Who Was Angela Zendalic

by Mary Cavanagh

  All my love,

  Auntie Peggy

  12th September 1972

  Folly Farm Cottage

  Fair Cross Green

  Dear Mum and Dad

  It has taken me alot of soul searching to write to you, but I really do want us to be happily reconciled. I’m sorry to hear that dad is unwell and you’re not coming home for a while, but maybe you can find it in your hearts to write to me. I know Auntie Peggy has told you I’m expecting a baby, and we are so looking forward to him or her coming into our lives. Can you please try to understand that Piers and I are just like any other normal couple. We’re very much in love and really, really happy together.

  You were quite wrong in imagining that we had any sort of relationship when I was young, and it wasn’t until we met up again in May that we were able to admit our love for each other. Please write to me at the above address, so we can all re-unite again. This letter is all I can do, and if you insist that you’ll never speak to me again, then I will have to accept it.

  With much love, your daughter,

  Angela

  April 2014

  Monks Bottom

  No, we didn’t just rush into the house and throw our clothes off. There were no lip-bruising slobbers, or a quick hard union up against the wall of the hall. No. It was lovely. Slow and careful. One of the guest rooms chosen, with the warm April sunshine coming through the window, and God, did I gasp at his wonderful body, hard-firmed by hours of intense physical work. ‘I might be a disappointment,’ he said, averting his eyes. ‘I’ve not had the kick of caffeine for a very long time,’ but there was only sweet smiles and kisses between us.

  Love in the afternoon. The blissful, hot slapping of our sweat soaked bodies and perfect fulfilment for us both. Love? Sex? Love and sex together is what man and woman were created for. Maybe. But does love really have to be part of the equation? What I felt for Howie, and what he felt for me, wasn’t really love, was it? It was a deep yearning for bodily pleasure. For whatever reason it had been many years for him (had to be prison) and for me a year of angry withdrawal from any sort of human touch, but what I felt was a kind of loving that we drowned in. An erotic dance that evoked every memory of passionate thrill for me, and giving to him what I tried to be an act of deep intent. And just in case you’re wondering there was not one dot of blue ink to be seen on his beautiful skin.

  Lying together, in quiet exhaustion, I could have asked him what his past was all about, but I didn’t. It was neither the time nor the place. Now he was just Howie. My lover. My guilty secret, and I was his. Did that heighten the passion? No. Not at all. We were as one, and love – the heart-stopping lurch of real love – may or may not have been hiding round the corner.

  We got up in the late afternoon, shoved a couple of ready-meal curries in the microwave, and I produced a bottle of wine from the fridge. ‘I’ve been off the stuff for so long two glasses will make me pissed,’ he said. And they did, so we went back to bed.

  At six o’clock, with Mark and the boys due back, I reluctantly got out of bed, drew my clothes on, and leaned down to look into the deep green of his eyes. ‘I really don’t want to go but I’ve got to. It was amazing. Wonderful. No regrets.’

  He pulled my head down, and we kissed gently. ‘It was. It was bloody great. No regrets either.’

  When Howie heard the front door close, he quickly ran across to his nursery bedroom to watch her go. To watch, with wonder, every tiny movement of her lovely body, and her long curly hair bouncing down her back in a bird’s nest of chaos. Probably the best deal he’d ever had from a woman, and he could tell she’d really wanted him as well. She, like himself, had been damaged by betrayal, and was hardened with anger, but she had the sweetest and most loving side, as just demonstrated by her love making, and the soft, kind attention she’d given to the poor lost soul that was her mother. Would it happen again? Yes, it would. He was certain of that. He was sure he could trust her. Any revelations that got back to Father Crowley would mean his contract was torn up, and any testimonials or references denied, but the end was in sight, anyway. And that reminded him he had to get a move on with his dissertation. He’d now add that he’d met the garden designer herself, ‘although sadly she is now suffering from a debilitating condition, and can no longer cope with the physical demands of gardening’.

  He dressed, removed his memory stick from the bedside table, and walked to the music room, pausing again to look hard at the painting of ‘Angela’ before he booted up. He now wanted that painting more than ever. The model’s body was a duplicate perfection of Sarah’s.

  I got back to the cottage just before Mark and the boys arrived back in a whirl of noise and excitement. Ten minutes of manic chatter followed about the huge displays they’d seen at Legoland; a Viking ship, the Houses of Parliament, a motorised cart circuit that they’d had ten ‘goes’ on (and had beaten Dad every time) and an army-type assault course. Even a scary fairground ride. ‘They’ve eaten,’ Mark said, cueing the boys to tell me about their McDonalds Happy Meals, a Dr Who goody-bag they’d been given, and other gabbled information about their fun-packed weekend. ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘You’re both worn out. Say thank you, and big hugs to Daddy.’

  ‘I’ll help you bath them,’ Mark said brightly, gathering the boys up without looking at me. The last thing I wanted was for him to stay, but the job was always a chore, and I was, (quite understandably) a bit zonked out with tiredness myself. So up to the bathroom we went as we’d always done as a couple; he attending to one boy, while I did the other. The story read, with us both taking turns, but tonight they were too sleepy for much. Cuddles and kisses all round. Promises from Mark of, ‘see you soon’, two little voices mumbling, ‘I love you, Dad,’ and their little eyes closing.

  Once downstairs he didn’t make to go. Oh, Mark, I pleaded silently, just bugger off. Leave me alone with my thoughts of the afternoon; to dream up my memories of Howie’s lovely body, and the utter bliss he’d given me. ‘Sarah,’ he said, in a gently pleading sort of voice. I sighed. What was coming now? ‘Marie-Claire and me. It’s all over. Really over.’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘It was all over weeks ago. You told me. Not that I give a shit.’

  ‘Please don’t be like that.’

  ‘Like what!’ I shouted. ‘Like I really care. Like I really give a toss about the ins and outs of your sordid love life.’

  He swallowed. ‘Sarah, you and that chap. The one who got out of the car yesterday. Is he ...is he a man in your life?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ I snapped (hoping I wasn’t protesting too much). ‘Of course he’s not. He’s on that rehab thing that Father Crowley runs. They have to behave like monks or they get kicked off. And even if he was, what business is it of yours?’

  ‘I was just hoping that we might become a bit closer. And so do the boys.’

  My mouth dropped open. ‘Have you been putting ideas into their heads?’

  ‘No. Well, a bit. We did talk about how lovely it would be if we were all together again.’

  I shoved his shoulder so hard he had to grab a chair to stay upright. ‘Get out, Mark. Go back to your poncey flat. Leave me alone. Just as I’ve been for the last year while you’ve been screwing your tart.’ I lowered my voice and spoke with venom. ‘Sod off. And don’t ever think about happy families again.’

  He walked out, clearly shaken and without reply. His car door slammed, and as he roared off I found I was shaking with anger, but when I turned round both the boys were standing at the bottom of the staircase, crying.

  I gathered them in my arms. ‘Darlings, Mummy and Daddy won’t ever be living together again. It was very naughty of Daddy to say what he did. Lots and lots of other boys and girls have parents who’ve split up, and they all have to find a way of working round it, but we both love you very, very much.’ I got them back to bed, bribing them with ‘a Kit-Kat feast’, (sod the teeth) and half an hour of what’s called ‘quality time’, trying to bluff my way into a
gentle explanation that their father and I could be ‘really good friends’ if we could only ‘sort our corners out.’

  With tears over, and being somewhat appeased, the boys rediscovered their tiredness and snuggled down. ‘Night, night, sleep tight,’ and after lots of kisses I put out the light.

  Dear God, it was exhausting. I got to the bottom of the stairs and with no misgivings lifted my mobile. ‘Howie. Will you walk down? Please. I’ve had a humdinger of a row with my ex, and I’m in a right old state. Please, Howie.’

  He was there within fifteen minutes. Dusk was falling and I drew the curtains. He held me gently and I stroked his smooth shaven head for comfort. No sex. No passion. Were we putting our toes on the nursery slopes of love? My fingers gently ran along the small strangely jagged scar that sat between his eye and his hairline; noticed by Shea who’d giggled that he had, ‘a Harry Potter scar, so he must be a grown-up wizard’. ‘How did you get it,’ I asked.

  He shook his head. ‘Sub judice.’

  ‘Please Howie. Tell me. Tell me something about yourself.’

  His voice was firm. ‘No. Not yet. I’m off the hook soon, and then I’ll tell you everything.’

  October 1972

  Folly Farm Cottage

  ‘Hello Auntie’

  ‘Hello darling. Give me a tick to settle myself down on the stairs. Any answer from mum and dad?’

  ‘No. Nothing at all. I wrote to Brenda as well last week but she hasn’t answered either. Oh, Auntie, I really can’t do any more, can I? If they don’t want anything to do with me then we’ll all have to get used to it.’

  ‘Ted said things are getting ridiculous. He said if you didn’t hear by Saturday we’re going to drive down on Sunday and put a stop to all this nonsense.’

  ‘That’s so kind of you. I hope it works. It’s the last chance, isn’t it.’

  ‘Is all well with you, darling?’

  ‘Fit as a fiddle. Lots of kicks and wobbles. The midwife said it’s quite a big baby, so we think it’s a boy.’

  ‘How’s the house coming on?’

  ‘At the rate of knots. Definitely be finished before the baby comes.’

  ‘Well, take care, darling, and I’ll let you know what news there is from Bournemouth.’

  ‘Ok then. You will say I send my love, won’t you.’

  ‘Of course I will.’

  ‘Bye bye, Auntie.’

  ‘Bye bye sweetheart.’

  ‘Hello Uncle Ted. How did it go?’

  ‘Tell you the truth, love, it didn’t go at all. They knew we were coming. Like I told you, I rang Norman at work to arrange it properly, but when we arrived there was no-one in. Obviously, they’d all gone out deliberately, and that was very mean, if you don’t mind me saying. All that way for nothing.’

  ‘Oh, that’s unforgiveable. So that’s it, then. There’s nothing more we can do, is there.’

  ‘No, my love. Nothing.’

  November 1972

  ‘Hello, darling.’

  ‘Hi Uncle Ted.’

  ‘I’ve just rung to ask you what you and Piers are doing for Christmas.’

  ‘Piers wants to go down to Wales to spend it with the children, and I’m quite happy about it. I was going to ask Auntie Peg if I could come to her.’

  ‘You don’t need to ask, do you? Loadsa nosh, and Morecombe and Wise on the telly. It’ll be good fun. Like in the old days.’

  ‘It’ll be odd without mum and dad, won’t it?’

  ‘You never know. There might be a climb down. Things always feel different at Christmas.’

  But by Christmas there’d been no repair to the fracture between parents, child, and fond old friends. Only great sadness and shoulder shrugging, with the absence of Stan and Edie an enduring elephant in the room. But for Peggy it was a time of utter delight. To act out the role of a fussy, solicitous mother, without the interference and organising of Edie. Free to talk to her daughter, and sit with her arm around her, and make sure she put her feet up. Being allowed to feel the sweet pushes and squirms of the baby. Discussing the luxury of the new John Radcliffe Maternity Hospital, and the plans for her discharge. Talking to Piers on the phone, like a real mother-hen mother-in-law, assuring him that Angela was ‘in good hands’, and that both she and Ted would take time off work, when the baby was born, to help out as head cooks and bottle washers.

  Over the five days of Angela’s stay Peggy had got into the habit of ‘tucking her in’ at bedtime, and staying for a short gossip with her beautiful daughter, sitting up in bed with her simian hair loose around her shoulders, and clasping her huge mound with pride. That night she smoothed her hands over the baby, with a wistful smile. ‘We’ve chosen names by the way. My choice is Sarah for a girl, and Piers’ wants Gabriel for a boy. After Fauré.’

  ‘Lovely names, darling.’

  ‘Auntie Peggy, did you ever want children? You’d have made a lovely mum.’

  A slight jolt, a little rush of colour, and she thought quickly. ‘It would have been nice, but after I lost my husband I never met anyone else I wanted to marry, so I had to accept it.’ She brightened. ‘But I’ve had you, haven’t I, and you were never second best.’

  ‘Auntie, Uncle Ted actually told me a while back about how he fell in love with you, years ago. It was a pity you didn’t feel the same. You’d have been good together.’

  ‘Love’s a funny thing, Angela. It either gets you or it doesn’t.’

  ‘But you loved your husband, didn’t you.’

  Thinking of Joseph as her only true husband, Peggy answered truthfully. ‘Oh, I did. I’d have followed him to the ends of the earth. He was wonderful. So handsome and charming, and courteous. We had lots of plans for a future life and then ...’ She raised her hands. ‘Fate got in the way. Life isn’t fair, is it.’ She looked at the floor, not quite knowing what to say next.

  ‘Life wasn’t fair for my real mother, was it,’ Angela continued. ‘Sometimes I feel furious with her for letting me go, but she was probably forced into it.’

  ‘She must have been,’ said Peggy. ‘Forced to let you go, that is. But wherever she is, she must think a thought every day about the sweet little baby girl who was wrenched out of her life.’

  ‘Piers said there’s talk of a new law coming in. That adopted children will be able to see their adoption file, and at least have a starting point if they want to find their real parents.’

  Peggy’s stomach plummeted with horror, the whole of her lower body contracted and she was overcome with a sudden feeling of nausea. What! She’d heard nothing about that. Please, please God, it was just a rumour. ‘And will you look, dear?’ she forced herself to say.

  ‘I might. Mum and dad are finished with me, so why shouldn’t I?’

  Peggy clenched her hands into to fists. ‘You might be disappointed, you know.’

  Angela nodded. ‘I know. It’s an awful gamble, but it would mean closure, wouldn’t it.’

  Peggy leaned over to kiss her goodnight on the forehead. ‘Whatever happens, you’ve always got me and Uncle Ted. You’re our Princess and you always will be.’

  Angela smiled as she snuggled down, heaving herself to lie in comfort. ‘Oh, I must sleep. I’m exhausted. Night, night Auntie.’

  ‘Night, night, Princess. Sweet dreams.’

  ‘And sweet dreams to you, Auntie,’ but sweet dreams would be the last thing that Peggy would have that night.

  January 1973

  Jericho

  Peggy hardly recognised the lined, dowdy woman who stood on the doorstep. Brenda! Her best friend from childhood, inseparable as little girls, who insisted they wore the same clothes, and wanted to be sisters, torn apart by going down their separate paths of life. But despite the passage of time there’d always been lasting affection, bound together by the glue of familiarity, and shared experiences.

  ‘Hello, Peg. Can I come in? It’s like an igloo next door.’

  ‘’Course you can. Come and sit by the fire. I’ll make you a cuppa.’
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  ‘So you’re still speaking to me then?’

  ‘’Course I am, silly. All this nonsense is hardly your fault, is it.’

  ‘I’m up here to cancel the tenancy,’ she said gruffly. ‘They’ve decided they can’t ever face coming back home.’

  ‘But this is madness, Bren. All they’ve got to do is contact Angie, and things’ll be back to normal in a shake of a dog’s tail. She really does want everything to get back on track. The baby’s due in five weeks.’

  ‘I know, but ...’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Look, Peg. Mum and dad spoiled her to death and they’re disgusted with her. The Piers thing was revolting enough but getting herself pregnant was the last straw. In mum’s day being up the duff without a ring on your finger was the biggest sin on the planet, and don’t I know it. I got earache every day about behaving myself and she’s gone off on a right royal rant over it all. She said everything’s turned out just as she’d predicted. Angie was bad blood, and must take after her real mother.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know. A whore who does it with black men. A flooozie with ever-open legs.’

  Peggy froze. So. For all Edie’s billing and cooing about poor little Angie, and nothing being wrong with her brown skin, and protecting her like a tigress against any sort of slur or innuendo, she was as hypocritical and prejudiced as those who referred to wogs and nig-nogs. Seeming not to notice Peggy’s stone face, Brenda continued. ‘Let’s face, it, Peg. Angie was mum’s hobby. I was traipsing round the world in army quarters, I couldn’t provide her with any grandkids, and she needed something to do. I was ever so happy for her to do it, but now it’s all gone to the bad I’m the one who’s got to pick up the pieces.’

  Peggy kept her eyes firmly on the table. Raising her voice was as rare as a swallow in winter, but she shouted out with all her strength. ‘Get out, Brenda! Get out, and don’t ever come back.’

  February 1973