The Melody of Life or the Stridulation
Poppy had spent her whole existence as a tiny, sprightly thing. She stood barely fivefoottwo, her waist narrow as a teacup, her eyes bright green and always alight with mischief. Her laugh rippled through rooms like a windchime, and men of every age found themselves drawn to her. Small women, it seemed, were treated as delicate treasureslike pocketsized ponies that owners would cradle and pamper.
But Poppy possessed another gift: a voice that hovered between mezzosoprano and soprano, a sound that could coax flowers to turn toward her. She sang wherever she could, even while working as a laboratory assistant at the steelworks in Sheffield. The factory walls never silenced her; the true element of her being was always song. She drifted into choral societies, then timidly onto modest stages, later with a courage that grew like a sunrise. Her soul thirsted for art, and it ached when she could not drink it.
Poppy never rushed toward marriage, nor even hinted at children. Those ideas were not part of her script. She saw a husband and offspring as timehungry obligations that would steal the moments meant for singing. She voiced these thoughts over tea with her married friends, who nodded politely before slipping away to nursery duties, one after another, as if the world were a revolving door of diapers and lullabies.
Thus she pledged herself to the craft of singing. Yet fate, with its peculiar sense of timing, introduced her to a foreman named Arthur Whitcombe. Poppy regularly delivered lab reports to his office, but the door was always guarded by the diligent secretary, Emily. Emily watched the threshold like a hawk, snatching the papers as soon as Poppy entered and saying, You may go, miss. Ill hand them to Mr. Whitcombeno need to linger.
Consequently, Poppy never met the foremanuntil the day Emily fell ill. With the corridor unusually quiet, Poppy knocked gently, stepped inside, and found Arthur seated at the long mahogany desk.
Come in, miss. What brings you? he asked, curiosity flickering in his eyes.
Just the test reports, she murmured, cheeks flushing.
Youre new here? he probed further.
No, Ive been here for over five years, Poppy replied, surprised by his astonishment.
He smiled ruefully, I never noticed. My mistake. They laughed, exchanged a few more words, and she returned to her bench.
From then on, Poppy placed the reports directly on Arthurs desk. When Emily recovered, she turned away from Poppy, pretending to tend the office plants with exaggerated fervor, as if the very act of watering could erase the memory of Poppys presence.
Poppy was twentyseven at the time. A brief, flirtatious office romance blossomed. Arthur, a respectable man who shunned scandal, proposed a proper marriage. Poppy, ever the free spirit, initially declined. Why take on extra baggage when she was content with a life unbound?
Arthur was taken aback; most women would have darted to his side, charmed by his steady income, sober habits, and gentle demeanor. He gave her space, hoping she would reconsider. Meanwhile, the chorus of female colleagues chanted, A man like him is a prize! Dont turn him down! Youll be alone forever! Their voices pressed upon her until she finally yielded.
The wedding was a grand affair. In a lace wedding dress, a veil, and childsize slippers, Poppy resembled an enchanted doll. Arthur beamed with pride. Poppy, however, kept her emotions toward him measured, reserving her energy for performances and audiences.
After a sweet honeymoon, Poppy prepared for provincial toursconcerts in seaside resorts, sanatoriums, and local schools. Arthur, ever the supportive husband, asked only, Could you make dinner and iron my shirt, love?
Poppy snapped back, No time for that, Tom! Ive got rehearsals! (Arthurs nickname was Tom for short.) He kissed her forehead, apologizing for his intrusion, and urged her to sing. This pattern repeated, each time with Arthur offering readymade meals, learning to wash his own shirts, fry eggs, and wash dishessmall gestures that never quite slipped into Poppys daily rhythm.
Months passed. Poppy quit the steelworks, dedicating herself fully to her vocal career and regional tours. Arthur grew accustomed to her artistic lifestyle, accepting that household chores would not fall to her.
One afternoon, Arthur asked his secretary, Zoe, to bring him a cup of tea. Zoe, eager to please, offered, May I treat you to some pastry? Ive just baked them myself. She mentioned cherry fillings, a favourite of his. She also suggested mending a loose button on his coat, noting, My wifes too busy to tend to these things. Arthur sighed, Yes, Zoe, my wife sings and I howl like a wolf at night. Zoe muttered under her breath, She sings, he prowlswhat a pair.
Zoe began slipping Arthur little comforts: bottled cold soup, thermosfilled borscht, fresh cutlets. She baked only cherry pies for him, and gradually she became the quiet caretaker of his daily needs. Arthur, while grateful, never crossed the line into infidelity; he remained faithful to Poppy, though his thoughts occasionally drifted, comparing his wifes ethereal talent with Zoes practical charm. Zoe, plainfaced yet endearing, held a soft spot for Arthur, believing love would eventually favor her.
Four years into the marriage, the couple was still just the two of them. Poppy never spoke of children. Then, suddenly, she put on a few pounds, rounded out pleasantly, and requested jars of pickled cucumbers and stewed applessignalling, in her mind, that a stork might soon arrive.
Arthur was thrilled at the prospect of a child, a dream finally materialising. Poppy, however, felt a cold knot in her stomach. She visited a doctor to terminate the unexpected pregnancy, but the physician warned it was too late and urged her to bring a healthy baby into the world. Arthur remained blissfully unaware, scouring shops for the finest pram and cot.
When Arthur shared the joyous news with Zoe, she sighed dramatically, My cherries are gone, no more pies for you, and then tenderly handed in her resignation. A new secretary, a middleaged woman named Margaret, took her place, boasting of long tenure at the plant and a knack for gossip. Margaret scoffed at Arthur, Youve lost a gem, Arthur! Zoe adored you like no other!
Arthur brushed her off, Back to work, Margaret. No distractions. Time moved on, and Poppy eventually gave birth to a baby girl.
The midwife cooed, What a melodic little one! Shell be a singer, no doubt. What shall we call her?
Poppy snarled, No name!
Arthur burst into the delivery ward with a bouquet, but Poppy stayed curled on the cot, tears streaming. The other mothers whispered, Why the sorrow?
I dont want this child! Poppy declared, her voice trembling.
The ward filled with chatter: a mother claimed the baby was from a lover, another lamented being thirtysix and unmarried, a third spoke of a lost husband, and a fourth, the youngest, recounted a tale of a stolen market till and a son named Taras. Their stories fluttered like moths around Poppys despair.
A nurse tried to hand Poppy a bouquet from Arthur, but she ignored it; the flowers fell onto the bedside table.
Soon after, Arthur was sent on a work assignment to a new plant and could not return. He returned two weeks later, racing home, eager to see his daughter. Instead he found only Poppy, humming and turning pages of sheet music.
Wheres our little girl? he asked, bewildered.
Poppy, eyes downcast, answered, I signed the consent to give her up.
Arthur roared, Youre mad! That child is ours! How could you?
He snatched the music sheets from her, tore them into shreds, and hurled the fragments at her face. You idiot!
Poppy, terrified, thought he might kill her. Yet Arthur, empty of feeling, packed a bag, tossed his belongings in, slammed the door, and vanished into the night. The citys streets felt like a black void, echoing his mothers warning: A bad wife is worse than rain; rain fills a house, a bad wife drives you out. He wandered, shouting, People! Where has love gone? Help me! but the passersby hurried on.
Weeks later, staying with a friend, Arthur returned to work and asked Margaret, Could you give me Zoes phone number? I need to call her. She handed him a slip, smirking, Youre likely after a fight with your wife. He entered his office and sealed the door, aware of the nosy curiosity of secretaries.
When Poppy finally emerged from the shock, she did not chase Arthur. Instead she dove deeper into her music, retreating to a seaside resort where a concert was arranged for her. She sang, repaired the torn scores, and the audience applauded, tossed flowers, and called for encores. She toured the countryside, her voice soaring like a liberated bird.
Years slipped by. Poppy left the concert circuit and opened a vocal studio, despite no formal teaching credentialsher experience alone was enough. Young hopefuls streamed in, eager for guidance. One day a colleague asked, Poppy, a girl has been brought to me, seems talented. Could you audition her?
Poppy welcomed the child, and moments later Arthur entered the studio with two daughters, ten and twelve. He pointed the younger to a chair, Sit, Millie, and approached the older, only then realizing the woman before him was his exwife, Poppy.
Good heavens, he muttered, why does fate keep tossing us together?
Poppy, blushing, said, Lets hear your daughters voice.
The girl sang with a clarity that reminded Poppy of her own childhoodtiny frame, bright laugh, a voice that seemed to echo her own. After the audition, Poppy asked, How old are you, dear?
Thirteen, the girl replied, Im Kira.
Poppy praised her, Youre wonderful! Invite your father in.
Arthur arrived, beaming. Tom, you have a gifted daughter. Ill recommend a good teacher if Im not right for the job. Youre married, arent you? Whos your wife?
Poppy answered, Married and happy. My wife is Zoe, my former secretary. We raise Kira together with our other girl, Mary.
Arthur stared, My daughter Kira? The one I gave birth to?
Poppy, stunned, whispered, You think I gave birth to her.
Arthur, flustered, fled, shouting, Goodbye, tutor!
Behind the door, a voice called, Girls, lets run and greet Mum from work!
Poppy sat, her mind a swirl of voicesher own daughter speaking, her former husbands accusations. Thirteen years had passed since she signed the consent, and now Kira called another woman Mum. Guilt gnawed at her.
Later that evening, Poppy returned home, only to be greeted by her cat, Maestro, a sleek ginger tom who expected a treat. She brushed him away, Not now, you lazy bastard! He retreated to his bowl, purring, I know youre angry, but Im hungry.
She sighed, What do I have? A cat that wont speak, no husband, no children, an empty flat, a cold bed. Ive played the wrong notes in this life.
She imagined rewinding time, but summer never repeats itself twice. She replayed the melody of her life, each note a melancholy echo of castles in the air and a past without redemption.
Wrapped in a familiar blanket, she whispered to herself the old proverb about the grasshopper: Did you sing all day? Thats the point.
