Ive always thought of Lily as a tiny, sprightly thing barely over five foot, waist as narrow as a teacup, eyes bright green like fresh spring leaves, and a laugh that could lift the spirits of any bloke passing the pub. Men have always had a soft spot for little women, those Thumbelinas youd almost want to cradle in your arms. As the saying goes, a little pony is always a colt.
Lily also had a gift a voice that hovered between soprano and mezzo, a true mezzosoprano. She sang wherever she could, whether in the breakroom at the Manchester chemical plant where she worked as a lab technician or in the community choir that met in the town hall. Singing was her element; she drifted from one choral group to the next, first timidly, then with growing confidence, hungry for every chance to perform.
She never rushed into marriage, nor did she even entertain the thought of children. Lily saw herself as perfectly selfsufficient. A husband and kids, she thought, would be a heap of responsibility that would eat up the time she needed for song and simple pleasures. She would voice these musings over pints with her married friends, who would nod sympathetically before disappearing into maternity leave after the first, second, then third child.
Lily planned to devote her life to music, but fate has a way of intervening. At the plant she met the head of her department, Anthony Sinclair. She regularly delivered lab reports to his office, and each time the door was guarded by his secretary, Zoe Clarke, who jealously defended her bosss privacy. When Lily stepped into the little hallway outside the office, Zoe would snatch the papers, thank Lily, and say, Dont worry, Ill pass them to MrSinclair.
Thus Lily never actually saw her boss. One day Zoe fell ill, and Lily, seeing no obstacle, knocked politely on the office door. Inside, at the far end of a long mahogany table, sat Anthony himself.
Come in, love. What have you got for me? he asked.
My reports, Lily muttered.
Youre new, arent you? he pressed.
No, Ive been here over five years, Lily replied.
He smiled thinly, Never noticed. Shame.
They chatted, shared a few jokes, and Lily returned to her bench. From then on she slipped the reports directly onto Anthonys desk. When Zoe recovered, she would turn away dramatically, busily tending to the potted geraniums on the windowsill, ignoring Lilys presence.
Lily was twentyseven then and a brief, flirtatious affair blossomed with Anthony. He was a proper gentleman, not the sort to boast about his conquests in the local gossip columns. He even suggested they get married straight away. Lily laughed it off. Why tie herself down with extra worries? Their relationship stayed light, without any binding promises.
Anthony, however, was taken aback by Lilys indifference. Most women would have chased after such a catchgood looks, steady job, no drinkingyet she kept her distance. He decided to give her space, hoping shed think it over.
Meanwhile, Lilys friends a chorus of wellmeaning ladies urged her on. A man like him is courting you! Dont turn him down! Its high time you settled down, or youll be left humming alone! Eventually Lily gave in.
The wedding was a grand affair. In a modest wedding dress, veil, and tiny shoes, Lily looked like a delicate doll. Anthony beamed with pride. Lily, ever the performer, accepted the love but kept her emotions in check, reserving her energy for the stage.
After a pleasant honeymoon, Lily prepared for a tour of regional venueslocal theatres, holiday camps, community centres. Anthony, ever the supportive husband, simply asked, Lily, could you make us a cuppa and iron my shirt, please? Lily snapped, Tom, Im in a hurry! and darted off.
He kissed her cheek, Sorry, love, Im just being silly. Go sing! The same exchange repeated countless times. Over months, Anthony learned to buy readymade meals, tidy his own laundry, fry an egg, and wash the dishes, because Lily was too busy to be pulled into domestic chores.
Time passed; Lily left the plant to focus on her singing career, travelling across the north of England for gigs. Anthony grew accustomed to his wife being a creative soul who didnt fuss over the house. One afternoon he asked his new secretary, Margaret Hayes, for a coffee. She obliged and, blushing, offered him some homemade jam scones.
Thank you, Margaret. I do love the ones with cherries, he smiled wearily.
May I stitch a button on your coat? Its about to pop off, she said.
Unfortunately, my wife has no time for me. Shes always busy, he replied, sighing.
Margaret muttered under her breath, The wife sings, the husband howls like a wolf, and set about bringing him broth in a thermos, a slice of steak, and, eventually, cherry scones on a silver platter. Anthony found himself increasingly reliant on his charming secretary, though he never crossed the line. He remained grateful to Margaret, but his loyalty to Lily never wavered.
Lily, wrapped up in her artistic ambitions, failed to notice any shift in Anthony. He, however, began to compare Lily with Margaret in his head, often finding that Margarets quiet grace and modest charm held a certain appeal he hadnt anticipated.
Four years into their marriage, Lily, who had never spoken of children, suddenly put on a few pounds, looked rounder, and asked Anthony to stock up on pickled gherkins and caramelised apples. She hinted that a stork might soon visit.
Anthony could barely contain his joy. A baby! A dream realized! Lily, though, was less enthusiastic. She consulted a doctor, hoping to avoid the burden, but the physician said it was too late and encouraged her to have a healthy child. Anthony was oblivious to the whole affair, scouring shops for the priciest pram and the comfiest cot, all prices in pounds sterling.
When the news reached Zoe, she sighed, Seems my cherry pies are finished, no more treats for you, and promptly handed in her resignation. The plant hired a middleaged woman, Margaret, who knew every gossip line in the factory and promptly chastised Anthony: Oh, Anthony! Youve lost a good thing. Zoe loved you like no one else.
He brushed her off, Do your job, Margaret. Soon after, Lily gave birth to a baby girl.
The baby has such a sweet voice! Shell be a singer, the midwife cooed, asking Lily what name shed like.
No name, Lily snapped.
Anthony rushed in with a bouquet, but Lily stayed on the cot, tears streaming, refusing to meet his eyes. The other mothers in the ward offered bland comforts. One whispered, I had a lovers child, a twin! My husband will kill me! Another lamented, Im 36 and still searching for a prince. A third chortled, My husband left; maybe hell come back for his daughter. A fourth, the youngest, confessed, My sons darkskinned; I was a shop assistant, the boss thought I stole the cash, now I raise him as Taran.
Lily turned to the wall, listening to the frantic chatter, thinking, If only I could be happy like them, free of such troubles. A nurse handed her a bouquet of roses from her husband, but Lily didnt touch them; the nurse set them on the bedside table.
A fortnight later Anthony was sent on a twoweek assignment at a new site. He rushed home, eager to see his wife and daughter, imagining the little girls face. But when he opened the door, he found only Lily, humming over a stack of sheet music.
Wheres our girl? he asked, bewildered.
Anthony, sit down. I signed the consent to give the child up, Lily said without meeting his gaze.
Give her up? Youve gone mad! Thats our blood! How could you? Youre a mother! Anthony roared, his face flushed.
He snatched the sheets, tore them to shreds, crumpled them in his fist and hurled them at Lily. Here are your notes, you fool!
Lily had never seen Anthony like that. She feared he might kill her then. Yet, Anthony seemed spent. He gathered his belongings into a duffel, slammed the door, and walked out into the cold night, shouting into the empty streets, Where has love gone? It should be waiting for me! Passersby hurried past, unheard.
The next day, staying with a friend, he returned to work and demanded Margarets help: Give me Zoes number. I need to call her about a matter. Margaret handed him a slip, We all know what matter you mean.
When Lily recovered from the shock, she didnt chase after Anthony. She threw herself back into her music, checking into a seaside resort where a concert was organised for her. She sang, reclaimed her torn scores, and the audience applauded, tossed flowers onto the stage, and called for encores. She toured the countryside, performing in every small hall she could find.
Years slipped by. Eventually Lily hung up her touring shoes and opened a modest vocal studio, passing on the technique shed honed over decades. One afternoon a colleague asked, Lily, a girls been brought in. Shes talented. Can you audition her?
Bring her in, Lily answered.
A minute later, Anthony entered the studio with two girls, about ten and twelve years old. He pointed the younger to a chair, Sit, Ellie, and leaned toward the older, only then realizing Lily was standing there.
Good heavens, why does a former teacher of mine end up here? he muttered, shocked.
Calm down, Tom, Lily said, a hint of amusement in her voice. Lets hear your daughter.
She took the younger girls hand and led her out for a moment. The girl sang, her voice strikingly reminiscent of Lilys own youthful timbre, the same bright laugh.
When the song ended, Lily asked, How old are you, sweetie?
Thirteen, Im Kira, the girl replied proudly.
Youve got a great voice! Tell your dad to come in, Lily said.
Anthony stepped forward. Tom, youve got a talented kid. I can recommend a good coach if Im not the right fit. Youre married, arent you? Hows life?
Lily pressed, Married? To whom?
Zoe, he said, my former secretary. We raise our daughter Kira together with my other child, Maya.
Your daughter Kira? The one I gave birth to? Lily stammered.
Just the one you gave birth to, Anthony said briskly, turning to leave. Goodbye, teacher.
Behind the door a chorus of voices shouted, Girls, run and greet Mum when she gets home!
Lily sat, head spinning, realizing she had just spoken with her own child.
Thirteen years later, Lily was walking home after a long day when her beloved cat, Maestro, sprinted toward her, tail swishing. He meowed, demanding his evening morsel. Lily pushed him away with a foot. Not now, Maestro! she muttered. The cat settled at the kitchen bowl, eyes pleading.
What have I got? A cat that wont speak kindly, no husband, no children, an empty flat and a cold bed. Seems I played the wrong notes in my lifes song, she thought, a bitter smile forming. If only I could turn back the clock, but summer only comes once a year.
She had, in the end, strummed the melody of her whole life into a sad ballad, built on airy castles and a past that left little else but a cautionary fable. Sitting in her armchair, wrapped in a wellworn blanket, she recalled the old proverb about the grasshopper: Did you spend all summer singing? Thats the trouble.
