves, and her laugh bubbled out like a brook over stones. Men of every age found themselves drawn to her, as if the worlds tiniest porcelain dolls begged to be lifted and treasured. A little horse is always a colt, they would murmur, and Ethel smiled under the strange weight of those words.
She possessed a voice that floated between soprano and alto, a true mezzosoprano that seemed to rise from the very walls of the factory. While her day job was that of a laboratory assistant, the rhythm of her life was set by song. She joined every choir she could find, first trembling on the stage, then daring to let her voice soar, as if the walls themselves were made of music. Her soul thirsted for art, and it ached whenever she was denied a note.
Ethel never hurried to marriage, nor did she entertain thoughts of children. She saw a husband and offspring as shackles that would steal the hours she needed to sing. In the tearooms of her married friends she would listen to their stories of maternity leave and baby cries, nodding politely while they drifted off to the lullaby of diapers.
One day, while handing a stack of lab reports to the foreman of her department, the young woman who guarded his office, a brisk secretary named Agnes, always snatched the papers with a smile and whispered, Miss, you may go. Ill pass everything to Mr. Arthur Sinclair. Thus Ethel never met the man who ran the workshop.
When Agnes fell ill, Ethel knocked gently on the office door and peeked inside. At the far end of a long mahogany table sat Arthur, his silver hair catching the dull light.
Come in, miss. What brings you? he asked.
Just the samples, Ethel murmured, her voice trembling like a violin string.
Youre new here? he pressed, eyes narrowing.
No, Ive been here five years, she replied, as steady as a metronome.
He smiled thinly, I hadnt noticed.
They exchanged a few jokes, and Ethel returned to her bench. From then on she placed each report directly on Arthurs desk, and Agnes, once recovered, turned away with a flourish, pretending to water the ferns that lined the windowsill.
At twentyseven, Ethel found herself tangled in a brief office romance. Arthur, a respectable man who never sought scandal, proposed a proper marriage. Ethel laughed it off at firstwhy invite more responsibilities when she could simply live for the music? Yet the chatter of her female colleagues, like a choir of gossip, sang, A man like him is courting you! Why do you turn him down? Youll be alone forever!
Wearied by their endless chorus, Ethel finally consented. The wedding was a grand affair; she wore a lace veil and shoes no larger than a childs, looking like a porcelain doll set upon a cathedral altar. Arthur beamed with pride, while Ethel allowed herself to be loved without letting the feeling eclipse her passion for song.
Their honeymoon passed in a quiet cottage by the Lake District, after which Arthur, ever the practical gentleman, asked only one thing: Ethel, could you tidy up a bit? Maybe iron my shirt?
She snapped back, Tom, Im in a hurry! and fled to the rehearsal room. He kissed her cheek, Forgive me, love, Im just pestering you. Sing! and the cycle repeated, each request dissolving into the next.
Arthur began buying readymade meals, learning to wash his own shirts, fry eggs, and mop the floorall to spare Ethel from domestic chores. He trusted that his wifes world was the stage, not the kitchen.
Time slipped by. Ethel left the factory, touring regional theatres, performing in community halls, holiday houses, and seaside resorts. Arthur grew accustomed to his wifes artistic life and the empty silence of the home.
One afternoon, as Arthur sat in his office, he asked his new secretary, a middleaged woman named Margaret, for a coffee. She replied, Would you like a scone with the coffee, Mr. Sinclair? I baked them myself.
Later, Margaret, blushing, offered, May I stitch a button on your coat? Its about to tear.
Arthur sighed, My wife has her own world, Margaret. She sings, and I howl like a wolf at night.
Thus Margaret began feeding Arthur little parcels of comfort: a jar of cold cucumber soup, a thermos of broth, a hot chip on a plate, and a batch of scones filled with blackcurrants. She slipped into his life like a soft melody, though he never crossed the line into true affection. He remained loyal to Ethel, grateful for Margarets kindness but never more.
Four years into their marriage, the household still consisted of just the two of them. Ethel never spoke of children, yet one morning she announced she felt rounder, softer, and asked Arthur to stock up on pickled cucumbers and stewed apples. It was a strange omen, as if an invisible stork were preparing to arrive.
Arthur, thrilled at the prospect of a child, began browsing catalogues for prams and cots, their prices listed in pounds. Ethel, however, visited a doctor to terminate the unexpected burden, only to be told it was too late and that she should hope for a healthy baby. The secret stayed hidden from Arthur.
When the news finally reached him, he ran to the shop, eyes sparkling, dreaming of cradling his own little one. Yet Ethel, unsettled, sought a second opinion and still refused.
Agnes, hearing of the news, sighed dramatically and tenderly handed in her resignation, muttering, Ive run out of currants for the scones, so Im off.
A new secretary, a spry woman named Daphne, arrived, knowing every corner of the plant. She teased Arthur, Youve lost a fine lady, dear! He snapped, Work, Daphne! No time for chatter.
Months later, Ethel gave birth to a baby girl. The midwife, eyes wide, asked, What shall we call her?
Nothing at all, Ethel snapped.
Arthur burst into the delivery room with a bouquet, but Ethel didnt rise; she sat on the cot, tears streaming, while the other new mothers whispered, What a drama! Ive just had twins! My husband will kill me! My husband left me! My child is darkskinned and Ill name him Tom! The ward echoed with their fragmented tales.
A nurse placed a bunch of roses on the bedside table, but Ethel let them lie untouched.
Soon after, Arthur was sent on a work assignment in London, unable to leave. He returned two weeks later, breathless, expecting to see his little daughter. Instead he found Ethel humming alone, leafing through sheet music.
Wheres our girl? he asked, bewildered.
Ethel, eyes downcast, whispered, I signed the papers to give her up.
Give up? Youre mad! That child is ours! Arthur roared, grabbing the sheets of music, tearing them into shreds, and flinging the fragments at her face.
Ethel never had to see such a husband before. Fear clutched her as he stormed out, slamming the door, his coat spilling onto the hallway floor. He wandered the streets of Sheffield, shouting into the night, People! Where has love vanished? Help me! but the citys lamps flickered indifferently.
He later begged the new secretary, Tell me Agness number, I must speak to her. She smirked, We all know why you need her.
Back at home, Ethel, bruised by the confrontation, chose not to chase the man who had once been her anchor. She retreated to a holiday resort, where a concert was arranged for her. The stage felt like a cloud, and she sang, rebuilding the torn notes of her life into new melodies. The audience rose for encores, showering her with flowers.
Years drifted on. Ethel abandoned the concert circuit and took up teaching voice, despite never having formal qualifications. Her experience was enough to guide young hopefuls. One day a colleague whispered, A girl has been brought inshe sings beautifully. Can you hear her?
Ethel welcomed the child, a shy twelveyearold named Lucy, and offered a seat.
Soon after, Arthur appeared at the studio with two girls, one ten, the other twelve, and a boy. He directed the younger to a chair, Sit, darling. The older approached, eyes widening as she recognized Ethel.
Good heavens, why have we been handed a former student? he muttered, as if the gods had conspired.
Ethel, keeping her composure, replied, Lets hear your daughter sing.
The girls voice echoed Ethels own childhooda bright, lilting tone, a mischievous laugh that seemed to belong to the very walls of the room.
When the audition ended, Ethel asked, How old are you, sweetheart?
Thirteen, Im Lucy, the girl answered proudly.
Marvelous! Invite your father in, will you? Ethel said, turning back to Arthur.
Arthur, trying to mask his shock, announced, Lucys my daughter, and we also raise my other child, Martha, with my former secretary, Agnes.
Ethel stared, a cold wind rising inside her. My child? The one I gave up? she whispered.
Arthur, hurriedly, You only gave birth to her, thats all.
The hallway filled with the chatter of other mothers, each spilling their own storiestales of lovers, lost husbands, stolen fortunes, and unborn children.
Later, after a long day, Ethel arrived home, exhausted, only to be greeted by her cat, Maestro, a sleek tabby who expected a treat. She swatted him away, muttering, Not now, you silly thing, while the feline settled at his bowl, eyes pleading.
She sank into an armchair, wrapped in a worn blanket, and thought, My life is a score of discordant notes. If only I could turn back the pages, but summer never returns twice a year.
The melody of her existence, once bright and hopeful, now lay tangled in a melancholy refrainlike the fable of the grasshopper that sang until winter came and found nothing left to eat.
