Who Was Angela Zendalic (21 page)

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Yours etc.

After much sympathising, Edie brightened. ‘Well, they sent a list of some other agencies. Get a new portfolio taken and try them.'

‘Mum, I know them and what they do. All their models are snooty girls doing stuff for the posh glossies and the catwalk. There's not one black girl on their books. Let's face it, I was only a novelty turn at Kool Kids. If I want modelling work I can get it, but it'll mean taking my clothes off.'

Four hearts sank with ‘the black issue' rearing its unwelcome head. Of course they'd read the newspapers, and watched the news on television; of race hatred skirmishes in some of the bigger English cities, and the full-scale riots over equal rights in America. But it was all alien to the city of Oxford, and the quiet backwater of Jericho might as well have been an isolated mediaeval village when it came to any sort of radical reaction. ‘Now come on, love,' said Stan. ‘We know there's lots of trouble in the world with the coloured people, but how's it affecting you?'

‘Look. Some people don't like me.'

‘Angela, everyone loves you.'

‘Oh, not that old chestnut again!' she barked. ‘Yes. Everyone
you know
loves me, but black people aren't really liked – everyone just pretends. I've always been able to deal with it when it happens, but just lately it's been getting to me. Especially after that letter. They know full well no-one's going to take me on.'

‘Now stop all this nonsense,' said Edie. ‘Look at all your favourites what are never out of the limelight. Michael Jackson, Stevie Wonder, Dionne Warwick, and that little Kenny Lynch makes me crack up ...'

‘You don't understand. Some people turn their backs on me, and treat me as if I got something catching.'

Peggy, being the only one in the room who'd been protected from the ‘nigger' incident from Angela's childhood, knew exactly how the poor girl felt. The pretend values of society and the hatred she knew existed. The patronising smiles and solicitude from the do-gooders, like she used to be, but even there some real ignorance existed. Martin Luther King's, ‘
I have a dream
' oration was now seven years old, but not much had moved on, judging by the recent ‘rivers of blood' speech from the MP, Enoch Powell, evoking the fear that ‘the black man' would soon dominate the population. It had stirred up such fervour it had got Powell the sack, and sent the country into a virtual panic. And she remembered her own fear, years ago, of not daring to kiss Joseph goodbye in the street, and being afraid to admit to Ted that she loved a coal-black African. The sneering hatred of the vile Irish nurse when Angela was born, and her own terror of being exposed as the mother of a coloured baby.

There was a particularly popular comedy programme on the television, ‘
Till Death Do Us Part
, that made everyone roar with laughter; the rows and battles between Alf Garnett and his son-inlaw, Mike, over ‘the blacks' and the foul things that Alf was allowed to call them – nig-nogs, coons and wogs – and everyone laughed like drains. Even sweet old Private Jones in
Dad's Army
referred to ‘the fuzzy-wuzzies', and was allowed to get away with it. Today was the first day she'd heard Angela seriously admitting her own despair, having always deluded herself that it would never happen to her beautiful, talented daughter. Her shoulders dropped with misery as Edie twittered on in the background, spouting out denials and assurances that she wanted Angela to believe.

So, with something of an embarrassed hiatus, they all came out with protestations and encouragement that, ‘it was what she
was
that mattered', and Peggy laid her hand on Angela's arm. ‘Don't just give up, darling. The old hymn says, ‘
fight the good fight
'. Why can't you be the
first
black fashion model? Heaven knows you're pretty enough.' Edie, glad to change the subject, replied firmly on her behalf.

‘To be honest Peg, what with her ‘A' levels to work for now, and the SuperStars, and the Youth Theatre, I think she'll have enough on her plate.'

‘Actually, the Youth Theatre's out the window as well,' Angela snapped. ‘They told me I've got too tall for female leads. They offered me the Pirate King in
Pirates of Penzance
but I turned it down.'

‘But you played Cliff Richard in
Summer Holiday
,' said Ted.

‘Well, I'm not wearing a big black curly moustache, and that's final.' With this last riposte there were some stifled giggles, until the whole table, including Angela, was laughing.

After a confusing day Angela lay in bed weighing up her pros and cons. Cons: the pissy letter from Kool Kids, the end of the line with the theatre group, and especially what it was like to be cold-shouldered for being brown. It was as if she could read their thoughts. ‘I wonder where she came from? Adopted, naturally. Bound to be the result of some disgusting whore hitching up her skirt for a black GI. Socially our inferior, but we have to make an effort and let her think she fits in.'

But as much as she'd thrown some attention-seeking histrionics this afternoon she knew that her pros outweighed her cons. Her voice (as darling Piers had consistently told her) could be her fortune, and she'd got the best ‘O' level results in her year. Her beautiful face attracted more attention than anyone else's in the school, and she was chased after by every boy who met her, including Garvie Warlock, who still hung around Bevington in the afternoons. Total waste of time, of course. How could he compete with her moon and stars.

Her daily diary was kept hidden on a high shelf where her mother would never be able to reach it, and was written up every night in a code of secrecy. Tonight she wrote,
PP ILY IWALY O426 D's TG,
which translated as ‘Piers Penney, I love you, I will always love you. Only 426 days to go'. He would be back for the start of Michaelmas term on 10th October 1971, and every night she crossed off another day. As a postscript she added DTM (Death to Merryn) and CPFTD (Chicken Pox for the dwarves). The only word in her head was Piers, and the only word in his would be Angela. He would be picking up her thoughts over the long sea miles to Cambridge, Massachusetts, and would be thinking about her for every minute of every day. He would detest loud, confident American women, hate working with drippy Merryn, and finding the dwarves so noisy and irritating he couldn't wait to see the back of them. He, too, would be marking off the days until his return to Oxford, to fall passionately into her arms and put his willie in. She'd never stopped thinking about that afternoon. Just a flash of it before he shot away to the kitchen, poking out like a whopping great truncheon! They would ‘make love' as it was properly called, and she'd soon have a big bump out front that he stroked and kissed. Merryn and the dwarves would live half a world away, in Timbuktu, never to be seen again, and she and Piers would be so, so happy.

April 2014
Monks Bottom

W
hen
I drew into The Hall my insides dropped in the way one experiences a sudden aeroplane lurch. Two men were erecting a large For Sale board in the flashy livery of Hyatt Varley, and although I'd known it was coming, I was still shaken. Howie, having discarded his army coat and balaclava in favour of a check shirt and moleskin trousers, was helping them secure the sturdy pole into place, and he greeted me with a friendly wave.

Father Crowley had phoned earlier on in the morning to thank me for ‘my generosity', and to say it would be a few weeks before they got the wrecked accommodation back to normal. Heaven knows what my sisters or Gerry might say, but I took an executive decision; Howie could stay as long as he needed to, and was there was anything else I could do to help? There was, it seemed. Everything he owned (not much actually) had been ruined, and I readily agreed to help him replace some clothes and other essentials.

As I walked over to him I let out a huge sigh. ‘It really is the end, isn't it? I've lived in a dozen places since I left home, but The Hall will always be the only one that matters.'

The men gathered up their tools. ‘The brochures are ready,' said one, ‘and they're going to start showing people round on Monday.'

‘Then I insist they phone Mr Sinclair first,' I said, in my most pompous Lady of the Manor voice. ‘Just in case it's inconvenient.'

‘I haven't actually got a mobile,' said Howie.

‘Then I'll get you one,' I replied, and told the men we would let Hyatt Varley have the number as soon as possible. They ambled off to their van, and I nodded to my car. ‘Will you help me in with the Waitrose bags?'

‘Aye, of course.' With the ease and skill that only men can muster, he picked up three bags in each large hand, leaving me with none. I followed him through to the kitchen, where we unpacked at the table, stowing away coffee, tea, bread, cheese, milk, yoghourts, biscuits, tins of soup, and ready meals for the freezer. ‘I'm afraid I won't be able to pay for this,' he said.

‘I know,' I replied. ‘Father Crowley explained, and he'll reimburse me. He also said that everything you own is ruined. Let's have a quick bite, and I'll drive you into Henley to buy what you need. And a phone.'

‘I'm not really allowed a phone ...'

I held up a hand and stopped him. ‘Look. I know you lot are denied everything, but I've told Father Crowley you can stay here for as long as you have to. My Pa and he were great friends, so I'm sure he'll turn a blind eye over a simple thing as a phone.'

‘Thank you. And thank you again for letting me stay here. I think I've died and gone to heaven. I slept in a cosy wee room next to the big bedroom at the front that looks out onto the cedar. What a sight it was at dawn.'

I smiled with tender memories. ‘That's the nursery. It was mine until I was about two, and my mum slept there when the Alzheimers kicked in and she got too restless to share a bed with Pa.' A short silence and our eyes met. ‘I'm sorry about – you know – the other day. A moment of madness, as they say.' I hesitated. ‘Actually, I'm not really sorry.'

‘No,' he said gently. ‘Neither am I.'

‘Then perhaps it'd be better if I didn't drive you into Henley. I'll get some cash from the post office, and lend you my car.'

‘I don't drive.'

‘I see. Then it's a
fait accompli
.'

He didn't drive. What man didn't drive? He must have lost his license. I was now becoming more than a bit interested with what his past had been, but asking him would be overstepping another of the stupid rules. A careful silence followed while I made some cheese rolls and a pot of tea. ‘Let's go into the garden, and you can tell me what's going on out there.'

He lifted the tray, followed me into Pa's music room and through the French doors onto the patio; to sit in the open summerhouse, overlooking the finest view of the Watlington valley in the county. The same spot where Pa, at 5.00pm on every evening, of every day, of every season, would sip a gin and tonic, and even in deep snow would sit muffled up with hat, gloves and scarf, illuminated by a floodlight on the wall of the house.

Howie then started to talk in great depth about the garden. How each area was poised for growth, and what he was doing, or planning to do. A non-stop detailing of each of the sections, seeming to be lost in a dream world of planned projects and how he would evolve changes for its future beauty. Knowing full well that both he and I would form no part of its future.

‘You'd have loved my mother,' I said. ‘She was just like you. On a completely different plain to the rest of us. Out there in all weathers, dawn to dusk, and always smiling. Smiling with the joy of creation. And today, bless her, she can't tell a rose from a radish. She was so lovely.' I got up and walked back into the music room, picked up a framed photograph of her that Pa kept on the piano, and brought it out to show him. ‘She must have been about forty then, but she looks half that.'

He nodded. ‘She was a gae beauty.'

‘They were a lovely couple. You wouldn't believe what a looker my grey-haired old dad used to be as well.'

And yes, Pa, I thought. A looker who loved a woman called Angela, and who must have gone through all the aches and desires I'm going through now for this breathtaking green-eyed man, with thick thighs, a seductive voice, beautiful large hands, and the something else I could only fantasise about. Oh, Lord of all Angels. What had I told myself?
It must never happen again.

I had to move. To get up. To walk about. To think about things that bored me. Soon, I'd be up close and very personal with him in my car and I wondered if I'd be capable of small talk. I looked at my watch. ‘We'd better get going. I've got to collect my boys from Oxford at four. My ex is taking them off for a fun weekend.'

‘Aye, I'm there.' He swigged his tea.

August 1971
Jericho

H
aving
spent the last fifteen months in dreaming of Piers' return, it was time for Angela's master plan to spring into action. With meticulous attention to detail, she would be re-joining the choir as a ‘big surprise', standing with her shoulders back, and looking the most delectably lovely she could possibly be, the minute he swept into the chapel on his first day back. He would gasp with delight to see her, and smile like his face was breaking, and at the end of the session she'd glide up to him with shining eyes and welcome him back. They would both remember what had happened the last time they met, and he would shyly suggest they went back to his room ‘for a coffee'. The minute they turned up the stone-spiral staircase he would pull her into his arms and kiss her, and tell her that he'd missed her every day and had never stopped loving her.