Angel Cake

‘My old lady turned out to be an absolute fright. Serves me right, I suppose. She wears bold theatrical make-up on a shrivelled face; bright scarlet lipstick which bleeds into the deep folds of her crinkled lips and orangey pink powder which wobbles on the hairs of her chin… She wouldn’t let me in at first.’

Alicia Queripel, a retired actress, lives alone with her memories in Shepard’s Bush. Until the day Alison Woodgate appears on her doorstep to visit the old lady she has been ‘allocated’ by Age Concern. Alicia, suspicious, is at first reluctant to be patronized by a mousy do-gooder. They seem to enjoy little in common. How could Alison’s boyfriend Rob compare with Alicia’s dear departed Leonard, a paragon among men?

As the weeks pass, however, an unlikely friendship develops over tea and cakes and slowly, through the mingled layers of memory and imagination, an unsuspected pattern starts to emerge.

By the author of
Playing Fields in Winter
, winner of the Author’s Club First Novel Award.

‘the old woman is a totally convincing, rather surprising character and Alison is immensely likeable …
Angle Cake
is well worth reading’

Susan Hill,
Good Housekeeping

‘a fascinating evocation of what life was like in the English theatre in the 1930’s, cleverly interwoven with the hopes and fears of a young woman of today’

Yorkshire Post

‘a story of immense beauty and sadness, written with a rare compassion’

Jewish Chronicle

IF IT
hadn’t been for the egg, jiggling in the saucepan of boiling water as though it held a small hen soul in torment, Alicia might have answered the bell. Might have, because egg or no egg, she had grown very cautious over the years about answering her door to unexpected callers. Who wouldn’t be cautious, in the early evening, on a Sunday, in all that wind and rain, in October, in Shepherd’s Bush? The unexpected callers charged through Alicia’s nightmares: big brutal boys with shaven heads and bicycle chains, swaggering youths with flick-knives and ammonia. She saw the pictures of their victims in the papers: Annie and Bill Edgerley, aged eighty, who had sustained multiple and mesmerizing injuries: slashed ears, severed fingers, signed backsides. ‘They were vicious sadists,’ said Annie from her hospital bed. ‘Animals are like kings and queens compared to these men.’ Constance Clarke, set upon as she came home from the over-sixties lunch club, and her little pink pigskin handbag – bought thirty years ago in Debenham and Freebody and irreplaceable now – snatched from her arthritic grasp. Constance said, ‘This used to be a pleasant area, but nowhere is safe these days.’ In Alicia’s nightmares, bloodshot eyes looked in through the letter-box and she heard grunting, long knives wiggled menacingly through the keyhole. So there is no telling, egg or no egg, whether she would have answered the bell in any case.

She was going to have the egg, soft-boiled, with two nicely cut triangles of bread and margarine, and the last old piece of striped swiss roll for afterwards. The bread was ready on the dresser with the egg-cup, cosy and spoon, and when the egg was done – four minutes by the kitchen clock – she would carry the tray into the front room and eat what she had set out on it nice and slowly in front of the television.

She was lost in her reverie when the bell rang. Propping herself on the draining-board beside the cooker, she was
staring into the bubbling saucepan while her thoughts – if you could call them thoughts – slid after one another, changing shape and tenuously connected, like the droplets of coloured oil going round and round in those modern lamps she had seen in shop windows. The egg tapped against the side of the saucepan. The hollow dry tapping sounded like the branch of a tree against a window-pane. In their last home in Gascoigne Gardens, a tree used to tap on their bedroom window-pane. Leonard said that tree had majesty. He would never let her have it trimmed, even though it kept her awake night after night. Leonard liked his eggs poached …

The bell savagely pierced her reverie. She was jolted away from the draining-board, immediately sick with the thudding of her heart. She looked around the kitchen wildly for a weapon, or escape. The unexpected callers of her nightmares crashed through the stained-glass panels of the front door and came bounding down the hall to set upon her. Her legs betrayed her. Then in desperation she remembered her egg and, strange to relate, it soothed her, for of course there could be no question of answering the bell with a four-minute egg on the boil. There could be no question of her going to the front door and facing possible danger. She propped herself once more against the draining-board, defiantly, as though her attitude would discountenance the caller, and looked with exaggerated importance up at the clock to see how long her egg had to go.

When the bell rang again, she whistled. ‘Ring, ring,’ she thought scornfully, ‘I shan’t pay a blind bit of notice!’ But curiosity began to compete with fear. It was, after all, unusual for anyone to ring Alicia’s bell. She put her head a fraction round the door-jamb and peered cautiously down the hall. It was already nearly dark inside, but outside the great street-lamp which doused her bedroom in its orange glare shed some light into the porch and, to her astonishment, she saw that the shadow on the other side of the stained glass was small and slight, like a child’s. She was so astonished, having half-expected to see the hulking shape of a fully-grown criminal, that she left her head sticking out of the kitchen doorway, even though the caller could then have seen her if
he had bent down and looked through the letter-box. But he didn’t look through the letter-box: he rang the bell a third time. Alicia felt so superior then – if it wasn’t a child up to mischief, it must be a mistake – that egg or no egg, she did very nearly go to answer the door. She would have enjoyed giving the foolish mistaken caller a good telling-off, about disturbing people who had plenty to do and about carelessness in taking down addresses. But as she watched his shadow, her lips pursed in disapproval, he coolly turned round and walked away. She was almost disappointed. When it was already too late, it occurred to her to hurry into the front room, where the light was prudently off, and look out gingerly between the net curtains to see the back of him as he walked away down the street. But the street was empty.

With all the commotion, her egg would be overdone of course. She carried the tray resentfully into the front room, turned on the standard lamp and drew the curtains. She had already set the television on the right channel and now she switched it on: She sat down in her armchair and took the tea-tray on to her knees. After a moment or two, the familiar biddable faces materialized on the grey screen. She considered them for a moment coldly – a new and unflattering hairstyle, that announcer – and then she turned to her tray. Kept company by the faces on the screen, she cracked the eggshell.

Today is our first anniversary, the first anniversary of Rob and me. When I told Rob this at breakfast, he flatly denied it, claiming it was impossible that we had met in October because this time a year ago he had not yet started work on
Print-Out
and so he would have had no reason to come to the museum. Then he went back to reading his newspaper, but a little while later, to show me that he was not being uncommunicative, he exclaimed how sickeningly hypocritical it was to claim that since the Second World War we had known four decades of peace, when there were wars which no one took any notice of raging constantly all over the globe.

But I have always kept my old engagement diaries after the year is out and I know I am right because the following
week, the last week of October, there is an entry which read, ‘R. Wright (drink). 6 p.m. Main Entrance’ and that is the first appearance in my diary of the name of R. Wright.

As if there were any likelihood of my forgetting. It was the middle of the afternoon when Rob came in, too late to be still buoyed up from the freshness of the lunch-break and not yet near enough to closing time for revival. We were sitting idly at the Enquiries Desk, my friend Mary-Anne Craig and I, tired even of our own gossip but keeping up a slack pretence of discussing museum intrigues. We were supposed to be proof-reading our department’s contribution to the catalogue of the next exhibition:
Curtain
–
the
window
curtain
from
1800
to
the
present
day.
I remember one caption, for some silly reason:
Shepherds
and
Shepherdesses.
Drape
of
bucolic
frolic.
Bequest
of
Mrs
E.P.
Bligh.
Whether I proof-read that caption that afternoon or the next or the one before, of course I can’t say. But it gives a good idea of what made up my universe when Rob walked into it.

The Enquiries Desk is in the middle of a large hall. The Department of Furniture and Decorative Arts goes off on the right through a large labelled doorway and the Collection of Continental Architecture and Sculpture on the left. One of our recurring grumbles at the Desk is that it is so misleadingly positioned; half the people who come up to us in fact want information about Continental Architecture and Sculpture and we have to redirect them tediously through the other doorway to their own Enquiries Desk which is in the first long gallery on the right. I thought Rob must be interested in Continental Architecture and Sculpture when he walked in. He didn’t look like someone who would be interested in Decorative Arts of the Period 1750–1900. I have a clear picture of him, so out of place in the big hall which is like an upturned basin of greenish light. It still seems that way when he sometimes comes in to collect me now; everything about him clashes with the murky old room, his beard and his strongly defined haircut, his brightly checked shirt and his rugged crêpe-soled shoes on the parquet floor. Naturally, he attracted my attention.

He said, ‘Excuse me, could one of you help me with some information about old living-room furniture?’

He did not use the quiet reverential tone of voice which a lot of people use in the presence of old objects. He spoke in a perfectly natural voice which resounded around the hall and caused a little old lady, bent nearly double over a case of embroidery at the side of the room, to stiffen up and shoot him a disapproving stare.

Mary-Anne, as it happened, answered him. ‘What do you mean by living-room furniture? Could you be a bit more precise?’

That is one of our favourite stock replies at the Desk: ‘Could you be a bit more precise?’ We use it as a cool professional put-down to snub people who don’t appeal to us. I knew Mary-Anne had said it to try and make me smile, but for once I wouldn’t play the game; I didn’t want to snub this interesting-looking man. So I interrupted her. ‘He means the Upper Rooms, Mary-Anne. Isn’t that right? You mean sort of settees and armchairs and occasional tables, don’t you?’

Rob has no recollection of me before I said this. I only drew his attention when I claimed it. He doesn’t remember what I looked like at the Desk as he crossed the hall, nor how I acted when he first spoke to us. I must accept that I was just one of two interchangeable museum employees. My immediate hope at the sight of Rob was not reciprocated.

He said, ‘Frankly, I’ve got absolutely no idea. What else is there in the Upper Rooms? Do they have writing-desks too? I just want to have a look at any old living-room furniture really, to give me some rough ideas. It’s for a television play I’m researching. I definitely want to look at some desks, but maybe settees and armchairs might come in useful too.’

I stood up. ‘I’ll show you where they are. I might be able to help you with some information about them. Then, if they’re not what you’re after, perhaps I can show you something else instead.’

Rob said, ‘Hey, are you sure? I don’t want to take you away from your duties. I can find them myself if you tell me where they are.’

‘Oh, that’s all right,’ I said. ‘It’ll give me a chance to stretch my legs.’ I turned to Mary-Anne and said unnecessarily, ‘If Mr Charles rings for me about those Derby figurines, tell
him I’ll call him back.’ I don’t know why I said that really, just to make myself seem busier and more knowledgeable than I am. I could not bear the contrast between the television writer and myself, the skivvy, running his errand. I don’t know whether Rob saw through what I said, but Mary-Anne certainly did. She said mockingly, ‘Oh yes, of course. Every vital message will be faithfully recorded.’ And she waved me to run along, flourishing all her fantastic rings with a sour smile.

We set off through the Textile Gallery. I was excessively conscious of my heels tapping prissily along the wooden floor, while Rob’s crêpe soles trod surely and squidgily beside me. I was wearing my green granny ankle-boots, which do up at the side with buttons. I had bought them at a jumble sale a short time before and I was especially fond of them. But they seemed fussy then and fusty and I wished I were wearing unnoticeable shoes and jeans. Maybe I am attributing to myself, with hindsight, feelings I did not have until later; imagining that subsequent critical comments made by Rob about my clothes and affectations had already been made then. He had a wry amused expression as he walked through the galleries, as though he seldom came into museums and so was struck by the elaborate care with which they cherish yesterday’s everyday objects.

Milton King, a West Indian gallery attendant with whom I swap silly daily jokes, called out, ‘Greetin’s, Alison, taking the air, I see?’ which annoyed me because it showed Rob that I spent most of my day stuck behind the Desk. Rob learnt my name. We walked past the Morrison-Fletcher hangings and up the stairs. Since Rob did not seem inclined to say anything, I asked him, ‘What is your play about?’

He said, ‘Computers.’

‘Computers?’ I exclaimed. ‘What on earth have computers got to do with old living-room furniture?’

Rob smiled his slow ironic smile. ‘It’s not immediately apparent, is it?’ he said.

I felt snubbed. I said frostily, ‘No, it certainly isn’t. Not to someone who prefers old living-room furniture.’

I don’t know why I said that so frostily. Really, it was nearly rude. I think, with furious urgency, I wanted to show
the patronizing television writer that I was more than just an anonymous museum functionary, and one in granny boots with a velvet ribbon in her hair at that.

Rob raised his eyebrows – oh
yes!
a gesture which I was to know and love; that particular peak of query and derision which comes exactly two-thirds of the way along his glossy black brows.

‘Well, you’ll have to take my word for it,’ he answered lightly. ‘And watch the play, of course, when it’s written.’

I talked compulsively about the furniture. In front of every exhibit, I told Rob at breakneck speed when and where it was made and by whom and anything else I could possibly dream up which was remotely relevant. I am sure half of it was wrong. Normally, when you take someone round, you get a chance to prepare your facts and figures properly first. I was embarrassed by the way I had snapped at him on the stairs. After all, he was a ‘Member of the Public’ and it was my job to be polite to him. At the fourth or fifth exhibit, he interrupted me. ‘Look, I don’t want to be ungracious, but would it be OK if I went round on my own? I’d like to make a few notes.’

‘Of course,’ I said woodenly. ‘Will you be able to find your own way back?’