Ethel Harper had been Ethel all her life. Smallstatured, with a waist as thin as a thimble, bright green eyes that seemed to sparkle, and a laugh that ripped through any room, she drew the gaze of men of every age. The English have always been fond of their little ladies; a diminutive woman feels like a precious trinket to be cradled, pampered, adoredas the old saying goes, a pony is always a foal at heart.
Ethel possessed another gifther voice. A rich mezzosoprano that could fill a church aisle, it followed her everywhere. By day she laboured as a laboratory technician at the Manchester Plastics factory, but singing was her true element. She entered every choir she could find, shy at first, then bolder, until the stage became a second home. Her soul thirsted for art, and every note she sang was a lifeline.
She never rushed toward marriage, nor even entertained thoughts of children. In her mind, a husband and a brood were shackles that would steal the hours she needed for song. When she talked about this with her married friends over tea, they nodded sympathetically, then excused themselves to tend to their own infantsone after another, the nursery doors never closing.
Ethel vowed to devote herself entirely to music, but fate had other plans. At the factory she regularly delivered analytical reports to the head of the production line, Mr. Thomas Whitaker. The door to his office was always guarded by his secretary, Agnes, a woman who watched the threshold like a hawk. Whenever Ethel entered the hallway, Agnes would snatch the paperwork, thank her politely and say, Miss, you may go. Ill pass everything on to Mr. Whitaker. No need to linger. Thus Ethel never met the man herselfuntil the day Agnes fell ill.
With the receptionists desk empty, Ethel knocked gently, pushed the heavy door open, and found Thomas Whitaker seated behind a long oak table. Come in, miss, he said, his voice warm but curious. What have you brought?
Just the test reports, Ethel mumbled, cheeks flushing.
Are you new here? he asked, leaning forward.
No, Ive been here for over five years, she replied, steadying herself.
He frowned, a thin smile playing on his lips. I hadnt noticed. Well, thank you.
They shared a brief, amused exchange before Ethel returned to the lab. From that day onward she placed every report directly on his desk. Whenever Agnes recovered, she would turn away from Ethel with a practiced sigh, tending the office plants as if the very act could erase the memory of the young womans visits.
Ethel was twentyseven then, and a fleeting office romance began. Thomas was a proper gentlemanno gossip, no scandal, none of the ladies man stereotypes. He proposed marriage almost at once, but Ethel laughed it off. Why add the weight of domestic duties to a life already full of song? She preferred a relationship without contracts, without expectations.
Thomas, taken aback by her refusal, withdrew briefly, giving her space to think. Meanwhile, the female staff at the factory swarmed her with relentless advice: A man of his standing is courting you! Dont turn him down! Youll be alone forever! Their pressure finally broke her resolve.
The wedding was a grand affair. In a lace dress with a veil and childsize heels, Ethel looked like a porcelain doll. Thomas beamed with pride. Yet, even as she stood beside him, Ethel felt the music in her veins pulsing, not the romance. She kept her emotions for the stage, reserving her energy for performances and rehearsals.
Their honeymoon passed in gentle accord, after which Thomas let her pursue a regional tourconcerts in seaside resorts, health spas, and local schools. He only asked one thing: Ethel, could you make a sandwich and iron my shirt, please?
She snapped, Tom, Im in a hurryjust leave it! He kissed her nose and whistled, Sorry, love, Im just pestering you. Go on, sing! The joke repeated, each time with Thomas buying readymade meals, learning to wash his own shirts, and frying eggs, all because Ethel was too unconventional to be relegated to domestic chores.
Time passed. Ethel left the factory, living off her voice and the modest fees from her gigs. Thomas grew accustomed to his wifes artistic temperament, assuming she would never settle into housekeeping. One afternoon, while he was in his office, he asked his new secretary, a middleaged woman named Margaret, to bring him a coffee. She obliged, then shyly offered, Sir, may I tempt you with some scones? I baked them myself.
Thank you, Margaret. I do love a good raspberry scone, Thomas replied, smiling wearily.
Margaret then piped up, Sir, your jacket button is about to fall offshall I stitch it for you?
Thomas sighed, My wifes too busy singing to bother with my clothes. Margaret murmured under her breath, So the wife sings, and the husband snarls like a wolf. She sewed the button tightly and, from that day, began slipping little parcels into his briefcasecanned soup, a thermos of stew, a freshly fried cutlet. She baked only cherry scones, her favourite.
Thomas never realised how close he had become to his charismatic secretary, though he appreciated her care without crossing a line. He remained loyal to Ethel, even as Margarets affection grew. Margaret, meanwhile, waited in hopeful silence, believing love would eventually triumph.
Meanwhile, Ethel, lost in her lofty aspirations, failed to notice the shift in her husband. Thomas started comparing Ethel to Margaret, often finding Margarets gentle humility more appealing. Their marriage, four years old, still consisted of just the two of them; children were never mentioned. Then, one bright morning, Ethels doctor announced a pregnancy. The news rippled through the household like a sudden storm.
Ethel, however, reacted with terror. She sought another doctor, hoping for an abortion, but the physician, with a solemn tone, said it was too late and urged her to bring a healthy child into the world. Thomas, oblivious, ran to the babygoods stores, checking prices for prams and cots, imagining the tiny feet that would soon patter across their floor.
When Thomas shared the joyful news with Margaret, she sighed, Tom, my cherry scones are finishedno more treats for you. He was puzzled. A replacement secretary, Tatiana Bell, a veteran of the plant, arrived. She was blunt, chastising Thomas, Oh, Tom! Youve lost a gem! Margaret loved you like no one else! Thomas brushed her off, Work, Tatiana, work!
Months later, Ethel gave birth to a baby girl. The midwife cooed, What a sweet little voice she hasshell be a singer! Ethel cut the midwife off with a curt, No name, thank you. Thomas burst into the delivery ward with a bouquet, but Ethel stayed on the cot, tears streaming, refusing to meet his eyes.
The other new mothers in the ward chatted loudly. One declared, Ive just had a lovers babytwin! My husband will kill me! Another sighed, Im thirtysix, still waiting for my prince. A third lamented, My husband left, doesnt know we have a daughter now. A fourth, the youngest, confessed, I was a shop assistant, the cash register vanished, and now Im raising a darkskinned boy named Tyler. Their laughter echoed as Ethel turned away, the words of the women swirling in her mind like a cruel chorus.
A nurse handed Ethel a bouquet from Thomas, who was pacing nervously outside, clutching the roses. She didnt take them; the nurse placed the flowers on the bedside table.
Two weeks later Thomas was sent on a twoweek assignment to a new plant. He rushed home, heart pounding, imagining the face of his little girl. But when he entered the house, he found only Ethel humming, leafing through sheet music.
Ethel, wheres our child? he asked, bewildered.
She turned, eyes cold, Tom, I I signed the consent to give the baby up.
Give up? Youve gone mad! That child is ours! How could you? Thomas shouted, rage tearing his voice.
He lunged, tore the music sheets from her hands, shredded them, and hurled the torn fragments at her. Here are your notes, you idiot!
Ethel stared at the man she had known all her life, fearing he might strike her down. Thomas, breathless, grabbed his coat, flung his belongings into a sack, slammed the door, and walked out into the rainslicked streets, shouting to anyone who might hear, Where has love gone? Someone help me! Passersby hurried past, indifferent.
That night he stayed with a friend, then returned to work, demanding the phone number of Margaret from the new secretary, Tamara. Tamara, give me Margarets number. I need to call her. Tamara handed him a slip, smirking, We all know why youre asking.
When Ethel finally recovered from Thomass outburst, she did not chase after him. She retreated to a seaside retreat where a concert was arranged for her. She sang, her voice soaring, the audience rising for encores, throwing flowers onto the stage. She repaired the torn scores and sang them anew, her heart finally beating in rhythm with the music.
Years slipped by. Ethel retired from touring and opened a small vocal studio in Leeds. She never earned a formal music degree, but her experience was enough to guide the next generation. One afternoon a colleague knocked, Ethel, a girl has been brought to meshes exceptionally talented. Can you audition her? Her fathers with her.
Bring her in, Ethel answered.
A minute later, the door opened to reveal Thomas, holding two girlsone ten, the other twelve. He gestured to the younger, Sit, little one. The older stepped forward, and as Ethel looked up, recognition hit her like a cold wave.
Lord, why on earth did we end up here? Thomas blurted, bewildered. What fate has brought us together again?
Ethel, trying to keep composure, said, Calm down, Tom. Lets hear her sing. She ushered the younger girl to a chair. The childs voice was crystalclear, echoing Ethels own youthful timbre, her laugh a perfect match.
After the audition, Ethel asked, How old are you, love?
Thirteen, the girl replied brightly. My names Lucy.
You have a wonderful voice! You may go, and ask your father to join us later, Ethel said.
Thomas entered the room, beaming. Tom, youve got a talented daughter. Ill recommend a good teacher if Im not the right fit. Youre married, arent you? Hows life?
Ethel, with a hint of sarcasm, answered, Married and happy. My wifes name is Margaret. You should remember her. We raise my daughter Lucy together with Margarets daughter, Mia.
Thomas stared, stunned. Your daughter Lucy? The one I gave birth to?
You only gave her birth, Thomas snapped, turning to leave. Goodbye, tutor.
The hallway echoed with the giggling of the other girls, Lets run and meet Mum after school! Ethel sank onto a stool, her mind a tangled mess of past and present.
Thirteen years had passed since that fateful decision to relinquish Lucy. Now Lucy called another woman Mum, and the guilt weighed heavy on Ethel. One evening, as she trudged home, her catan orange tabby named Melodyleapt onto her feet, purring for a morsel. She brushed him aside, muttering, Not now, you little nuisance. Melody trotted to his bowl, eyes pleading.
Ethel sighed, What have I got? A cat that cant speak, no husband, no children, an empty flat, a cold bed. Ive played the wrong notes all my life. The bitter truth settled over her like a lingering chord.
She imagined rewinding the score of her life, but summer only comes once. The melancholy melody of her existence played on, a sad tale of dreams built on airy castles and a past that never quite fit.
Sitting in her armchair, wrapped in a familiar blanket, Ethel reflected on the old fable of the grasshopperDid you sing all you could? Thats the question The curtain fell on her story, the echo of her voice lingering in the empty room.
