Who Was Angela Zendalic (38 page)

‘Yes, please,' I said firmly, flashing her a short un-genuine smile. She got up, taking every last page of Pa's file with her. I slid the sharp point of the knife under the flap, and sliced hard.

There were two letters inside, both handwritten. One a very short note written in biro, in what looked like a child's scribble, and the other recognisable as Pa's fountain pen flourish.

Wednesday, June 14th, 1973

‘Darling Sarah,

You are four months old. It's the beginning of the long vac, and I'm sitting in my music room. It's a blissfully warm, sunny day, and you are just outside on the new patio where I can see you, sleeping in your pram beneath a frilly parasol.

Your sisters are at school in the village and Mummy is outside somewhere, trying to design what she hopes will be a lovely garden for you all to play in.

So, my little girl, my perfect angel, this letter is to tell you that when I die I wish to leave you the painting of the posing nude that hangs on the wall in front of me. If I manage to soldier on to make old bones you will, of course, have become very familiar with it. Its official title is
Angela Listening to Stuart Henry,
and the artist is a young man I've known for several years called Garvie Warlock. He painted it during the time when he was an art student in Oxford, and he and the model lived together in Aston Street. Her name was Angela Zendalic and she was (as is obvious) very beautiful.

She'd been one of my choirgirls for several years; a mezzo of world class standard, and had the best voice I have ever heard in any choir. Everyone who knew her loved her – including me (Shhhhhh. I shall get into big trouble with mummy if you let the cat out of the bag!)

Garvie is, I'm sure, going on to make a very worthy career. His talent is outstanding, and I feel sure he will be much collected in the future. I have enclosed the note he wrote when he gave it to me, which I hope is self-explanatory, despite his dyslexia.

So, my darling, darling Ceraphina Raven Evangeline, I do so hope that we all have many, many happy years together at Old Priory Hall before you read this note.

All my love

Your proud Pa

I was unable to speak. I had no more tears to shed, but tiny particles of light fell before my eyes, and the muscles in my jaw tingled. I gave it to Howie to read, and picked up the other letter. ‘
Dear Pears'.
I read it twice and then passed it to Howie with a shocked expression on my face. ‘It can't be,' I gasped in a whisper. ‘A Warlock! Everyone's heard of him, haven't they?'

‘Christ.' Howie's eyes widened. ‘I knew it was good, but I had no idea it was that good. It'll be worth something in the millions.'

‘What!'

‘That's the good news. The bad news is that he's dead. Committed suicide about ten years ago. Bit of an oddball. A junkie with a troubled head.'

I swallowed with disappointment. ‘So the story can never be told, after all. Maybe it's fate. That it was never meant to be.'

And that was that. I had to accept closure and I stood up sharply. Angela and her convoluted story were lost to the world for ever.

Howie and I got back to The Hall, both in a sort of a dream. For me, musing over the verified facts, as told in Pa's sweet letter to me, and the obvious love he'd had for Angela. But the big news was that she was a singer. A mezzo like me. And, as we'd thought, my dear mum must have been instantly forgiving, even though he'd made a flippant little joke out of it. Howie, too, had become silent with the shock of discovering its value. Both of us shaking our heads, preparing ourselves for some joker to pop out of a cupboard, tooting a party blower, and screaming with laughter that we'd been taken in by the hoax.'

‘You must get Sotheby's to value it,' he said. ‘And in the meantime it's got to come off the wall and be hidden. There's so many strangers crawling all over the place and who can you trust these days.'

I agreed. ‘Will you do it, then?'

He nodded. ‘I'll sleep with it under the bed.' He took me in his arms and kissed my nose. ‘And talking of bed ...'

How much I wanted to say yes. The warmth and comfort of his body would have been the most perfect, life-affirming relief to wind off a day of high emotion. But I shook my head. There was no time. I had to pick the boys up from school, and get them ready for Beavers in Watlington at 5.00pm. ‘Will you come down tonight?' I said. ‘After eight when the boys are asleep.'

‘Aye. I'll be there.'

One last smooth slide of my lips to his and I picked up my handbag. ‘See you later. Thanks for everything. And Howie. I love you. I really mean it.'

‘Sarah, men find it difficult to say, “I love you”, and really mean it, but I do.'

EPILOGUE                                    
November 2014

C
lassic
FM Magazine
– ‘The Story of a Fortuitous Discovery' By Andrea Hansbury

The mezzo-soprano Sarah Penney opened the front door of Old Priory Hall to greet me. A tall, stunning woman, with a short Peter Pan haircut, and a wide white smile, so reminiscent of her famous father. She was accompanied by her two small sons, Shea, 9, and Finn, 7, and an unwieldy Border terrier puppy rushed round her heels. ‘His name's Geordie,' she laughed, ‘and he really is a nightmare. Let's go and sit in my father's favourite place.' I followed her through a long corridor, to a large light-filled room that had been Sir Piers' music room, with stunning views over the Watlington valley. Her partner, Howard, a horticulturist, arrived with a tray of tea and biscuits, and took the boys (and the dog) off into the garden; a beautiful twenty acre site that had been the creation of her mother Merryn. She then told me the incredible story that stunned the art world.

‘When my father died in March,' Sarah explained, ‘my three sisters and I knew we had to sell The Hall. It broke our hearts but it's the usual thing that happens with bereavement. It was even worse for us, not only because of our deep love for the place – a real home, with so many memories of the incredibly happy family we were – but because of my mother's garden.' Her bright expression dropped at the mention of her mother, Merryn Hughes Madoc, a Welsh harpist, who is now suffering from advanced Alzheimer's and is in a local nursing home.

‘So the house went on the market,' she continued, ‘and my sisters and I reluctantly began to deal with the contents. It was only then that we discovered my father had made only one individual bequest in his Will, and that was to me. A painting that had hung in his music room all my life. It was called,
‘Angela Listening To Stuart Henry,'
and we had no idea why he'd left it to me personally.'

‘So what happened then,' I asked. ‘I presume you soon discovered it was a genuine Warlock.'

‘Yes, that's right. There was a letter of provenance proving without doubt that he gave it to my father as a personal gift in early 1973. Again, we had no idea why, although Pa had known the Warlock family for years, through his connections with Tavistock College. Sir Charles Warlock was the Master of the college in the Sixties, and Pa had known Garvie since he was a child. Sotheby's verified it as genuine and were able to give us some background information. That he'd painted it when he was an art student at a technical college in Oxford, just before he went up to St. Martins.'

‘So it was a very early work,' I said.

Sarah nodded. ‘And that's where the excitement began. Some publicity came out in the press, and we let it be known that we'd like to find out more about Angela Zendalic, the model. It became something of a
cause célèbre,
not only in the art world, but nationally as well. We were bombarded with information from her old school friends and choir members, Warlock's fellow art students, neighbours of their families, and Oxford academia, all who had little snippets and stories to tell us. We were even contacted by Warlock's sisters, and we were gradually able to piece the story together. That he and Angela were teenage sweethearts, and had lived together for about three months in Aston Street, a bohemian area of student-land. Their relationship had been very volatile, and they parted acrimoniously. Sadly, she died in a traffic accident, not long after. We also discovered that the picture was part of a modern triptych, and the other two had hung together in the Tate Gallery for several years.
Angela Asleep
and
Angela Looking Out Of The Window.
Ours was the missing piece.'

‘And I believe that Sotheby's put a value of £3.4 million on it.'

‘Yes, that's right. But we were beside ourselves with shock, when the auction price ended up at £7.5 million.' At this her eyebrows raised. ‘Can you imagine what sort of a state we were all in?'

‘And the fortune was personally yours, wasn't it?'

‘It was, but there was only one thing I wanted to do with it. We took Priory Hall off the market and I bought it for The Penney Foundation. And that's what we're in planning for right now. Designating practice rooms and accommodation, buying everything needed for teaching students and fitting it out with all the latest music technology. My three sisters (the renowned Magdeberg string trio) have decided to retire from public performance and are to be the directors, so we're definitely keeping it all in the family.'

She then got up, and swept her hands across the green panorama of the garden. ‘And all this is saved as well. Safe in the hands of my partner, Howie. He's co-ordinating it to be part of the National Gardens Scheme, so we can open it to the public as soon as we get approval. Life couldn't be more perfect.'

I looked out over the wide vista to see her little boys and Howie in the distance, shoving tackles into each other as they played football. ‘And I believe Mark Monahan, your ex-partner, is also something of a celebrity these days.'

She laughed. ‘He's re-formed
The Renaissance Men
, if that's what you mean. He and Antonio Alessi of the original group, plus two new members. They performed in Hyde Park at a Proms concert last month, and caused a real sensation. They're going to tour Australia soon.'

‘So everything's turned out really well for you?'

Sarah Penney smiled her stunning smile. ‘Everything's just wonderful. Please come back in a year or so, to see the school when it's up and running, and we'd be delighted to put on some sort of concert for the Classic FM Charitable Trust.'

‘And can I presume that congratulations are in order as well.'

She laughed. ‘Thank you very much. I can't really deny it, can I? We're thrilled. It's due in February.'

This is a story to warm anyone's heart. It was delightful to meet Sarah and her lovely family, in a setting of such beauty, and as a future home of the Arts.

‘Are you going to continue to live in the house?' I finally asked.

‘For the moment we are,' she said, ‘but only until The Foundation have been given a completion date. Currently Howie and I are waiting for planning permission ourselves. We're going to build a house to incorporate the small medieval chapel, lower down the garden. An amazing design with loads of glass walls to combine the old and the new. And a view to die for as well.' She laughed. ‘A real Grand Designs project. I can't wait to get started on it.'

I shook her hand. And we will certainly be back next year to monitor the progress of The Foundation, and to take her up on her generous offer of a charity concert.

*

Edie and Len Zendalic both died with bitter memories. She, remaining stubborn and unforgiving. He, wishing that he'd had the courage to stand up to his obstinate, intransigent wife, and offer his much-loved little girl the understanding he so wanted to show her.

Ted Rawlings, having been permanently excluded by Peggy, sold up in Jericho and transferred back to the London Met. He lived alone in a small flat in Maida Vale, until his death, at the age of seventy-nine. The neighbours said he was a cheerful old man, who kept himself to himself. He left his substantial estate to Dr Barnardo's.

After the death of Angela, her Goddaughter, Peggy Edwards resigned from the library service on grounds of ill health. She died six years later, at the age of fifty-two, from alcoholic liver disease. Having lived as a recluse she died alone, and her body wasn't discovered until three weeks after her death. Her diamond ring had been sold to fund her addiction.

And today, Sarah Penney, soon to be a blissfully happy Sarah Sinclair, is in the process of piecing together the complex story of her parents love affair from a vast raft of old friends, choir members, Jericho neighbours, and the Warlock sisters. Each being able to call upon their lifetime of memories about Angela and Garvie, Piers and Merryn, The Zendalic family, and the dear little dusky baby called Angela.

The new owner of
Angela Listening To Stuart Henry
generously donated it to The Tate, to hang with the other two in the collection, and be displayed together as the priceless Angela Zendalic Trio.

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