Who Was Angela Zendalic (19 page)

‘I suppose they must have fancied each other,' said Diana. ‘You know. Queers. You must have heard of queers.'

Angela gasped. ‘Of course I've heard of queers, but I just thought they were pansy men. Surely they don't – you know – kiss and stuff with each other.' She made a face of disgust. ‘So maybe the film should have been called
Men in Love
. Oh, it's revolting.'

Well, she thought, never mind men doing it with men. There were some aspects of the normal kind of love that sounded revolting. A girl in her theatre group had done it, and she was so full of herself she told everyone all about it. She said it got as hard and as thick as a rolling pin, and the boy had to put a plastic bag on it to stop her getting pregnant. Then he put it up inside her, and bounced up and down, and made funny noises. It all sounded horrible, but she'd been quite relieved when watching the film that the quick flashes of the pink bobbing things she'd been concentrating on didn't look anything like rolling pins. But how yuck! Who could imagine Dad doing that to Mum? More than yuck. And hadn't Auntie Peggy been married once in the dim and distant past? She was far too straight-laced to have enjoyed it. She must have been really pleased when her husband got killed.

But real love, between star-crossed lovers, wasn't revolting. Love was the glorious, all absorbing passion she felt for the most divine man in the whole world. What in the name of God did he see in that feeble, floppy wife, with her hair hanging all over her eyes like an Afghan hound? And to her annoyance every time she saw them together he was holding her hand or kissing her hair. Her clothes had got even more weird, as well. The whole world had worn mini-skirts for years, and there she was, looking like something out of Dickens, in long flouncy skirts and peasant blouses, and a floaty way of walking as if her feet weren't touching the ground. Always with a dopey look of wide-eyed surprise on her face, and trailing the three dwarves behind her, all dressed like Victorian urchins. Surely Piers could see what a ridiculous mad spectacle she looked. How could he fancy such a weirdo. All that lovey-dovey stuff must be just an act, because he was (of course) deeply in love with
her,
and he would go down on his knees and tell her when she was sixteen, and old enough to do ‘the thing'.

Piers would be a perfect lover. He would be gentle and passionate, and afterwards he would cry with gratitude, and tell her that he didn't love stupid Merryn, he'd never loved stupid Merryn, and they would get married as soon as he could get rid of the crackpot. Her mind floated off to white wedding dresses, and veils, and the sight of wonder on his wonderful face when he saw her coming down the aisle.

Mid-December 1969
Tavistock College

H
er
darlingest, darling had asked her to tea! Tea for two! Alone at last with his glorious, wonderful self, and as she climbed the stone-spiral staircase to his college rooms her heart thumped.

With intense concentration she'd examined her TeenTogs modelling shots, turning her head one way and then the other in the mirror, trying to decide which sort of face made her look her prettiest? Should she show a strong, serious grownup pose, or sweet young-girly smiling? And should she stand with her shoulders straight and upright, as she did in choir, or adopt some gawky poses like the stick-thin models in Vogue. She decided that any way she presented herself would be better than dopey Merryn's lunatic expression and ballerina glide.

A very expensive outfit had been bought with four weeks of her allowance, and had been carefully chosen as a complete contrast to the idiot wife's rags; a purple tweed Young Jaeger suit, expertly tailored with a short skirt and fitted jacket, a white angora sweater, and on her feet a pair of high leather boots from Russell and Bromley. And expensive underwear too, chosen from a famous French range in Elliston's, just in case ...She'd heard that the first thing men tried to do was to slide their hands up the girl's jumper, so she'd chosen a lace bra that pushed her (actually quite small) breasts together, to form what was known as ‘a cleavage'.

It had been four and a half years since she'd been to Piers' rooms, and she remembered the day well. His holy loveliness teaching her
The Three Ravens
(and how utterly sick she was of that song now), and the bonkers Merryn posing on the
chaise longue
, patting the huge bump of her baby. Mum and Auntie Peggy, and even Dad, paying her lots of gushing attention, while she lay back, beaming like a Cheshire cat.

Piers opened the door, and to her fury she could see the drip herself in the background, wearing something in lime-green velvet that looked like an Edwardian dressing gown, surrounded by the three dwarves looking every bit as ridiculous as their mother in smocked corduroy dresses, and little fur waistcoats. Carrie sucking her thumb and looking grumpy, and the twins Cally and Cass (Callista and Cassandra – just how barmy were those names) hanging onto their mother's sleeves, with what looked like Marmite round their mouths.

‘Hello, Angela,' Merryn gushed. ‘Oh, your hair's soooooo wonderful. Can the children touch it?' Her latest hairstyle was a contrived Diana Ross-like tangle that came past her shoulders, and thus, she was forced to suffer three pairs of tiny hands twirling it round their stubby, grubby little fingers, and even feeling it against their wet Marmitey mouths. ‘We must be going', she announced. ‘The land of nod calls.' Oh, good, thought Angela. Clear off you nut case, and leave me alone with my beloved.

After the ceremony of Piers kissing them all carefully goodbye (would he now taste of Marmite), and helping them downstairs, they were gone. ‘Tea will be now be served, Madame,' he announced. ‘Why don't you sit on the chaise?' He went to his small kitchen alcove, lit the gas under the kettle, and brought out two large plates, each laid out with a round of dainty cheese sandwiches, a buttered fruit scone, and a chocolate éclair. ‘I had these had sent up from the refectory,' he said. ‘Chef 's pastries are to die for.'

‘Can I do anything to help,' she said meekly, desperate to be at his side for any small domestic purpose that might bring his body close to hers.

‘Certainly not – I'm a modern man – I can actually make a pot of tea without burning it.' She didn't laugh as she was expected to. Surely he wanted her to be near him? He'd come and sit beside her on the
chaise longue
, wouldn't he? They would eat with their legs touching, as they'd done in the Reptile House, and look into each other's eyes. But when he carried out the tray of tea he took the old tapestry chair opposite her, placed it on a small table before him and leaned forward to pour. She said little, clearing her plate with what she hoped was good table manners, but he kept up a tedious flow of small talk about the choir, the funny things the dwarves had done, and the whole of the long summer vac he and the family had spent in Provence.

With plates and cups cleared away, he returned to his chair. ‘Angela, I've actually asked you here to talk about something.' He hesitated, cleared his throat, and made a steeple of his fingers. ‘You know I think you're very special, don't you ...' Her heart nearly stopped beating and her stomach danced. ‘Your voice has become something wonderful. The best I've ever had in my choir or heard in any other girl of your age. With training it could be of world standard.'

Voice? Voice? She didn't want to hear about her voice. She'd known about it for years. She wanted him to get down on one knee, and take her hand, and look into her eyes ...But he continued. ‘What I'm going to suggest is something very serious, but a choice you must make yourself ...'

Will I let you kiss me, Piers? Yes, yes I will, only for heaven's sake please do it. She looked across at him, offering up her face with the contrived flirtation she'd been practising in the mirror, but he didn't seem to notice. ‘My plan is that you try for a place at The Royal Music Institution. It'll mean you'll have to give up all activities, apart from classical voice training and piano. After your ‘O' levels you'll concentrate on three carefully chosen ‘A's and you'll also need to take up another instrument. I suggest it's the lute ...'

Her disappointment was such that her throat gagged, and it was a few seconds before she was able to reply. ‘I don't know,' she mumbled, trying to control her top lip. ‘I don't know what I want.' Apart from you, she wanted to add. Apart from you loving me, and kissing me, and putting your lovely hand up my jumper, and telling me that you want me forever, and you're going to leave thicko Merryn and the dwarves, and ask me to marry you.

‘On graduation you'll be poised for a career of world fame,' he continued, but she wasn't listening. The conversation had turned down an avenue that she actually found quite terrifying.

She dropped her head to look at her boots. ‘I couldn't do that, could I?'

‘Why not?'

‘You know why not.'

‘No, I don't know why not.'

She didn't want to say it. She didn't even want to know it herself. ‘There aren't any people like me at those sort of places. We're good enough to bop about in the pop world, but who takes us seriously as classical singers.'

‘If you mean because of your ethnic origins I can name you three. Marian Anderson, Leontyne Price, and an up and coming star, Jessye Norman.'

‘They're all American.'

‘I agree, but you could be even better than they are. The first brown classical singer from the UK.'

‘But I'd be called the first black classical singer in the UK.'

She fell into silence. It was then that he got up, came to sit beside her, and to take her hand. ‘Angela, I never think about the colour of your skin. I got you through all that nonsense with Garvie, didn't I? I've known you for so long I only see the beautiful girl you are, and so does everyone else. Please tell me you don't have any problems of that kind in your life.'

‘Not often because I'm lucky. Where I live there's only me, and everyone knows me, and they've always been kind to me. Sweet little Angela. A poor adopted darkie. Rescued from a bad start in life. But the hate's out there. Most white people, even the ones who should know better, think that anyone who's got the slightest hint of Africa in them is an inferior.'

‘Angela, I'm not so naive as to say that prejudice doesn't exist, but everyone loves you.'

‘Not everyone.'

‘Tell me then. Who's been unkind?'

‘People here – people there. They either ignore me completely, like I'm invisible, or they swamp me with gush that's just as bad. Treating me as if I'm some sort of essential pet – you know – just to show how cool they are. I don't let it get to me, but it happens.'

‘Oh, darling, you must rise above it. Say to yourself, I am the beautiful girl with the wonderful voice. One day you will be applauding me, and laying flowers at my feet.'

She turned her face to him, parted her lips, and blinked. He looked into her eyes, and swallowed. ‘Angela, he said huskily. She began to shake. He swallowed again. ‘Angela.' His head began to move towards her, and his grasp on her hand tightened, but then he suddenly leapt to his feet and looked at his watch. ‘Good God, is that the time. You must have homework to do, and I've masses of stuff to do for the Christmas concert.' He walked briskly into the kitchen area, to busy himself at the sink with the washing up.

She stood up, still shaking. ‘Shall I go then?'

With his back towards her he kept his head down, ran the tap into the sink and clunked the china. ‘Yes, off you go. Run along. I think that's all our business discussed. Have a think about what I said. Goodnight, Angela.'

With confused heavy steps she moved across the room, pausing to look at him before she let herself out. He didn't turn round, but she'd seen it.

When he heard the door click shut Piers stood perfectly still, breathing with a series of gasps. A ring of sweat had broken out on his brow, and a hot band crossed his neck. He closed his hands tightly around the sink taps, feeling the sharp pain of metal bearing into his palms. ‘Christ,' he whispered. ‘You bloody idiot!' The swelling in his groin was beginning to subside, and he released his grip. He walked slowly back into his room, flopped down on the shabby chair, and put his head in his hands. ‘Oh, Angela. What sort of monster am I? But how I want you, and how sure I am that you want me, too.'

When he got home Merryn had put the children to bed and was curled up on a sofa, embroidering a large piece of crewel work. She looked up at him enquiringly as he laid down his music case. ‘Are you hungry?' He shook his head. ‘How did it go with Angela?'

He shrugged. ‘There's a problem. I must admit I brushed it aside, but she's aware of the colour issue, poor little thing. Thinks it'll be an uphill battle for her.'

Merryn nodded. ‘The miserable thing is that she might be right.'

‘I'll talk it over with Charles McFadden. He's on the RMI board. Try and get the tempo of it all.' He then thumped his fist hard down on a table. ‘We can't fail her, can we? She's gifted.'

Merryn's face became serious, she laid down her sewing and got up. ‘Be careful, darling. The girl's gifted, but she's also a stunner, and I've got a feeling in my bones that she might – just might – have a huge schoolgirl crush on you.'