Dont even think about singing
Youre not smiling right.
At first, I wasnt sure he was talking to me. I stared at my hands, folded on my lap over a dark blue dressone I never would have picked out myself. Too tight at the shoulders. Too shiny. Too not-me.
Eleanor. I said youre not smiling properly. You look tense. People can tell.
Edward spoke quietly, not looking at me, his eyes fixed on the crowd already milling about the function room. It was the twentieth anniversary of his companybig do, plenty of fuss, important evening. My part had been made very clear, mentioned almost like a clause in a contract: sit next to him, look respectable, say nothing unnecessary, dont drink more than one glass, dont start conversations with clients or partners unless he said so.
Sorry, I said.
Dont apologise, just fix it.
It was the sort of restaurant where money feels solid, real. Not flashy but present: the weight of the linen, the glow of the chandeliers, the way the waiters moved, floating on silent feet. I’d been there a few times before, and the feeling was always the same: I was out of place. Not as the wife of a successful businessman, but just as a person. As a woman with a name, a history, something that once lived inside her.
I was turning fifty-six. Id been married to Edward Forster for twenty-eight of those years. We met when I was finishing up at the Royal College of Music. I was bright, loud-voiced, mad for Vaughan Williams and Britten. He was an ambitious young entrepreneur with keen eyes, convinced he could buy or shape the whole world to his liking. He once looked at me like I was the world. Turned out, he only wanted to reshape me.
Edward, maybe I could go say hello to Margaret? Shes sitting over there alone.
Margaret can wait. Theres no need for you to be at the Harrisons table.
But Ive known her twenty years.
Eleanor. His tone was patient, the kind used with a child who cant grasp the obvious. Tonight is important. Just sit and smile.
I smiled. The proper way, as instructed.
The room was filling upthe partners, the clients, politicians, their wives. Everyone shiny, animated, discussing exactly what youre meant to at these events. I half-listened to snatches of chats and found I couldnt remember the last time Id talked about something I cared about: music, the way a fugues constructed, how the second movement of Vaughan Williamss Fantasia could still tear me apart if I heard even a bar on the radio.
We didnt play much music at home. Edward always said it set his nerves on edge.
At the next table, a woman in a striking crimson dress was laughingloud, genuine, a little rough round the edges. I caught myself watching her with a peculiar envynot envy of her dress or her good looksjust because she laughed as if it was her right, no permission asked.
Dinner went on. Toasts, applause, speeches about two decades of success and the grand future ahead. Edwards speech was short and sharphe knew how to hold a room. I clapped too, thinking that maybe Id known how oncehow to hold an audience, how to stand before people and sing so that the world stopped turning for a few minutes.
The last time I sang in public was twenty-four years ago, at a college do. Edward had driven me there, but took me home early when his mobile rang for work.
The compère announced a talent contest after dessert, once the wine had loosened everyone a little. Anyone who fancied it could pop up and tell a joke, do a trick, sing a song. Edward winced.
Tacky, he muttered.
I didnt reply, just watched the stage. There stood the microphone; beside it, a young, good-natured bloke at the piano, whose background playing Id noticed throughout the meal. He had long fingers, and a habit of nodding along, even when playing quietly.
A couple of people went up. One told a joke, the other played a tune on a harmonica. The applause was polite, but hardly enthusiastic. The compère called for more volunteers, and the room quieted a bit.
I felt something shift inside menot a jolt, more like a door being gently pushed open after years. I placed my napkin on the table. Got to my feet.
Where are you going? Edward asked.
The loo.
I didnt go to the bathroom. I went to the compère and leaned in, told him something. He raised his eyebrows, then nodded. Next, I approached the pianist, whispered in his ear, and he too nodded, suddenly intrigued.
When the compère announced my name, Edward took a moment to register. Then realised. I caught his face in my peripheral vision on my way to the stage, but focused only on the microphone.
Stage steps: three. I climbed up and stood facing the sea of strangers in posh suits and frocks. Most were chatting, barely watching. A few looked on with courteous anticipation.
I nodded to the pianist.
He played the first chordsthis wasnt a party tune, nor pop. Vaughan Williams, Fantasia. Wordless melody, pure and raw.
I began to sing. At first, I barely believed itmy voice was there. All these silent years, and it was still alivenot the same, deepened by age, with different shadings, but undeniably present.
By the third line, the chatter in the room died, not gradually, but like someone had flicked a switch. Glasses halted, heads turned. I barely noticed. My whole concentration was on keeping my breath, shaping the phrase, refusing to think about Edward or what would come after.
What came after hardly mattered. There was only this.
When I finished, the silence held, heavy for a beat or two, before applause broke, fuller and real. The woman in the red dress cheered, the pianist looked up as if remembering something rare and valuable.
I made my way back, a little shaky on my feet. My heartbeat was fast, but steady. I glanced at Edwards face.
He wasnt clapping.
Sit, he said.
I sat.
Do you realise what you’ve just done?
I sang.
Dont get clever. His voice was low and icy. You made yourself a spectacle at my event. Without my permission. Do you understand how that appears?
How?
As if my wifes starved for attention. As if what she has isnt enough. He picked up his glass and set it down again with care. Well leave in ten minutes.
Edward, its not
In ten minutes, Eleanor.
Three people reached me before we left. The woman in redher name was Jennifergrabbed my hand: Youre marvellous, where have you been hiding? An elderly gent with a bushy beard simply said, Outstanding. Did you train with someone? And then Margaret, my oldest friend, came bustling over, perfume and a warm, familiar smell wrapping around me in a hug. I almost broke down then.
Eleanor, you weregood griefyou used to sing like
Margaret, we need to go, Edward interrupted, appearing at my side. He took my armnot roughly, but firm enough I felt it through the fabric. Excuse usEleanors feeling unwell. We have to leave.
Edward drove home in silence, which was somehow worse than any words. I stared through the window at the night-lit city, the streetlamps, the glitter of late-opening shops, and felt something almost like peace settling insidea third feeling, not joy or fear, but something closer to remembering my own name.
At home, he took off his jacket, hung it on a hanger, and turned.
Well then, he said. I get that youre bored. You want something of your own. But there are boundaries. Theres whats appropriate, and what isnt. Tonight, you embarrassed me in front of people who are important to my work.
I sang. They clapped.
You played the performer for everyone. Do you see the difference?
No, I said, surprised at my steady tone. Tell me.
He looked at me long and hard. Then said,
You have everything. House, money, standing. What more do you want? Honestly, Im done trying to work it out.
Ill tell you what I wantI want me. Thats whats missing.
What do you mean?
You know full well.
I went to the bedroom and closed the door. Lay on the bed, still in my dress, and stared at the ceilingsmooth and blank, like the life we presented to the world. I listened to Edward pacing, opening and closing cupboards, before quiet fell.
I never slept. I kept thinking. Remembering saying yes fifteen years ago when he told me to quit teaching singing at the local schoolit wasnt suitable, the moneys laughable, no need to work. Id agreed, thinking Id fill my time with something else, but every time I tried, Edward found some reason why that too was unsuitable or unnecessary.
He never raised a hand. He never shouted. He just calmly explained what was right and what wasnt, for twenty-eight years, until I no longer heard my own voice. Not even in my own head.
Until last night.
Next morning, while he showered, I dug out an old satchel from the loft. I packed documentspassport, my degree from the College, which I found in the back of a drawer, a handful of photos, my mobile. Some cash Id stashed away for just in casenot that Id ever quite known what the case might be. Until now.
I dressed plainlyjeans, jumper, coat. When Edward came out, drying his hands, I was by the door, bag on my shoulder.
Where are you going?
Im leaving.
A long pause.
Dont be ridiculous.
Im not being ridiculous. Im leaving.
Eleanor, he said, that tone againyoure having a fit, lie down, youll feel better, well talk this evening.
Weve already talked.
Youve no money. No job. Where on earth are you going?
Ill find somewhere.
Youre being absurd. Youre fifty-five! Where”
I walked out. Heard him calling after me, but paid it no mind. The lift was slow; I watched myself in its mirrored steel, battered and a little blurred. I almost smiled.
I walked. Just walked, breathing the cold, brittle autumn air, the scent of dry leaves and coffee from a café. I went in, bought a takeaway, sat by the window and texted the only person I could imagine calling.
Margaret, I need help.
Oh my goodness. Whats happened?
Ive left Edward.
Silence, then:
Where are you?
Margaret lived alone in a little flat on the outskirts. Her kids grown and gone, husband passed years ago. She opened the door, saw me with my single bag, asked no questions. Just stood back: Come in. Ive put the kettle on.
We spent the rest of the day in her kitchen, and most of the night. I talked; Margaret just listened, brewing more tea, no theatrics, no eye-rolling. When my story ran out, she said,
Youre out. Thats all that matters. Everything else can be sorted.
Hell freeze my accountsprobably already has.
He has?.
Yes. He threatened it once, last year when we fought. Said if I left, Id see what that meant.
Well just have to see about him, Margaret muttered, mouth tight.
Edward wasted no time. That evening my phone rangfirst him, then his secretary, then my mum, whom hed clearly prepped. Mum wept, telling me hed called to say Id had a breakdown at the company do, had left home in an unstable state and needed help.
Mum, I havent had a breakdown.
Ellie, hes so worried. He said you acted oddly last night, you really ought to see a doctor
Mum, I sang. I got onstage and sang. Thats all.
He said it waswell, quite inappropriate, and he was mortified
Mum. Im fine. Im with Margaret. Ill ring you tomorrow.
Sure enough, my bank card didnt work. Cash from the envelope diminished fast; Margaret wouldnt take rent, but I couldnt live on her charity forever.
Three days later, Edward sent my thingsnot brought, sent, by two unknown men who knocked at Margaret’s. I opened the bags on her hall floor: summer dresses in October, high heels, trinketsno warm clothes, no books I needed. Even that was a message.
The next day, Mum said Edward had visited her for tea, told her I was always highly strung, hed done his best, that obviously serious help was needed. Mum listenedshed always been good at listening to the calm, persuasive ones.
Eleanor, maybe just have a talk, try to work it out
Mum, hes blocked my money and told people Im mad. What sort of talk is that?
She hesitated.
Hes a man, Ellen. They all act out if they feel slighted.
I hung up, watching the garden outside Margarets, then pulled my music degree from the bagnavy cover, gold lettering. Eleanor Jane Marsh. Soprano, Royal College of Music. I hadnt touched the thing in fifteen years.
Next morning, I called the College, asked for Dr. Charles Roberts, my old voice tutor. I doubted hed still be thereturns out, he was, past seventy but working. They gave me his number.
Dr Roberts? Its Eleanor Marsh. Do you remember me?
Long pause.
Marsh? From fourth year?
Yes.
Course I do. Where have you been, Eleanor? Not a peep in years!
I vanished, yes. I need your help.
We met two days later in a small third-floor practice room. He was just as I remembered, wiry, intense-eyed, fingers interlaced on his knee. He looked me over.
Youve aged.
So have you.
Thats a good thing. Small smile. Sing.
Now?
What are you waiting for?
So I sang. Unsteady at firstlungs refusing to give all, top notes a bit shaky. He listened in silence, and when I finished, he said,
The voice is there. Techniques gone to pot. Youre breathing poorly. But the voice is there. Thats the main thing. The rest comes back.
How long?
Up to you. If you really work, two, three months youll be in shape. He paused. Why did you stop?
I got married.
And your husband banned you singing?
Not exactly. Justfaded away.
He repeated faded away, looking at me. Well then, Marsh. Lets get to work.
We met every day. I arrived at nine, left at two or later. My voice returned, sometimes eagerly, sometimes stubborn, some days progress, some days not. Roberts took no pity for age or lost time. Just said, Voices dont age; only technique and will. Excuses belong outside.
Margaret found me a job running a singing group for pensioners at a local community centre. The pay wasnt much, but it was mine. I ran classes three times a week with women in their sixties and seventies who sang for love, not career. Pure medicine to see them.
Meanwhile, Edward didnt stop. Through mutual friends, word trickled down that he was telling people Id left for some new man, or that my nerves had finally gone, or that hed endured my antics for years. The details shifted for each audience, but the story didnt: I was unstable, he was the martyr. Some believed him, some didnt but didnt argue. Mum called rarely, always cautiously, picking her words.
Do you even have a plan, somewhere to live?
I do, Mum.
He says hell talk things over if you come back peacefully.
Im not going back.
Ellie, theres always a way to compromise, divorce, splitting the house
Mum, hes blocked my money and paints me as deranged. You cant negotiate with that. You finish, finally, thats all.
Shed sigh, change subjects. I didnt blame hershed grown up with other rules about marriage, endurance. You cant resent someone for not speaking a language they never learned.
After a month, Roberts said something important. We were packing up, he said, without looking up,
In two months, the citys hosting a big charity concert. Classical programme, they need soloists. I could put your name forward.
I froze.
Dr Roberts, I havent performed in twenty-four years.
I know.
The audience is?
Serious. Concert is for the childrens hospice, broadcast on BBC South. Not small.
I hesitated.
Ill think about it.
Think quick. They wont wait.
I said yes two days later. He just nodded, as if he knew Id come round.
The next six weeks were some of the most exhausting of my life, training as hard as I did in my twenties. Operatic arias, English art songs and, for the finaleat Roberts insistencea more difficult piece by Vaughan Williams. Id come home to Margarets and doze off still in my shoes. But this was different from the exhaustion of late marriagethis was alive.
Margaret fussed over me, kept shoving bigger portions my way, grumbling that I never ate enough, worked too hard. We grew closer in those months than in the last twenty years. Theres nothing like having no mask left between people.
Three weeks before the concert, trouble started. The concert administrator calledyoung, nervous.
Eleanor, weve, er, got some concerns about your involvement. Shifty, vague.
Did Edward Forster contact you?
Long silence.
I cant comment.
Understood.
I told Roberts. He just said,
Come in tomorrow. Ill sort them out.
He did. I didnt ask how, but I kept my place. It wasnt the end though. A week before the concert, Margaret called in a panic:
Eleanor, two men came round, said theyre from Edward. Asked if you lived here.
What did you say?
I denied knowing you. But theyre hanging around outside. Be careful.
A coldness settled in my stomach, not quite fear but certainty: Edward wouldnt let go. He was used to owning things, being in controlmy leaving wasnt a personal wound, it was a disruption of order.
I told Roberts. He took off his glasses, polished them.
So, hell try to disrupt the concert?
Probably.
Are you afraid?
I thought a moment.
No. Not anymore.
Good. He paused. Producer Victor Symonds will be there. Famous chap. I called him in. My contacts at the restaurant heard about your singing the other night. Hes curious to hear you. So, sing your best, Marsh.
He looked at me with quiet pride.
Ive been teaching forty years. Three true voices in all that time. One moved to the States, became famous. One died young. And one got married and vanished. I always wondered about that last one. Im glad shes returned.
Concert day was grey and chilly. I got to the hall early, walked the stage, listened to the hush of eight hundred empty seats. I loved those momentsstillness before the music.
An hour before curtain, the admin caught me:
Eleanor, two chaps at the door, say theyre here on your husbands behalf. Theyve got some sort of medical paper, insist you need sectioning.
Hes not my husband. Not anymore.
Should I call security?
No. Let them in if they want to hear. They can listen like everyone else.
I made sure Roberts dealt with it. Later, I noticed a tall stranger in the foyerlistening to Roberts with a grave facethat must have been Symonds.
I was third on the programme. Full house, TV camera at the side. Onstage in a plain dark dress Id bought myself. Stood by the mic, took a breath, looked out at the crowd.
And I sang.
The first piece was effortless. The second, trickier, but I clung on. By the third, I wasnt thinking about the room, the cameras, anything outside. Just music. Thisthis was where I belonged.
As I began the last piece, silence fellthe sort when you know people arent just listening, theyre truly hearing. I sang, and felt something I cant explain: like finally stepping out into blue sky after a long illness. The sky had always waited.
As I finished, I saw Edward appear at the side door. He strode to the stage, barked at a steward, red-faced, with a second man following.
I finished the final phrase. Not one note dropped.
The room stood up.
Edward stopped mid-aisle. Symonds stood next to him and, in a quiet voice, spoke calmly. Edward answered, his face twisting, something breakingnot showily, but quietly, unmistakablythe face of a man realising he no longer had any power here.
He left.
Backstage, Symonds came up to me, shook my hand, kept it brief.
Id heard stories, now Ive heard you myself. We should talk.
About what?
A contract. Tours. Here, and further afield. Europe, then beyond. We need your sort of voice. And no one will stop you this timeI promise.
Roberts smiled from the shadows. I caught his eye, noddedhe nodded back, job done.
My mother and I had the real conversation much later. I went round, sat in her kitchen, she silent for ages before finally saying,
I saw you on telly. At the concert.
You watched?
Margaret rang, said put the TV on. I did. She fiddled with the tablecloth. I didnt know you sang like that.
You saw me at College.
That was years ago. Then, I was your mum, I was nervous. On TV, I just watched someone sing. Then I thoughtmy God, thats my daughter. She looked at me, tears in her eyes. Im sorry, Ellie.
For what?
For believing him more than you. He was always so plausible, you were always so quiet. I thought silence meant all was fine. I didnt understand.
I reached for her hand.
Mum, you figured it out. Just took time, thats all. Thats enough.
Youre not cross with me?
No.
She wept quietly, no fuss, just silent tears. I sat at her side and realised forgiveness isnt pretending nothing happenedits carrying only what you need for the journey ahead, leaving the rest behind.
A years passed.
I stand backstage at a small concert hall in Vienna as the audience settles. The sounds are both all new and exactly the same: rustle of programmes, whispers, the soft, nervous coughs. Its a beautiful old hall, all cornices and tall windows, snow falling silently outside.
My life is this: a flat to call my own, small and rented but mine, here in Vienna. A contract from Symondsmy chance to earn and to sing. A suitcase that follows me from city to city. Roberts rings most weekssometimes we chat over my rep on video. Mum visits or I visit her, she marvels at how much I get done.
Every so often, I hear something about Edward through friends. Rumour says his business wobbled after the scandal, some partners left. Six months later, he remarrieda much younger, quiet woman, a stranger to everyone. Hearing that, I only felt tired understanding. Some people never changethey just look for someone pliable.
I feel for her. But thats her story, not mine.
Mine is different now. It includes tiredness from flights, creative rows with conductors, dodgy foreign phrases and lonely hotel nights. But there are mornings in new cities, opening the window to unfamiliar streets. Applause meant for me, not for my companion. The right to buy whatever dress I fancy. The right to call whomever I want. To close the door and know no ones waiting to tell me how Ive got it wrong.
Sometimes, I think about those lost yearsnot with regret, just straight thinking. Twenty-eight years. So much time. I could have sung all that while. Could be different now, or just different sooner.
But, could have been is the most useless phrase there isI know that now.
I am here. My voice is here. This stage, now.
A stage manager pops her head round,
Miss Marsh, three minutes.
Coming.
I smooth the dressa plain dark one of my own choosing. I loosen my shoulders, take three deep breaths. I close my eyes for a second.
Suddenly I see Edwards face in that restaurant a year ago, telling me my smile was wrong. I answered, Sorry. I sat and smiled just right, and wondered why my own voice was silent inside.
Now, I smileimperfectly, but truly. Because I want to.
And I step out onto the stage.
The hall stills.
And I begin to sing.
The lesson, in the end, is simple: Your life is your own, and the sound of your own voice is only ever yours to find.
