Poppy Whitaker had been a Poppy all her life. Smallstatured, waist as thin as a cigarettepaper, bright green eyes that seemed to sparkle, a laugh that could light a roomshe drew the gaze of men of every age. There was something about a dainty woman, a modern Thumbelina, that made men want to cradle her, protect her, treat her like a delicate blossom. As the saying goes in England, a little bird is a songbird.
Poppy possessed an extraordinary gift a voice of warm mezzosoprano. She sang whenever she could, whether in the factory breakroom or on the street corner. By day she laboured as a technician at the Midland Manufacturing Plant, but her true element was always song. She entered every local choir, timid at first, then with growing confidence, as if her soul were a flame that would not be quenched.
She never hurried to marriage, nor even entertained thoughts of children. In her mind a husband and offspring meant a chain of obligations that would steal the time she needed for rehearsals and performances. A wife and kids will swallow you whole, she would tell her married friends, who politely nodded while cradling their newborns and nursing bottles.
Poppys devotion to singing seemed unshakable, until one day the plants workshop supervisor, Arthur Sinclair, began to appear on her paperwork. She delivered lab reports to his office, always passing the reception desk where the secretary, Zoe Hart, guarded the door like a jealous swan. Zoe would snatch the documents, thank Poppy, and smile, Dont worry, Ill hand them to Mr. Sinclair.
Thus Poppy never saw the man herselfuntil Zoe fell ill. Poppy knocked gently, pushed the door open, and found Arthur seated at the end of a long mahogany table.
Come in, love, he said, eyes twinkling. What have you got for me?
Just the sample reports, Poppy murmured, cheeks flushing.
Youre new here, arent you? Arthur asked, leaning forward.
No, Ive been here five years, she replied, surprised at his surprise.
He chuckled, Never noticed you before. The two shared a brief laugh before she returned to her bench.
From that moment Poppy slipped the reports directly onto Arthurs desk. Zoe, once recovered, would turn away, busy watering the offices fern, pretending not to see Poppys presence.
At twentyseven, Poppy fell into a fleeting affair with Arthur. He was steady, respectable, the kind of man who would never become a tabloid scandal. He even suggested they marry. Poppy, ever the free spirit, laughed it off. Why tie myself down? she said. Im happy as I am.
Arthur was taken aback. Any other woman would have chased after him, but Poppys refusal left him pondering. He gave her space, hoping she would reconsider. Meanwhile, the other women at the plant fanned the rumor, Hes proposing! Dont play hardtoget, Poppy! Youll be a widow if you wait! Their chatter finally broke her resolve.
The wedding was a grand affair. In a simple ivory dress, a veil barely touching her shoulders, and childsize shoes, Poppy looked like a porcelain doll. Arthur beamed with pride. Poppy, however, kept her emotions muted, saving her energy for the stage.
Their honeymoon was calm, and soon after Poppy was off on regional tourscommunity halls, holiday camps, teaching clinics. Arthur, ever the gentleman, asked only one thing: Poppy, could you make something for dinner and iron my shirt, please?
She snapped, Tom, Im in a hurry! and dashed out. He kissed her nose, Sorry love, Im just being a nuisance. Go sing your heart out.
He later started buying readymade meals, learning to wash his own shirts, fry an egg, and wash the dishesanything to spare Poppy from domestic drudgery. He never expected his wife to become a housewife; she was an artist.
Months passed. Poppy left the factory, living off her voice and travelling across the county. Arthur grew accustomed to the notion that his wife was a performer, not a homemaker. One afternoon, while Arthur was in his office, Zoe brought him a tray of tea and offered, May I tempt you with some scones, Arthur? I baked them myself.
Thank you, Zoe, he smiled, eyes lighting up at the thought of cherryfilled pastries.
Zoe, hoping for more attention, added, I could stitch a button on your jacket if you like; its coming loose.
Arthur sighed, Zoe, my wife is busy with rehearsals. She has her own duties. Zoe muttered under her breath, She sings, Im the one who nips his heels.
Zoes generous gesturescanned soup, a thermos of stew, a hastilymade meatballkept Arthurs spirits up, but he never crossed the line. He remained faithful to Poppy, grateful for Zoes kindness yet bound to his marriage.
Four years slipped by, and the Whitaker household was still just the two of them. Poppy never spoke of children. Then, one bright morning, she announced she felt more lovely than ever and asked Arthur to stock up on pickled gherkins and sugared applesan old sign that a baby was on the way.
Arthurs heart leapt. A child! Our own little miracle! Yet Poppys reaction was colder. She saw a doctor, hoping to avoid the undesired burden. The physician, however, warned it was too late to reverse, urging a healthy birth. Arthur knew nothing of this.
He rushed to the baby shops, checking the price of a premium pram (£350) and a convertible crib (£210). Poppy, resigned, accepted the unexpected diagnosis.
Arthur confided the news to Zoe, who, though still fond of him, sighed and handed in her resignation. Im out of cherry tarts, she joked, so Ill be leaving.
A younger secretary, Tamsin Clarke, took over. Shed spent her whole career in factories, always on friendly terms with every manager. She mocked Arthur, Ah, Arthur! You lost a golden goose! He curtly replied, Back to work, Tamsin. No distractions.
Time ticked on, and Poppy gave birth to a baby girl. The midwife cooed, What a beautiful voice you haveshell be a singer! Poppy cut her off, No name, thank you.
Arthur burst into the delivery room with a bouquet, but Poppy stayed on the bed, tears streaming. The other new mothers in the ward tried to console her.
Why are you crying? they asked.
This child isnt mine, she whispered, the words cutting through the room like a knife.
Each mother shared her own woesinfidelities, lost jobs, stolen moneywhile Poppy turned away, listening to their chatter as if it were a cruel soundtrack.
A nurse placed a bunch of roses on the bedside table. Poppy didnt touch them. The nurse shrugged, leaving the flowers untouched.
Arthur was soon sent on a twoweek assignment at a new plant. He hurried home, heart pounding, imagining the little girls face. Yet when he opened the door, only Poppy was there, humming scales.
Wheres our daughter? he asked, bewildered.
I signed the paperwork to give her up, Poppy replied, eyes averted.
Give up? Youre mad! Shes our blood! Arthur roared, lunging for the music sheets in her hands, tearing them apart, crushing them in his fist and flinging them at her. You idiot!
Poppy, terrified, thought he might kill her. Arthur, breathing hard, grabbed a duffel, tossed his coat inside, slammed the door, and fled into the night, lost in a city that seemed to swallow him whole. He remembered his mothers warning: A bad wife is like a storm that drives you out of your home.
He wandered the streets, shouting, Where is love? Come back to me! Passersby hurried past, indifferent.
The next day, staying at a friends flat, Arthur returned to work and demanded Zoes phone number from the new secretary.
Talk to me about those matters, Arthur, she said, handing over the slip, eyes glinting with the thought of gossip.
When Poppy finally gathered herself after the outburst, she chose not to chase him but to drown her pain in her true lovesinging. She retreated to a seaside resort where a concert was being organised for her. The audience roared, demanded encores, showered the stage with roses. She sang, her voice stitching together the shattered pieces of her life.
Years slipped by. Poppy left the stage to become a vocal coach, passing on her hardwon experience to eager youngsters. One afternoon, a colleague rushed in, Poppy, a girl has been brought to meshes talented. Can you audition her?
Bring her in, Poppy said.
A minute later, Arthur walked in with two girls, ages ten and twelve. He gestured the younger to a chair, Sit, Ellie. He approached the older, his eyes widening as he recognised his estranged wife.
Lord, why does fate keep throwing me back to you? he muttered.
Poppy, steadier than ever, whispered, Take a breath, Tom, and lets hear your daughter.
She began the audition. The younger girl, Ellie, sang with a voice that reminded Poppy of herself at that agetiny, precise, laughter bubbling through every note.
When the song ended, Poppy asked, How old are you, sweetheart?
Thirteen, Ellie answered proudly. My name is Lucy.
You have a gift! Invite your father in, please, Poppy said.
Arthur entered, eyes glinting with pride. Tom, youve got talent in the family. Ill recommend a good teacher if Im not the right fit. Youre married, arent you? Hows life?
Married, and happy. My wife is Zoe, my former secretary. We raise our daughter Lucy together, and also my stepdaughter, Martha, he said, beaming.
Lucy the girl I gave birth to? Poppy gasped.
You were the one who gave her up, Arthur said flatly. Thats all you did.
He turned to leave. Behind him, a voice from the hallway chirped, Girls, lets go meet mum after class!
Poppy sat, heart pounding, realizing she had just spoken to her own child.
Thirteen years later, Poppys world still trembled. She trudged home after a teaching day, a sleek black cat named Allegro leapt onto her foot, purring for a morsel. She swatted him away, Not now, you! The cat settled by its bowl, demanding dinner.
Alone in her modest flat, Lily thought, No husband, no children, just an empty bed and cold walls. Ive played the wrong notes in my life. She regretted the choices, wishing she could rewind time, but summer only comes once a year.
She replayed the melody of her entire life, each note a melancholy echo. With a battered blanket draped over her chair, she whispered the old English proverb, Did you sing all the songs? Thats the point and let the tears fall.
