Stan, Edie, Ted and Peggy entered the auditorium to take their seats on the circular tiered benches; narrow and hard, and clearly not designed for twentieth century posteriors. The first time any of them had been inside the wondrous light-filled cathedral-in-miniature, designed by Sir Christopher Wren and completed for the university in 1668. They looked up in awe at its sparkling white cupola and painted fresco ceiling, each infused with an overwhelming sense of occasion. Even Ted, who’d been in and out of the mediaeval colleges for years as part of his police duties and was past noticing the spectacular heritage of the city.
The competition commenced, and with Angela drawn to be the last performer she walked on, her head held high with confidence. After composing herself, and smiling to the audience, she tucked her half-size violin under her chin, lowered her eyes, pressed her lips firmly together and lifted her bow. Her performance was flawless, playing each note with energy, strength and mature rhythmic pulse, finally bowing to loud appreciative applause, and shouts of, ‘bravo’.
Thus, at the end of the first section it seemed that a redhaired boy, wearing a kilt, was her only competition. His mature and spirited violin solo of Scotland the Brave had become so dynamic it was accompanied by some on-the-beat hand clapping, which Edie loudly fumed was an unfair advantage.
Time for the classic song, and Angela introduced her piece with charm and maturity. ‘As many of you will know John Friedrich Handel actually played here in the Sheldonian, in 1733, to premier his work Amalia. I will be singing his Silent Worship, more commonly known as Did You Not Hear My Lady. For this, Angela had been instructed to take a sober pose, and she stood woodenly, with her hands at her sides.
Did you not hear my lady, go down the garden singing?
Blackbird and thrush were silent, to hear they alleys ringing ...
Even at eleven-years-old her voice was beginning to take on the deeper tones of what would be surely be an adult mezzo-soprano, enhanced by the acoustics to extra resonance and quality. There was a respectful silence before loud clapping began again, outstripping (to Edie’s delight) the kilted boy’s rendition of Ye Banks and Braes of Bonnie Doon, and the comments heard around the Zendalic party indicated that Angela seemed to be the favourite. ‘My daughter,’ Edie exclaimed, puffing up her chest. ‘Our Angela. She’s only eleven and we’ve just heard she’s passed her scholarship to Milham Ford as well.’
A short break was announced, and Miss Daley bustled over. ‘She’s doing really, really well. The Scottish boy’s actually rather good, but I feel Angela has the edge. The judge’s had their heads together for quite a while after both her performances, so fingers crossed.’
The competition resumed with the free choice piece, but ... Oh, dear. Trust the kilted boy to trump the rest of field. He’d changed into a ragamuffin outfit, complete with sooty cheeks, and announced he would be singing ...Where is Love from the musical Oliver. And so he did, with not a hint of the hills and the heather.
A frantic panic broke out back stage. The rules stated that no entrant could perform the same song, and there was no time for an inquisition. ‘You’ll just have to do June Is Bustin’ Out All Over,’ Miss Daley squeaked. It was the last thing Angela had learned, as part of the forthcoming, ‘Songs From The Musicals,’ summer concert, but her little face dropped with disgust, knowing it was only fit for drunks on a pub outing and did nothing to showcase her talent.
‘It’ll have to do,’ Miss Daley snapped. ‘It’s a lovely sunny day in June after all,’ but when she scrambled in her music case she didn’t have the music. ‘Oh, darn it. You’ll just have to sing a capella again. Come along. Get behind the door and be ready.’
Once again, Angela walked on with confidence. ‘Ladies and gentleman, I am going to sing a capella again. It’s one of my all-time favourites, and I’m sure it’s one of yours.’ She posed herself. Arms out like a two branches of a tree, her hands flopped and a deep intake of breath.
If I could reach out, with my hands across the sea ...
At her final note the clapping started, the audience rose to their feet, and to Edie’s delight (despite the prestigious surroundings) someone whistled. Angela, beaming broadly, skipped off merrily with a cheeky little wave.
After conferring for twenty minutes the judges returned, and the spokesman, a very famous violinist (whom Peggy said was very famous indeed), stood up. The usual long speech followed, saying how high the standard was, what a truly difficult – nay, impossible – task they’d had in choosing a winner. ‘After examining all the criteria there was but a hair’s breadth between the winner and the runner-up, who both gave stunning performances. I will now announce the runner-up. Please would Miss Angela Zendalic step forward?’
The audience, confident she would be the winner, gasped in surprise, but clapped very hard as Angela gracefully walked forward, picked up the hem of her dress, curtseyed deeply to the floor like a prima ballerina, and rose to accept a silver cup and a posy. She found the eye of her family, smiling up to them so widely her jaw nearly locked, resisting the urge to jump for joy. She then stepped back to hear Hamish McVey announced as the winner.
Near to exploding with fury, Edie shuffled her large bulk down the benches. ‘Get me out of here’, she growled, and once on the pavement of Broad Street she let vent to her anger. ‘There’s only one reason,’ she bawled full megaphone. ‘One reason, and one reason only. Little coloured girls don’t win first prizes, they’re only fit to be runners-up, but snotty little Scottish boys what can’t speak the Queen’s English do. Oh, yes...’ and so she continued.
Peggy, who had quietly and proudly watched the magic of her daughter’s performance, removed herself from the group and sat down on a wooden bench. The day had been ruined. She’d sat in one of the most beautiful, ancient buildings in the world, watching her beloved daughter display her beauty and her talents, transported back to the magical night, just over twelve years ago, when her perfect little child had been brought into life. And later sitting with Joseph in Tavistock College chapel, not fifty yards up the road, listening to a Mozart concert and holding fast to his pink-palmed hand.
Angela appeared, running out at speed, holding the cup aloft and pressing the flowers into Edie’s hand. Smiling broadly she began a little dance on the spot, but she soon realised something was wrong. She stopped dancing and her face fell. Miss Daley appeared and was ordered by Edie to explain the stitch up.
‘Mrs Zendalic, we must rejoice for Angela’s accolade, but I’m furious over the mix up with Where is Love and that wretched boy dressing up for effect. I told her to sing June is Bustin’ Out All Over but she defied me. It’s my opinion that the movements and innuendo of Shirley Bassey were much too vulgar for the occasion.’
‘Oh, no it wasn’t,’ Edie shouted. ‘She brought the house down in there, same as she did at Butlin’s.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Mrs Zendalic. We’re in a much higher league here.’
But Edie glared, running her forefinger slowly around her face. ‘That’s your reason, Miss Daley. Those snotty buggers know she was the best, but they’re too full of ...of ...ladi-da.’ Trying to control her own fury, the music teacher swiftly walked away from what was turning into a nasty public scene.
Angela turned to face the stone wall behind her, beginning to cry, and Edie, in her fury, began to cry as well, but Ted, with boiling frustration, intervened. ‘Shut up, Edie. You’re breaking her heart.’
‘Don’t you tell me to shut up!’ she snapped.
‘Why don’t you both shut up,’ Stan bawled.
Peggy, distancing herself from the fracas, put her arm around Angela’s shoulders. ‘Don’t cry, darling. Being the runner-up is just marvellous. Come on, sweetheart. Big cuddle from Auntie Peg.’ The child clung to her while Peggy smoothed her lips over Angela’s forehead, and Ted enfolded the mother and child in a gesture of solidarity. ‘Don’t mind your Mum,’ he whispered in Angela’s ear. ‘You know how worked up she gets over nothing.’ He then turned and f
aced Edie and Stan, nodding firmly. ‘Right,’ he declared. ‘Nonsense over. I vote we drive up to The Trout at Godstow. Ham sandwiches and a drink all round, but the first stop will be the corner shop in Wolvercote to buy our little Shirley Bassey a big ice cream.’
Angela visibly brightened. ’Ooh, yes please.’
Edie held out her arms. ‘Sorry, Angie. I’m such a silly Mummy. You were wonderful. Really wonderful.’
But just as they were about to move off they were approached by a tall, striking man with long, rich-brown curly hair they recognised as one of the judges. He smiled, gave a half bow and held out his hand. ‘Mr and Mrs Zendalic. Might I have a word? Dr Piers Penney. Choral Director at Tavistock College. I wondered if I might talk to you about Angela becoming a junior member of my choir.’
After handshakes all round, and nervous chatter about the competition, Stan took hold of Angela’s hand and looked down on her. ‘Well, I think we need to ask the young lady herself,’ he said. ‘She already sings in St. Barnabas church choir, so what d’you reckon, love? Do you fancy singing in a college one as well?’
Angela, knowing she’d been offered something far more prestigious than the motley bunch of amateurs at her local church, beamed. ‘Yes, please. Yes please.’
‘She’s enchanting,’ Piers said. ‘Such a beautiful little girl and a rare tone of voice in one so young. I feel she’d be a huge asset to the type of music I’m using. Dowland and Fauré. That sort of thing.’
To Edie and Stan the two composers might well have been a firm of solicitors, but they nodded with interest, seeming to be familiar with every note of their esteemed work. ‘We were hoping she’d win today,’ said Edie, her pride now restored, ‘but my goodness. Second in the whole of the country, and I bet that Scottish boy’s a good two years older.’
‘The judges were evenly split. We had to go to Yehudi as head judge for the casting vote, but it’s obvious where my own preference lay. Might we arrange a suitable time to meet up and discuss details?’
‘I haven’t got my diary on me,’ said Edie, now becoming puffed up with nervous self-importance, ‘but we’d like Peggy to be there as well.’ She pointed to Peggy. ‘Her Godmother. Knows alot about music, don’t you Peg.’
Piers Penney nodded and handed over a small business card. ‘Of course. I’d like that very much. Look, can we say 10.30am next Saturday morning at my rooms in Tavistock. If it’s not convenient ring me on this number and we’ll re-arrange. Otherwise, come to the Porter’s Lodge and he’ll bring you up.’ He then placed his finger under Angela’s chin. ‘You’re a very special little girl. Very special indeed, and I can’t wait to hear you sing for me again.’
When he’d gone Edie began to fan herself. ‘What a lovely man. Oh, Angie, I’m so proud of you. I’m sure he’s ever so important. A right toff, all done up in velvet. Never seen anything like it in my life.’
Peggy, highly impressed herself, agreed. ‘He could be a Victorian poet. Lord Byron himself.’
Ted, who’d had more than enough, was compelled to change the subject. ‘Come on you lot. My mouth’s a dry as a badger’s bum. In the car with you all.’
June 1964
Tavistock College
The following Saturday, Angela and her support team followed the lodge porter around the college quadrangle, trodden in bygone times (as they’d discussed before) by Kings, and Princes, and more famous people you could shake a stick at. Especially, thought Peggy, one very special African Prince, and here is his daughter putting her slender, size twos in his footprint. At the bottom of a narrow, stone-spiral staircase a cream painted board, with black scripted letters, announced, Dr Piers Penney, Music Faculty. The porter led them up and rapped hard on a wide oak door. ‘Dr Penney, sir. Your party has arrived.’
Piers, looking nothing like the poet of before, was now wearing a dark blue linen suit of the type associated with Chinese labourers, his hair brushed hard back and restrained with an elastic band. The room was cluttered. A baby grand piano covered with scores, and an eclectic mix of shabby Victorian furniture, worn kilim rugs and wide, overfilled bookcases. Piles of sheet music on the floor and in Canterburies. Music stands both upright and on their sides.
A beautiful, heavily pregnant woman, with long blonde hair to her waist, was reclining on a velvet chaise longue, looking like no other woman of her time. As delicate as a fairy, wearing an ankle length gossamer-fine frock with puffed sleeves, reminiscent of the Jane Austen era. ‘May I introduce my wife, Merryn.’ She smiled warmly, heaved to her feet, and greeted them with a gentle Welsh inflection.
‘And this is Angela,’ she cried. ‘Oh, my dear, your performance was just wonderful. I was transported to heaven when you sang the Handel. And as for Shirley Bassey – my goodness, what power.’ She sat back down, and swung up her legs to recline again.
‘Is it your first?’ asked Edie, glad for something to say.
‘It is. Another three weeks to go. Timed beautifully for the summer vac.’
After tea and biscuits there followed an intense discussion concerning Angela’s commitment to the choral society. As a lower junior she would be taking part in public performances once a term, and expected to attend for practice and tuition every Thursday from 5.30pm to 6.45pm.
‘Should be alright,’ said Edie. ‘She does piano and violin on Tuesdays, dancing on Wednesdays, and her musical theatre classes are on Saturdays.’
‘That’s settled, then,’ said Piers, moving to the piano, setting up some music and patting the double stool for Angela to sit beside him. ‘I’d like to try a piece called The Three Ravens by John Dowland. I’ll run through it and then we’ll see if we can sing it together. I’d like good crisp diction please. Are you ready? She nodded, and he began.
There were three ravens sat on a tree,
Down a down, hey down, hey down,
They were as black as black might be,
With a down.
The one of them said to his mate,
Where shall we our breakfast take?
With a down, derry, derry, derry down, down.
Angela first attempt was hesitant, but the second time she reached the notes to perfection and the duet of baritone and child resonated round the room. ‘Wonderful,’ he sighed. ‘The true voice of an angel. So, that’s all for today. I’ll look forward to seeing Angela next Thursday in the chapel on the far side of the quad. By the way we actually encourage the younger ones to be chaperoned. To be familiar with what we do, and to hear the talent develop.’
‘Might I do that, Edie’, said Peggy, with the speed of a lizard’s tongue. ‘I can meet her here, straight from work.’
‘’Course you can, Peg. Stan can whip her up on his cross bar when he comes out of work. Ta. That’d be lovely.’
Merryn Penney rose to say goodbye, holding her hands in a cradle beneath the weight of her baby, and screwing up her face. ‘Twinges,’ she said. ‘I was told to expect them. I hope labour isn’t worse than this?’
Yes, Merryn, Peggy wanted to say. I’m afraid it is. You will cry, and twist, and yell, and curse, and it will go on for what seems like forever, but the second the baby is born all the agony flies away and you’ll have your perfect little miracle in your arms.
‘It’s kicking now,’ she said, blowing out her cheeks. ‘I think I’ve got a rugger player in there.’ How much Peggy wanted to feel the blows of the little feet, but she just demurred, with what must have been seen as an old maid’s polite smile of sympathy.
‘Come. I’ll see you out’, said Piers, and they followed his escort onto Holywell, each having been transported to another world of lutes, and harps, and ancient English music, and the true voice of angel, lifting high over the mediaeval stones of privilege.
April 2014
Monks Bottom
At last. With Lawrence Crowley gone I stared down at the computer screen and typed in a general search for Angela Zendalic. With breath-holding anticipation I waited for a list of relevant entries to spring before my ey
es...but nothing appeared. Absolutely nothing. I tried again, but it seemed that no-one of that name had been born, married or died in England and Wales in the history of public records. With a sink of disappointment I had to conclude that the exotically named Angela must have come from abroad after all, and had not settled in the UK. But Zendalic was such a rare name and there might be some others on record, possibly relatives.
I was thrilled to see that two entries came up, but they were both men; Stanley, born in Whitechapel in 1906, mother’s maiden name Pfeiffer, and Arthur, born in Bermondsey in 1920, mother’s maiden name Juggins. Both had the same father, Rudolph, confirming they were half-brothers. A further search showed Arthur married in 1946, with no records of any children born, but Stanley’s marriage in Oxford, to an Edith Piper in 1926, showed the birth of one daughter, Brenda, in 1927. This Oxford family must have been connected to Angela. It was just too much of a co-incidence.
I ploughed on, but soon found I was stuck in mud. Brenda became Mrs Brown in her late teens, but there were no records of any children born, and Stanley and Edith had died many years ago. I was stumped again and beginning to feel bamboozled nearly blind by it all, anyway.
Where to go now? If Angela still lived in the UK as a single woman surely she’d be on some electoral roles. I looked her up on every public list available, but not one single Zendalic, male, female, young, or old, came up. She really was the invisible woman. I closed down and sat hugging a cushion, considering the computations. Could she be a foreign cousin of the Oxford family who’d come over as a student or an au pair girl, had an affair with Pa, given birth to me and gone back to her own country to disappear forever. I swallowed with the heart sink of failure. The process had taken me less than half an hour, but I felt as tired as if I’d walked twenty miles.
Who Was Angela Zendalic Page 9
