‘No!’ she shouted. ‘It’s nothing to do with Garvie. I’ve made up my own mind and you can’t stop me. Mum, you were married and pregnant with Brenda at my age. I’m not a child. I’ll do exactly as I like, and you can both go to hell!’ Stan, who’d never, ever raised a hand to her, grabbed her shoulder and delivered a flying slap across the face. She retaliated by kicking him firmly in the shin and running upstairs.
He sank down at the table, white with disbelief. ‘Sorry. Couldn’t help it. How can she treat us like that?’ Edie, mute with shock, failed to answer. ‘What a scene,’ he fumed. ‘Oh, Ede. We’ve lost her haven’t we? What did we do wrong?’ But they knew, like thousands of other hurt and perplexed parents, that they’d done nothing wrong. It was just the way that ‘young people’ were these days. The world really had gone mad. Like statues they sat in silence. Powerless. Hurt beyond measure.
An hour later, after more screaming words, a suitcase was packed and their girl was gone. Gone to Garvie’s shambles of a bedsitter in Aston Street. Her school uniform and textbooks left behind. Her building society book taken. The coming-ofage party, organised at the St. Margaret’s Institute in Polstead Road, cancelled with a large financial loss. Her extravagant, carefully chosen presents still in their wrappers.
Stabbed with the paradox of hurt and boiling anger, the traumatised parents expected her to return very quickly ‘when the novelty wore off ’, and had forbidden anyone to ‘go chasing after her’, but with the passing of over a month, there’d been no conciliatory visit, no phone call, or even a short note in the post. And then the sad, stilted interview they’d endured last week. The weary, aging couple summoned by Miss Tredgood, when they had to admit they’d lost control of her, and doubted she’d ever return to school. The headmistress, showing genuine remorse that such a talented girl was throwing her life away, assured them that if all could be resolved by the start of the new spring term, Angela still had a place at Bevington House, and could continue with her ‘A’ levels.
Thus, Stan, Edie, Ted and Peggy sat stone-faced around the table at No.55. What to do? Unable to articulate their misery, all four sat, red-eyed with insomnia. Peggy, blank-faced, unable to contribute, her pain deeper than any of them, her mind yet again re-playing the moment of her daughter’s birth, the beauty she’d become, the happy sharing of her childhood, and the pride of her many talents. Ted, wanting to take Garvie Warlock’s limbs apart with his bare hands, and having to witness the sad spectacle of dear Stan and Edie, who’d taken an unknown brown baby into their arms and hearts, had devoted their lives to her, and were now suffering the pain of cruel rejection. The obvious issue of her ‘living in sin’ was another unspoken shame, but knowing that brute force and ignorance wouldn’t persuade her to come back home.
As ever, it was Ted who became spokesperson. ‘She’s legally of-age now so there’s not much we can do, apart from trying to patch things up. Her disgraceful behaviour isn’t going to be news to her, and any reminders won’t bring her to her knees with an apology. I’d like to put my fist in that boy’s face, but that’s not going to help either. Somehow she’s got to be carefully spoken to, without any shouting and bawling.’
‘Oh, Ted,’ sniffed Edie. ‘Me and Stan can’t go round there begging. We can’t cope with no more stress and fighting. I’m nearly on my knees as it is, but something’s got to be done. If we don’t get her away from that place she’ll end up in trouble, and if she does, how’s that boy going to look after her? For all his fancy family he’s no more than a layabout.’
‘I’ll go and see her,’ said Ted, rising sharply to his feet. He looked at his watch. ‘Just gone five. Chances are she’ll be in, being as it’s Sunday.’
‘Can I come,’ stammered Peggy.
‘No, Peg. Sorry. You’ve got to leave this to me.’
1972
Aston Street, Oxford
Angela’s burst for freedom had taken her up, up and away from the nauseous, constricting prison of No.55. Her beautiful balloon had soared high over the skyline of the dreaming spires, to the other side of the city; to the place her parents told her was as dangerous as the wild side of New York. What a load of small-minded tripe. The Cowley Road was a busy, fast-moving half mile of many nations, fascinating little shops, bright colours, and loud happy voices, and heaven was the hideaway in Aston Street; a shabby Victorian semi of multiple occupancy where people came and went before you got to know their names. Where there was a party every five minutes, and no cross, frowning faces, no nagging words of censure, and no homework. A scruffy bedsitter that held a double bed and a meter in the corner that gobbled up the new ten pence pieces. A tiny alcove with a gas ring, a dodgy power point, and a cracked hand basin. Clothes, clutter, and Garvie’s art work filling every spare corner. A diet of fish and chips, Chinese take-aways, and whatever was left over from the café in the Covered Market at the end of her shift. Lazy hours in the evenings, lain on the bed listening to her transistor radio, while Garvie served behind the bar of The Turf Tavern. Lying back and hearing the seductive voice of the DJ, Stuart Henry, blasting out the top ten hits, and the cool raunch of Benny Green’s Jazz Time on a Sunday afternoon. The odd joint that took her to even higher plains of sexual paradise, still perpetuating the eyes-closed myth of her adored Piers.
It had been six months now, since that hot drunken evening when her phantom lover had first covered her lips and body, and even now, with every creak and thrust under the blankets, he was still there. Garvie would never know. Poor Garvie. How he loved her.
And Garvie did love her. She was his high plain of perfection, his lovely girl, his moon and stars and shining sun. The dazzling, dusky beauty who smiled only for him, whose lithe long-legged body belonged only to him, whose arms wrapped around him, and clasped him, and moaned and sighed, whose perfect white teeth grazed his face, and who murmured words of love at every peaceful end.
April 2014
Monks Bottom
With the boys gone I stretched out on the sofa, sipping my wine, grateful for the rare peace but idly wishing I could find an excuse to troll up to The Hall, and seek out Mr Lovely. There I was, the first night on my own for God knows how long, with every opportunity to have a little fun, and I was on my Jack Jones (as ever). I’d probably been sitting for about an hour when I heard a car draw up. Please God, not Father Crowley again, wanting to know ‘how I’d got on’ this morning and giving me even more chapter and verse about the effects of the fire. All I wanted was to indulge myself in pipedreaming, as a silly schoolgirl might over her latest teen-age crush, but when I bobbed up to the window I saw a smiling Carrie, running up the path.
‘I just dropped everything and jumped in the car,’ she gushed. ‘I’ve been on-line trying to find a puppy for Gerry’s birthday. You won’t believe this. You really won’t believe it, but I turned up a dog breeder in Cumbria called Zendalic!’
‘What!’ I grabbed the laptop and booted up. Yes! There he was. Michael Zendalic. Mercy Farm Kennels, near Grasmere. Breeder of Border Terriers, and Cocker Spaniels. Kennel Club registered. ‘But I looked on every electoral role there was,’ I said, ‘and didn’t find a single Zendalic. How did I miss him?’
‘Then let’s look again.’ After carefully searching every list Michael’s name didn’t come up.
‘Maybe one can opt not to go on a public list,’ suggested Carrie – like one can go ex-directory.’
I shrugged. What to do now? Of course I wanted to know if he was connected to Angela, but contacting him terrified me. After silent contemplation I finally came to a decision. ‘I’ll write a letter,’ I said, ‘though God knows what I’ll say.’
‘It’ll be alright,’ Carrie soothed. ‘Whatever happens you’ve got us to support you. Actually, we must try to get together soon and blitz the house. Oh, it’s so painful, isn’t it? Turfing out Mummy and Pa’s stuff as if it’s rubbish. Emptying the place so some bastards can take it away from us.’
‘Unbearable,’ I said. ‘I went up this morning a
nd the For Sale board was going up. By the way ...’ It was time to tell her about Howie being in residence, but she was surprisingly calm.
‘I trust Father Crowley,’ she said, ‘and the chap certainly doesn’t seem a hopeless crook type. It’ll actually be good to have someone there with people invading the place.’
‘He’s actually very nice and I’ve talked to him alot. About the garden mostly. Do you know what he said? He said he’d fallen in love with it, and he’s got lots of amazing ideas for changes. Not to rip it all out and start again, but develop the unused corners in what he calls the blueprint of the place. I just hope the new owners can take him on and let him look after it. Like a memorial to Mummy.’
‘And she still is your mum, isn’t she.’
‘Of course she is. Angela’s just a mystery I have to solve.’
‘I popped in to see her yesterday. She was sound asleep and I didn’t have the heart to wake her.’
‘I haven’t been for over two weeks. Aren’t I a cow? I’ll go tomorrow.’
‘Don’t beat yourself up. You’ve had alot to cope with. We both know she’s too far gone to notice if we’ve been or not.’
‘I’ll still go. And I’ll take her a big bunch of flowers from the garden.’
With Carrie gone I sat down with the laptop, called up my ‘Headed Notepaper’, and stared at the blank page. What on earth was I going to say to Michael Zendalic, and what was I going to turn up? He had to be connected, so was my existence going to be a cruel family bombshell? Would I be a hidden secret appearing out of the blue, like a genie from a bottle? Did I, or didn’t I, want to continue? I concluded that I’d get no peace of mind until I’d tried and failed.
Dear Mr Zendalic
Please forgive me for writing to you without prior introduction. My name is Sarah Penney. I am seeking information about a person called Angela Zendalic, and you are the only person with this unusual surname I can find living in the UK. I am going to be perfectly truthful as to why I’m writing to you, and this may come as a shock.
I was born at the John Radcliffe Hospital, Oxford, on 15th February 1973 and only discovered, on the death of my father, Sir Piers Penney, the composer and conductor, that Angela was my natural mother; a devastating shock as I’d always thought my mother was my father’s wife, Merryn, who brought me up with my three sisters. If this information is likely to cause embarrassment or misery to you, or to any of your living relatives, please destroy this letter and conclude the matter closed.
As to other members of ‘the family’ (my family?) I have found public archive records for two half-brothers, Stanley (1906) and Arthur (1921), sons of a Rudolph Zendalic. Stanley married Edith Piper, in 1926, and had one daughter, Brenda, who married a Norman Brown. Arthur married a Patricia Baker in 1948, but thereafter I have no leads as to any future generations.
Mr Zendalic, I am merely enquiring to answer some open-ended questions in my life, and would not intend to encroach on your life, or those of your family, in any way. If you have any information that might be useful I’d be very grateful if you could communicate with me. All my contact numbers are as above.
Naturally if you are not connected or related to Angela in any way I apologise for troubling you.
Yours sincerely
Sarah Penney
March 1972
Aston Street Oxford
The front door was open to the handle; a sitting duck to a burglar, as Ted well knew from working the patch as a PC. He stood in the narrow hall, and it was, as expected, dilapidated, fetid, and freezing cold, with a mixed pungency of rising damp and stale air. What a dump! A scruffy notice on a wall board, announced Warlock/Zendalic Top floor – 6 and he climbed the creaking, carpet-less paint-peeling stairs.
It was Garvie who opened the door, releasing a guff of heat and spices. He sighed arrogantly. ‘Oh, dear. It’s Uncle Teddy Bear. The Old Bill.’ Angela, who was sitting cross-legged on the rumpled bed, looked up with a stunned expression, an expensive Roberts Radio blaring out beside her. A tiny gas fire with broken elements blazed, dirty dishes were piled up on the floor, and their effects lay in chaos. Ted was overcome with sadness to see her in such squalor. So this was what she’d sunk to; the happy, chattering child they called their Princess. The band-box neat little girl, performing on stage at The Sheldonian in a yellow, full-skirted dress, cheekily waving to the clapping audience as she skipped her little legs off the stage. The joyful, leggy actress, and the choirgirl with the voice of an angel.
Ted said nothing, ignored eye contact with Garvie, and stared only at Angela. The seasoned performer couldn’t hide her shock, snapping off the radio, and scowling. ‘What do you want? I’m not coming home.’
He didn’t react. ‘There’s a pub on the corner of Magdalen Road. I’ll go there and wait for you.’
‘I’m not coming home,’ she repeated.
‘I heard what you said. I’m not deaf. I’ll see you in ten minutes.’ He then turned to Garvie with a piercing look of hatred. ‘You’re not welcome, but you’ll have worked that one out, won’t you.’ Then inhaling deeply he lowered his voice. ‘Nice aftershave you use, Garvie. I’ve smelled it many times before. Old Teddy Bear and his mates might just be back for another good sniff.’
‘Why don’t you fuck off?’
Angela came in, walked up to the bar, and bought herself a beer. She sat down carefully, her look haughty and superior, as if to say, ‘You’re a pathetic old fogey, and you’re wasting your time’.
‘I’m not here to read you the riot act,’ he began calmly. ‘If you want to chuck away your education and all your talents to live in a shit-tip with an ignorant little oik, that’s up to you. But I don’t get it. You’ve always been so fussy about yourself, haven’t you? You never left the house if you didn’t look a million dollars, and now look at you.’ He paused to peer up and down at her clothes. Worn, holed jeans, a grubby oversized Guernsey sweater, and a scuffed pair of men’s suede desert boots. She dropped her eyes and didn’t answer. ‘Listen love. Your mum and dad are on the point of nervous collapse, Auntie Peg’s gone into a serious depression, and I’m the one who has to try and hold it all together. We’ve loved you all your life, and we still love you, but I think that’s the problem, isn’t it? You’re fed up being smothered. You want to leave the child behind, and you know you won’t be able to grow up without running away.’ She nodded. ‘And Garvie offered a way out.’
She nodded again. ‘Don’t be too hard on him. He’s not all bad.’
‘Try and convince me.’
‘He only left home because his bitch of a mother tried to make him get rid of me. And don’t ask why, because you know the answer. He can be tricky, but he really loves me. Honestly.’
‘So that kind of love’s OK? What your mum and dad would call living in sin, and love for your family flushed down the toilet. So what comes next? A message you’re up the spout, Garvie’s done a runner, and you’re bawling your eyes out; blackmailing everyone to come and pick up the pieces, and make sure you don’t have a minute’s misery over it all. And you know we’d all come running, don’t you.’
‘Won’t happen. I’m on the pill. I’m not stupid.’ She hesitated and swallowed nervously. ‘My real mother, my birth mother, was stupid, wasn’t she? She must have been. Getting herself pregnant by a man who dumped her, and then having to dump me...’
‘You weren’t dumped, Angela.’
‘What’s another word for it then? Re-homed like a stray dog.’
‘So that’s what all this is about?’
‘That and other things. I love mum and dad, but right now I can’t cope with them.’ She tapped her chest. ‘They’re not me. I need to know who I am, and what really happened.’
‘Angie, you’ve got to live with it, like all the other thousands like you. The law makes sure you know nothing as a protection to both you and your real parents. I’m sorry, love, but it’s all part of the extra bit of growing up you’ve been lumbered with.’ He slurped his beer de
eply and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I’m going to tell you a little story. It’ll be news to you, but don’t interrupt.’ He took a deep breath and began. ‘My wife and our baby son were killed in the war. Bombed out. I was away with the navy in the north Atlantic and I never saw him. Not once. Not even in a photo.’
Angela’s face dropped and she bit her bottom lip. ‘I didn’t know ...’
‘I came to Oxford in 1951, on a transfer with the force for a new beginning. I found lodgings with your mum and dad, and right away I fell in love with the girl next door. Yes, that’s right. Your Auntie Peg. Miserable thing was, she didn’t feel the same way, but we’ve always remained good friends. Over the years neither of us has managed to find anyone else, and one of the things that’s made our dull, boring lives such a joy is watching you grow up. Look love, life can be a bummer. It’s called the University of Hard Knocks, and one way or another you’re in right old mess. Stay away if you must, and try to sort yourself out, but will you please make contact with your mum and dad. Tell them you love them but you just need some time on your own, that Garvie’s looking after you, and you’re happy. And Auntie Peg as well. Just a little note. She’s been right good to you, what with stumping up for St Paul’s and Bevington, and she deserves better. Will you do that?’
She nodded. ‘Alright then.’
‘You’ll be glad you did. You might think you never want to see any of us again, but you will in the fullness of time.’
He walked her back to Aston Street under a starry, frost-bright sky. ‘Take care, sweetheart. I’ll report back to the troops, and try to keep a lid on things. Now promise me again. You will get in touch, won’t you?’
She nodded. ‘Yes, I will.’
They hugged each other, both feeling that just for a moment there was no agenda of dissent. ‘Off you go. Keep on the straight and narrow, and don’t put up with any bullshit from Garvie.’
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