Emily Clarke slipped into the backdoor of the new coffee shop on Manchesters Canal Street, her hands trembling as the brass bell above the door rang. The owner, a wiry man named Mark Whitaker, caught sight of her and barked, Val, come over here! Weve got a candidate for cleaning.
Emily froze. The same shop that her grandmother, Mrs. Clarke, had spoken about in the old terraced house across the road. It had only just opened, staff were still being hired, and perhaps, just perhaps, there was a place for her too. She drew a deep breath, steadied herself, and pushed the door open.
It seemed only yesterdaythough in truth it had been seven long yearswhen Emily, at eighteen, took the stage for her first solo concert. The audience roared, her future glittered, and she imagined a life of accolades. Then the night of the crash shattered everything.
Driving home after the gig, a lorry barreled past her at breakneck speed, slamming into her car. Her parents were killed instantly. Emily survived with severe injuries, conscious enough to watch her mother and father die in the wreckage. When the news reached her grandmother, she suffered a stroke that left her legs almost useless. Life split into before and after. Three months in a London hospital followed by a grueling series of operations. A botched surgery left Emily with a permanent limp; her bones healed crookedly, and the doctors mistake haunted the ward. Her grandmother barely left her bed. The first two years were a nightmare; every time Emily closed her eyes, the images of the crash, the blood, her parents faces resurfaced.
The family sold every piece of jewellery they owned. Mrs. Clarke wept silently while Emily packed the remnants into boxes. Medicine cost a small fortune, and no employer wanted to hire a woman who limped, whose very presence seemed to cast a shadow. Her only skill was the pianoa talent nurtured at school but never turned into a profession. With nothing else to offer, Emily tried to find work as a shop assistant, but caring for her grandmother meant she could only take short shifts, and the demand for parttime help was fierce. When the jewellery sales dried up, she sold the old, cherished Steinway her parents had saved for, the instrument that had once been the centre of their modest living room.
Two sleepless nights passed before she made that decision. Strangers arrived, counted the cash, and carted the piano away. Now her grandmother shuffled around the flat with a walking frame, and Emily secured a modest disability pension, stretching the few pounds they had left to survive on a frugal diet of beans and tea. Mrs. Clarke learned of the coffee shop from the neighbour who often stopped by with a tin of biscuits and a pot of tea, gossiping about neighbourhood news.
The shops front door opened without a creak, and a soft chime rang above Emilys head. A young man stepped into the hallway.
Good afternoon, he said, were not hiring yet.
Good afternoon, Emily replied, smiling nervously. Im here about the job.
What position are you looking for? he asked.
Anything. I only have basic education.
Perhaps a waitress?
Emily flushed deeper. No, I cant be a waitress.
He raised an eyebrow. Then youre left with cleaning. Hours are from noon till closing.
That works for me, she said.
Marks interest vanished instantly, and he shouted across the room, Val, get over here! Weve got a cleaner candidate. A moment later another man, James Hartley, entered, casting a hard stare at Emily.
Drunkdriving results in dismissal without pay. Theft is the same. I hope you have no such history.
Of course, Emily answered quietly.
Come with me, James said, leading her through the shop, outlining every surface that needed attention. Emily listened, nodding, while Mark turned back, noticing her uneven gait and muttering under his breath.
Following Jamess instructions, Emily began sweeping, but suddenly she stumbled and stopped. The world seemed to fade; she saw her piano, the very instrument she had sold, vivid among a sea of memories. She stepped forward, placed a trembling hand on the lid, and closed her eyes. A single, pure note rang inside her mind, as if forgotten melodies had awakened.
A gruff, mocking voice snapped her back: What are you staring at? Get the mop, youre not fit for the piano.
Tears welled in Emilys eyes, but she swallowed them. She imagined herself from the outside: shabby dress, a hobbling leg, a dimmed gaze.
Sorry, she whispered.
James, the floor manager, was busy supervising his friend, a man named Leo, who had just approached Emily. Leo, the chief supervisor, dreamed of catching James in a mistake and taking his place. The new venue resembled more a restaurant than a coffee shop, part of a chain owned by a businessman with several establishments across the city.
In three days the shop would open to the public. There was no time for fantasieseverything had to be spotless. Mark sighed, noting the staff seemed wellchosen, even pretty. Yet, if a pale woman like Emily lingered, she would mar the whole image. If Mark arrived first, she would probably leave immediately.
But Leo was generally kindhearted. Let her work, he said, believing people who took on the job would shoulder the responsibilities. He hoped a little discipline would keep things smooth.
Emily had been cleaning there for half a year now, and strangely, she felt a flicker of happiness. She was paid regularly; the wages were respectable for a cleaner. The crew was friendly, the other girls kind and helpful. Only Mark seemed to harbour a grudge, constantly searching for faults. Emily performed her duties diligently, leaving Mark frustrated, his need to find criticism where none existed.
Why is the bucket in the middle of the room? he demanded, irritated.
Emily leaned on her mop and replied, Mr. Whitaker, where am I supposed to put it when Im mopping the floor?
I dont know, somewhere in the corner. Its in the way for everyone.
For whom? The shop is closed. How can it be in the way? she said, hearing the girls laugh. The bucket sat on the dance floor, leaving plenty of space to walk around it.
Marks face reddened with anger, but the girls ignored him. He could only vent his fury on Emily and the dishwashing area. The dishwasher promptly removed him from the floor, leaving Emily to bear the brunt. As Mark prepared a sharp remark, James entered the main room.
Hey, Mark, Ive been looking for you. Anything wrong?
No, everythings fine. Just a reminder that the shop will be closed to the public this weekend for a bankers birthday party.
The banker? Nikifor?
Exactly him.
Unlucky! Did the restaurant run out of money?
He said he loved the lunch we served and wanted to relax here. All the guests are wellbehaved, they pay well, no trouble.
Nothing will go wrong, no scandals.
Right.
Marks enthusiasm drained, and he left. Emily exhaled in relief. Only a short while remained before she could go home.
Ah, Emily, he never leaves you alone! said Svetlana, a neighbour who often sat with her over tea. They lived in the same block and met frequently.
Emily sighed, What can I do?
Sylvia says, Send him away and shut the door! She once shoved him into an apron and said, Wash the dishes, Im off home! He got so frightened he started apologising. He wont even step into the dishwasher now.
Emily laughed, Bravo! If I tried that, theyd fire me on the spot.
During the bankers banquet, the staff rushed about. Waitresses checked the linen after ten oclock. Emily, clutching a cloth, darted through the hall, wiping invisible dust. Mark was preoccupied with his own affairs, ignoring everyone. Emily tried to recall where she had heard the surname Nikiforov; perhaps it was just a familiar name shed heard once.
Luxury cars lined the parking lot as guests arrived. The girls whispered, Look, thats Olesya Kirova, she runs a chain of salons! And thats the owner of the shopping centre! Emilys heart hammered faster. She didnt need to enter the main hall unless something broke or spilled, but nerves made her uneasy.
An hour into the event, James burst into the back room, panic in his voice. Mark, the guests are leaving! The owner will kill me!
What happened?
We still dont have a live musician. The banker expected not only modern music but also a piano performance. He saw a piano in the shop. What now?
James scanned the room, missing Marks satisfied grin, and asked desperately, Does anyone play the piano?
Mark snapped, Of course not.
I can, Emily whispered, stepping forward.
Mark laughed, A mop and a piano are two different things, you fool!
James ignored him, Emily, how well can you play? Do you understand it could be disastrous if you fail?
I understand, but Ill try.
James clapped, Ladies, could you help solve this problem?
Of course, well sort it out right away, Emily replied.
Can you dim the lights before I sit at the piano? she asked James.
He looked puzzled but nodded. Ten minutes later, Emily, now fully oriented in the hall, sat at the instrument. Tears threatened to spill as she placed her hands on the keys, and a mournful melody filled the room, resonating with the dimmed lights. Conversation fell silent.
Emilys eyes were closed; she played with a fierce joy and a quiet yearning. Tears slipped down her lashes unnoticed. Shes crying. Why? James asked, glancing at Svetlana.
Because its her piano. She sold it after the accident to pay for medicine. If anyone tells Les, Ill kill them, James muttered, his tone dark.
He looked at Emily with new respect, finally seeing the delicate, almost translucent hands, the long fingers, the graceful posturequalities hidden beneath her pallor. Are you frozen? he whispered.
Im in shock. Shes a different person when she plays.
When the final note faded, the audience erupted in applause. James exhaled, Well, then! Mark, find a new cleaner. Ive got the musician covered myself.
Mark gave a weary nod. A misty memory of a dream slipped away. A welldressed man approached Emily the very banker whose birthday theyd just celebrated.
Good afternoon, I know you. Are you Margaret Clarke? Margaret Pole? he asked.
Emily stared, bewildered, Yes, thats me. Do we know each other?
I saw you at your first concert. My wife drove us there. Im not usually a music lover, but that night amazed me. Where did you disappear to? Ive tried to find out when youd perform again. Some say you left, others that something happened
Emily shook her head, Im sorry, Id rather not
James couldnt hold back any longer and told the banker everything. I dont understand why They were supposed to replace everything, surgeries included.
The bankers doorbell rang sharply.
Emily opened it, frozen as the very piano shed sold stood in the doorway, flanked by a smiling James and a handful of staff.
Emily, look! James called.
The piano? How?
It was bought by Mr. Nikiforov for the shop and he instructed us to return it to you.
Its mine? Emily sobbed.
Dont cry, heres a letter from him, James handed her an envelope. Inside, the banker praised the evenings success, noted that balance was essential in life, and offered to cover a private clinics consultation and pay for any further operation. Money was no longer a worry.
A year later, Emily and James danced their first wedding waltz in that same coffee shop, now thriving under the bright lights of success.
