Who Was Angela Zendalic

by Mary Cavanagh

  Ted slowly turned the pages. The word NIGGER was written across every one, in thick black crayon. ‘Christ almighty,’ he said softly. ‘What little bastard’s done this?’

  ‘That’s what I’d like to know,’ Edie fumed. ‘Stan was all for marching round the school, and blowing his top, but I said we’d better ask you what to do. Oh, if I ever get my hands on the little bleeder ...’

  ‘Calm down, Edie. What about Angie? Is she upset?’

  ‘Not about the nigger word. She’s got no idea what it means. She just came home crying because someone spoiled her book. I asked her who it was but she didn’t know.’

  ‘Well, we can’t have it, can we? I’ll pop round to Barnie first thing tomorrow, and have a chat with Mr Saxon. Leave the book with me.’

  ‘Thanks, Ted. You’re a brick. And not a word to Peg, mind. It’ll break her heart, not that it hasn’t broken mine, but I’ve got enough to worry about without having to prop her up as well.’

  The next morning, in mufti, Ted walked round to St Barnabas School, and knocked on the Headmaster’s door. ‘Mr Saxon, I can’t ignore this. Somehow we’ve got to nip it in the bud.’

  ‘We certainly need to deal with it,’ he agreed, ‘but Angela mustn’t be aware she’s been victimised. It’s a delicate situation.’ He shook his head with bewilderment. ‘Do you know, Sergeant Rawlings, in the four years she’s been here we’ve never had one word of what I have to call prejudice from any pupil or their parents. In fact, she’s adored by one and all. Oh, dear. What on earth can be done?’ Ted outlined his plan of action and Mr Saxon agreed.

  ‘I’m dealing with it tomorrow morning,’ he told Edie, ‘but Mr Saxon thinks she shouldn’t be there.’

  ‘Right,’ she replied. ‘I’ll say she’s been coughing in the night and she’s got to have a day off school. She’ll fall for it. We’ll go on the bus to Abingdon. It’s market day, and there’ll be lots of things to look at. Then we can have some fish and chips in that nice café down by the river.’

  In his full police sergeant’s uniform Ted, walking tall and serious, entered Angela’s classroom, and her teacher, Miss Leeson, clapped her hands. ‘Now, children. We’ve got a visitor. Does anyone know who he is?’

  ‘Sergeant Rawlings,’ the children chorused back.

  ‘That’s right, boys and girls,’ he said. ‘My job is to look for criminals and make sure they’re punished if they’re found guilty. Now, I’m here today to talk about Angela Zendalic. She’s away today with a bad cough and you’re not to tell her I’ve been here. Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant Rawlings,’ the children chorused again.

  ‘Now, who can tell me something nice about Angela.’

  The hands went up: she was always happy, she was pretty, she was friendly, she had lovely blue eyes, she could play the piano and the violin, she was top of the class, she had lovely shiny ringlets, she had a beautiful singing voice, she was a wonderful dancer, and she was going to be one of Ken Dodd’s Diddymen in the New Theatre Pantomime at Christmas.

  Ted nodded. ‘Well it seems that everyone likes her a lot, but there’s one thing that nobody said, and I think that’s because it doesn’t matter a bit. Angela’s brown, isn’t she?’ The children nodded. ‘Now some people are very cruel to people with brown and black skin, and I’m sorry to say there’s someone like that in this class.’ Ted stopped speaking and looked around. Twenty-eight sets of innocent eyes looked at him, but one set looked to the floor and shuffled his feet. ‘I’ll say no more,’ Ted concluded, ‘but that’s not the way the children of St Barnabas School behave, is it?’ He then stared at them with a firm level expression and wagged his finger. ‘I’ll be off now, but remember what I said. No-one’s to tell Angela I’ve been here in case she gets upset. If she does find out I’ll ask her who told her, and they’ll be in trouble for breaking a promise.’

  He moved to Miss Leeson’s desk and wrote on a piece of paper, The blonde boy on the left with the blue check shirt.

  Miss Leeson wrote, Byron Macey. My own suspect. More than a handful.

  ‘Byron Macey,’ Ted said to the headmaster. ‘Without a doubt.’

  Mr Saxon nodded. ‘The child’s a sad case. His mother’s an old Jericho girl, Sylvia Wright. A nice girl I remember well. Got herself into trouble with an American serviceman and flew off to a life of luxury. Trouble was, the life turned out to be in a poor white ghetto in the deep south, and she found much worse poverty than she’d ever known here. She managed to get out of it, and has just moved back in with her parents, but the boy must have heard about racial hatred in glowing detail.’

  Ted contemplated. ‘Well, he’s got to be spoken to. It might carry on and fuel all sorts of flames. If you’re agreeable I’ll come back after lunch. We’ll call the boy out, make up something about an appointment with the school nurse, and I’ll have a low key chat.’

  The boy was led in, looking at the floor. ‘Sit down, Byron,’ said Ted, again wearing his full uniform and looming over him with serious intent. The boy sat, staring at his feet. ‘Now, I want you to tell me the truth and you won’t get into trouble. Was it you who wrote the nasty word in Angela’s book?’ The boy nodded. ‘And you know it was a very bad thing to do, don’t you.’ He nodded again. ‘Now, Byron, you’ve got very fair hair, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘How would you feel if people were nasty to you because of that? Angela’s got brown skin, and it’s just the same for her. Something she was born with. In America, where you used to live, there’s a lot of trouble with black and white people hating each other. It sometimes happens here in England, and it’s a very bad thing. Have you ever heard of a man called Martin Luther King?’ The boy shook his head. ‘He’s a very famous black man, and he made a speech a few weeks ago. It was all about how black and white people should live in harmony, side by side with each other, and be equal in God’s eyes. One thing he said, was this. “I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the colour of their skin, but by the content of their character.” Now Angela’s a very nice little girl. She’s loved very much by her mum and dad, and she’s my Goddaughter. In fact everyone in Jericho is very fond of her. Now will you say sorry to me for what you’ve done, and promise that you’ll never be unkind to anyone with a dark skin again?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’m really sorry.’

  ‘I accept your apology, Byron, so no more nonsense, mind. Otherwise I might have to go round and see your Mum, and your Granddad whose a friend of mine.’ The boy began to sniff loudly, and wiped his nose on the back of his hand. ‘Now, I’m sure you won’t be telling anyone about our little chat, and I give you my solemn promise that I won’t either. Now, off you go, but before you do, you can shake my hand.’ The boy shook his hand. ‘Goodbye, Byron. In your future life I want you to be proud that you’re a good, kind person.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  A couple of days later Edie’s doorbell rang, and a little boy was standing on the pavement, holding a paper bag. ‘Is Angela in?’

  ‘Yes, dear. What’s your name? I don’t know you, do I?’

  ‘Byron Macey’, the boy said. ‘My Granddad’s Charlie Wright.’

  ‘Well, I’m blowed. Your mum’s Sylvia, isn’t she. I heard she was back with her little lad. Come in.’

  Angela appeared in the passage and beamed. ‘Hallo, Byron.’

  ‘I’ve brought you a new colouring book,’ he said. ‘I heard your other one got scribbled on.’

  ‘Oh, that is kind,’ said Edie. ‘Off you go in the back room and you can do some colouring in together. I’ve just made some jam tarts.’

  July 1964

  Clacton-on-Sea

  With Edie having had her varicose veins ‘stripped’, and Stan being operated on for a Dupuytren’s contracture, a week at Butlin’s Holiday Camp at Clacton-on-Sea had been cheerfully bankrolled by Ted and Peggy. The recuperating patients would ‘take things easy’ whilst the fond
and fit Godparents would supervise Angela’s daily round of fun and games.

  And fun and games it certainly was. How Peggy had loved her pretend week of being a solicitous mum, air-brushing Edie and Stan out of the picture altogether, and spending every waking minute in giving her darling a never-to-be-forgotten summer holiday. Ted, happy to be designated as a smiling bag carrier, waver, clapper, seat finder, ice-cream buyer and general gopher. Daily swimming lessons in the vast indoor pool, where she picked up the breaststroke within the first ten minutes, fun fair rides, roller skating, paddling coracles on the boating lake, riding donkeys on the sands, and frenzied team games with other kiddies, all overseen by the cheerful, energetic Redcoats. The Junior Bathing Beauty contest where she came a beaming third, and winning a fancy dress competition as Aladdin; an outfit she’d brought from home especially for the occasion. But it was the ‘twist and shout’ eliminator that showcased her performing talents. With manic energy she gyrated with a large group of competitors, and it was soon clear she was the star performer; her slim body and long limbs swivelling and swirling with perfect rhythm and co-ordination, her wrists and fingers moving like swooping birds, and throwing back her head in a pose of smiling confidence.

  It was after she’d been presented with the first prize – appropriately Twist and Shout, the Beatles first EP – that the Redcoats put her name down for a talent competition on the final evening. But she wouldn’t be dancing. Her plans were much more advanced. Refusing to reveal her act, she commandeered Peggy to create a tight fishtail evening dress with four yards of electric pink material (bought in a Clacton shop); its length wound around her body, crudely tacked on the night, and finished with a twirl of net as a hemline flourish. With her hair straightened with rollers, and piled up on her head like a woven basket, the little star was shepherded from the chalet, encased like a mummy, and teetering on a pair of low-heeled silver sandals, borrowed from the Butlin’s lost property department.

  Having sat through the tedium of three dancing acts (tap, belly and Irish), a dramatic poetry reading, a failed magician, and a Norman Wisdom impersonator, Angela’s support team were more than grateful when her name was called. Rising to their feet they clapped hard as she walked onto the stage. ‘Ladies and Gentleman,’ announced the Redcoat. ‘We now welcome Miss Angela Zendalic, aged ten, who is going to ...’

  May I introduce myself, please?’ she asked confidently. The Redcoat nodded, and she stepped up to the microphone, pausing to compose herself. ‘Tonight, Ladies and Gentlemen, I’m going to sing a number made famous a few years ago by Miss Shirley Bassey. It’s one of my favourites and I’m sure it’s one of yours.’ She straightened her shoulders and breathed in deeply, controlling her diaphragm in the way she’d been taught at the St. Paul’s Stage School. But her arms were held out at right angles, her hands dropped crucifix style, and her head twisted to one side.

  If I could reach out, with my hands across the sea,

  I’d take you in my arms, and never set you free ...

  Her hands twirled, her fingers flicked, her lids lowered and she moved her neck and shoulders slowly from side to side, emulating Shirley Bassey’s dramatic body movements she’d seen on Sunday Night at the London Palladium. Peggy felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Her own little Shirley-in-miniature, with a pitch perfect voice, so powerful as to vibrate the ear drums.

  The applause that followed was thunderous, with the whole of the theatre rising to their feet in an ovation worthy of the real thing. Peggy’s lungs became so tight she could hardly breathe. Her child was gifted with the voice of an angel. A beautiful blue-eyed, brown-skinned girl, with her new grownup teeth, full and straight, and as white as snow. She wasn’t just a pretty little thing. She was a beauty. Peggy’s closed eyes could see Joseph standing thoughtfully on the banks of Lake Victoria. Seeing her and Angela walking towards him, he smiled his own perfect white smile, and held out his arms. ‘Peggy’, he said, ‘Peggy. My love, my wife, and our perfect Princess.’

  ‘You all right, Peg?’ asked Edie. ‘You look a bit wobbly.’

  ‘Just overwhelmed by our girl,’ Peggy replied, but she was lost in a faraway world, reaching her own hands across the sea to the hot sunshine of Africa.

  Miss Shirley Bassey’s first prize was a Marks and Spencer’s voucher for twenty-five shillings, but after ten minutes of praise, with Angela jumping up and down with glee, Peggy sank back to earth with misery. Tonight was the last night of her make believe world, and with Edie insisting that Angela ‘had had enough excitement for one night’, and ‘they needed to get back to the chalet to start the packing’, she and Ted were cut adrift to the only time they’d had on their own all week.

  And thus they found one of the quieter bars, both knowing what the other was thinking. That the week had been a perfect joy for both of them.

  ‘It might have worked,’ said Ted.

  ‘What might have worked.’

  ‘You and me. All three of us.’

  Peggy nodded. ‘It would have. It would have worked well, but I didn’t know it at the time. You could have been a devoted step-dad, and I’d have been her loving mum, which is all I wanted in the first place.’

  ‘There’d still be one thing missing, though. You don’t love me.’

  ‘Maybe it wouldn’t have mattered.’

  ‘Is it too late now?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Far too late.’

  ‘S’alright. No hard feelings’.

  ‘We’re stuck in our own little grooves aren’t we, Ted. Two misfits. A dreary widow and a lonely widower.’

  A long pause. ‘Another sherry.’

  ‘Yes please, but it’s my round.’

  April 2014

  Monks Bottom

  My usual morning routine was of dragging myself out of bed at 7.30am, massaging my usual head-thump, and bracing myself to get the boys ready for school. With them being as wide awake and energetic as two keen Jack Russells, it was nearly as stressful as the bedtime slog, but at least they knew the routine was written in stone. Supervising their face washing, getting them dressed, and with the ’Good Parent Police’ sitting (as ever) in scathing judgement, making sure they sat up to the table to eat a bowl of porridge and some wholemeal toast and honey. Rigorous teeth cleaning again, out of the door on the dot of 8.30am, a walk to the school gates and a secure delivery to their classrooms – essential practice these days to protect them from kiddy fiddlers.

  I went home to a child-free silence, thanking Farthing Cottage for revealing its other self; a cosy haven of peace with just the tick of a clock, the hum of the fridge/freezer, and the wind echoing down the chimney. A dark moody sky brooded, so I lit the fire, prepared a large mug of hot chocolate, and sat down with the laptop. I’d just completed the process of signing up to every public records and electoral role sites, and was enthusing to start my search, when there was a sharp knock on the door. Bugger. Who the hell was it? A voice called, ‘’Tis only me, Sarah. Lawrence. Lawrence Crowley.’ Oh, sod it. Pa’s good friend, Father Crowley, and with both of them having a lifetime’s interest in Hymns Ancient and Modern, Trollope’s novels, and county cricket, he’d been a treasured part of Pa’s very private social life. Never was a man more affable and kind, and he was welcome at any time, but not just at this crucial moment.

  I opened the door to see his large presence and beaming smile. ‘I hope you don’t mind an ad hoc pop-in, dear, but I rather needed to have a chat.’

  I smiled patiently. ‘Come on in, Lawrence.’ With a sweep of his frog-buttoned cloak he was in, filling the cottage with his formidable presence and a rush of April chill. A large grey-bearded man of over sixty, but with a full head of crinkly silver curls and a noble handsome head. More time was wasted as I made him a cup of tea, and he began in earnest. ‘You’ll be thrilled to hear that three memorial services for dear Piers are being planned. Tavistock College for alumni next month, my own at St. Mary Mags just before Christmas, and a public event at St. Paul’s in early planning. But i
t’s our local do I need to discuss. It’s intended to be a homage to Monks Bottom’s most revered resident ...’ And so he went on ...and on.

  At last he rose to go. ‘Your father will be sorely missed, Sarah. Not just as a brilliant musician, and part of the community, but as a much-loved old friend. He was a true Christian.’ With an outward sweep of his cloak he walked down the garden path.

  It was only when he’d gone I remembered I’d forgotten to mention our decision to keep the gardener on. Damn. There was no way I was running after him to waste even more time, but my thoughts suddenly fell to the part Howie Sinclair had played on that awful day. My head swimming, my stomach churning, and rushing out of the French doors to scream my head off. A blur of army khaki, and a firm clasp of my arm. Guiding me past Pa’s lifeless body to the kitchen and sitting me down in front of the Aga. His clear green eyes making firm contact with mine and taking my pulse. Switching on the kettle, leaving the room to phone the Health Centre, coming back to make me a cup of tea and checking my pulse again. But as soon as Andrew Gibson appeared, he vanished. How shameful was my indifference that I’d forgotten his name and had failed to seek him out to thank him. How utterly heartless I’d become.

  June 1965

  The Sheldonian Theatre, Oxford

  Miss Daphne Daley, the principal of the St Paul’s Stage School, was waiting for Angela under the blackened and crumbling, ‘Heads of The Emperors’ that fronted the ancient Sheldonian Theatre in Broad Street. From over fifteen hundred entrants nationwide, the six regional finalists of ‘The Royal Music Institution’s Performing Arts Competition’ were gathered for the grand finale that was taking place today within the esteemed architectural jewel. Each with three categories of performance; a solo musical instrument piece, a classic song sung a cappella, and finally a free choice, where each child could choose their own discipline.

  Having just passed her Grade III violin examination, Angela was to play her best set piece, Corelli’s Gavotte, her a capella number, Handel’s Did You Not Hear My Lady, and her free choice (actually chosen by Miss Daley) Where is Love from the West End musical, Oliver; an assured tear jerker from the lovely little brown girl, whose unique beauty and talent would be sure to melt the hearts of the judges. How many of them had actually met a half-caste child, let alone seen one perform with such outstanding ability. How distinctive and band-box smart she was, in a yellow gingham, full-skirted summer dress (Butterick Pattern 3276, material at 2/11 a yard from Cape’s on Walton Street, run up on the old treadle in the back room of No.55), short white socks, and black patent shoes. Her copious ringlets tied tightly on her crown, with a white satin ribbon.