‘Did you say something about photographs?’ Peggy said brightly, breaking the silence.
‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ Reaching over to a shelf, he lifted a large buff-brown envelope, and withdrew a pile of monochromes, passing each one to her with an explanation. His father, His Royal Highness King Sorotse of Ankanda, and his crop-headed mother the Queen, both overweight, plainly dressed, and surprisingly unadorned. ‘They were invited to attend the Coronation,’ he said, ‘but my father is diabetic and cannot travel far.’ He shuffled the pile and produced a postcard-size print. ‘This is me and my two older brothers at Chillinghampton in 1938.’ The brothers stood together in line, an unusual sight of three black boys wearing a school uniform of formal suits and straw boaters, posing against the background of a creeper-covered stone wall. ‘At the outbreak of war we were forced to leave the UK and were transferred to an American High School in Switzerland.’ There followed several views of The Royal Palace, an unpretentious white stucco villa set within palm trees, and tourist shots of the Ankandan hills. The final glossy picture he showed with great pride: his father greeting Princess Elizabeth and Prince Philip from their light plane when they visited Ankanda during their Commonwealth tour the year before, just days before the royal couple were forced home by the sudden death of King George Vl.
The glasses were empty and he put away the photographs. ‘Another drink?’
‘Yes, please. It was lovely.’
The second glass began to course through Peggy’s veins like a hot spring rising, and her tongue tingled. She began to feel frivolous, as if she was a beauty like the film star Rita Hayworth, waiting to be taken into the arms of Prince Aly Khan.
‘Perhaps some music?’ he suggested.
‘That would be nice.’
He moved to a record player, selected a shiny black disc, carefully lowered the needle arm, and sat down again beside her. A few seconds of crackle, and the stretched vibrato tones of Sidney Bechet’s soprano saxophone rang out the plaintive notes of Petite Fleur. There is always a piece of music in one’s life that is so much more than a string of notes and forever after becomes seeped in your soul as the mantra of love. This was to be Peggy’s. She pictured the ageing American musician, so often described as a Creole negro, his lined face crumpled with intensity, his eyes screwed up, and his lips around the mouthpiece, conjuring up a world of dark sinful nightclubs and the thrill of illicit abandon she now felt. Flushed with the sharp shoot of alcohol, and the sensuous notes that lifted high into the air, she got up and began to dance. She’d never danced alone, not in the way that jazz compels worldly women to dance alone, but she found herself moving slowly in time to the music, hearing the swish of her dress, holding her arms wide apart, raunching her shoulders, flexing her fingers, turning her hips, and throwing back her head. He laughed loudly and clapped. The disc ended. ‘Again, again,’ she demanded.
This time he, too, got up and began to dance, slipping his right arm around her waist, swaying gently with the perfect time and motion of African rhythm. But after a few seconds he tightened his grip, slowly ran his left hand under her skirt, took hold of the top of her bare thigh, and moved his thumb to caress her. As her legs became desperate to entwine with his, she mumbled something that she knew she had to say. The words he was expecting. ‘No, Joseph. No. We mustn’t’, but he took her hand and pressed her palm against his hardness. She now knew it really was time to pull away, and shriek that it mustn’t happen, but she could make no attempt to move. Her mouth shook, her head became light, and she felt herself moving far, far away into a dark, forbidden land. Her breath came with short, choking gasps, her knees weakened, and her fingers began to undo his buttons. Pulling him with her, she clumsily scrambled down to lie on the floor, and to guide him through the complications of her underclothes. He thrust deep, her knees lifted high, her forearm pulled down on the back of his neck with vice-like strength and their loud, pulsating shouts came in perfect time to Sidney Bechet’s final screaming notes. Panting and flushed she lay beneath his heavy weight, her hand smoothing over the tight, shiny skin of his shaven head, and seeing beads of sweat sparkling on his throat. Her Prince. Her warrior. The true love of her life.
He rose up to kneel, and with all urgency depleted, began to kiss her face, covering her eyes, nose, and chin with the gentlest of touches. She closed her eyes and lay still, feeling his full lips moving to her neck, and knowing that love was all that mattered. There were no problems to solve, no future hills to climb, no explanations to make, no fear of rejection or looks of amazement in the street. After Bar school their future lay in hot, sunny Africa, full of bright primary colours and smiling faces. She would see hill crops of coffee and cocoa, and bananas and tobacco, and things she’d only heard about, called mangoes and sweet potatoes. They would live in the bustling town of Kampala, Joseph would become a successful barrister, and she would be part of the cultured, western community of ex-pats who’d made their home there. In the fullness of time they would have a family and be so, so happy.
They left Park Town, arm in arm to walk to Tavistock College. Holding tight to her hand Joseph introduced her to the senior fellows as, ‘my fiancée’, but neither of them noticed nor cared enough to look for any open mouths or raised eyebrows.
At 11.00pm Peggy’s taxi drove down Richmond Road and, being overwhelmed with happiness, and a surfeit of natural Christian spirit, she felt somewhat obliged to show her face at the pub. ‘Will you drop me at The Bookbinders?’ she asked the driver.
She entered into a hot wave of beer fumes to find a loud community party still in full swing. Stan grouped with his work mates, no doubt talking printers ‘shop’, Edie huddled close with their wives, her mouth moving like clockwork, and Ted, looking tired and somewhat solitary, leaning against the bar. He beamed with obvious pleasure to see her. ‘Peg! Glad you made it. What’ll you have?’ She accepted a Babycham, and he steered her into the relative peace of the outside yard. ‘I need a breather, girl. It’s a right scrum in there. Did you have a nice time?’
She nodded, lost in thought. ‘Lovely. Really lovely.’
‘You look happy.’
‘I am.’
‘Peg, can I ask you something?’
‘’Course you can, Ted.’
‘I’d like to ...to court you,’ he blurted out. ‘You know. Just careful like. One step at a time.’
Still shimmering with the powerful infusion of passion, Peggy tried to feel Ted’s pain. She hesitated and sipped her drink, knowing that the time had come; to admit the basic facts but with compassionate words of rejection. ‘I like you, Ted. I like you a lot, but ...well ...keep this to yourself, but I’ve met a man through the Commonwealth Club. It’s early days but we hope to get married.’
‘Oh.’ Ted’s head dropped. ‘Too late then?’ She nodded. He sniffed and swallowed.
The next morning, while Peggy was at her desk in the Oxford City Library, a junior colleague came to find her. ‘Miss Edwards, there’s a coloured gentleman to see you in the foyer. He said it’s urgent.’ There was no sense of shock or interest in the young woman’s voice – everyone knew he’d only be one of the lame ducks that the sweet-natured Miss Edwards helped so generously.
Joseph was wearing a formal dark suit; a sturdy brown leather suitcase in one hand, and a trilby hat in the other. ‘My dear, I have had a telegram. My father has had a heart attack and not expected to live. I have been ordered to return to Ankanda.’
To her own surprise she burst into sudden tears like a child, but before her colleagues could notice she guided Joseph outside, down the stone steps of the library and into the narrow confines of Blue Boar Street. She couldn’t remember what she said but she lost control and sobbed loudly, her tears falling like rills and dropping off the end of her chin. ‘Peggy, I have to go. I have no choice, but I will be back here soon.’
How could he go without them embracing and kissing each other? But there they were, in the open street, with people walking in and out of the librar
y in front of them, doubtless wondering why on earth a small white woman was standing so close to a tall African man, and weeping loudly.
There was an open set of double wooden gates on the other side of the street, and they walked into the privacy of a weed-filled yard to throw their arms around each other, he now shedding tears as well. ‘I must go now, my love, to find a taxi to take me to London Airport. Mr Anthony Eden has sent orders from the Foreign Office that I am to meet up with two diplomats who will accompany me on the plane.’
‘There’s a taxi company at the back of The Old Tom,’ she gulped.
‘Yes. I will go there.’
One more intense kiss. ‘I love you, Peggy.’
‘And I love you, Joseph. You will write to me, won’t you?’
‘Of course. Of course, I will. I will write every day.’
They walked without touching to the steps of the Town Hall where he crossed the road to stand at the entrance to the taxicab company. ‘I will be back soon,’ he called. He waved his hat and disappeared.
April 2014
Old Priory Manor, Monks Bottom
So who was this Angela person?’ I stared at my sisters as all three stood stunned and rigid, shiftily looking out of the sides of their eyes to gauge the reaction of the others. ‘Sarah, listen,’ said Carrie. ‘Obviously we did know something but not as much as you think. I was only seven when you were born, and Cally and Cass were five, so it’s all very vague. When you’re that young how much real memory do you have? It’s only short snatches, isn’t it? All I remember is that we’d been staying with Mummy at Grandma and Grandpa’s farm in Wales and Pa was working in Oxford. Then we were suddenly whisked up here to The Hall, to a new home we knew nothing about, and you were presented to us as our new baby sister.’
‘Well? Didn’t you ask where I came from?’ I snapped.
‘Of course we didn’t. Forty years ago it was like being on another planet. We were much more innocent than children of today, and we accepted what grown-ups told us as the truth. We wouldn’t have known anything about how babies came along, or what adoption was, and certainly nothing about marital cheating. I suppose we assumed you came as…’
‘As what?’ I snapped. ‘As an act of charity?’
‘I was going to say a big surprise present,’ Carrie said, sighing.
‘But didn’t you ever talk about me? With Mummy and Pa, I mean. When you grew up.’
They all shook their heads. ‘Never,’ said Cass. ‘And not with each other either. It was ...well ...something we all knew we knew, but pretended we didn’t.’
I wiped my eyes while my sisters kept up a mantra of reassuring words. Why did I have to be the one to find the wretched thing? Why couldn’t it have been one of them who would doubtless show it to the others, gape with amazement and destroy it to keep the status quo? It was obvious Pa was never going to tell me the truth so why didn’t he throw it away. But he didn’t expect to die, did he. He thought he was as fit as a flea, and so did everyone else. Most likely he meant to set his things in order, but put it off until tomorrow, like we all do, and tomorrow never came.
‘It’s really strange you’ve never seen it before,’ Cally said. ‘You must have needed it for your passport and stuff.’
‘Oh, I’ve got a birth certificate,’ I replied. ‘The short version. No details other than my full name, gender as girl, date of birth, and place of birth as Oxford. It never crossed my mind to be bothered about a long one.’
‘Well, we’ve no idea who this Angela Zendalic was,’ said Carrie, ‘but, whatever happened, Mummy must have forgiven him. It’s a real muddle of a story because Pa wasn’t the unfaithful type.’
‘Oh, Carrie, get real,’ I snapped, raising my eyebrows. ‘All men are randy buggers.’
‘Now stop it!’ Cass snapped. ‘This isn’t the time to have a row or slag off Pa as he’s not here to defend himself. Mummy adored him and he adored her. Good God, how he struggled with her before he had to give in, and we all know how it messed up his life.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I blubbered. ‘I’m just shell-shocked.’ They all nodded their heads with understanding smiles, and muttered more words of comfort, but all four of us remained in a state of trauma, unable to even think about the job we’d mustered to do.
With resigned grace an eerie cloak engulfed us, each wishing that we could put the clock back; that the secret remained hidden in the outer reaches of our father’s past, and the frail, destroyed mind of our mother’s.
PART TWO
Early September 1953
Jericho
It was ten days after Joseph’s departure when Peggy received a short standard airmail letter, written in his distinctive copperplate handwriting. Although his father had survived his illness, circumstances dictated it wasn’t possible to return to England until he was fully fit again. He loved her very much, he was thinking about her every day and couldn’t wait to get back to England so they could make arrangements for their marriage.
In the three months since then nothing more had arrived.
It was a Friday evening, and she’d just got in from work, when a sharp knock on the front door alerted her to Edie’s distinctive rat-a-tat. ‘I took in a parcel for you, Peg. Look. Lovely foreign stamps.’ Recognising the stamps of Ankanda, Peggy wanted to snatch it out of her hands and run indoors, but was obliged to restrain herself. ‘It’ll be a present from one of my students,’ she said casually. ‘A wood carving or a bright scarf. I’ve got a drawer full.’
‘Any plans for tonight?’
‘There’s a J.B Priestley play on the radio.’
‘That’s no way to spend a Friday night. Come up to The Institute with us. There’s a crooner coming. He’s ever so good. Does a wonderful Frank Sinatra. Go on. Ted’s been arm-wrenched so he’ll be there.’
Peggy shook her head. ‘Thanks all the same, but I’m really tired after a long week.’
Edie looked at her wistfully. ‘You could do a lot worse than Ted, Peg. He’s got a real eye for you.’
‘I know,’ she said kindly, ‘but he’s not for me.’
Edie shrugged. ‘Oh, well, if I can’t persuade you.’
Peggy rushed inside. The parcel contained a ring; a large, glittering diamond, set in gold, and her heart soared. But the accompanying letter dropped from her hand.
My dearest Peggy,
The enclosed ring I bought for you to wear as my betrothed. My only thought is to place that ring on your finger, and to add to it a wedding ring as soon as possible, but my heart is breaking as that is not to be.
The political situation here has suddenly become very tense and our marriage has been forbidden by my father. The even worse news is that he has ordered me to marry a cousin. I don’t love her, in fact I hardly know her, but I am forced to do this. As a student in Oxford I could make my own decisions and lead my own life. I was so happy, and so free, but here I am overpowered. I am thus forced to comply with my father’s wishes. No – not wishes but orders. I am unable to leave the country as he has closed my bank account, and confiscated my passport, so I do not have the means to run away. I am, thus, a virtual prisoner. Even writing this letter to you could cause me great punishment, so I have had to be very careful I am not discovered. Therefore, I can never write again, and if you write to me I know I won’t get the letter as all my post is being censored.
Peggy, dearest Peggy. I will always love you, but I must say goodbye. Please wear my ring, so that every day you look at it you will think of me. Every day when I look at myself in the mirror I will think of you, and wish that you were standing beside me, as my Princess.
With all my love I send you my final farewell.
Joseph
Her face flushed, her heart thumped, and the old wall clock ticked as loudly as falling bombs. Her life was over. She placed her hands on her womb and clutched with tight fingers. There was no-one to tell, and who could she tell who would pat her hand, and find soothing words of the ‘everything will be all right�
�� variety. It would never be alright. Any baby born out of wedlock mattered, tainted forever with the tag of bastard by the judgmental rules of respectable society, and the echo of a shotgun rang out loud and clear for many Jericho families. (‘She’s not the first and she won’t be the last’ was the usual brave statement.) But any black baby born to a white woman, legitimate or not, mattered even more. You weren’t just the normal tart or slut. You were reviled – the sort of girl of such loose morals that no white man would ever want you again. After the jaw-clutching shock had passed, the high and mighty Peggy Edwards would be a laughing stock. Grammar school girl, fancy posh job, do-gooder, and holy Josephine, no better than a common whore.
Even if she rose above the slander, how would she manage with two mouths to feed, rent to pay, and a house to run? A pariah, with debt and poverty her only attendants. Adoption was the only answer and she would have to go away before her scandalous secret was discovered. She’d say she was going on an important library school training course in London, but it would have to be to an unmarried mothers hostel that hid the afflicted away. Her precious baby would be given away to a so-called better home, to a good Christian family who could find it in their hearts to take in a coloured baby with selfless generosity. But wasn’t she a good person and a Christian? Regular churchgoer, supporter of the parish needy, volunteer friend to the lonely, and an honest, hardworking citizen. She was, but she wouldn’t be seen as one now. Had she not, at every Sunday service, prayed in piety for all weak and misguided souls? Where was her Lord now when she needed him? All she could see was a hypocritical frown, a wagging finger, and a shove into the gutter.
Who Was Angela Zendalic Page 3
