The Melody of a Life, or a Stingray
Lottie Hawthorne had been Lottie for as long as she could remember. Petite as a garden dwarf, waist as narrow as a bottle, bright green eyes that seemed to hold a whole spring, and a laugh that could lift a rooms spirits, she always caught the eye of men of every age. Small women have always held a particular charm for English gentlemen; theyre like little ponies that every lad wishes to cradle and pamper, to keep close to his chest.
Lottie also possessed a gifther voice, a warm mezzosoprano, could fill any hallway. She sang whenever and wherever she could. By day she laboured as a laboratory technician at the steelworks in Manchester, but singing was the fire in her veins. She joined every choir she could find, stepping timidly onto modest stages at first, then with growing confidence. Her soul thirsted for art, and art was the only medicine she ever felt.
She never rushed toward marriage, and children never crossed her mind. Such plans were never on her calendar; Lottie saw herself as perfectly selfsufficient. A husband, childrenthose were burdens that would steal the hours she needed to sing and savour life. She would often voice these thoughts over glasses of tea with her married friends, who would nod sympathetically before slipping off to their own maternity leaves, one after another.
Lottie intended to devote herself entirely to song, but fate had other scripts. At the same plant she began handing laboratory reports to the workshop foreman, Arthur Sinclair. The door to his office was always guarded by his secretary, Clara, who watched the doorway like a jealous hawk. When Lottie entered the anteroom, Clara would snatch the reports, smile, and say, Youre free, miss. Ill pass everything to Mr Sinclair. No need to worry. Thus Lottie never actually met the foreman.
One day Clara fell ill. Lottie, seeing no barrier, knocked gently on the office door and peered inside. At the far end of the long table sat Arthur Sinclair himself.
Come in, love. What have you got for me? he asked.
Just the test results, Lottie stammered.
New here, are you? he pressed, leaning forward.
No, Ive been here for over five years, she replied, steadying herself.
He chuckled, I hadnt noticed. Shame, really. They exchanged a few jokes, and Lottie returned to her bench. From then on she placed the reports directly on Arthurs desk. Whenever Clara returned, she turned away from Lottie, busily watering the office plants, pretending she was busy with something far more important.
Lottie was twentyseven then, and a brief office romance sparked. Arthur, a respectable man, didnt fancy the role of a scandalmaking lover. He promptly suggested a proper marriage. Lottie laughed it off; why add more responsibility to a life already full of song? She was content with a relationship that required no vows.
Arthur, taken aback by her refusal, expected any other woman to chase after him. Instead, he gave her space to think. Meanwhile, the other women at the plant hounded her. A man like him is courting you! Why are you playing hardtoget? You should settle down now, before you end up a spinster! they urged. Eventually, Lottie gave in.
The wedding was a grand affair. In a simple wedding dress, veil, and childsize shoes, she looked like a porcelain doll. Arthur beamed with pride. Lottie, however, kept her emotions close to her chest, saving her energy for the stage and the audience.
After a brief honeymoon, she set off on regional tourslocal theatres, holiday resorts, music schools. Arthur, ever the gentleman, simply said, Lottie, could you make something for dinner? And could you iron my shirt, please? Lottie snapped, Tom, Im in a hurry, lovejust leave me to it. He kissed her forehead, apologising for his intrusion, and trotted off to his own duties. He kept buying readymade meals, learning to wash his own shirts, fry eggs, and even mop the flooranything to spare Lottie the domestic grind.
Time passed. Lottie no longer worked at the plant; she earned her living from vocal performances and provincial tours. Arthur grew accustomed to a wife who sang rather than swept. One afternoon, while Arthur was at his desk, he asked his new secretary for a cup of tea. She obliged, then shyly offered, Sir, may I tempt you with some scones? I baked them myself.
Thank you, Clara, he sighed, I do love a good scone with jam. He then asked, Would you mind mending a button on my coat? It keeps coming loose.
Clara, hearing the excuse, muttered, Well, my wifes too busy with her own concerts, so I guess Ill have to keep him fedperhaps a jar of soup, a thermos of broth, even a hot meatball now and then. She began slipping him little treats: a jar of cucumber relish, a tin of cherry pies, a handrolled pastry. Arthur never realised that Claras care bordered on devotion, though he remained faithful to Lottie.
Four years into their marriage, the household still consisted of just the two of them. Lottie never spoke of children. Then, one bright morning, she announced she wanted extra pickles and pickled apples for the pantrya sign, she claimed, that a baby was on the way. Arthurs excitement burst forth; a child seemed like the crown jewel of his dreams.
Lottie, however, felt a cold knot in her stomach. She visited a doctor, hoping to halt an unwanted pregnancy, only to be told it was already too late and that she should carry the baby to term. Arthur, oblivious, scoured shop windows for the perfect pram, the comfiest cot, and the finest baby blankets.
When the news finally reached Clara, she sighed, Well, my cherry pies are finished, so I suppose Ill be writing my resignation. A replacement secretary, a middleaged woman named Mrs. Thompson, arrived, wellknown for her bluntness.
Arthur, youve lost a gem! Clara loved you like no one else, she chided.
Arthur snapped, Do your work, Mrs. Thompson. No distractions.
Months later, Lottie gave birth to a little girl. The midwife cooed, What a voice you have! Shell be a singer, no doubt. What shall we call her?
Nothing at all, Lottie snapped.
Arthur burst into the delivery room with a bouquet of roses, but Lottie barely glanced at him. She clutched the cot, tears streaming down her face. The other mothers in the ward tried to console her.
Whats the matter? they asked, bewildered.
This child isnt mine, she cried. I dont want it.
Each woman whispered her own dramaone with a lovers secret, another with a missing husband, a third with a stolen market stallwhile Lottie turned away, listening to the cacophony of their lives and feeling a bitter, twisted envy.
A nurse handed Lottie a bunch of roses from her husband. She didnt even touch them; the nurse placed them on the nightstand and left.
Arthur was soon dispatched on a twoweek assignment at a new plant. When he finally returned, he rushed home, heart pounding, expecting to cradle his daughter. Instead, he found Lottie alone, humming a tune.
Darling, wheres our girl? he asked, bewildered.
Arthur, sit down. I I signed the adoption papers, Lottie whispered, eyes avoiding his.
Signed? Youre mad! Thats our child! How could you? he roared, fury cracking his voice.
He seized the sheets of music Lottie had been working on, tore them apart, crumpled the fragments, and hurled them at her face. Youre a fool!
Lottie had never seen her husband like this. Fear gripped her, but Arthur seemed drained of all feeling. He gathered his belongings into a battered suitcase, slammed the door, and vanished into the night, his footsteps echoing down the empty streets.
He roamed the city, shouting, Where has love gone? Help me, anyone! Passersby hurried on, indifferent, wrapped in their own concerns.
That night, staying at a friends flat, Arthur stormed back to work and demanded Claras number from the new secretary, Tamara.
Tamara, I need Claras phone. Its urgent, he said.
She handed him a slip of paper, smirking, We all know what urgent means these days.
Arthur retreated to his office, shutting the door behind him, aware of every prying glance from the curious secretaries.
When Lottie finally recovered from the shock, she chose not to chase Arthur. Instead she fled to a seaside resort where a concert was being staged. She sang, her voice soaring, and the audience rose for encores, showering the stage with flowers. She travelled the country, performing in every hall she could find.
Years slipped by. Lottie hung up her performance shoes and opened a modest vocal studio. She had never earned a formal music degree, but her experience was enough to teach eager youngsters. One afternoon a fellow teacher asked, Lottie, a girls been brought inshes got talent. Can you have a look?
Of course, Lottie replied.
Just then, Arthur arrived with two girlsone ten, one twelve. He led the younger to a chair, Sit, darling, and approached the older, only to stare in disbelief at his former wife.
Lord, why did we end up with you among so many teachers? he muttered, anger flashing.
Calm down, Tom, Lottie said, a faint smile appearing. Lets hear your daughters voice.
Lotties ears recognised a familiar echoher own youthful timbre, the same laugh, the same petite frame. The girl, Kira, sang beautifully.
How old are you, sweetheart? Lottie asked.
Thirteen. My names Kira, she declared proudly.
You have a gift! Bring your father in, if you wish, Lottie said.
Arthur entered, beaming. Tom, your daughters a talent. Ill recommend a good tutor if Im not the right fit. Are you married? Hows life?
Married, happy. My wifes name is Clara. Shes my former secretary. We raise Kira together, and also our other girl, Maisie, with her, Arthur replied, pride swelling.
Your daughter Kira? The one I gave birth to? Lottie sputtered.
You only gave birth to her, Arthur snapped, turning to leave. Goodbye, teacher!
A chorus of voices from the hallway shouted, Girls, lets go meet Mum from work!
Lottie sat, head spinning, as the sound of her own childs voice filled the room.
Thirteen years later, Lottie trudged home after a long day, and her beloved cat, Melody, darted across the hallway, purring loudly. She brushed him aside. Not now, dear, she muttered. The cat settled by his bowl, eyes pleading for a scrap.
She sighed, What do I have? A cat that cant speak, no husband, no children, an empty flat and a cold bed. I guess Ive played the wrong notes in my life’s composition.
If only she could turn back the pages, but summer never returns twice a year.
Lottie replayed the melody of her life bar by bar. It was a mournful tune, built upon castles in the air and a past that never quite delivered. Sitting in her armchair, wrapped in a familiar blanket, she recalled an old fable about a grasshopper: Did you sing all day? Thats the trouble The curtain fell on her story, the lights dimming on a woman whose song still lingered in the shadows.
