By early afternoon, the heavy rain of the morning had lifted to an overcast brooding sky, and as Peggy prepared to leave, she glanced at herself in the dim hall mirror, smiling a Giaconda smile at her drab Englishness. One-day soon Hollywood glitter brilliance would arrive in her life. She would be wearing brightly coloured cotton dresses, and carrying a parasol to shield her eyes from the hot sun, but today, dressed in what was, in fact, the best of her three expensive, well cut suits – a peplum jacket and full-skirted Windsmoor, in a blue slub tweed – she carried an umbrella, ‘just in case’. She clicked the front door firmly shut, turned down the narrow pavement, and within a few seconds stepped through a wicket gate into the back entrance of Worcester College.
The Oxford University Commonwealth Club reception, planned for months to be held on the sunny lawns of the college gardens, had been relocated to the mediaeval dining hall, and here, grateful for the warmth of close contact, a large group of African, Asian, Australian, and Canadian students, many in ethnic dress, small-talked in a hubbub of diverse accents. In her role as a general volunteer, Peggy weaved and curled her way around, helping to serve a finger buffet to the pushing crowd, and stopping to offer smiling support to the lonely and far from home, especially the small number of ‘coloured’ students who were offered no comfortable niche in the social life of the University. Viewed by many – even, in secret prejudice, by some of the other volunteers – as no more than alien exhibits.
With all catering needs completed, she quietly placed herself within Prince Joseph Ntozi of Ankanda’s group, listening attentively as he praised the new monarch in his refined, halting English; his bobbing manner, and dated choice of words, showing the deference of a Victorian gentleman. A tall, shaven-headed man, with an aquiline East-African nose, a high brow, broad cheekbones, and a wide smile of flawless white teeth, wearing his ceremonial regalia with grace and majesty. A long white cotton kanzu beneath a heavy floor length robe in a loud shade of scarlet; its front panels and cuffs embroidered with gold brocade, and a matching fez, as high as a bucket, topped with feathers. The perfect manifestation of a mighty tribal leader.
As the day wound down, weak sunlight brought the party outside to pose for a commemorative photograph. Joseph, as flamboyant royalty, was placed centrally, and Peggy, in unassuming attendant role, stood shyly on the end of a row. Profuse handshaking followed, with wishes of good luck to all the year’s graduates, but for Peggy it was a ritual she couldn’t wait to get through. Now she would go home to prepare for the evening’s event; a Mozart quartet concert, and high table reception at Tavistock College, where Joseph had just completed a postgraduate year in juris prudence. An invitation-only event for college luminaries, where she and this magnificent, refined man would walk hand-in-hand for the first time.
Leaving together by the front entrance of the college, they turned down the narrow, wet pavements of Walton Street. Tall, shabby Georgian terraces on one side, and the plain stone facade of Ruskin College on the other. A woman and her suitor, as in love as any Othello and Desdemona. A love only admitted ten days before, during the gaiety of Tavistock’s commemoration ball.
After a set of swing numbers, with the dance floor full of vigorous fast steppers, the bandleader announced a slow winding down to a short interval. The lights lowered, a trumpeter began to play the plaintive Charmaine, and Joseph, wearing a formal black dinner suit, got to his feet. ‘May I have the pleasure, Peggy? I can, at least, manage a waltz without falling over.’
The assembled party laughed politely as she took his proffered hand, but after a few formal steps they carefully slipped outside to secrete themselves in the darkness of the quadrangle. A coal black man and his diffident volunteer dogooder, sliding behind the dark frame of a Ceanothus bush to embrace and kiss for the first time. To murmur sweet words under a starlit sky, and declare the love for each other that had been unspoken for many months. But, disturbed by drunken screams and running feet, they’d been forced to part and return separately to their table.
Today, unhidden by the cover of night, there could be no sign of their newly found joy. They would pass in front of ‘The Institute’ social club, and even a linking of arms would have been a horror story, spread like a forest fire around Jericho. ‘Guess what! Peggy Edwards was seen in broad daylight (it was always broad daylight) holding onto a big buck nigger all dolled up in a fancy dressing gown and feathers. All he needed was a bone through his nose.’ As it was every passerby, and there were a great many, stopped and gaped at the startling sight of Joseph in his extravagant finery.
At the corner of Richmond Road it was time to go their separate ways, and he looked at her expectantly. ‘So, Peggy, my dearest. Tonight we will announce to the world that we are in love?’
She looked up at him, smiling. ‘Oh, yes, Joseph. Because we are.’
He turned his head shyly and beamed his dazzling white smile. ‘Before the concert tonight I would like to show you some photographs of my family and of my country. Will you come to my flat at half past six? No.72 Park Town.’
Burning to embrace, as they’d been all afternoon, they formally shook hands. The only touch of white skin and black skin acceptable to any prying eyes, confirming that Peggy’s role was merely one of giving virtuous friendship to a bizarre, alienated foreigner.
Ted Rawlings, being coerced as a marshal, had had no escape from the Jericho street party; an endless cavalcade of decorated lorry floats, kiddies fancy dress, crackpot team games, and so much frenzied excitement his normal easy-going nature had been sorely tested. But when the long trestle tables were set out, and overloaded with the rare feast of post-austerity party food, he gratefully took the opportunity to opt out. Now, standing at the front room window of No.55. he waited patiently, glancing at his watch with anxiety. Just before 6.00pm. He’d try to catch her on her way out, to mention (yet again) the event in the pub later on.
His love for Peggy was a burden he’d carried since the spring of 1951, when he’d transferred from the London Met to the Oxford City Police and had taken up temporary lodgings with the Zendalics. Now, two years later, the set-up still suited them well. Stan and Edie, with their only daughter Brenda billeted in Monchengladbach with her Army corporal husband, were happy with his well-measured company and the rent he paid. For himself, Ted found that being waited on by the genial and all-providing Edie was an excellent stopgap – but a stopgap to what, he wasn’t sure. All his pipedreams involved a future with Peggy, and one day he would modestly declare himself. But so far no opportunity had arisen. In his silver-buttoned blue serge, PC 665 Rawlings presented as a high and mighty figure; a formidable sight of power and strength with a commanding turn of phrase that could reduce any crook to a quivering wreck, but in mufti he was diffident to the point of spouting gibberish when it came to matters of romance. With today being one of national madness his hope was of a rare few drinks giving him the courage to get her on her own, and take her in his arms, and ...But she was off out again. For a woman of such quiet character, and simple lifestyle, she certainly led a superior social life. College ‘do’ this, and college ‘do’ that, to include endless receptions and trips to here, there and everywhere. How could he compete? But surely marriage must be what Peggy wanted. Widowed after only nine days some eight years ago, and (as the Zendalics had told him with certainty) not a sniff of anyone else since. She must be desperate for wedding bells while there was still time for kiddies. All women wanted kiddies, didn’t they? And he had to admit it was exactly what he wanted himself, so at the age of thirty he really needed to get a move on.
At last, with the flash of a black jacket, he ran to open the front door. ‘Peg. Hey Peg.’
She turned. ‘Hello, Ted.’
She was wearing unfamiliar petersham court shoes, a short astrakhan jacket, and a full-skirted turquoise-blue cocktail dress that perfectly matched her eyes. Her fair hair, released from its usual scraped back pleat, was revealed as thick and wavy, flowing loose to her shoulders, and swept up at t
he sides with Kirby grips and hair slides; a style similar to Princess Margaret’s. A rare dusting of face powder, and a light touch of pink lipstick, transforming her to a prettiness she normally failed to exploit. In fact, she looked positively glowing. ‘You look lovely,’ he said. ‘Cor. What a frock.’
‘Thanks Ted. It’s a very special do. A concert in Tavistock chapel and dinner at high table.’
He winked. ‘Got a young man, then?’
‘I’m just a guest. A partner to an Ankandan man.’
‘Well, don’t forget the do at The Bookbinders. There’s an extension ’til midnight so try and drop in for five minutes.’
‘I will if I’m not too tired. It’s work as usual for me tomorrow.’
‘Don’t remind me. I’m on at six. Chauffeuring a couple of old lags to Parkhurst.’
‘I must get on or I’ll be late.’
‘Well. Hope to see you later. Bye, Peg.’
‘Bye, Ted.’
As Peggy walked away a flush of anger at herself rose up. She should have answered his question, “Have you got a young man?” truthfully and with pride, and been brave enough to say, ‘Yes, Ted. I have, and we’re very much in love. His name’s Joseph. No-one knows yet so keep it strictly to yourself. He’s an old public school boy, a highly qualified law graduate, and he’ll soon be called to the bar at the Inns of Court in London. That’s the bit to impress you, but you’re going collapse with shock when you find out he’s what you’d call a wog.’
Mid-April 2014
Old Priory Hall, Monks Bottom
Howie Sinclair was a muscular Glaswegian of forty-two. Tall, with clear green eyes, a small jagged scar above his left eye, and the complexion of an outdoor life. He was a poor sleeper, and it was just before dawn when he left his lodgings at Lower Bottom Farm. He would now walk the near mile up Abbots Hill to where a five-bar gate led to the lower reaches of Old Priory Hall gardens. A stiff pull back of the latch, and then, as was his custom, pausing to turn and overlook the wide vista of the Watlington valley; the best time of the day to drink in the fields and green valleys, with only birdsong to break the silence.
The last few days had been warm and sunny, but today a sullen sky threatened rain and a sharp north-easterly blew in from the Chilterns. He was wearing his old Dutch army issue combat coat, worn and torn over the two cold seasons of his training, but it was the warmest coat he’d ever owned, and allowed him the ease to bend and kneel, and stretch and reach. No gloves on his hands in any weather, but a thin black balaclava on his shaven head that gave him the look of a cartoon bank robber. It was well-known that the upper-crust locals speculated on the past lives of the riff-raff who’d been scooped up by Father Crowley’s Bridge Project charity, so maybe that’s what they thought he’d been in the past. Or an alcoholic, or a junkie, or suffering from a range of mental health problems, but they’d never believe what he actually had been.
Today he would remove the ivy that was invading the long stone walls of the drive. An urgent job. Ivy suckers were like limpets and destroyed ancient lime mortar. His contract was for five mornings a week, with his afternoons dedicated to study or tuition, but his idle dream was that the whole of his future working life would be spent as head gardener at Priory Hall; the place he’d chosen to form the basis of his 5,000-word dissertation.
‘The 1086 Domesday Book lists the site as an isolated religious establishment to the name of Bishop Elfgar. However, in c.1150, a much larger institution, a Priory, was built on the land by an order of Cistercian Nuns and Brothers. Monks Bottom village was, thereafter, established to house the overflow of slaves and servants who worked the fields and forests.
After the dissolution of the monasteries in 1536, the Priory was abandoned, and all that now remains is a well-preserved stone-built chapel, sitting in the grounds of Old Priory Hall, a 16th century Grade II listed Manor House, where its twenty acres have been established as a true horticultural delight. Approached by a long single-track drive, an ancient weeping cedar sits at its front, and at the rear the grounds descend into dedicated areas of diverse planting ...
Howie set off through a rising woodland of silver birches and willows, crossed a bridge over a gently flowing stream, and entered a dappled, leafed-over canopy where ferns and hostas were rising above a green-mossed floor. Further on, as the sky began to appear above him, the tight buds of flowering shrubs were poised to burst forth, and a massed planting of spring bulbs were at their peak. Up a steep twisting path, through magnolias and rhododendrons, he came upon a paved rose arbour that gave out to another wide view of the valley, perhaps his favourite place of all, and so often, with a mug of tea in hand, he would sit on a bench to find spiritual solace and life-affirming peace. Well, that’s what the literary description would be when he wrote up that part of the garden, but in his own words, the place was so fucking far from the shaking nights he’d spent under cardboard, in piss-stinking doorways, to be on another planet.
He was now in view of the manor house, where the long rear lawn was poised for its first cut of the season, and its wide herbaceous borders were springing up with firm new shoots. The history of the garden was that it had been designed and planted from a tangle of dereliction by Sir Piers’ wife, Merryn; a work of love that had absorbed her for over thirty years until dementia overtook her. A tragedy that she’d become unable to recognise one leaf, twig, flower or blossom as her own creation. At Sir Piers’ funeral he’d seen the brave, red-eyed sisters guiding her wheelchair, bending and crouching to talk to her, and old friends coming up offer their condolences when it was obvious she had no idea who they were or where she was. But she was still beautiful at well over seventy. Tiny and slender, to the point of emaciation, with her long, silky white hair swept up on her head in a thick Edwardian knot. Reverend Crowley had spoken of her as a renowned Welsh harpist, but Howie could only judge her as a superior plants-woman, and the creator of a garden that should be on a National Gardens visiting list. But he knew his time there would be short, being compelled to qualify and make the final stage of ‘moving on’ to independence and respectability. Respectability. A dated word, but still true in his case, when his old life had been nothing more than a squalor of rancid filth.
But it wasn’t only the garden that filled his pipedreams. The lovely Sarah was another. She reminded him of that actress – forgotten her name – from that old telly series, The Darling Buds of May, and now gone all posh and polished. Not that Sarah wasn’t posh and polished. Spoke like a duchess and glided like a supermodel, but there was something – some damned something – about her that made him think of grass stain on his knees, a gentle wind moving through the willows, and moonlight on her face.
A heavy dew was dropping as he walked towards the small medieval stone chapel that was now used as the gardener’s designated base. He breathed in the smell of sweet earth and a tight wave of happiness overwhelmed him. If he died tomorrow, he’d have known this as a perfect moment.
2nd June 1953
Park Town, Oxford
As Peggy arrived at Joseph’s flat, his landladies were coming out of the front door, laden with heavy bags. Two benevolent socialist sisters, Miss Clarice and Miss Beatrice Cutler, stalwarts of the Commonwealth Club, whom Peggy knew from other social events. They looked enquiringly at her. ‘Miss Edwards,’ she said. ‘I’ve come for Joseph.’
‘Oh, of course,’ said one. ‘Sorry, dear. Didn’t recognise you in your glad rags.’
‘Stairs over there,’ said the other. ‘Just go down and knock on the door.’ They moved off, talking in unison. Sweet ladies with no thought or suspicion that she and Joseph loved each other, had kissed, or even touched with tenderness, but she knew, that despite their generous spirits, they’d have been visibly horror-struck if they’d known.
Wearing a white dress shirt, Joseph appeared at the bottom of the stairs, holding out an arm to assist her. ‘Can I take your coat?’
She passed him the coat and he hung it on a hook, turning to admire her.
‘Peggy, you look beautiful. As beautiful as our new Queen.’ As he kissed the back of her hand, Peggy, metamorphosed like any other young woman in love, felt every bit as beautiful as the new Queen herself. ‘Your dress is stunning. Is it new?’
‘Yes, it’s new.’
The dress had cost her the huge sum of twelve guineas from Derry and Toms in Kensington High Street. Bought on a spontaneous trip to London only days after their romantic encounter at the ball, wanting so much to appear as the worthy consort of a Prince. The tight bodice was boned and strapless, the skirt made up with yards of soft organdie fabric, and supported beneath by a ruffled net. The look completed with her mother’s paste pearls and matching drop earrings.
He leaned down to kiss her gently, and her arms encircled him, feeling his warmth, never wanting to let go of his broad back, but as he pulled her firmly into his body, and began to run his fingers down her spine, the protocol of 1950s virtue forced her to break away. ‘No, Joseph. No,’ she laughed, with a raise of her eyebrows that silently said, ‘You know I’m going to stop you. It’s the rules of the game. The merry dance of early courtship. The hungry embrace that says you want to make love to me, but my playful rejection that underlines I’m a woman of high morals.’ But with a sudden surge of desire she wanted to say ‘yes, yes, yes’. A feeling far removed from the awkward, virginal manoeuvres of her rushed wartime honeymoon with Guy Davidson. The tense, painful act she remembered as nothing more than a silent completion of her expected duty. Her eyes wide open, gritting her teeth, feeling no spark of pleasure, or that his clumsy grappling had anything to do with love.
He pulled back from her. ‘I’m so sorry. Forgive me.’
Flustered, he led her into a high-ceilinged room, where a wine bottle and two glasses were set on a tray. ‘Something very special to celebrate. A Chateau Mouton Rothschild.’ He carefully poured two glasses and passed one to her. ‘To us, Peggy. To the rest of our long lives together.’ He indicated for her to sit on an old padded chesterfield, where he joined her, both politely sipping the smooth wine in silence, carefully denying the magnet of passion.
Who Was Angela Zendalic Page 2
