I’m so sorry that I can’t help you more, and that Prince Joseph Ntozi seems to be quite untraceable.
Yours sincerely
Walter Estavan
Peggy’s reaction was of a slowly falling sadness. It had been five years since the family were deposed, each free to live new lives in another country of their choosing, but Joseph had not returned to find her.
April 2014
Monks Bottom
My childhood home, Old Priory Hall, is a chocolate box perfect, 16th century, Grade ll listed villa. Oak timber-framed, white-rendered wattle and daub in-fills, and a Welsh slate roof. Flying buttresses, heavy old ship’s beams, red herring-bone brick inglenooks, and an iron-studded elm front door that leads into a vast hall of centuries-worn flagstones. Here a sweeping mahogany staircase, lit up by stain-glassed panels, leads up to a minstrel’s gallery and jumble of wonky-floored bedrooms.
Having spent a tedious hour following two chirpy young estate agents around while they measured, recorded and wrote up details, I watched as they drove off, casting forth a witches curse. ‘Go away. The Hall doesn’t want to be sold’, but as I went back inside I began to sense its need for warmth and occupation. As if the walls had already absorbed and destroyed all the sounds and scents of the musical, fun loving Penneys.
The story we know is that Pa fell in love with it on a wet and windy summer day when its back half was saturated and slipping, and pigeons had colonised the attic rooms. That he’d rescued the tumbling-down wreck, and had restored it over several months.
I’d only been a few days old when we’d all moved in, confirmed by a photograph that had hung near the front door all my life (taken by whom?). Pa, as slim as a reed, in a green corduroy suit, his brown hair curling well over his collar, and proudly holding the tiny white-shawled bundle that was me. Mummy, delicate and beautiful, with my three sisters lined up at her side, was wearing flared black trousers and a long red cloak. Smiling, and holding Pa’s arm, she looked about sixteen years old with her long blonde hair hanging loose and silky. How heavy the ghost of Angela must have been hovering over them on that day. The date was certainly February 1973, so the house must have been restored in 1972, the year before I was born. That had to be a starting point in the search for my past. Pa had just been appointed as Oxford University’s Regius Professor of Ancient English Music, and mummy and the twins were, for some unexplained reason, living down in Wales with my grandparents. I could only assume they’d (unbelievably) split up, so was the house being prepared for Angela and little me? Was she living (with Pa?) at the Folly Farm cottage while the work was completed. It certainly seemed like it. I began to feel like a celebrity on the TV programme, ‘Who Do You Think You Are’, but in my case there was no (carefully researched) surprise revelation caught on camera, with open-mouthed gasps and floods of tears.
Frozen with both apathy and the cold ambience of the house, I walked through into Pa’s music room where piles of sheet music and a clutter of scores were stacked on shelves and on the floor; something he always assured us were in perfect filed order. The picture of The Broad and Narrow Way hanging on one wall, and a finely detailed acrylic of a svelte, tasteful nude on the other. Lying on her side on a rumpled bed, her eyes half closed, the shape of her lean body reminiscent of a cello, and a red Roberts Radio placed beside her. Both pictures were so familiar to me I hadn’t looked at them properly for years, and as I sat down at the piano I realised, for the first time, that the nude was in Pa’s direct line of eyesight every time he sat at the keyboard. I smiled. His own classy version of a Playboy centrefold, I suppose.
With idle frustration my fingers touched the piano keys, and I began to play Erik Satie’s Gymnopedie Number One, but after a few bars I slammed my hands viciously on the keys, and began to cry. Who the hell was I? What was the story I was never meant to know? The only one who knew the truth was my dear, blank-eyed, nonsense-gabbling mum. And she could tell me nothing, could she. She could only look at me as if I was a stranger; to shout at me, or ignore me, or stare into space, or babble some weird story in a language only known to herself.
I looked up, blurred by tears, to realise that Howie Sinclair was watching me through the French doors.
July 1967
Jericho
Dear ...Mr and Mrs Zendalic...
The Tavistock College children’s outing to Whipsnade Zoo will take place on Saturday 15th August. The cost will be 8s/6d, to include the entrance fee, a buffet lunch, a trip on the small steam railway and a cream tea. The coach will leave from the Ashmolean Museum at 8.45am, and will return by 6.00pm. Those aged ten and under must be accompanied by a parent or guardian.
The attached pro-forma, together with the full amount, must be returned by 1st August. Cheques sent to Mrs Maude Frensham-Wright, made out to Tavistock College Friends Society. Cash delivered by hand, please.
Oh, happy day. A clear sky, and a full sun peeping over the top of the Playhouse Theatre. Sixty chattering children, from toddlers to teenagers, were mustered outside the Ashmolean, supervised by a surfeit of college ‘friends’, and fussy fellows wives. Angela, (as ever) feeling blushingly embarrassed that Auntie Peggy insisted on holding her hand like Little Orphan Annie, and even more ridiculous, she was now two inches taller than her Auntie. But when Diana Cumberledge, her best friend from the choir arrived, she managed to extricate herself, gabbling and smiling, and keeping one eye on the thrilling scene unfolding further up. Love divine, all love’s excelling! Dr Penney was coming! His two-year-old daughter Carrenza, (stupid name) was holding onto his leg, and drippy Mrs Penney looked her usual ridiculous self. She had a voice like a little girl, wore really weird clothes, and was soooooo irritating; always sweeping her hair off her face, using her fingers as a comb, and smiling like loony. Dad said she looked like a blonde version of the French singer, Francois Hardy. Well, what if she did? They were both as feeble as kittens. What did the truly heavenly Dr Penney see in her? Today she was wearing a flimsy green tent, covered with sequins, and it was obvious why. She had a ginormous twin-sized bump. How utterly vile to think they must have done ‘the thing’. As far as ‘the thing’ was concerned she only knew the basic mechanics, but it was sickening that the wonderful, sanctified Dr Penney did it, and to such a silly woman.
To loud cheers two coaches arrived, causing kerfuffle and confusion as to who was sitting where. Coach A was for ‘the little ones’ and their minders, and coach B for the older, unaccompanied. But hooray, hooray. Dr Penney was kissing the dimwit goodbye, stowing a pushchair into the luggage compartment, and climbing in with the sprog.
After being kissed goodbye and waved off by Auntie Peggy (another humiliation), Angela found herself in the company of all her pals from the choir, and many others she didn’t know. Soon everyone was talking up the latest choir gossip and pop music stories, but there was one boy, sitting opposite her on the aisle, who didn’t join in. Maybe a couple of years older than her, with very fair hair, and clear, peach-blushed skin as smooth as a girl’s. A real dreamboat, actually, but he just sat there with a snooty, stuck up expression, looking down his nose at the constant peals of laughter from the gaggle of girls.
‘That’s Garvie Warlock,’ Diana whispered. ‘He’s absolutely vile. His father’s Sir Charles Warlock so we have to put up with him.’ Angela noticed that the boy was staring hard at her, so she boldly stared back. So what if his father was the Master of Tavistock. Sir Charles was a nice old man with a bad limp who often came over to listen to the choir rehearsals. He always clapped his dry papery hands slowly, and said, ‘very well done,’ in a shaky upper class voice. He’d been especially nice to her when she sang The Three Ravens at the last concert, and had called her over at the end for some personal praise. ‘My dear,’ he beamed, ‘you are simply a treasure,’ and he’d plucked a flower from a big floral display, and handed it to her, with a small bow. Lady Warlock was another matter. A bossy snotbag, who didn’t speak to anyone unless they were important, like Dr Penney and the senior s
oloists.
The boy continued to gawp. ‘What are you looking at?’ she snapped.
‘Not much,’ he replied.
‘Then look out the window, you rude boy. Haven’t you been told it’s bad manners to stare.’ Thrilled with her clever wisecrack she plumped down in her seat.
‘He’s still looking,’ Diana said through gritted teeth. ‘Maybe he fancies you.’
‘Well, I don’t fancy him,’ she replied casually, but she was actually quite fascinated. Her only real craving was for Dr Penney, but this boy was a serious dish. However, she wouldn’t be showing him any coy blushes. She was Angela Zendalic. ‘The voice’ of Tavistock Choral. She would play hard-to-get. She fixed her eyes on him one last time, and looked away with a sweep of disgust.
Having arrived at Whipsnade Zoo the party assembled for a pep talk, but ...Oh, God! To Angela’s horror Lady Warlock appeared. What a hideous sight! Tightly permed hair, and a jacket and pleated skirt in a revolting floral pattern, like the curtains in the front room. Poor old Sir Charles. What a nightmare his life must be, kow-towing to the old bitch. And as for the gorgeous Garvie being their son, he had to be, like herself, adopted. The old trout took forceful charge, read out the itinerary and watches were synchronised.
By mid-afternoon the combination of endless chatter, the heat, and the over-rated train ride, had exhausted Angela’s group of girlfriends. Having been ordered to assemble at 3.30pm, for ‘a cream tea’, they flopped down on a grassy patch to gather their breath, lazing on their elbows, and enjoying the sun on their faces. The solitary figure of Garvie Warlock suddenly appeared. He sat down to join them, but the friends immediately turned their backs and ignored him, gradually getting up to drift off to the Ladies, or the gift shop, or to buy an ice-cream. Angela couldn’t understand it. Had they all fancied him in the past, and been rejected? Possibly. Maybe they sensed he wanted to be alone with her and were just being polite.
Once they’d gone he didn’t smile or attempt to start a conversation, continuing to look at her with what seemed like examination, licking his lips, and turning his head to one side. ‘So you’re Angela Zendalic.’ Aha! He’d heard of her! Had his father gone home with a face full of wonder, to say, “There’s a girl in Tavistock Choral called Angela with the most glorious voice I’ve ever heard in my life.”
Her face lit up with her usual friendly, wide beam when being praised for her many attributes. ‘Yes. Do you know me from the choir?’
‘I know you as the black girl from the choir.’
‘I’m not black. I’m brown.’
‘Oh, I see. Even black girls try to pretend they’re not black.’ He then put on a voice of the American Deep South. ‘You’re black, honey. B-L-A-C-K. From the slums of Jericho. A little jungle bunny whose dropped out of the trees. I’m told you’ve even got a tail.’
Angela’s insides lurched, a roar of heat flooded her cheeks, and she felt sick. For the first time in her life she was being truly humiliated, with the issue of her colour being thrown at her, as if it was an illness or a physical abnormality. Not just a shrug-shoulders fact-of-life that she had to accept as part of being ‘different’, but being sneered at as a true inferior. Her glorious voice, her beauty, her intelligence, her musicianship, her acting and dancing talents, and her outstanding popularity, all washed away in a tidal wave of ridicule. With sudden shock she began to sob silently. She didn’t live in a slum, she wasn’t an animal, and she didn’t have a tail. He got up and walked off slowly, hands in pockets, as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
She sat as a child with her legs crossed, her head on her chest, her lungs heaving and her nose running, but then she heard a voice calling her name. His voice. The sound of a foot brake being applied to a pushchair. He was sitting down beside her and putting a firm, protective arm around her shoulders. ‘Angela. Whatever’s the matter?’
She told him, gulping through the wash of her tears. Her voice straining out like the pleading whine of an air raid siren. ‘I’m not a jungle bunny. I haven’t got a tail ...’
‘Who on earth said you had?’
‘Garvie Warlock ...’
Piers leapt to his feet and ran off, leaving the buggy and his sleeping daughter parked on the pathway. He returned a few minutes later, pulling Garvie tightly by the arm, accompanied by a panting Lady Warlock. Ordering him to stand still on the spot, he carefully helped Angela to her feet. Her face swollen, her eyes red, and her legs shaking, but he clasped her tightly around the waist to steady her. ‘Lean on me, dear. Hold your head up high. Now tell Lady Warlock what Garvie called you?’ Angela repeated what he’d said, but keeping her eyes cast down, not daring to look at either of them. Lady Warlock clasped her mouth and gave a strangled gasp. Garvie looked arrogant, un-ashamed, staring with a raised chin of self-importance.
‘Garvie,’ Piers demanded. ‘I insist that you apologise unreservedly to Angela for your cruel and callous remarks.
‘I apologise unreservedly for my cruel and callous remarks to Angela,’ he repeated, parrot fashion, convincing no-one that he meant it.
‘I’ll be writing a full apology to her parents,’ flustered Lady Warlock. ‘It really is too bad of you, Garvie.’
‘Might I suggest,’ said Piers, ‘that Garvie brings the letter to my home tomorrow morning so I can personally deliver it.’
With no concern for further post mortem Piers led Angela past the mother and son. Still encircling her firmly with one arm, and pushing the pushchair with the other, he led her into the moist, echoing ambience of the Reptile House, where crocodiles, lizards and snakes stared out of their glass enclosures, static-still apart from the odd blink of an eye. Parking his still sleeping daughter in a quiet corner, he sat down close beside her and took her hand. ‘That was awful, wasn’t it?’ She nodded. ‘Look, I know you probably want to be left alone to get over it, but I’m going to tell you something that you must keep to yourself. Promise me you can keep a secret?’ She nodded again. To be sitting so close-up to Dr Penney was the very heaven, and with his hand in hers she knew she’d promise him anything.
‘Yes, I promise.’
‘Angela, Lady Warlock said she’d write a letter of apology to your parents. Did you wonder why she didn’t say that Garvie would write it himself?’ She shook her head. ‘Garvie was born late in life to the Warlocks, and he’s been hideously spoiled. He’s got two much older sisters, what you’d call academic bluestockings, both of them brilliant research scientists, like Sir Charles. It was always expected that Garvie would be a high achiever as well, but he’s never going to be. He’s got a huge problem. He can’t read or write properly. It’s a condition called dyslexia, and there are many, many children like him. They even took him to America to see if they could find a cure, but it seems there isn’t one. That’s why he’s away at a school noone’s heard of; a school for children like him. The sad fact is that he’s got a very high IQ, and he’s an amazing artist, but his struggles are immense. I’m not trying to make excuses for him but he’s got this huge chip on his shoulder and he makes up for it by being terribly rude and pompous. Inside I can only guess he feels very inadequate.’
Angela sniffed and rubbed her nose. ‘But he must know he was being unkind.’
‘Oh, he knows, alright, but he also knows you’ve got an exceptional voice, and you’re a top student at Milham. He wanted to hurt you because he’s jealous.’
‘And the way to hurt me was sneering at my skin colour. I’m not stupid, you know. There’s alot of hate around for black people, or half black people like me, but no-one’s ever been that nasty before.’
‘It’s the mark of a bully. I’m not asking you to forgive him, but can you try to feel sorry for him.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘Come on, my brave girl. It must be time for tea.’ At that moment Carrenza slowly awoke, and began to grizzle, bursting Angela’s bubble of perfect intimacy. ‘You go on over and find the others while I get Carrie changed and tidied up.’
‘The letter, Dr Penney. Will you
tear it up? I can’t bear my parents to know what happened. It’ll be even worse for them than it was for me.’
‘Yes. Yes, I agree. Save alot of broken hearts and mud-slinging, but I’ll let the Warlocks go through the process. When Garvie delivers it I’ll tell him you want the matter strictly contained.’ When they got up, he laid his hands on her shoulders and looked her firmly in the eyes. ‘Darling, you’re beautiful. You’ve got the voice of an angel, and your life will be full of amazing things. You will get over it.’
‘I’m over it all ready,’ she said, smiling widely. And she was. Any hatred by a sad, damaged boy, had been cancelled out by Dr Penney’s tender sympathy, his arm around her waist, the warmth of his corduroyed thigh pressed close against her bare, summer legs, the touch of his hair on her cheek, the sweet smell of his skin, the clasp of his hand, and now his sweet words of admiration. He’d told her she was beautiful, and most wonderful of all he’d called her darling.
The next day, around 3.00pm, a tall, fair-haired boy stood at the door of No.55, holding a bicycle. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Zendalic, I was wondering if Angela might be in?’
‘I’m afraid not. She’s up at St. Paul’s rehearsing for the summer show. And who might you be?’
‘I’m Garvie Warlock. My father’s Master of Tavistock. I met Angela yesterday on the zoo trip, and she said she’d help me join the theatre group.’
‘I see. Well you’ll have to go back up to Walton Street, turn left, and St. Paul’s is the big building with the stone pillars opposite the Post Office, but go in quietly mind, and don’t disturb the rehearsal.’ The boy thanked her and pedalled off.
‘A lad just called for our Angela,’ she said to Stan.
‘What do you mean? A boyfriend, like.’
‘I’m sure of it.’
‘Well, she’s far too young. I won’t allow it.’
‘Neither will I, but he was dead posh with lovely manners.’
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