It was a pity I didn’t have a man in my life to throw at him, but it was the last thing I wanted. In my single days I’d always been stampeded after; a desirable woman with bucket loads of vanity. Only six relationships (or was it seven), all finished by me getting bored, until I met Mark Monahan at an Albert Hall Christmas Concert gig when I was thirty. He, enjoying the first flush of success with The Renaissance Men, and me performing a set of Pa’s most loved Carols. Love and lust at first sight? Too right. In those days the quartet all wore tight Toreador pants, floaty blouse-like shirts, and wore their hair mediaeval long. Oh, man, was he a magnet, and we moved in together within a week. No talk of marriage but we committed, bought a flat together, and wanted a family. I sacrificed a successful career, had two adorable little boys, and now, ten years down the line, I was frozen and furious. But even if I could unfreeze myself how could I fit a full-sized man in the shoebox of Farthing Cottage? Even the boys would soon be tall enough to knock their heads on the beams.
Growling internally, I now prepared to sign up for all the ‘find your ancestors’ websites, and I’d just logged on when the door quietly opened. Shea stood there, with tears running down his cheeks, and his ‘blonky’, the tatty remnant of his baby blanket, in his hand.
‘Did Daddy ring you about Sunday?’ he slurred sleepily.
‘No, but he left me text.’
‘Have you said yes?’
‘Not yet, but I will. I promise. I’m just trying to have a little bit of quiet time.’
‘Can I have a sip of wine?’
‘You won’t like it.’ He tasted it, made a face, and buried his tearful head on my shoulder. Poor Shea. Wrenched from his happy home, having to put up with a loving, but often grumpy mother, and his beloved Grandpa cruelly wrenched away. Now, at nine years old, I think he was trying to behave as ‘the little man’, and was quite unable to do so.
I hugged him tightly. ‘We all miss Grandpa so much, don’t we?’ He nodded. ‘I miss him too, darling. Lots and lots. And I get really tired without Daddy to help us. That’s why I’m a bit cross sometimes.’ I stood up, and held out my arms so he could jump up and wind his legs round my waist. ‘Come on soldier. Up the wooden hill. I promise I’ll talk to Daddy about Sunday.’
‘Do you still love him?’
‘Not in the way I used to,’ I said carefully, ‘but I promise I’ll try to be much nicer to him.’
‘He still loves you,’ he mumbled. ‘He told me.’
Oh, God. How I wish things hadn’t been destroyed. How much I wanted my boys to have the secure loving home I’d enjoyed with my dear devoted parents. And they truly had been. The words of the old Doris Day song, ‘no two people have ever been so in love’, had never applied so strongly.
So, as I carried my drowsy little son upstairs I continued to puzzle that the Angela part of the equation was just too bizarre to believe.
PART THREE
June 1959
Jericho
Miss Glover had been very firm. ‘Mrs Zendalic. Angela’s well over five now, and you should have done it long ago. She knows she’s the only brown girl in her class, and her mummy and daddy aren’t. The kiddies of Jericho are delightful, and they don’t seem to notice or care, but one day someone’s going to comment and bells of confusion will start to chime. The sooner you get it over with, the better. Make it as simple as possible and she’ll understand enough.’
So Edie had tried many times, sitting the child down and starting a well-rehearsed spiel, but she got no further than opening her mouth before walking out of the room to sniff back tears. She’d have to talk it over with Peggy, whom she admired as ‘educated’, and rather leaned on as an adviser. ‘How can we cope, Peg. Miss Glover insists she’s got to be told, and went on about her psycho-what-not being damaged. Why do we have to be lumbered with all this stuff? She’s our little girl and that’s that.’
Peggy listened patiently and actress-played an understanding face, agreeing to find out about ‘the right way forward’, but once alone she’d broken down sobbing at the kitchen table, gulping and shuddering, her stomach churning with despair. ‘But she’s not your little girl, Edie,’ she wanted to shout. ‘She’s mine. My baby.’
Every single day she re-lived the kicks and turns in her womb, and the breathless moment when her darling was first placed in her arms. Sometimes a sort of madness overtook her. That she’d rush round next door, and snatch her up, and tell everyone, ‘She’s mine, she’s mine, and I don’t care how shocked you all are. I’m proud of her, and I love her with more passion that any of you’. But she wouldn’t. Of course, she wouldn’t. All she could do was to try and make the process of ‘telling her’ as gentle as possible.
She’d discovered a book called, ‘The Very Special Little Girl (also available for a boy) and handed it to Edie, but after a brief flick through, it was handed back. ‘No thanks, Peg,’ she sniffed. ‘That Sunday school tone sounds like Father Reynolds waffling on. No offence meant, duck. I think I’ll have to ask Ted to do it. He dotes on her, and now he’s a sergeant he deals with all sorts in his line of work.’
Thus, Ted had been lumbered. ‘I’m sorry, Peg, but all I can do is my best.’ After many deep sighs and practiced scripts they both agreed that whatever he said would probably end up as a right dog’s breakfast. But come Sunday they would take ‘their girl’ for a picnic in the University Parks, and he’d have a go.
Peggy laid out a tartan rug and to the sound of leather thwacking on willow she unpacked the picnic; cheese sandwiches, a pork pie, Smiths crisps with a little blue twist of salt, Edie’s homemade cake, a flask of tea, and a bottle of Corona fizzy pop for the bouncy little girl who was dancing daintily on the grass. As ever she was overflowing with joyful energy, wearing a white broderie anglaise dress, a pink bunny-wool bolero, and white canvas shoes. A coffee coloured beauty, with two bunches of shiny-black corkscrew ringlets hanging either side of her ears. Her high brow, heart-shaped face, wide cheekbones, and the rare pale blue of her eyes. Her father’s aquiline nose and full, wide mouth, her top lip resembling a seagull in flight, and a sweet dimple in her chin. She was taller and leaner than the average five-year-old Anglo-Saxon child, but with her long limbs, so much more graceful. And how could a brown child have rosy cheeks, but Angela Zendalic did, and an infectious happiness exuded from her.
She now began to gyrate her arms and begin to sing The Tennessee Wig-Wog; an American country song that was never off the radio. ‘Just listen to her,’ said Ted. ‘She’s got a cracking voice for a lit’lun. Right loud and in tune. And she’s got that drawly accent right off pat.’
‘I play it on the piano and she sings it,’ Peggy replied. ‘It’s such fun. I play it faster and faster, and we end up nearly falling off the stool.’
‘How’s her own piano playing coming on?’
‘Ever so well. Jingle Bells and Ba Ba Black Sheep with two hands, and a very light touch. She’s got a real feel for music.’
Ted winked. ‘I wonder where she gets it from.’
Peggy smiled. ‘Me and the drums of Africa, Ted. Actually, I wanted to sound you out about something. There’s a little theatre school just opened up at St. Paul’s Church hall. We had some posters sent to put up in the library. Singing, dancing, acting, and music lessons with professional teachers. Do you think Edie would let her go? I’d pay, of course.’
‘You can only ask. She’ll either say yes or no. Remember there was a right royal row about that fancy nursery you suggested, The Squirrel School.’
‘She’d have been really happy there. It was a lovely place. I just want the best for her.’
‘We all do, but maybe the best is what Stan and Edie, and you and me, can give her. Safe with her own people. Who knows what problems she might have to come?’
‘None I hope, and none so far.’
‘I’ll kill anyone who makes one day of misery for her,’ Ted pronounced, with a face as stiff as granite. He then sniffed and groaned. ‘And that brings us neatly to toda
y’s issue. Oh, well. Here goes.’ He waved his hand and called out to the child who was now crouched down, patting a Cairn Terrier. ‘Come here, love. Grub’s up.’
The child skipped over, and flopped down to sit cross-legged. ‘Auntie Peggy. Can I have a dog for Christmas?’
If it was up to Peggy, of course she could. She could have dogs and dollies, and pretty dresses and a tricycle; in fact anything that was essential to the happiness of a five-year-old, funded by her recent promotion to County Libraries Supervisor, and Mr Agarowlia (now a research translator at The Indian Institute) still happy in his upstairs bedsitter.
With the picnic eaten, Ted took the child’s hand. ‘I’ve got something to talk to you about, sweetheart.’
‘Shall I go for a walk’, Peggy mouthed.
He shook his head and coughed. ‘Angel, when you were little ...’ He stopped and coughed again. ‘When you were a baby ...’ He tried to continue but nothing came out of his mouth. He stood up, looked at Peggy, and shook his head. ‘I’m just off to watch a few overs, duck. Auntie Peg’s going to tell you a story.’
‘Hooray. A story,’ the child said, moving over to sit on Peggy’s lap, and to wrap her arms around her. And so, whilst mother and daughter sat with their faces touching, the story was told.
‘Once upon a time there was a very rich and very handsome Prince who had black skin, and came from Africa.’
‘Where’s Africa?’
‘It’s a big hot country, a long way away over the sea, where there are lions and tigers and elephants. The Prince had come to England, to go to a grown up school called Oxford University.’
‘Like my Daddy works at the Oxford University Press.’
‘That’s right. Daddy makes the books they learn from. So the Prince studied hard at his lessons, and one day he met a lovely lady with white skin and long blonde hair. They fell in love, and they were so in love they got married and had a very beautiful baby daughter. And because her daddy had black skin, and her mummy had white skin, she was born with lovely smooth brown skin, just like yours. They said she was so beautiful she looked like an angel, so they called her Princess Angela.’
The child sat bolt upright, and beamed. ‘Just like me.’
‘That’s right, darling. Just like you. The Prince and the lady loved their little girl so much, and every day they said thank you to God for giving them such a wonderful gift. But then suddenly there was a war in the far-off country called Africa and ...’
‘Is a war like the one when Uncle Ted was a sailor, and you were a flying lady?’
‘Yes, that’s right, so the handsome Prince had to go back to his own country, to make sure his people weren’t harmed, but he promised to return to them very soon. The lady cried and cried because she loved him and really missed him, but then something even sadder happened. The Prince was made to stay in Africa, by his cruel father, the King, and was forbidden for ever to come back to England.’
Angela’s hands flew to her face. ‘Oh, no! Poor lady and poor Princess Angela.’
Peggy made a sad face and nodded. ‘The lady was broken-hearted, and she soon found that without her lovely husband to look after her she’d become very, very poor and was afraid that Princess Angela would starve. The only thing to do was to find another home for her, so she looked all over the land for a perfect new mummy and daddy and at last she found them. The mummy was called Edie, and the daddy was called Stan.’
Angela opened her mouth in an expression of wonderment. ‘Just like my mummy and daddy!’
‘Yes. That’s right. Just like your mummy and daddy. The lady cried and cried again when she had to say goodbye to Princess Angela, but she was very happy as well because she knew she was going to have a wonderful new home. So that was how Princess Angela came to live at No.55. Auntie Peggy was asked to be her Godmother, and Uncle Ted was asked to be her Godfather, and they all lived happily ever after.’
The child didn’t say a word, but she got up and pulled on Peggy’s hand. ‘Come on, Auntie. Let’s go and tell Uncle Ted that I’m a really a Princess.’
Recognising Edie’s familiar thumps on the door knocker, Peggy’s heart jumped. Would she be wearing a smile of relief, or be on a war footing of fury? She bustled in, wearing her familiar floral apron and fur-edged carpet slippers, waving a box of Black Magic. ‘I’ve come to say thank you. First thing she did was come roaring in, “Mummy, Mummy, Auntie Peggy told me I’m really a Princess. I’m a very special brown Princess.” She hasn’t grasped all the ins and outs yet, but at least the seed’s sown and she’s happy. Thanks ever so.’
‘I just said her daddy was an African Prince and her mummy had long blonde hair.’
‘Actually, Peg, in the strictest confidence, African Prince is a bit more right that you know.’
Peggy’s stomach lurched and a hot flush of terror flew up her neck. What on earth had Edie been told? ‘I shouldn’t tell you this,’ she continued, ‘but I know I can trust you. We do know a bit about where she came from, but the odd thing is that there’s two versions. When Ted set it up he said he thought the mother was a young kid and the father played in a jazz band. Then, when all the legal work was done, and we got the adoption papers, there was a line that said her mother was an older professional woman, a respectable widow, and the father was an African student. Possibly a member of the ruling classes.’
Peggy’s head swam to dizziness, but she had to say something, and the sooner the respectable widow was erased the better. ‘I’m going to plump for the young girl and the jazz band,’ she said quickly. ‘It might explain where she gets her musical ability.’
‘She’s certainly got that.’
‘And she really loves her piano lessons.’ She inhaled and diffidently put her head to one side. ‘Actually, Edie, I’ve been meaning to ask you. Can she join that little theatre group that’s started up at St. Paul’s? Dancing and singing classes, and a proper piano teacher. Violin as well, if she shows an interest. My treat, of course. Perks of a Godmother.’
‘Can’t see no harm,’ Edie replied. ‘She dances more than she walks, and sings more than she talks. Very generous of you, Peg, but that’s all mind. She was going on about having a dog, but I draw the line there.’
When she’d gone, Peggy dropped her shoulders and simmered down with relief. Please God that no more would be said. That the hurdle had been got over. The future would now go forward in bringing up a happy little girl, surrounded by love and protection. She walked across the room and idly lifted the framed Worcester College photograph off the wall. There was Joseph, a wide smile revealing his perfect white teeth and the feathers of his fez blowing in the wind. She, standing demurely on the sidelines, her feet together and holding an umbrella. How she still yearned for him, the man who would remain forever young. No, he would never come back, not after all this time, but pray God he was surviving the turmoil of conflict in Ankanda. Mr Agarowlia, a keen follower of world politics, had explained to her that the state was under intense internal pressure, and was surrounded by other crumbling African colonies. That independence movements, and political activists, threatened the stability of the whole dark continent.
She slipped on her diamond ring, set the familiar black disc to play on the record player, closed her eyes, and swayed in time to Sidney Bechet’s nostalgic notes.
April 2014
Monks Bottom
After guiding Shea back to bed, and kissing him a loving goodnight, he instantly fell asleep, but I came downstairs with a heavy heart, trying (once again) to concentrate on the problem in hand. Zen-Dall-ick? Zen-Dall-itch? Zen-Darlek. The name sounded like a wartime spy. Could it be Eastern European/Slavic? Had she been a young girl or a mature woman? Either way, she and Pa must have had, what was called in those days, an illicit affair. When my sisters had talked about Pa’s infidelity (which it must have been) I was spiky and derisive, but I really found it unthinkable. He worshipped the ground that the beautiful, sweet-natured Merryn walked on, and she was so adoring of him. ‘
My darling, Pierrot’, she called him, until her mind slipped out of her head.
Oh, Pa. You truly were a man of backboned decency. You devoted your life to Mummy and us girls, so what happened? There’s always been a print called ‘The Broad and Narrow Way’ hanging in Pa’s music room, and it says it all. It illustrates the choices given to Man; of following the ‘straight and narrow’ to the joys of piety and heaven, or veering off onto the ‘broad way’ to meet a hapless end in hell and damnation. What seductive joys did Angela bring to you, Pa? What was it about her that pulled you, like a magnet, into her Salome arms? Or maybe it was you who did all the running?
I would now sign up with all the ancestry websites, and discover every available fact on Angela, but although I was filled with nervous anticipation to get cracking I found I was immobile with exhaustion. It was too much effort to move and my brain was like porridge. I took the cowards way out and turned on the telly, choosing a repeat of Grand Designs, but by the time the enigmatic Kevin McCloud had made his introduction I could feel my eyes closing.
November 1963
Jericho
Ted, having just returned home from work, heard Edie’s familiar knock on his front door. ‘An urgent word,’ she said, forcefully walking through to the kitchen and slapping down a child’s colouring book. ‘Right! Take a look at that.’
Who Was Angela Zendalic Page 7
