Who Was Angela Zendalic

by Mary Cavanagh

  ‘What do you mean you missed all that?’

  ‘It was the rotten war. I was stuck on a minesweeper and ...’

  Peggy interrupted him with a sharp jolt that nearly brought her to her feet. ‘What are you telling me?’ And what was he telling her?

  He cast his eyes to the floor. ‘June and I were married in ’43 and Jolly Jack Tar whisked me off straight away. Like most Londoners she was convinced the bombing was all over so she stayed with my parents. Bobby she called him, but I never saw him. Not even a photo. Both of them killed in a doodlebug air raid when he was ten weeks old. My mum and dad copped it as well.’

  ‘Oh, Ted.’ Tears filled her eyes and she moved closer to him, grabbing his hand, genuinely wanting to throw herself in his arms. ‘Oh, Ted. You never said.’

  ‘I didn’t want to say. It’s the past. You had a miserable time too, what with losing your hubby and all that. Lots of bloody awful things happened in the war. I’ve got over it, and I haven’t got over it, if you know what I mean. Don’t say nothing at home, will you. No-one knows and that’s the only way I can cope with it.’ He then slapped his hand firmly down on his thigh. ‘Oh, Peg. We can’t let this baby go, can we? Maybe I can get transferred back up to the Met. We can still get married. Bring the baby up together, and sod what everyone thinks.’

  She wiped her eyes. How easy it would be to say yes, but yes would mean she’d be agreeing to a life of lies, and in some strange way would mean she was rejecting Joseph. ‘Ted, I love you, but I’ll never be in love with you. Joseph was the love of my life, and I still pray that one day he’ll come back to me. It wouldn’t work.’

  He hesitated and puffed out. ‘Then in the words of the prophet Isaiah all three of us are fucked, aren’t we?’

  January 1954

  St. Olave’s Home, Kensal Green

  2nd January 1954

  Dear Ted,

  Thank you so much for the lovely quilted dressing gown. So cosy and warm - just what I need for this place. It was a very generous thought, and it fits me well, apart from the obvious. The baby’s due on 15th February, so just over six weeks to go now. The so-called festive season was very dreary here. We were herded to church a few times with the Sisters, paraded in a crocodile like prisoners, but apart from that everything was ‘as per’.

  I’m trying to stay positive but I’m actually in despair. Yesterday Sister Gertrude told me there were 20,000 children up for adoption last year. She said that with mine, being a half-caste, there certainly won’t be a rush to take him or her, so it would have to go to Dr Barnardo’s to wait its turn. Can you imagine that? A long queue of kind and loving couples moving down a line of cots, scooping up all the white babies to pass off as their own, and leaving mine behind without a second look. It breaks my heart, but what can I do? Why does the world have to be this way?

  Ted, having your friendship is a bonus I don’t deserve, and you are a true Christian, unlike the so-called Sisters of Mercy, of whom God must be wholly ashamed.

  With much love,

  Peggy

  10th January 1954

  Dear Peg,

  It was good to hear from you, but I’m broken up to hear you’re going through such a bad time. My loving thoughts are with you, dear, and I wish I could wave a magic wand and make things better.

  I’ve told Stan and Edie I’m in regular touch with you, and they send their love. They’re pleased you’re enjoying ‘the course’, and I know they think we’re ‘spooning’.

  I’ve booked a day off on 27th Jan, so expect me then, unless there’s a sudden drama.

  With all my love. Keep your chin up.

  Ted

  The Sisters of Mercy, as well as showing no glimmer of kindness to the young women in their so-called care, also failed to provide any form of preparation for their ordeal to come. Their role, as supercilious gaolers, only equipped them for contempt, and any small gobbit of help or information about the birth procedure came from the motley group of other inmates. Their basic knowledge was varied, from the country girls who’d lived beside farm animals all their lives, to those of sad innocence, who could only think that their abdomens would suffer a terrifying explosion. Any knowledge to be had was passed around in a mish-mash of truth and old wives’ tales, and (in intense competition) the guardians of the inner knowledge jostled to rise to the top of the pecking order. The dormitories thus echoed with horror stories, conjecture, and lies.

  Even if Peggy had wanted to join the gang she found she wasn’t included in their powwows. It wasn’t that she set out to be superior, but being the only one of relatively advanced age and quiet nature, was seen as ‘a stuck-up bitch’ by the young girls who could only relate to their peer groups. The lack of eye contact, the turned backs, and the wide space on passing could have destroyed her, but her weeks at the home had conditioned her not to expect any form of friendship or humanity.

  Her only saviour was Ted and, as promised, he’d struggled up to see her on the coach, battling through driving sleet and the bitter austerity of the Underground. He walked into the visitor’s room, bringing in the entrenched cold, and knocking back the hood of the thick duffel coat he’d had since his Navy days. ‘Hello, duck.’

  After kissing her on the cheek he sat down to unpack a simple picnic, brought up from the kitchen of No.55. Luncheon meat sandwiches, hard-boiled eggs, a couple of Edie’s homemade fruit cakes, and a bar of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk to share. He’d even brought a flask of Camp coffee. ‘Well, you never get offered a hot drink here, do you? Callous old bags.’ Ted then shivered, made a face like a pantomime villain, looked round theatrically, and shovelled two large scoops of coal on the fire. And so they pulled up their chairs to the hearth and ate the little feast together. Peggy knew she would never forget how much she enjoyed that short afternoon, with the sweet companionship of familiarity and the hot glow of the fire. It wasn’t until they’d eaten that he revealed his idea. ‘Look, Peg. I’ve been thinking. How about finding the baby a foster home?’

  Peggy contemplated. It would be a perfect solution, but would there ever be a time when she could admit to being the birth mother, and have him or her back? It might be insecure as well. What if the foster mother decided she’d had enough and wanted to move the baby on? They passed the next hour on the ifs and buts, and the why’s and wherefores. So often she’d set up a dream scene of Joseph returning to her, and it was this one thought that convinced her. But it was a thought she kept to herself. Ted’s only reply would have been to stop kidding herself.

  ‘Can you see what you can find out for me?’ she said. ‘I daren’t trust the Sisters an inch.’

  ‘Don’t you worry, love. It’s safe in my hands.’

  ‘Thanks, Ted. I’ll need good references, of course, and it must be somewhere safe and secure. Kind people. People who’ll give the baby lots of love.’

  ‘I’ll make sure of it. I doubt I’ll be able to get up here again before the birth so I’ll write and let you know if anything comes up.’

  It was time for him to go and he stood up. ‘Right, I’m off to the office with my PC Rawlings helmet on. Make sure that when the baby arrives the old crows send me a telegram at the station.’

  ‘They’ll ask for the money in advance.’

  ‘They’ll get it, laced with a spoonful of arsenic.’

  Early February 1954

  Jericho

  Stan, off to a Union meeting, pulled on his gabardine raincoat, flopped on his cap, and tied his scarf. ‘I won’t be late.’

  Ted and Edie, set for quiet night in, sat either side of the flickering fire as Henry Hall’s Guest Night played on the wireless. She, darning a sock, and he, pretending to read the paper. How comfortable he always was with her. Only fifteen years his senior but with the matronly, motherly air of tender security that always made him feel something of a boy. He’d been trying for days to pluck up the courage to say what was on his mind, and the opportunity was perfect. ‘Edie, I’ve got something to ask you.’

&nb
sp; ‘Fire away.’

  ‘When I was up seeing Peg last week I dropped into the Wood Green nick and had a chat to an old mate of mine. He told me in passing he’s trying to help someone who’s got herself in the club. Only a young kid. The father was in a jazz band; a coloured bloke what’s done a runner. You know the score. The thing is, she’s engaged to a soldier what’s stationed out in Hong Kong, and he’ll be back in the spring. She’s been packed off to stay with a relative in the sticks, but they’ll need to get shot of it as soon as it’s born. Sometime round the middle of Feb. It’s up for adoption, but there’s no takers so far and they’re looking for a foster home. No luck there, either. Do you know anyone round here who might go in for that sort of thing?’

  ‘The only one I know is Connie Beale up Walton Crescent. She’s a saint. No idea how she’s fixed but I can pop up and find out.’

  ‘That’d be good. Ta very much.’

  ‘I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Ted. About that fostering thing. Connie Beale’s full up, but we got talking and one thing led to another. She come up with the idea that I could do it.’

  ‘You!’ Ted blinked.

  ‘And what’s wrong with me?’ Edie snapped. ‘I’d love to have a baby to look after again.’

  ‘Blimey. I thought you’d be past all that malarkey.’

  ‘Bloody cheek. I’m forty-five, not Methuselah. Etty Bowler’s older than me and she’s just had number nine. Mind you, she’s as thick as glue.’ She turned her head and stared at the wall. A plain double-chinned face of no pretensions; a face of goodness and complete trust. ‘Stan and me always wanted more kiddies. Truth is, I had two more after our Brenda. Stillborn, they were. What they call blue babies. Something wrong with their blood. Nothing I really understood, but Dr Peck told us we had to pack up trying. Now it seems our Brenda’s having trouble producing, so I’m still missing out. Not that she’s round the corner anyway. I’ve had a long talk to Stan and he’s more than willing.’

  ‘It’ll be a – you know – a dusky baby, mind. You alright with that?’

  ‘Brown, green, sky blue pink. Doesn’t bother me. I’d just be happy to give a home to the poor little mite. What a start in life. Turfed out like an unwanted puppy.’

  ‘It’ll be well paid. Private deal and all found. No expense spared.’

  ‘That’s not really the issue.’

  Ted laughed. ‘Ha! I’ve just shot myself in the foot, haven’t I? The issue is that I’ll have to vacate my room.’

  ‘Well, you won’t be able to cope with a crying baby, what with your shifts and all, and we’ll need to put in a proper upstairs bathroom. It’s high time you got your own place, anyway. And a wife.’

  ‘Peg doesn’t want to marry me.’

  ‘Then you’ll just have to find someone who does.’

  April 2014

  Farthing Cottage, Monks Bottom

  My home, Farthing Cottage, was aptly named. A tiny thatched-and-beamed mid-terrace, dating from sixteen something or other, with the nostalgic charm of good Olde Merrie England. And with Monks Bottom being a conservation village every day-tripper made it their solemn duty to trudge round every nook and cranny, stopping outside my garden gate to declare how splendid it would be to live in such a time-warped idyll. But it wasn’t. Being wedged between two similar properties, both owned by London weekenders, I lived largely in isolation, banged up in a doll’s house with two boisterous little boys of seven and nine; a daily strain that often made me want to rush out into the lane and scream for sanctuary. But I’d bought it for precisely the same reason as the gawpers, so I’d only got myself to blame.

  Getting the boys to bed was a daily exhaustion that would try the patience of Mother Teresa and tonight (as if they knew I’d had a thumping great shock and craved silence) they were playing up with more gusto than usual. Running around the tiny sitting room, jumping on each other’s backs, yelling with mock agony, and trying to wrestle each other to the floor. And then, with every delaying tactic in the book trotted out, they looked for non-existent toys, hid behind the furniture, and pelted each other with cushions. I’d just managed to herd them towards the tiny spiral staircase when Shea suddenly remembered an essential duty. ‘I haven’t kissed the cats.’ He ducked out from beneath my arm, followed by Finn squirming round in a half circle.

  Agnes, our lowly farm-bred moggie, had rather had her nose put out of joint lately, with the arrival of the homeless Dowland, Pa’s refined British Blue. One would have thought she’d have been thrilled to be paired up with a canine version of Mr Darcy, but their daily fur-flying scraps were worthy of an African savannah. But the arch enemies, having settled down to a rare truce, were wise enough to ignore any tender affection, and the boys were forced to give in.

  A bath, hair wash, and supervised teeth cleaning (as per the strict instructions of the dental hygienist fuehrer), and they were thankfully in pyjamas, awaiting their bedtime story; a ritual demanded by The Good Parent Police to include tales of schoolboy wizards, witches, lions, wardrobes, and the inhabitants of middle earth. However, every word I read tonight was overwritten with two blurred words; Angela and Zendalic. My sisters had asked me if I needed support, and I said I didn’t, but now, being completely alone, I wished I had someone to tell, and share the bewilderment over a glass of wine.

  Gradually the boys grew drowsy and I closed the book. Finn snuggled down while Shea climbed up the ladder to his top bunk and checked his mobile phone. ‘Daddy’s left me a text,’ he said sleepily. ‘He wants to take us to Legoland on Sunday. Can we go?’

  ‘Only if he talks it over with me first,’ I replied.

  ‘You won’t shout at each other, will you,’ followed a tired voice from the lower bunk.

  ‘No,’ I sighed, ‘there won’t be any shouting.’ Another deeper sigh. Yes, of course they could go. They loved their days out with their father, whom they saw as funny, loving, energetic and glamorous, even though he was a lying, cheating bastard who’d destroyed their lives (and mine) to shag a stick insect five years older than me. It would be evil to shatter their devotion, but I’d still make sure that Mark jumped through the hoops of our agreed ritual. Did I hate him? Hmm ...I’m not sure, but I know I hated the fact that I was lonely, unemployed, hard-up, ragged and dog-tired, when I’d truly loved him and had been as faithful as Greyfriars Bobby. After many kisses goodnight the boys were heading for the land of nod before I closed the door.

  I walked down the stairs, catching sight of myself in a mirror. No Zeta-Jones magic tonight. I was pale, hoody-eyed, and my hair looked a mess. Not a bed-head sexy mess, but a mad wife in Jane Eyre tangle. My hair had always been my most outstanding feature; dark, thick, and curly, so was it something I’d inherited from Angela? But Pa had brown curls, didn’t he, so maybe not. I stared in the mirror, this time more intently. What parts of me were from her? What did she look like? How old was she when I was born? How old is she now?

  With a feeling of utter terror I headed to the computer, to look up all the ‘find your ancestors’ websites.

  February 1954

  St. Olave’s Home

  10th February 1954

  My Dear Peg,

  I talked to Edie a couple of nights ago about finding a foster home, and I spun a yarn about a mate knowing a girl what’s got into trouble with a fella in a jazz band. Now – I’ve got some very exciting news. You won’t believe this! She wants to take the baby in herself and Stan’s more than happy for her to do it. Of course, she’s got no idea about the baby being yours, and please God, believe me, she never will, but it’s the best news ever, isn’t it. Oh, Peg, please say yes. I’ve agreed to move out so the baby can have my room, but it’s high time I shifted, anyway. They’re also going to put a proper upstairs bathroom in the spare. Something Edie’s wanted for years and now she’s got the excuse.

  I think the rules say you’ve got to look after it yourself for the first six weeks, so I guess the handover date will be around the beginning of April. That’ll giv
e them plenty of time to get everything ready. Won’t it be good? You’ll be able to see it growing up and even wheel it out in its pram to give Edie a break. When it’s older we can take it for days out together. As for the long-term, we’ll just have to play it by ear. Walk, don’t run, as my old mum used to say.

  Edie’s enquired with the Social Services, and as long as ‘the mother’ and the health visitor are satisfied there’ll be no other hoops to jump through. All financial dealings and agreements will have to go through your solicitor, and as you’re resident in Kensal Green you can appoint one in London. In addition, you can specify, of course, that your identity be strictly concealed.

  The going rate is £2.10s per week, plus a lump sum of £30.00 to pay for all the essentials, like nappies and the cot and pram etc. If you want to remove the baby from their care for any reason your solicitor must give Stan and Edie six weeks’ notice. That’s all. They won’t ever be able to see the baby’s birth certificate, but if it’s needed your Solicitor will deal with it under strict rules of sub judice (legally private). Also, I gather, it’s usual for the foster parents to call the baby by the mother’s chosen Christian name.

  If you’re in agreement will you write back to me straight away, and I’ll tell ‘my mate’ that it’s all set up. I’ll then move out to the station lodging house in St. Aldates so Charlie Wright can start on the bathroom. I shall also (as your brother) write an official letter of intent to the Sisters on your behalf. There’ll be no messing about with PC Rawlings!

  I will be thinking of you in the next days, and look forward to hearing some news.

  With all my love to you,

  Ted

  p.s Hot off the press! I’ve just put in an offer for No.17 St Barnabas Street, so I’ll only be round the corner. I’ve also decided to study for my Sergeants exams.

  With Peggy being excluded from any in-house talk on what to expect when labour started (true or otherwise), she’d bought a copy of the only self-help book available; The Revelation of Childbirth – The Principles and Practice of Natural Childbirth, written by the renowned American guru, Dr Grantly Dick Read. She’d read it so often she nearly knew every page off by heart, and exactly what to expect.