‘Makes no difference. He can sling his hook.’ He tutted with bewilderment. ‘Our girl’s growing up to be a right stunner and I think we’re going to have trouble when she gets going.’
‘What do you mean, gets going.’
‘You know full well what I mean. It’s the swinging sixties, isn’t it? They grow up far too fast these days, and fast is the word. Skirts up round their pants, and all that talk of free love.’
‘Well, our Angela won’t be part of that cheap rubbish. We’ve brought her up to be a good girl and she won’t be misbehaving herself.’
‘All I’m saying is that it’s going to be tricky. She looks much older than she is, already.’
‘Well, we never had no trouble with our Brenda.’
‘Edie, love. Brenda grew up when the world was a sane and sensible place. Mark my words, we’ll be in for a rough ride.’
‘What about her doing that television commercial work, then? Larking around with a lot of actors, and the like. We’ve told her she can do it if she passes the audition.’
‘And we won’t be going back on our word. Miss Daley assured us she’d be properly supervised.’
Edie exhaled loudly. ‘It doesn’t seem two minutes ago when she was a helpless little dot in nappies. I thought that was the hard part, and it always used to be.’
Stan shook his head. ‘I’m just worried we’ve bitten off more than we can chew.’
‘Don’t be so bloody stupid. We’ve just got to keep our guards up.’
But Stan stared into space, knowing that the ‘old guards’ really were being swept away by an army of mouthy, spoilt, immoral radicals he knew they’d be powerless to oppose.
April 2014
Monks Bottom
Iopened the French doors to let Howie in, trying to laugh off the mess I must have looked.
‘I just wanted a wee word.’
‘Come in Howie. You look frozen. I’ll make you a cup of tea. Let’s go into the kitchen. Pull your boots off, and throw your coat on the floor.’
The kitchen was, like everywhere else, cold and unlived in, but I turned on an ancient fan heater, and got together a tray of tea. Whatever the ‘wee word’ was, it seemed to have been forgotten, with both of us crouched over our cups at the kitchen table, conversing with the ease of old friends. It might have been small talk, but it was deeply comforting to hear him speak about the garden with such obvious love. What was fully out in flower, and what was poised to bloom. What was thriving, what needed urgent attention, and his admiration for Mummy as a brilliant plantswoman. ‘She was a gifted artist,’ he said. ‘Her eye for colour and form was superb. Some garden designers just cram stuff in for an instant show, but she planted for maturity, seeing the big picture in future years. This place really ought to be open to the public.’ He then shyly told me of the thoughts he had in the quiet of his evenings, facing the fact that he’d soon have to leave the gardens behind. ‘I suppose I’m in love with the place,’ he said, but his sweet words jerked my fragile state into action, and I began to cry again.
‘Hey,’ he said, moving his chair close up to mine, and placing a hand on my arm. ‘Dinae fash yourself,’ he soothed, which was probably Glaswegian for, ‘don’t get yourself into such a state’. I held my breath, trying to stop myself, but I was in for a full bawling breakdown. Poor, darling Mummy, and her lovely garden, were the last straws that broke my camel’s back of miserable overload. God knows why what happened, happened. It was all me. I couldn’t stop myself. I moved my face to his and kissed him on the lips. And I really kissed him, putting my hand to the back of his neck, pressing my lips hard against his, opening my mouth, and finding his tongue. His returned kiss was just as eager and willing, and his strong stubble grazed my cheeks.
I pulled away, seeing his face was wet with my tears. ‘I’m sorry,’ I blustered. ‘I don’t know why I did that.’
‘You needed it, that’s why you did it, but you dinae need to go all Victorian on me. It was very nice, though.’
He smiled at me, even mildly laughing, and I looked at him with scrutiny. His eyes were crystal green and his face strong with intelligence. His teeth were white and even. How did this man of such obvious strength and sensitivity slip into the gutter? I drew in my breath with a shudder, trying to haul myself into sensible state, nervously embarrassed that I’d made more than a fool of myself. ‘I’m so ashamed,’ I said. ‘I don’t normally go around throwing myself at strange men.’
‘I’m actually not that strange, Mrs ...’
‘I’m not Mrs anything. I’m Miss Penney. Miss single-parent-and-shat-on. I’ve been on my own for a year now and it’s ...Oh, it’s not the sex. It’s ...’
‘It’s the loneliness, isn’t it?’
I nodded. ‘You won’t tell anyone, will you?’
‘Oh, aye. I’ll go in the pub tonight and brag I shagged ye.’
‘You wouldn’t!’
He laughed loudly. ‘Of course I wouldn’t. I don’t go to the pub anyway.’
‘Because of the demon drink?’ I said, before I could stop myself.
‘No, lass. My name’s Howie Sinclair, and I’m not an alcoholic. It’s just that my contract with the project forbids it.’ He got up. ‘Best I be off, the now.’
‘What was the word you wanted?’
‘Oh, aye. I told Father Crowley you wanted me to stay on. He said he saw you yesterday and you didn’t mention it, so I just wondered if you’d changed your mind.’
‘I forgot. Truly. Alot on my mind. Of course, we want you to stay on. My brother-in-law’s dealing with it by official letter, but I’ll ring Lawrence and confirm.’
‘Thanks.’ He stood quite still for a moment, and I thought he had something to say – maybe trying to think of a parting shot that would sign off my ‘silly mistake.’ But all he said was, ‘Goodbye, Miss Penney. And thanks for the tea.’
‘Goodbye, Howie.’ I went to say something as well – no idea what – but he put his finger to his lips and moved out of the kitchen.
I sat down again, my body glowing, and with what must have been a dopey expression on my face. Well. How lovely was that? Why ever did I do it, but what a bloody treat. I also had to conclude that if he’d shown even the slightest sign of ‘taking things a step further’ I wouldn’t have had the strength to say no.
August 1967
Jericho
Garvie entered the echoing space of the large old church where the company were rehearsing the musical, Summer Holiday, word for word, and note for note, of the popular film production starring Cliff Richard and The Shadows. But if Garvie was expecting Angela to be cast in the minor role of flaky Barbara, the love interest, he was in for a shock. No. She was playing Don, the Cliff Richard lead part, and hardly ever off stage. Her tall, slim figure perfect for the role, wearing tight jeans, a boy’s loose check shirt, and her hair pulled up beneath a straw pork-pie hat. Her voice, both speaking and singing, grittily low, and animated with the confident tones of a professional actress.
He secreted himself in a darkened corner to watch her climbing out of a flimsy plywood set-prop of a London bus, exchanging jokey dialogue with the chorus, and launching into a rendition of Bachelor Boy. Even dressed as a boy she was pretty cool. And how cool was this fab brown girl. Why had he been a perfect pig to her?
The cast broke off for a pep talk from the director, but she was so absorbed in going over movements with the group he couldn’t catch her eye. At last a halt was called, and after goodbyes, and goodnights, and last minute comments, she slung her duffle bag over her shoulder and walked, unaware of him, towards the large double doors that led out onto the wide Palladian forecourt.
Angela was just going down the steps when she heard a voice calling her. ‘Angela. Angela.’ She stopped and turned, jolting with shock. Why was that dreadful boy here? Was he going to be spiteful again, or maybe he’d come to say sorry. She thought quickly, and decided to be confident and icily acerbic.
‘What do you want?’
‘Why bother?’
‘Because I was ...well ...I was pretty nasty to you.’
‘Yes, you were. You knew you were being hateful and horrible so why did you do it.’
‘I just do things I don’t mean.’
She paused. ‘Then you must be a lunatic. Right. You’ve said your piece. Was there anything else?’
‘I wondered if I might join the theatre group. I can paint a bit. Do scenery and design things.’
‘Aren’t you away at school?’
‘I’m here for the long vacs with not much to do. I’d like to get involved.’
‘Too bad. We’ve got all the stage hands we want, thanks.’
‘Oh. Oh, well ...’
She turned on her heels. ‘I must be off. Back home to the slums.’ She walked off without looking back, elated at her witty, put-down words. And why would she want him to stick around anyway. She was in love, love, love. Deeply in love with someone she was sure was very much in love with her too.
Early October
1967
The choir had assembled and, as usual, Piers rang a small hand bell to call order. ‘Good evening, choir. Before we start I have some very sad news to announce. Our dear Master, Sir Charles Warlock, sadly passed away from a stroke last night.’ A loud gasping was heard, followed by whispering words of sorrow. ‘His support of the choir was immense, and you gave him huge pleasure in performance. I will now be preparing the music for his memorial service, and you will, of course, be taking a major part. I’ll certainly be including Faure’s In Paradisum, so I thought we could re-visit it now. Angela, could you please hand out the scores.’
At the end of the session, when everyone was filing out, talking in sad voices about Sir Charles, he called her over. ‘How are you feeling now about that bother with Garvie?’
‘Oh, I’ve forgotten all about it,’ she beamed. ‘He came and apologised, actually.’
‘Good. I was wondering if you’d be happy to sing a solo at Sir Charles’s memorial. The Domine Deus from Vivaldi’s Gloria. It was a piece he loved, and he so admired you. Your voice is becoming a true mezzo, and I think you’re ready for it.’
With a mixture of pride and passion Angela gazed at him, beaming broadly and feeling a huge magnet of what must be his deep love for her. ‘Of course I’ll say yes,’ she gushed.
‘Do you know it at all?’ She shook her head. ‘Then can you spare an hour or so on Saturday? I’m tied up with the choristers all morning, so can you come to my house around one o’clock. Just round the corner. 25, Savile Road. Merryn and Carrie are down in Wales with her parents, to rest up before the babies come, so we can have a spot of lunch together and be nice and quiet.’
‘Alright, then,’ she said shyly. ‘That would be fine.’ Alright, then? More than alright, and she could hardly stop herself from leaping up and punching the air.
‘Terrific,’ he replied. ‘I’ll be arranging it for oboe and cello accompaniment, but you can practice with me on keys.’
Angela’s heart danced. He loves me. He really, really, loves me. Lunch together, and a whole afternoon of just him and me. No bonkers wife. No snotty child. Just his heavenly undivided attention.
But any thoughts of bliss were suddenly dashed when a breathless lodge porter rushed into the chapel. ‘Dr Penney, sir. Your mother-in-law’s on the phone in the lodge. Your wife’s – you know – started a bit early. They’ve called an ambulance.’ Piers ran off without saying goodbye.
May 1968
Milham Ford School, Oxford
Ablack gown flapped like a bat’s wings as Miss Gray the headmistress, swept into the room. Silver–haired, and with a lined, baggy face, she made no eye contact as she placed herself behind a large oak desk. No words of welcome or re-assurance followed, and Stan and Edie, unsure why they’d been summoned, sat awkwardly. She started with no preamble, mumbling as if she had a fused jaw.
‘Angela’s fourteen now, and there are some issues I need to discuss concerning her future.’
Edie sighed audibly. ‘It’s not her ...you know ...trouble with her being ...? We do worry a bit, sometimes.’
‘If you mean because of her ethnic origins, of course not. There’s certainly no ignorance like that here. She’s a very popular girl and in all the top sets. On those strengths she was selected to take Latin.’ She looked up and peered myopically. ‘That means I would expect her to enter the sixth form in the fullness of time, and would currently tip her for a place at a top University.’
Stan and Edie turned to gape at each other. ‘Blimey,’ said Edie. ‘We knew she was bright, but we never thought University was on the cards.’
‘Then what’s the problem,’ asked Stan.
The headmistress, it seemed, was concerned with her extracurricular activities. It was commendable she’d passed Grade 4 piano and violin, was a member of the Tavistock College Choir, and about to play Lydia Languish in the Oxford Youth Theatre’s production of The Rivals. However, she was highly displeased, nay furious, to learn she’d taken several days off this term to take part in a television advertisement for frozen fish fingers, and would be doing the same next week to model for a clothing catalogue.
Stan and Edie exchanged glances. ‘Are we in bother?’ said Stan. ‘It’s just that these people came to the St. Paul’s School looking for child actors and they picked her up straight away. The modelling offer came afterwards – we didn’t put her up for it.’
‘Mr and Mrs Zendalic. Can I make myself quite clear? Places at this school are competitive and hard won, and it’s my duty to ensure that my pupils take the privilege seriously. In September she’ll go into the Lower Fifth and will be expected to concentrate on preparation for her ‘O’ levels. Thus, it’s your duty to guide her to a solid academic future and curtail some of her activities, especially these blatant commercial ventures. Attendance is compulsory by law, apart from illness of course, so any more missed days and she’ll be asked to leave. I’ll be writing you an official letter, of course. Oh, and one more thing. Her hairstyle. It might suit the needs of trashy fashion but it’s what I would describe as rather common. Do get her to tone it down, please.’
The couple, both now nearing sixty, and irredeemably overweight, lumbered wearily back down the long school drive, unable to articulate the issues set before them. ‘We’ll have to talk it over with Peg and Ted,’ they said.
With the poise and look of an adult, Angela was now a good few inches taller than both her mothers, and was growing more striking every day. Willowy and graceful, beautifully spoken with impeccable manners, and an air of confidence well beyond her years; such a joy, they all said, from the stereotype moody teenager. But, as Miss Gray had also commented, her current hairstyle was actually detested by her parents as well. The headstrong teenager had declared that she wanted to be part of ‘the scene’, and although some black women in the media (they insisted now that they were called black) were learning how to straighten their hair, the pop music world was dominated by The Jackson Five, who all wore an overlarge fuzzy dome called ‘The Afro’. Thus, her lustrous silky ringlets had been cut, furiously back-combed and teased out with a lethal looking spiked comb.
The letter that arrived from the esteemed headmistress (minus the comment about her hairstyle) was duly shown to Angela who received it with a rare display of fury. ‘I work really hard,’ she shouted. ‘I do everything right. I do my homework and I get good marks. I know for a fact I’m in the top three in my class, and they end up being this mean. Well, I won’t be forced to give up a thing so they can go to blazes. OK. I’ll leave rotten Milham and go back to Barnie. I don’t want to go to University anyway. I want to go on the stage.’
But the following day, whilst she was at the, Critchlows the issue was solved by Peggy, with no reference to Ted and his wisdom. ‘Why can’t we send her to Bevington House on the Banbury Road? Being private it
’s bound to treat her talents as part of her education, and look more kindly on any time taken out.’
Edie and Stan both tutted loudly. ‘Don’t be daft. Where are we going to find the money?’
‘I’ll pay,’ said Peggy, smiling with a surge of joyous altruism. ‘I can well afford it, and it’ll give me more pleasure than you realise.’
After protesting heavily that they couldn’t possibly accept, they capitulated. ‘Oh, Peg,’ said Edie. It’s so generous of you. What a lucky little girl she is. Mind you, she’s a right madam these days, and if she plays up we might be back to square one. If she does go private, though, she can stump up any earnings she makes to go towards the fees.’ Peggy had a better idea. Her future earnings could be put in a high interest Building Society account, and given to her when she became of age.
Angela re-acted by dancing round the room, and giving her darling Auntie a surfeit of hugs and kisses. Yes, please. She’d be more than happy to attend Bevington House. Diana Cumberledge, her best friend from choir, was a pupil there, and it sounded alot more fun than Milham Ford. But her terms also included that ‘in view of the fact that I’ll be able to accept more ‘gigs’ I’ll need three pounds a week from my earnings as expenses’. The trade off, firmly stated by Peggy, was that she kept up her Latin classes in case she decided she would go to University after all. ‘No problem,’ she said. ‘I knew more Latin than anyone in my class before I started it. Dr Penney always talks us through the translations, so we know the meaning of what we’re singing about.’
But in the quiet of her own time Edie began to worry that this Bevington House place would be full of snooty debutantes, and her lovely, trusting brown girl, from old down-at-heel Jericho, would end up being a fish out of water.
July 1968
Ripley Court School, Surrey
Garvie Warlock, with cast-down eyes, and a wry smile of amusement, trailed three steps behind his mother as she viewed his prizewinning ‘O’ level art exhibition. He was waiting for an explosion to come, and although silence reigned, he knew it wouldn’t be long.
Who Was Angela Zendalic Page 12
