Ive known Blythe Hart all my life. Shes a petite woman, waist as narrow as a bottle, bright green eyes that seem to sparkle, and a laugh that catches anyones ear. Men of every age have always taken notice of her. Theres something about tiny women that makes a bloke want to protect, pamper and hold them close as they say, a little pony is always a colt youd love to keep in your arms.
Blythe had a gift, too she could sing with a voice that settled neatly between alto and soprano. She sang whenever she could, even in the changing rooms at the Manchester steel works where she worked as a lab assistant. Her true element, however, was the stage. She joined every choir she could find, gradually moving from shy solo parts to bolder performances. Her whole soul ached for art, and she fed it whenever she could.
She never rushed into marriage, nor did she ever think about children. Those ideas never featured in her plans. Blythe considered herself completely selfsufficient. A husband, kids those were chores that would eat up all the time she needed for singing and enjoying life. That was the talk she often had with her married friends over a cup of tea, while they nodded understandingly and then drifted off to their own nursery duties.
So Blythe devoted herself entirely to singing. Yet life had other plans. At the plant she began handing in her lab reports to the head of the production line, Arthur Sinclair. The office door was always guarded by his secretary, Clara, who watched over the doorway like a hawk. Whenever Blythe entered the hallway, Clara would snatch the documents, thank her politely and say, Youre free to go, miss. Ill pass everything to Mr Sinclair. No need to worry. Thus Blythe never actually met the boss.
One day Clara fell ill. Blythe, seeing no obstacle, knocked gently on the office door and peeked inside. At the far end of a long table sat Arthur himself.
Come in, love. What have you got for me? he asked.
Just the sample reports, Blythe stammered.
Youre new here, arent you? he pressed.
No, Ive been here for over five years, she replied, a little surprised at his curiosity.
He chuckled, Never noticed, thats a shame. They shared a laugh, and Blythe returned to her bench.
From then on she placed her reports directly on Arthurs desk. When Clara recovered, she would turn away from Blythe, busily tending to the office plants and ignoring the young woman entirely.
Blythe was twentyseven then, and a brief office romance blossomed. It was brief because Arthur was a proper gentleman; he didnt want to be the scandalous type. He suggested they marry straightaway. Blythe laughed it off at first why add more responsibilities? She was happy with a relationship that required no strings.
Arthur was taken aback. Any other girl would have rushed to his side, but Blythe kept her distance, making him pause and think. Meanwhile, the other women on the factory floor teased her: Heres a fine man courting you, and youre turning him down! Youll be single forever! Their nudging finally wore her down.
The wedding was a grand affair. In a simple wedding dress, veil and tiny shoes, Blythe looked like a delicate doll. Arthur beamed with pride. Blythe, however, kept her emotions in check, saving her energy for singing and the audience.
After a pleasant honeymoon she set off on a regional tour of community halls, schools and wellness centres. Arthur, ever the supportive husband, asked only one thing:
Blythe, could you sort out dinner and iron my shirt, please?
She snapped back, Tom, Im in a hurry, not a housewife! He kissed her cheek and replied, Sorry, love, Im just pestering you. Go on, sing!
He soon learned to order readymade meals, manage the washing and even fry a decent fryup, because Blythe was not one for domestic chores.
Time passed and Blythe left the plant, focusing entirely on her vocal career and frequent regional tours. Arthur grew accustomed to her artistic lifestyle, assuming shed never take on housework.
One afternoon Arthur asked his new secretary, a spry woman named Zoe, for a coffee. She obliged and then offered:
Mr Sinclair, may I bring you some cherry pies I baked myself?
Thanks, Zoe. I do love cherries, he said, smiling wearily.
She then suggested, Shall I stitch a button on your jacket? It looks about to pop off.
Sorry, Zoe, my wifes got enough on her plate, he replied, a hint of melancholy in his voice.
Zoe muttered under her breath, Right, the wife sings while the husband howls like a wolf. She began slipping him snacks jars of cold soup, thermosfilled broth, even hot chips all cherryfilled pastries, of course. Arthur never quite realized how much he leaned on Zoes care, but he always kept his loyalty to Blythe.
Zoe, meanwhile, waited patiently, believing love would eventually choose her. She never rushed events, trusting that time would reveal who mattered most.
Arthurs attention gradually shifted. He found himself comparing Blythe to Zoe, often concluding that Zoes quiet charm outweighed Blythes flamboyance, even though Zoe wasnt a beauty queen. After four years of marriage, the couple was still just the two of them; children never entered the picture. Then, unexpectedly, Blythes figure softened, and she asked Arthur to stock up on pickles and stewed apples a sign, in their household, that a baby was on the way.
Arthur was over the moon. A child with his beloved wife? It was the dream. Blythe, however, was less thrilled. She consulted a doctor, hoping to avoid the unwanted burden, but the physician said it was too late and encouraged her to bear a healthy baby. Arthur knew nothing of this.
He rushed to babygoods stores, comparing the price of the finest pram and the comfiest cot, all in pounds. Blythe resigned herself to the unforeseen diagnosis. Arthur shared the news with Zoe, who, on hearing it, sighed and promptly handed in her resignation.
When Arthur asked, Zoe, whats happening? Youre leaving? she replied, Arthur, Im out of cherries, so therell be no more pies. A replacement secretary arrived a middleaged woman named Margaret, whod spent her whole career in factories and knew every managers secrets. She chided Arthur, Oh, Arthur! Youve missed a good thing. Zoe loved you like no one else!
Arthur brushed her off, Do your work, Margaret. No distractions.
Soon after, Blythe gave birth to a little girl. The midwife exclaimed, What a tiny voice! Shell be a singer one day! What shall we call her? Blythe snapped, No name yet.
Arthur arrived with a bouquet of flowers, but Blythe didnt even acknowledge him. She sat on the hospital bed, sobbing bitterly. The other new mothers tried to console her:
Whats wrong, love? they asked.
This child isnt meant for me! Blythe declared. The ward filled with chatter about secret affairs, twins, and failed relationships. One woman confessed, I had a lovers child, a boy, and now Im thirtysix with no husband. Another said, My husband left, doesnt know we have a daughter now. Maybe hell come back. A fourth, younger mother, announced, Im raising a boy I named Taras after a theft at the market. Their stories swirled around Blythes own turmoil.
A nurse tried to hand Blythe a bunch of roses from Arthur, but she brushed them aside. The flowers were placed on the bedside table, unnoticed.
A fortnight later Arthur was sent on a twoweek work assignment in London, unable to get leave. He dreamed of returning home to his wife and daughter, picturing a little Blythelike girl. When he finally arrived, he found only Blythe humming over sheet music.
Blythe, wheres our daughter? he asked, puzzled.
Arthur, sit down. I signed away the child, she said without looking at him.
Signed away? Youve lost your mind! Thats our blood! How could you? Youre a mother! he roared, fury ripping through him. He snatched the music sheets from her, tore them into pieces, crumpled them, and hurled them at her face, shouting, Here are your notes, you fool!
Blythe had never seen such a husband. She feared he might kill her then. Arthur, however, seemed spent. He gathered his belongings into a duffel, slammed the door and left, wandering the streets of Manchester, shouting, People! Where has love gone? Help me! No one stopped; everyone hustled on.
The next day, staying over at a friends flat, Arthur returned to work and demanded from the new secretary, Mrs. Thompson, I need Zoes phone number. Its urgent. She, sensing his desperation, handed over a slip of paper with a number, muttering, I suppose youre still on about the matter with your wife.
When Blythe recovered from the shock, she didnt look for Arthur. Instead, she threw herself into her music, traveling to a holiday resort where a concert was arranged for her. She sang, her restored notes filling the hall, the audience clapping wildly, showering the stage with flowers. She toured the countryside, giving performances that lasted for years.
Eventually Blythe hung up her touring shoes and turned to teaching. Though she never earned a formal music degree, her experience was ample. She began coaching children in vocal technique. One day a colleague asked, Blythe, a girls been brought in. She seems talented. Can you audition her? Blythe agreed, and a few minutes later a boy named Arthur Sinclair no, the father entered the classroom with two girls, ages ten and twelve. He pointed the younger one, Sit, Millie. He then approached Blythe, eyes widening as he recognised his former wife.
Good heavens, why have we met again after all these years? he blurted.
Blythe, a little flustered, said, Calm down, Tom. Lets hear your daughter sing. Arthur took the younger girl by the hand and left the room. The audition began; the girls voice reminded Blythe of herself at that age petite, bright, laughing in the same way.
When the song ended, Blythe asked, How old are you, sweetheart?
Thirteen, Im Kira, the girl replied proudly.
You have a wonderful voice! You can go, but bring your dad back in, Blythe said.
Arthur returned, Tom, youve got a talented daughter. I can recommend a good teacher if Im not the right fit. Youre married, arent you? Hows life?
Married and content. My wifes Zoe, my former secretary. Youll remember her. Were raising my daughter Kira and my other child, Millie, together, he said, beaming.
Your daughter Kira? The one I gave birth to? Blythe asked, stunned.
You only gave her birth, Arthur replied, then hurried out. Goodbye, teacher!
From the hallway came, Girls, lets run and greet mum when she gets home! Blythe sank into a chair, her mind a whirl of voices, strangers and her own child shed once turned away.
Thirteen years had passed since that fateful decision to relinquish Kira. Now a grown woman, Kira called another woman mum and Blythe bore the weight of her choice. One evening, after a long day, Blythe trudged home, barely making it through the doorway before her cat, Melody, leapt onto her feet, purring loudly. The cat seemed to know his owner always brought home a treat.
Blythe scooted Melody aside, muttering, Not now! The feline trotted to his bowl, as if to say, I know youre upset, but Im still hungry.
She thought, What have I got? A cat that wont speak kindly, no husband, no children, an empty flat and a cold bed. Perhaps I sang the wrong tune in my life. The thought lingered, a sour note that would not fade.
If only she could turn back time, but summer never repeats itself twice. Blythe replayed the melody of her whole life, note by note, and found the tale sad, built on castles in the air and a past that offered little solace. Sitting in her favourite armchair, wrapped in a familiar blanket, she recalled the old fable of the grasshopper: Did you waste all summer singing? Thats the price you pay.
