‘Thank you. Kindness is the language which the deaf can hear, and the blind can see.’
‘Aha,’ said Lawrence, skewering himself heavily into the driving seat of his car. ‘Mark Twain, if I’m not mistaken.’
‘You’re not mistaken, Father,’ replied Howie, getting in himself, and clipping on his seat belt. ‘It’s amazing what you learn when you’ve got endless time on your hands.’
December 1969
Jericho
The minute Angela returned home, Edie knew something was wrong. No careless slam of the front door, or a cheerful call of, ‘Hello Mum’. The door clicked quietly shut, and she didn’t appear. Edie moved out into the passage to find her sobbing into her hands. ‘What’s up, my lover? she cooed, moving forward to take her in her arms, and to guide her into the back room. ‘Look, here,’ she said to Stan. ‘Our girl’s in a right old state.’
‘Dr Penney ...Dr Penney, said ...’
Edie tutted. ‘We know what he said – or was going to say. It’s all this stuff about The Royal Institution, isn’t it?’ Angela nodded. ‘He sounded me out in the spring and I sent him packing. Then he came round last week to talk it over again and I said that me and your Dad couldn’t get involved. We said it’s your decision. We’re not pushing. We only want you to be happy.’
Angela’s expression remained fixed as marble and she didn’t respond. ‘I’m going up to have a bath. Will you leave me alone for a bit.’
‘Bloody man,’ fumed Edie, after she’d gone upstairs. ‘All this high falutin’ talk of royal places has scared her half to death.’
‘Don’t be too hasty, duck. He’s been right good to her. Thought the world of her ever since she was a kiddy.’
‘Well, maybe this is a step too far.’
It was an hour before Angela appeared, dressed in worn jeans and a sweater, her hair now washed, combed out of the Diana Ross tangle and hanging down in her natural crisp curls. She took one of the old chairs at the side of a crackling coal fire, refused Edie’s offer of food, and looked up with a firm expression. ‘I’ve made a decision. I’m leaving choir.’
‘What?’ Edie and Stan gaped in unison. ‘But ...’
‘No buts. Everything else will carry on as normal, especially the SuperStars.’
‘What about the Christmas Carol concert?’ gasped Edie. ‘Your solo. You can’t let him down.’
She shrugged. ‘I’ve got tonsillitis. Permanent!’ Edie would normally have told her to stop being silly, and to behave herself, but on this occasion it wasn’t the time for any more conflict. It was the time for warm cuddles and understanding.
‘S’alright, love. We won’t push you. As I said, we only want you to be happy.’ But Angela wasn’t happy. He’d thrown her out, even though his willie had come up all big, and was sticking out of his trousers like a banana. And she’d have let him do it. She really would, even though she wasn’t quite old enough. He must have wanted to, but then he changed his mind and decided he didn’t want her after all, and how horrible was that.
Peggy reacted badly to the shock news. ‘You can’t give up, darling. After everything Dr Penney’s done for you, you can’t just flounce out on him. Please, dear. Don’t do anything rash.’
But Angela just stared at Peggy, with her eyes shining. ‘I hate choir, I hate everything. Leave me alone. What do you know?’
Peggy might as well have been punched. Her sweet pliable child was a child no more. Was this the ‘end of the road’? Had she lost her happy smiling little girl? She would soon be grown up, making her own decisions, and leaving her, and Ted, and Stan and Edie far behind. Disappearing into another world; the world of the swinging sixties and a rejection of the old order. A person of her own time with no thought or care for those scattered behind her. She tried again, pleading gently. ‘Darling, please. Don’t let Dr Penney down.’
‘He can go to hell,’ she snapped, jerking her head with anger.
‘Oh, Angela ...’
Angela made a sneering face, and repeated her words with caustic sarcasm. ‘Oh, Angela ...’
Losing her temper was unknown to Peggy, but she began to panic that her relationship with Angela really was on the brink of crashing. ‘Sweetheart. Don’t be hasty. He can do so much for you, and he wants you to be something special.’
‘Oh, you’re just like everyone,’ Angela shouted, tossing her curls. ‘Always dripping sugar, and treating me like a clockwork dolly. Why don’t you remember sometimes I’m a black dolly? You all try and pretend I’m not, and most of the time I pretend I’m not myself, but the minute I walk into the Royal Institution I won’t be Angela Zendalic with the lovely voice. I’ll be the little black girl who can sing a bit, and has to be ten times better than all the others.’ She raised her voice even higher. ‘And don’t keep going on about Piers Penney as if he’s some sort of saint. He’s a jerk.’ She began to howl and walked out of the room.
Peggy, on the verge of tears herself, turned to Stan and Edie. ‘Shouldn’t we talk this over with Dr Penney?’
‘Don’t you mention him!’ Edie rounded. ‘He’s the one what’s caused all this upset. If she leaves the choir, then so be it. All I want is my little girl to be happy. And as for this ‘I’m black’ stuff, she’s never come out with any of that nonsense before.’
‘Ah, but you have, Edie,’ said Stan quietly. ‘You can’t deny it. We’ve protected her from all that, and stuck up for her where needs be, but she’s not daft. She looks in the mirror every day, and she knows how tough it can be for ...well ...for people like her.’
Within a few minutes Angela returned to the room, having stopped crying. ‘Look,’ she said, firmly. ‘Can we pack up all this argie-bargie? I’m not going back, and that’s final.’
Dear Dr Penney
With great sadness I am writing to inform you that Angela has decided to leave The Choral Society. Her parents and I have talked to her at great length, hoping to change her mind, but I am afraid she’s resolute. We can only apologise if you find it as bewildering as we do, and hope it is a temporary decision. Naturally, we are very sorry that she will be letting you down so soon before the Christmas concert, but I’m afraid she can’t be persuaded to honour her commitment.
On behalf of Stan and Edie Zendalic, I would like to thank you for the many years that you have nurtured Angela’s voice, and shown her so much kindness. Once again, I apologise for this turn of events, and hope that in the fullness of time she ‘comes to her senses’.
Yours sincerely,
Peggy Edwards
May 1970
Jericho
26th May 1970
To all members of Tavistock Choral Society
Dear Friends
I am writing to inform you that I will be taking a sabbatical year from the end of Trinity term. I have been offered a teaching appointment at Harvard University in the USA, where I will be pursuing my interest in Baroque music and Renaissance polyphony. My wife, whom you will know as Merryn Hughes-Madoc, the Welsh harpist, will be working closely with the string department. It’s the first time we will have worked together, and are both looking forward to it very much. My three small daughters are also thrilled that they will be living in the land of Mickey Mouse and Tom and Jerry!
Until my return, at the start of Michaelmas Term 1971, the choir will be in the safe hands of Dr Nigel Barker, whom you have already met as my recent assistant.
I can hardly believe it’s seven years since I was appointed at Tavistock, and would like to say how supremely honoured I’ve been to work with such amazing talent.
So, with my sincerest wishes, I bid you farewell.
Piers Penney
Angela read the letter with an unchanging expression. ‘Good riddance to bad rubbish. Harvard’s welcome to him.’
‘Well, he obviously didn’t take you off the choir list, did he?’ said Edie. ‘Maybe he was always hoping you’d go back.’
‘No chance.’
‘Angie ...Did something happen with him? You k
now ...something wrong you can’t talk about.’
She shook her head. ‘The man’s a cretin.’
‘What’s a cretin, love?’
‘A person without a fully functioning brain.’
But had her adoration of him really faded? No. It had not. After a few weeks of miserable indulgence, with what she saw as ‘his rejection’, she began to realise that she’d never ever love anyone else.
August 1970
Angela’s eight ‘O’ level passes were celebrated by high tea at No.55, with her usual cast of supporters, but the star of the show sat with a downward look at the tablecloth, and very little in the way of conversation. ‘To your future life, darling,’ beamed Stan. ‘Congratulations on a clean sweep of ‘A’ grade passes. Here’s to our star.’ But the little star still sat with a glum face and four baffled faces looked at each other. ‘What’s up love?’ asked Edie. Angela shrugged, left the room, and came back with a letter. It was from the Kool Kids modelling agency.
Dear Angela,
It is with deep regret that we are unable to extend your contract with this agency. We are so sorry to have to do this but your height and general appearance is now that of an adult, and thus we will be unable to find you any future work as a child model.
I enclose details of some top class agencies that may be interested in signing you, and we wish you well in your future life.
A financial statement will be sent to you shortly, and any monies due will be paid shortly.
Yours etc.
After much sympathising, Edie brightened. ‘Well, they sent a list of some other agencies. Get a new portfolio taken and try them.’
‘Mum, I know them and what they do. All their models are snooty girls doing stuff for the posh glossies and the catwalk. There’s not one black girl on their books. Let’s face it, I was only a novelty turn at Kool Kids. If I want modelling work I can get it, but it’ll mean taking my clothes off.’
Four hearts sank with ‘the black issue’ rearing its unwelcome head. Of course they’d read the newspapers, and watched the news on television; of race hatred skirmishes in some of the bigger English cities, and the full-scale riots over equal rights in America. But it was all alien to the city of Oxford, and the quiet backwater of Jericho might as well have been an isolated mediaeval village when it came to any sort of radical reaction. ‘Now come on, love,’ said Stan. ‘We know there’s lots of trouble in the world with the coloured people, but how’s it affecting you?’
‘Look. Some people don’t like me.’
‘Angela, everyone loves you.’
‘Oh, not that old chestnut again!’ she barked. ‘Yes. Everyone you know loves me, but black people aren’t really liked – everyone just pretends. I’ve always been able to deal with it when it happens, but just lately it’s been getting to me. Especially after that letter. They know full well no-one’s going to take me on.’
‘Now stop all this nonsense,’ said Edie. ‘Look at all your favourites what are never out of the limelight. Michael Jackson, Stevie Wonder, Dionne Warwick, and that little Kenny Lynch makes me crack up ...’
‘You don’t understand. Some people turn their backs on me, and treat me as if I got something catching.’
Peggy, being the only one in the room who’d been protected from the ‘nigger’ incident from Angela’s childhood, knew exactly how the poor girl felt. The pretend values of society and the hatred she knew existed. The patronising smiles and solicitude from the do-gooders, like she used to be, but even there some real ignorance existed. Martin Luther King’s, ‘I have a dream’ oration was now seven years old, but not much had moved on, judging by the recent ‘rivers of blood’ speech from the MP, Enoch Powell, evoking the fear that ‘the black man’ would soon dominate the population. It had stirred up such fervour it had got Powell the sack, and sent the country into a virtual panic. And she remembered her own fear, years ago, of not daring to kiss Joseph goodbye in the street, and being afraid to admit to Ted that she loved a coal-black African. The sneering hatred of the vile Irish nurse when Angela was born, and her own terror of being exposed as the mother of a coloured baby.
There was a particularly popular comedy programme on the television, ‘Till Death Do Us Part, that made everyone roar with laughter; the rows and battles between Alf Garnett and his son-inlaw, Mike, over ‘the blacks’ and the foul things that Alf was allowed to call them – nig-nogs, coons and wogs – and everyone laughed like drains. Even sweet old Private Jones in Dad’s Army referred to ‘the fuzzy-wuzzies’, and was allowed to get away with it. Today was the first day she’d heard Angela seriously admitting her own despair, having always deluded herself that it would never happen to her beautiful, talented daughter. Her shoulders dropped with misery as Edie twittered on in the background, spouting out denials and assurances that she wanted Angela to believe.
So, with something of an embarrassed hiatus, they all came out with protestations and encouragement that, ‘it was what she was that mattered’, and Peggy laid her hand on Angela’s arm. ‘Don’t just give up, darling. The old hymn says, ‘fight the good fight’. Why can’t you be the first black fashion model? Heaven knows you’re pretty enough.’ Edie, glad to change the subject, replied firmly on her behalf.
‘To be honest Peg, what with her ‘A’ levels to work for now, and the SuperStars, and the Youth Theatre, I think she’ll have enough on her plate.’
‘Actually, the Youth Theatre’s out the window as well,’ Angela snapped. ‘They told me I’ve got too tall for female leads. They offered me the Pirate King in Pirates of Penzance but I turned it down.’
‘But you played Cliff Richard in Summer Holiday,’ said Ted.
‘Well, I’m not wearing a big black curly moustache, and that’s final.’ With this last riposte there were some stifled giggles, until the whole table, including Angela, was laughing.
After a confusing day Angela lay in bed weighing up her pros and cons. Cons: the pissy letter from Kool Kids, the end of the line with the theatre group, and especially what it was like to be cold-shouldered for being brown. It was as if she could read their thoughts. ‘I wonder where she came from? Adopted, naturally. Bound to be the result of some disgusting whore hitching up her skirt for a black GI. Socially our inferior, but we have to make an effort and let her think she fits in.’
But as much as she’d thrown some attention-seeking histrionics this afternoon she knew that her pros outweighed her cons. Her voice (as darling Piers had consistently told her) could be her fortune, and she’d got the best ‘O’ level results in her year. Her beautiful face attracted more attention than anyone else’s in the school, and she was chased after by every boy who met her, including Garvie Warlock, who still hung around Bevington in the afternoons. Total waste of time, of course. How could he compete with her moon and stars.
Her daily diary was kept hidden on a high shelf where her mother would never be able to reach it, and was written up every night in a code of secrecy. Tonight she wrote, PP ILY IWALY O426 D’s TG, which translated as ‘Piers Penney, I love you, I will always love you. Only 426 days to go’. He would be back for the start of Michaelmas term on 10th October 1971, and every night she crossed off another day. As a postscript she added DTM (Death to Merryn) and CPFTD (Chicken Pox for the dwarves). The only word in her head was Piers, and the only word in his would be Angela. He would be picking up her thoughts over the long sea miles to Cambridge, Massachusetts, and would be thinking about her for every minute of every day. He would detest loud, confident American women, hate working with drippy Merryn, and finding the dwarves so noisy and irritating he couldn’t wait to see the back of them. He, too, would be marking off the days until his return to Oxford, to fall passionately into her arms and put his willie in. She’d never stopped thinking about that afternoon. Just a flash of it before he shot away to the kitchen, poking out like a whopping great truncheon! They would ‘make love’ as it was properly called, and she’d soon have a big bump out front that he stroked and kissed. Me
rryn and the dwarves would live half a world away, in Timbuktu, never to be seen again, and she and Piers would be so, so happy.
April 2014
Monks Bottom
When I drew into The Hall my insides dropped in the way one experiences a sudden aeroplane lurch. Two men were erecting a large For Sale board in the flashy livery of Hyatt Varley, and although I’d known it was coming, I was still shaken. Howie, having discarded his army coat and balaclava in favour of a check shirt and moleskin trousers, was helping them secure the sturdy pole into place, and he greeted me with a friendly wave.
Father Crowley had phoned earlier on in the morning to thank me for ‘my generosity’, and to say it would be a few weeks before they got the wrecked accommodation back to normal. Heaven knows what my sisters or Gerry might say, but I took an executive decision; Howie could stay as long as he needed to, and was there was anything else I could do to help? There was, it seemed. Everything he owned (not much actually) had been ruined, and I readily agreed to help him replace some clothes and other essentials.
As I walked over to him I let out a huge sigh. ‘It really is the end, isn’t it? I’ve lived in a dozen places since I left home, but The Hall will always be the only one that matters.’
The men gathered up their tools. ‘The brochures are ready,’ said one, ‘and they’re going to start showing people round on Monday.’
‘Then I insist they phone Mr Sinclair first,’ I said, in my most pompous Lady of the Manor voice. ‘Just in case it’s inconvenient.’
‘I haven’t actually got a mobile,’ said Howie.
‘Then I’ll get you one,’ I replied, and told the men we would let Hyatt Varley have the number as soon as possible. They ambled off to their van, and I nodded to my car. ‘Will you help me in with the Waitrose bags?’
‘Aye, of course.’ With the ease and skill that only men can muster, he picked up three bags in each large hand, leaving me with none. I followed him through to the kitchen, where we unpacked at the table, stowing away coffee, tea, bread, cheese, milk, yoghourts, biscuits, tins of soup, and ready meals for the freezer. ‘I’m afraid I won’t be able to pay for this,’ he said.
Who Was Angela Zendalic Page 15